A/N: Hello again. First of all I'm sorry for the long wait, RL has been a bit hectic lately but I'm back now :D As I mentioned with chapter 12, this chapter is also fairly intense in terms of emotion, so prepare yourselves. Thanks again to my beta Uroboros75.
Off we go.
Chapter Thirteen: Unhinged
Reality had tumbled from her realm of control, lost somewhere in the suffocating confines of her cell as she lost all sense of perception. To Olivia, up was down and down was up, and anything lateral was arbitrary.
Her body was heavy, brimming with thick waves of exhaustion. She blinked a few times; the momentary flick of her eyelids didn't make much difference, for the darkness was constant.
She turned on her side, curling her knees against her chest and placed her hands next to her face. She could see the faint outline of the door, etched in a pastel that harbored malice and fury. For a moment, she thought she saw something, a faint ripple along the outline of the door, but she quickly discounted it as a trick born of light's wicked sense of humour and her own confusion.
She didn't trust a lot anymore.
But in the thick shadows and swirls of her own delirium she could still see a face, faint with the wear of her disorientation, yet still recognizable. Gentle curves made out the face, beard curling over the chin as the eyes swirled like azure whorls.
Peter.
The relief of silence was only momentary. The door cracked open and light spilled in, splattering over her stiff body as she recoiled from the unusual brightness. After a moment, she looked around the shield of her eyes and blinked; there were shadows that bled onto the light in the doorway.
She squinted, but still couldn't make out the faces. A racing hope in her flourished. Perhaps someone had finally come for her, from some distant wonder where the only things that existed were tiger lilies and gum drops.
But even fairy tales had their villains.
"Olivia," said a stern voice, thick and gruff like a sharp wind striking her ears. She knew not to ignore it; she'd learned never to ignore voices that boomed like thunder. She stood slowly, her muscles unwinding from their thick coils and knots as she stepped out of her cell.
The hallway was bright, but after the shock of light that had burst into her eyes in her cell it was a mild irritation. She blinked a few times, trying to clear away the few pesky spots blinking on her eyes as they escorted her down the corridor. She walked in front of them; they didn't have to lead her anymore.
She knew exactly where they were taking her. It was always that same place, that same room; the one where light was swallowed up into the blinding miasma of white that exploded over the walls like oil.
No matter how many times she tried to wash it away, it was always there; never ending, never dimming. The bright light that they hung over her head made it even worse.
They shoved her into the chair. It was plastic, and the material squeaked lightly beneath her form as she regained her balance.
She looked across the table. There he was, sitting stoically with his hands folded tightly across the table from her. His lips were pressed together tightly, thin and pale like the sinewy length of a whip. His eyes were dark, thick and deep like tar. Olivia felt that if she stared at him too long, the onyx abyss of his fury would swallow her as well.
"This is what it has come to, Olivia," he said with no hint of pity. "Down to my questions."
She looked down to her hands, suddenly fascinated by the thin lines that had begun to curl over her red palms and crinkled when she flexed her fingers. Her veins trailed over the span of her hands, weaving between the arches of her knuckles.
"Did you hear me?" He asked with a little more force, impatience intruding on his tone.
She looked up from her hands, swallowing any notion of fear into the thick coil in her stomach and replied thickly.
"Yes."
Walternate tapped his thumbs together once before replying.
"Good, then I'll begin."
She knew by that he meant the interrogation; but as for his tactics, she was next to clueless. He stood and walked around to the side of the table, placing his hands lightly on the edge.
"Tell me, Olivia," he began. "What do you know about Walter Bishop?"
She looked straight ahead, ignoring his towering form. Her lips didn't move.
Walternate leaned over her a little more. "Come now, Agent Dunham. Aren't you going to tell me about the man who's responsible for bringing us into this little quandary?"
A mess of images and thoughts flooded her, torrents of words that she wanted to spit in his face with vile fury; but her exhausted body could only allow her lips to curl into a single word.
"No."
Walternate moved back from the table and sat down in his chair, facing her again.
"That, Olivia," he said with no notion of sarcasm, "is not an answer."
Her eyes had fallen to her wrists, linked by a glinting silver chain and twin cuffs. The silver bracelets coiled around her wrists, metallic snakes seeking sustenance.
She looked back up at Walternate and said nothing; her entire body felt drained, depleted of energy, and exhaustion ran rampant through her veins. She really didn't have the strength for witty remarks.
"Then tell me, Olivia," he said with a little more confidence and far too much bravado for her liking. "Tell me about Peter Bishop."
The muscles in her body stiffened, her spine coiling tightly against the muscles of her back as she felt her heart pick up its pace. It pounded like a hammer against a nail in her chest - Bang bang bang - again and again.
She couldn't see her reflection, but something told her that her eyes had bloomed open, eyebrows shooting up towards her hairline.
She should've expected that.
"Is that not why you came back here, Olivia? To retrieve my son?"
She shook her head lightly, perhaps a little too quickly, before replying,
"No."
She cursed inwardly when she heard the stutter in her voice.
A thin smile curled over Walternate's face, the coiling of a whip primed to strike.
"Then what were you here for, if not for my son? Were you here for something else?"
She shook her head again. "No."
She realized at that moment that her hands were clasped together under the table, clammy and cold as sweat beaded in the creases of her hands. She pressed them between her knees in an attempt to subdue the shaking.
Walternate stood promptly, rounding the table with swift movements.
"You're contradicting yourself, Agent Dunham. First you say that you weren't here for my son, and then you say you weren't here for another reason. Which one is it?"
He slapped his palms against the table, and she felt her shoulders tense when he neared, as though shying away from a hungry python.
"Choose one, Olivia," he pressed sharply.
She looked at him; his eyes ignited with dark fury and malice as his angered face glared at her.
She could only find the strength to whisper a shameless "No."
He wrapped one of his hands around her left arm, clamping his fingers down painfully on her skin.
"I'm going to ask you once more, Olivia," he hissed, his face growing closer to hers. "Which one is it?"
Something bubbled in the pit of her stomach, rising through her veins and causing her to shake her head in a frightened manner as she whispered a terrified "No."
Then he slapped her across the face.
The pain was sharp. A brief flash of heat rippled across her left cheek as her face hurtled to the side, her body careening to the right in the chair. She gasped silently in agony.
She hadn't even sat back up when he asked her again.
"Choose one, Olivia. I'm not going to ask you again."
She pushed herself up, this time with a little more strength in her body. Hot adrenaline poured into her body, churning through her veins and igniting a stockpile of her own anger.
"No," she replied, gritting her teeth.
It was then that Walternate pulled out a gun.
All her adrenaline died more quickly than fire in a rainstorm. He clicked the safety off and raised it toward her temple, eyes dark and cold.
"You wouldn't," she whispered. "Then you'll never get Peter back."
"My son was taken from me," he said sternly. "And now, I'm going to take something from him."
Words tumbled from her lips, coherency abandoned for pure pleading.
"Please, don't do this. Don't do this."
He pressed the gun a little harder.
"No, no, no, please."
Her eyes were warm, her face tracked with the damp trails of tears as her eyes drifted out to the guards in the hall, motionless and unwavering.
So this is how it ends, she thought as tears gathered on her dark lashes. In another reality, in an interrogation room, far away from home.
She looked to the men outside the room once more and she swore that she made eye contact with one of them for a fleeting moment, his hazel eyes slightly downcast but fearful. She tried to imagine the conflicting notions of obligation and human compassion, mixing like oil and water beneath the soldier's skin; but her own desperate terror blinded it all.
She pitied them and shut her eyes, willing images of better times to her eyes. Her raw fear boiled through her body, the room bending behind the blurry windows of her tears.
She blinked once, and noticed that the room was still contorting; bending and weaving into awkward shapes that she was certain were not natural. Panic climbed up her throat as she spun around wildly in her seat. What was happening?
Walternate took a step back, his face riddled with bewilderment and frustration, his lips twisted into an expression of pure rage as the room continued to distort. She heard a muffled shout and saw him motion for the two guards to come in and try to grab for her; but to their astonishment, their hands went right through her. She shrunk away as the rough cotton of her jumpsuit ruffled against her skin.
She could barely tell the people apart from the rest of the room as everything blended into an undulating galaxy of white, bending and curling around her. Her heart pounded in her ears. Then a roar tore through the air; she shut her eyes, and her body was propelled out of the chair and fell to the ground. She curled her knees against her chest, waiting for another attack, but none came.
It was then that she heard it: a booming vibration that fluctuated, rising in intensity and then dimming before getting louder again.
There was a crisp scent in the air, fresh and light like mist, and the ground beneath her was soft. Thousands of smooth threads weaved themselves under her body as she opened her eyes.
She was on the edge of a precipice that fell into churning sapphire waves crested with a placid albedineity. She pushed herself into a sitting position, tucking her knees beneath her as she looked to her hands, where an emerald tapestry of grass weaved beneath her pale fingers.
She had crossed over.
She could see New York in the distance, lit with golden sunlight.
She was home. There was sunlight.
It was beyond any definition of beautiful.
Then she saw the twin silhouettes of the World Trade Center in the distance, and her joy was instantly shattered. The ribbons of her own hope cracked into jagged shards, lodging themselves in her skin. She whimpered slightly, a muffled sob tumbling from her lips. Against her skin she felt a shadow, staining the ivory complexion of her skin. She craned her neck, and her eyes met the bronze gaze of Lady Liberty.
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