A/N: Alrighty, here is chapter four. This will be the last update for about a week, BUT this is a longer chapter and I will be writing in the week I'm not posting so fear not ;P
Also, virtual cookies to whoever guesses what novel reference I placed in this chapter (hint: it's a name ;)).
Chapter Four: War Games
The old car stuttered as Peter pulled up to the beaten curb outside Olivia's apartment; her SUV had strangely stalled when she had gone to leave the scene, and Peter, suddenly finding a hidden stash of chivalry, offered to drive her home.
The drive over had been a mixed bag of thick, uneasy silence to gentle, flowing conversation. Normally there would be more if Walter was there, but Astrid had been willing enough to drive Walter to the lab. That woman deserved a pay raise.
"Thanks, Peter." She said as she opened the car door, then hesitated and slipped back in, pressing her lips against his.
When she moved away, and Peter took in a breath she whispered "Almost forgot that" and got out of the car.
He watched her walk up to her apartment and the way the wind tickled her blonde hair; he definitely liked the blonde better.
When Peter arrived home, the night had painted its dark mural with obsidian splotches blurring out the stars. Shadows hid at every corner, and the streetlight above the spot where Peter parked was out. Now that's not creepy at all, he mused.
He strolled in the front door, immediately bombarded with a peculiar and poignant aroma that saturated the air. "Walter," he called suspiciously. He really didn't want to have to break out that baseball bat of his if it wasn't needed.
He heard his father's voice chirping about in a melodic tone in the kitchen, and his shoulders relaxed. He severely hoped that his father had not made another attempt at chocolate pudding.
Suddenly, the man poked his head out from the confines of the kitchen, a Cheshire cat grin splattered on his face. The smile fell away when Walter saw him. "Peter," he said.
Pete nodded. "Hey Walter," he said and peeked into the kitchen, noticing the various pots that boiled with massive plumes of steam. "What are you doing?" He asked with slight alarm.
"Oh I was just making some custard; this batch seems to be coming along well."
Peter did a double-take. "Wait, Walter, this batch? How many batches have you tried to make?"
The man didn't reply, he just shifted about the kitchen, clearly searching for something. He went into a cloud of steam, which Peter noticed now billowed into a good portion of the room.
"Ah! Here we are," Walter said through the cloud. "I want you to try some of this for me Peter."
Walter offering him some of this strange concoction when Peter didn't even know if he had tried some himself, that didn't sound good.
"Walter, I'm not trying any of..." His sentence was quickly cut short by a spoon brimming with a gooey, sticky substance being shoved into his mouth.
At first it was sweet, and Peter was going to say it wasn't half bad. First compliment he's probably gotten in a while...Then a boot of sharp bitterness rammed into his mouth and Peter tried not to gag as his eyes watered.
Walter frowned. "Mm...That bad?"
Peter nodded through a harsh fit of coughing. "Yes... Walter... what did you put in that?"
"Well milk, sugar, eggs and a few things of my own creation."
Great, thought Peter.
Before Peter could add his own thoughts Walter continued. "Well, perhaps some Brown Betty would..."
"Some what?" Peter asked.
"Brown Betty, it's quite wonderful I must say," he said with great enthusiasm.
"Walter," Peter warned. "You are not putting hallucinogens in custard!"
"Well why not son? Do I not have the right of my own choices?"
Peter paused for a moment and wondered whether or not Walter's words were applied to events that had left footprints outside the thin walls of their house. He had always known there were ethical boundaries, some which he chose to ignore. But there were some, such as putting drugs in a dessert that he knew crossed that thick line that was stained in a deadly red.
"Because Walter, there are some things you just don't do," he said and the moment he clipped his sentence he saw Walter's eyes droop like a withered eagle under a storm cloud and knew that his careless arrow had hit a much more sensitive spot than he intended.
Walter's lips moved but there were no words; at least none he could find. "Peter," he said, "I have done things that I know most people would look down upon, even I do." He paused for a moment, his fingers fiddling in a beige cat's cradle before he continued. "There are things that we simply cannot change, and what I did... it is one of them." His fingers trembled for a moment. "But despite that Peter, I love you son."
Peter stood there, perplexed in an ice block of mixed emotions, and any inkling of response failed him. "Walter," he said, taking a minute to compose something lucid. "You took me from my home. You crossed a line that no one was ever meant to cross," he said and he left without another word.
As he left the kitchen, which still brimmed with its various pops and whistles, Peter distinctly heard Walter say "Goodnight son."
He retreated to the bedroom where he allowed sleep to claim him after settling beneath the cool sheets. He found the darkness to be most relieving, no possible ports for distraction, only peace.
But in this darkness, figures began to take shape, wiry dancers that reached their limbs out to the ethereal orb that was suspended in the sky.
Trees, he thought.
The scene grew in detail as patterns of recognition sprouted before him. He was in a field, long grass reaching up to his knees. A pale moon gleamed onto the scene, casting shadows into darker places.
A few trees in the distance yielded something else; a ewe that sauntered lightly towards him. The sheep looked at him curiously, like one would at a stranger. He gingerly reached his hand out to the creature, who allowed him to pat her head.
He moved his hand back and was about to speak to the creature when its face seemed to droop, an invisible force dragging down any extra folds of skin it could find. Then the facade rippled and fell back, unzipped from the phenomena of lies. And when the costume lay discarded on the ground, a wolf stood before him, snarling with its teeth barred and crimson eyes narrowed.
Peter staggered back quickly before trying to make a slow retreat. The animal snapped at him as a hostile growl gurgled from its throat. It leaned back on its haunches, coiling a spring to set it forward.
Ah shit, Peter thought and ran.
Rabid, angry barks pursued him through the dark emerald tresses that rustled with wind. He ran for the trees, but where they had once been, a great black well sprawled out before him. And he tumbled into it like a lost traveller, the wolf's howls fading into a dim echo.
He awoke with the sheets crumpled between his clenched fists, a sheen of sweat condensing on his brow. He cursed silently, that was the last time he would eat any of Walter's custard.
He rose from the bed, the crimson numbers of the alarm clock bled 2:33 AM onto the bedside table; rain pitter-pattered against the window nearby.
Peter walked to the window and looked out, streetlights and homes contorted and bent into twisted images by the drops of rain that curled and wobbled along the outside of the window.
But the reflection of his face on the window was pristine as glass.
Olivia looked like hell.
At least, from what she could see of herself in the reflection of the interrogation room glass told her as much. Eyes, sunken with drooped crescents of stress darkened beneath them. Her hair was still that damn ginger red, tangled and frizzed beyond any point of distaste.
She looked like her.
She wanted to smash that glass.
She looked at her arms, blotted with bruises in a rainbow of colours. She was starved, fed enough to live, but not enough to keep almost her entire skeleton from showing through her skin.
A door opened, and she snapped her head up. A man entered, thin with small eyes and brown hair; he was thin, but not to the point of poor health.
She was sure that if she tried, he'd snap in half like a toothpick.
He sat at the opposite end of the small, gray table and looked at her.
"Miss Dunham, I'm going to ask you some questions."
He reached for one of the sheets he'd brought in with him and held it up; it was a picture of Peter.
"Do you know where this man is?"
Her throat thickened and she tried not grimace. She shook her head. "No."
He placed the photo back on the table and then drummed his fingers three times on the table.
"I'm going to be quite frank with you Miss Dunham, because knowing this now might save us all some undue trouble."
She made no move to respond.
"Though you might resist, you might not tell them anything, they won't let you go."
She looked at him, fear began to cloud her again.
"Who are you?" She hissed.
The man leaned back in his chair, completely nonchalant about the whole matter.
"My name is James Beatty."
She'd never heard the name before.
The man returned back to his original position and folded his hands before him. He leaned forward, his brown eyes growing like spiders before her.
"They won't let you go Miss Dunham because you are their bartering chip, you are their incentive."
Now she was finding her voice, they planned to use her to lure Peter back here to use that machine. But if her alternate indeed went back with Peter and Walter, they would find out. An IQ of one hundred and ninety would surely illuminate her doppelganger's mistakes to Peter.
"They'll find out it's not me," she snapped.
"Who?" He asked, angling his face so that the light of the room cast half in light, the other in shadow.
He had no idea. He probably thought she was crazy.
He stood. "I think that's enough for today Miss Dunham," he said and made for the exit.
The shutting door made her feel like she was trapped in a vacuum, only there was air. But every sound seemed intensified, reverberating in a repeating circle.
The door opened again.
This time when she looked, she saw Walternate and two guards.
He said nothing, just nodded at the two guards to grab her.
She didn't resist, she'd learned not to after the first day, that first needle.
She got back to the cell, and before the door closed, she heard the Secretary speak:
"You will crack eventually Olivia..."
Then the door clamped shut and the obsidian phoenix surrounded her again, its black wings swooping over her eyes.
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