Suspended in a pool of foggy, half hearted awareness, Marian Lipinski groaned and tried to rub her temples to soothe a pounding head ache. Her hands were trapped against a hard, smooth surface, and quite suddenly, recognition of her situation washed upon her like an enormous wave crashing violently against a battered cliff side. Her eyes snapped open, taking in the brightly lit ceiling. Her chest heaved as she struggled to breath. Sweat trickled down her spine and pooled between her shoulder blades as she felt her pulse quicken with panic. Marian jumped as the static crackled through a radio speaker, accompanied by that voice she could only describe as sterile.
"Ms. Lipinski. We have your file here. It says you have two children." The rhythm of her breathing stammered only long enough to process what the voice had stated before the pounding fear returned and magnified.
"No…" she gasped, quite breathless. "No, they're gone."
"What do you mean by 'gone'?"
"They're dead," she said, tears rising to her eyes. She felt as though they might as well be, and hoped that her fearful tears would be enough to convince them.
"I don't believe that's correct. See, your apartment showed signs of their having recently been there. Unless they died just yesterday…" Marian attempted to make work of what they were trying to get out in her clouded mind. They weren't there any longer? Had they left? She didn't understand; didn't know quite what to make of it and whether she should be relieved or not.
And then she remembered.
Marian closed her eyes tightly, attempting to calm herself so that she could think more clearly. Swallowing hard and opening her eyes to gaze down her nose at what she was sure to be a one way mirror, she saw herself still strapped, nude, to an examination table. The rising panic returned, and something else indescribably full of loathing curled in her gut like a furious snake.
"I'll cooperate," she whispered.
"Good."
"Jon…" Lily whispered, shaking her little brother awake. "Jon, mom's not back yet." The young boy rubbed at his eyes groggily, pushing himself upright and leaning into the back of the living room couch. His sister was clutching the telephone close in her lap, staring at her brother with a harried expression.
"Wha-?"
"I said mom's not back yet!" She yelled, and then quickly clamped her lips together tightly as though she were afraid someone might have heard her and found their location. Her eyes were wide and horrified.
"Oh… should we call him?" Jon asked, speaking as though he were meandering through a dream. A sudden sneeze overtook him and it was a matter of instinct that he tossed his elbow into his face to block it. Brushing some wild hair out of his eyes, he slid off of the couch and shuffled to the kitchen, pulling at the oversized sleeves of his sweater that kept slipping over his hands. Lily could hear her little brother pull the fridge open, and frowned at his utter lack of concern. With her lips set in a firm and determined line, she picked up the phone and quickly dialed the number she'd been focusing on memorizing every day since her mother had told it to her. The phone rang three times before it picked up.
"Hello?" A deep voice asked. Even through the crackling, poor connection, the voice sounded slightly perplexed.
"Dr. Ra-"
"Who is this?" The voice was curt and sharp, cutting through her words and effectively silencing her.
"It's.. uh.. it's… Lil-" She tried, and was again interrupted.
"Did something happen?" Recognition seeped into the voice, and a bit of kindness washed over it.
"Yes, I-"
"I'll send someone over." The line cut and Lily had the distinct impression that he'd not wanted her to really speak at all if it were possible.
She was young, but she was a bright and inquisitive child. She knew that lines could be watched and tapped, that internet usage could be followed, and that any amount of appearance and communication could be recorded. Feeling sick to her stomach, she set the phone down and remained frozen and rooted to the spot where she sat beside the covered window.
"Jon… we should probably pack some of our things," she called toward the kitchen, and heard something fall in response. Rolling her eyes, she got up and peered through the doorway at him. Her brother looked up from where he stood over a fallen carton of milk, his face an expression of guilt.
"Come on, we need to get ready to go," she sighed, tossing her hands out to the sides. As though he were relieved just to escape being berated, he carefully stepped over the spilled milk and followed after his sister.
"Where are we going?" He asked.
"I don't know," she snapped back at him. Her tone didn't appear to bother him. His expression remained as serene and innocent as ever while he watched her pack. A small tin box nudged its way toward her, and she turned to see him offering up the one thing he was interested in packing.
"No, we're not bringing that. It's useless," she dismissed him, pushing the plain little box away. He frowned slightly, clinging to the tin and not offering to assist in packing anything else. It didn't seem to matter, though, because she was already tossing some of his clothes into a backpack for him. When she had finished stowing away their tooth brushes and zipped up their packs, she turned to find him standing in the middle of the room, his expression resolute as he clutched the tin in both hands.
"Jon… please don't make this difficult," she sighed, her shoulders slumping as defeat crawled its way into her. When he stared at her long and hard, and did not respond, she finally relented. "Alright. Whatever. Bring it." She rolled her eyes and picked up their backpacks in one flippant motion.
"I don't get what's so special about that stupid tin box anyway," she muttered.
"Dad gave it to me," he mumbled as he followed her out of their bedroom.
"It's just an empty, rusty box, Jon."
"But it was dad's," he said, as though this fact alone should make all the sense in the world.
"Why don't you put anything in it, at least?" She asked, her voice a little softer as she sat on the couch, waiting for whatever it was they were supposed to be waiting for. She hoped that it wouldn't take long. Her nerves were dangerously frayed and on edge.
"I 'unno," he uttered with a shrug, climbing onto the couch to settle in next to her. He dropped his head against her shoulder, sighing softly as he stared across the room. "Haven't found anything worth putting in it, I guess," he whispered. She didn't respond as she tried to understand. What about knickknacks and little photos? What about his little toy soldiers he left everywhere that had no place? What about souvenirs? There were tons of little things he could put in that rusty little tin box.
Scrunching her eyes shut, she willed herself not to fret over something so trivial.
Foster had never felt so cold in her entire life, and she finally gave in to resisting the only heat source nearby. She stood as close as she could to the supposed terrorist, looking up at the building he'd paused to scan. They were on a wharf, looking out at a turbulent sea. The wind had picked up just slightly, but it carried a mean chill that sought out one's bones. Her teeth clattering unexpectedly, she tightened her arms across her chest, hunching as she fought to keep in what little heat she could.
"Y-you know, r-r-real men offer their j-jackets up," she spat, glaring at the stark warehouse building that rose up in all its solitary and silent glory. There was something grossly eerie about it, beside the residue of infection that lingered all around the haunted place. Mercer glanced down at her, one brow quirked in a sort of bemused expression that seemed odd on him. Frown lines had become so deeply etched there that she was sure any other expression would have found the environment far too hostile to reside there for even a moment.
"Come on," he said gruffly, seeming to huff down what would have been a curt laugh at her expense as he strode toward the building. Grudgingly, she followed, her head bowed against the defeat she felt stealing away her resolve.
The door of the warehouse opened with an unhappy creak, but Alex didn't seem intent on showing it any mercy. He swung it open, stepped through, allowed Foster onto the threshold, before slamming it shut behind them. Her eyes couldn't quite adjust to the darkness, and her heart nearly stopped when she walked straight into his back. She tumbled past his side when he angled toward her, perhaps out of his own surprise, and she felt the floor rise up to greet her. She fell down hard, an 'oof!' shoving its way out of her lungs. A dark, low chuckle could be heard crossing the room before a shock of light burned her eyes.
The floor was cold. Very cold.
"I d-don't know if m-maybe you c-can't fathom this concept or w-w-what, but p-people tend to g-get sick when th-they're f-f-freezing to death." Foster couldn't bite down the chattering any longer, and her shivering was becoming violent. She felt stiff and sore as she slowly got up, watching him as he started up a flight of open, metal stairs that led up to an overhang. Shivering violently, she willed herself to follow. She had to remind herself of why she was afraid of this man. She had to remember the tapes she'd seen. The aftermath of destruction and the stories soldiers had told her. He'd yet to display any such violence, and she was quite certain that she didn't want to see it. Still, what she wouldn't give for the opportunity to throttle him.
"There's probably some extra uniforms around here somewhere," he muttered, and she stood behind him, shuddering against the cold and sure that he was thinking aloud until he turned to face her. She looked up at him, confused. He repeated himself, and her eyes darted about the second story room they'd entered. There were boxes everywhere, and none of them were labeled, that she could see.
With a heavy sigh, she unfurled her thin arms and made to move through some of the stacks. He seemed to have decided that she'd gotten her wits about her by herself, and pulled a box down from a stack. He deftly ripped it open, and found hazard suits inside. Four box mutilations later and he found large factory jackets. He looked up at her to see her slipping into a second military jacket. She'd already put one on and buttoned it up, but that didn't seem to be enough. She sniffed the shoulder of the jacket, patted it, and watched as little bits of dust billowed up. Foster's face screwed up for a moment, and Alex balanced on his heels. A resounding sneeze echoed throughout the warehouse, and Mercer felt himself jump.
"You're loud," he spat through gritted teeth, annoyed that he'd startled at something as silly as a sneeze. He'd been watching her in such earnest to find out just why her face had scrunched up so suddenly. He hadn't been expecting an explosion. She didn't respond to him, rather, she merely muttered something about the distasteful musty smell of the coverings, but that she was glad that she wouldn't be freezing. Deciding they'd found all they needed, he headed for the door and she could hear the rattling of his steps as they disappeared down the left side of the hall. She followed slowly, grabbing a military issued blanket as she went.
A door swung shut, and she followed his trail through that door to find herself entering a small office. It had a few computers around the place, and some of the room appeared as though whoever last occupied it had either been a very messy person, or had left it in a hurry. He pointed toward the computer on the desk before settling himself in an armchair nestled in the corner that angled just behind and to the right of the desk. Hesitantly, she shuffled toward the desk, settling herself into the chair and fluffing the blanket over her legs. She pressed the power button on the computer tower, and waited for the machine to power up.
"Didn't you work on Blacklight?" She asked, staring at the boot screen. A moment of thick silence emanated from the corner, and she didn't dare glance back at him. If anyone could respond with a pointed, loaded silence, it was Mercer.
"Alex Mercer did," a whisper of an answer fluttered into being, and she sat a little straighter when she heard it. It was a rather phenomenal turn in how he responded to her. Still, she didn't look back at him, as though afraid that such an action might break some kind of spell their lack of studious glances provided.
"So… you're not the real Alex Mercer," she stated.
"No." For some reason, she detected a bit of wry humor in his voice, as though he were smirking. The picture was far too impossible for her mind to conjure, and she desperately wanted to check behind her.
"Then…" she began, fishing.
"Then, it would perhaps be wise of you to get to work." He finished for her, even though it wasn't even slightly close to what she'd wanted to say. "Quickly, and efficiently." He added, and since the spell was quite broken, she looked back at him. She tried to keep her face guarded and blank as he mirrored the lack of expression right back at her.
"And if I don't," she sniffed the air derisively, spinning her chair around to face him. His rather short moment of neutrality had fed her confidence, and she was feeling mutinous. He was capable of civility; he'd just shown it. She couldn't control what could be actions boasting dire consequences.
"I'll kill you," he said simply, as though commenting on the weather.
"Then how will you get your information?"
"You're kind of a surprise. Don't think we didn't have other plans. You merely made yourself convenient."
"If I find your information, I want answers."
"I'm sure you'll find them with us," he sighed, squeezing his eyes shut as he practiced patience. "Besides, you're not really in a bargaining position."
"So you don't know anything, then? Is that what you're saying?" Her tone was now as mutinous as she felt. However, the feeling quickly fled her when she found the back of her chair meeting with the floor. Her eyes bulged as a clamp closed her throat and air became impossible to claim. One last gasp had resounded sharply in the room before all she could manage was a week garble. She stared up into bared teeth and crystal blue, furious eyes narrowed down at her where she was pinned beneath one violent hand. Her own frail hands clung to his jackets, grasping feebly at him as though to plead for release from his tyranny. They shook violently, but not from the cold.
"I am saying," he growled, "That you will find the information we want, or I will kill you. This is not difficult to understand." His eyes hooded as he lifted his chin, staring down at her as her eyes rolled upward. He released her, and her head fell. She gasped through a raspy throat as he forced her to the floor with a thud.
She clutched feebly at his jacket still, but she could feel her hands shaking furiously. He looked down at them, before reaching to disentangle them. A wretched choking noise halted his procession, though, and he looked back at her to see her whole being beginning to shake and convulse. He bent over her again to see tears billowing out from her wide eyes, her mouth twisted open and gaping like a fish. Gently, as though handling a brittle material, he worked at her fingers again. They wouldn't come undone, and he was sure he'd have to break them. He needed them though. He needed them to be working at a keyboard, not tangled in the front of his leather jacket.
"Foster," he grunted, but she didn't seem to have heard him. "Foster," he repeated a little louder, "Let go of my damn jacket." Still, she shook, and a croaking sound fell from her lips in an increasing rhythm. Sighing, Blacklight inspected the human in cold, brutal assessment, unsure what to do with the female who'd declined into a violent state of shock. Was she messing with him? He screwed his eyes shut again, making thoughtful attempts at a solution.
What if this was Dana?
He immediately decided, upon arrival of that thought, that he'd have never put her here. But if she was, he knew what he'd want to do. He wasn't sure how, or why he knew this, but it was the instinct and the plethora of others' memories that inspired his actions now. He reached for her face with both hands, cradling her head between them and forcing her frantically darting eyes to focus on his face. He spoke her name, a softness in his tone, until he saw the dilation of her pupils recede. Her breaths began to deepen and lengthen, and the sobbing subsided into hiccups before she finally closed her eyes for a moment. When she re-opened them, she appeared on the brink of returning to tears. He slowly dragged the chair upright, stepping up from where he'd straddled her.
"I'm-I'm-I'm s-sorry," she gasped, dragging the palms of her hands across her make-up smeared eyes, seemingly unaware of the mascara and eye liner. Mercer wasn't sure what to do with her to do with her 'sorry', or why she was even professing it in the first place, so he awkwardly angled back toward his chair and meandered to it.
"Just find what we need," he mumbled, slouching into the chair and watching her as she made many failed attempts to refocus. When she finally set to work, and seemed to forget he was there, he relaxed and closed his eyes. Inward was an audience, all blissfully unaware of anything he thought or did as they wrapped themselves continually around their own recorded life over and over and over.
A/N: Thank you for reading. I'm in a perpetual state of apology for the long awaited updates. This story WILL continue. If it was to be ended early then I would say so, and not leave you all hanging. So please, don't worry about that. I just recently reformatted my computer due to, ironically, a virus. So, I'm slowly getting things in order and now Norton, which my computer was originally packaged with and so was installed back on, decided to act more like a virus than an anti-virus. So! Technology against me and all, I'm prevailing. I thank you all IMMENSELY for reading my story. I would also like to extend a special thanks to Herrlichkeit and Aronim for their intense support, their thorough readings, and the editing they've offered me. Please review!
