It's an update! WARNING: This chapter contains implied rape and torture. It fully deserves the Mature rating. I will indicate where these will be implied, so that any reader may skip over them and avoid any potentially triggering or traumatizing material. That being said, don't say I didn't warn you.

Un-beta'ed.

- o – o -

Chapter nine: Midnight in the Hanging Tree

Philips sat on the edge of the cot, doing his best not to seem impatient. The whackjob was due back in…five minutes, if his timing wasn't off. He had a vague plan that was probably going to get him killed. At least it was an escape plan, the security guard added sullenly to himself, trying to quash the voice in the back of his head. And talking to myself is the first sign of madness. Lovely.

The security officer gave up trying not to give into impatience. He tapped his foot on the floor—heel, toe, strike, back to the heel, over and over again—trying to use the tapping to time out the minutes. It had to be at least three minutes now. The door to the cell had been left unlocked last time; if he weren't so focused on the escape plan, he'd have found it a little suspicious.

As it was…

Samuels came down the stairs, carrying another covered tray. Philips looked at the floor, the perfect picture of an obedient little captive. The doctor set the covered tray on the little table just outside the cell and walked over to the door.

"I would have expected you to try to run away by now," the doctor commented mildly as he opened the cell door. Oh yeah. That was part of Philips' problem—he still had a manacle locked around his ankle and nothing he could use to create a pick or a chisel.

"Did the others try?" Philips asked curiously. Samuels raised an eyebrow, as if to ask if he was actually serious. "Right…" the security officer mumbled, blushing slightly in embarrassment. He felt the manacle around his ankle tighten for a few seconds, before it fell away completely.

Philips surged off the cot, hitting the doctor in the face with a wild haymaker that knocked the older man off his feet. He hit the steps at a run, taking them two at a time. He was unprepared to find the door that led to the main house—to the rest of the world and freedom—was locked tight. Philips slammed against the door, swearing and pulling at the locks keeping the door shut.

How in the hell had he failed to notice those? Philips slid down until he was sitting on the landing, head held in his hands. How had he failed to notice the locks? The tightness in his chest was the first sign of imminent tears, and Philips didn't exactly care. He. Had. Failed.

"You took far less time to give up than the others," Samuels commented, emerging from the cell. He was holding Philips' watch—no doubt something else he was going to taunt his captive with—and appeared to be examining one of the many functions. "Less than two minutes. I have to say, I'd expected more from you."

"Screw you," Philips replied, although his heart wasn't exactly in it. He felt…exhausted. Like nothing really mattered anymore. He looked through his fingers at Samuels, who was standing on a step below, studying him like an insect. The security officer looked away, studying the fraying threads on the hem of his trousers—a pair of flannel sweatpants that had seen better days…probably in the seventies. At least they were solid red.

"Come here, Jacob," Samuels said, not unkindly. Philips, not seeing any point in resisting, stood up and walked down a few steps.

Honestly, getting thrown down them wasn't that much of a surprise either.

- o – o -

You killed me!

Philips was pretty sure he preferred his other nightmare to this one. He was in a vast, white hall with no end in sight. The walls reflected the brilliant light even further, making it almost impossible to see. The only thing in the room that wasn't white was an all too familiar figure dressed in black. The remains of a mask were on the other man's head, and his torso was soaked in blood, dripping from his cut throat and the shrapnel wounds in his chest.

You murdered me!

The security guard jerked back in surprise. A few seconds ago, Faraday's ghost had been at the other end of the hall. Now, the ghost was holding him up by his jacket, snarling epithets and accusations in his face.

"I…I didn't…" Philips gasped, trying to jerk away. The grip on his collar (his throat, Philips thought, before shaking it away as odd) was inhumanly strong. "I did—"

LIAR! You murdered me!

Faraday's ghost was unusually insistent on that, except… Now it was changing, morphing into another all too familiar figure. The Cape stood before him, but… Something was wrong. The Cape's torso was bloody and mutilated, in the same fashion as Faraday's ghost. The Cape's face was bloodless and unnaturally pale. The rictus grin didn't help.

You killed me, the Cape hissed, wrapping his cloak around Philips' neck. You killed me!

Philips tried to jerk away, and howled in pain as the vigilante struck him repeatedly in the chest, torso, and legs.

YOU MURDERED ME!

This nightmare was all too real for Philips. Even trying to wake up wasn't helping. "I didn't murder you!" he howled back as the Cape threw him to the ground. "I didn't!" he sobbed, helplessly. "I didn't…"

The Cape hauled him off the floor a second later, the rictus grin in place. I am Faraday, Faraday is I. You murdered me.

Philips shook his head in denial. The Cape had appeared three months after Faraday had been blown up. Hell, he'd seen the remains himself! Everyone on the team had… Hadn't they?

It wasn't my body, you idiot. You murdered me, and now you're paying for that mistake.

The security officer sobbed in pain as the vigilante threw him to the ground and began kicking him in the chest and abdomen. The vigilante never stopped hurling his accusations, and all Philips could do was endure them.

But at least you're paying for your mistake, the Cape continued, softly, kneeling down so he was eye-level with Philips. Faraday is dead, but I am not. Faraday is me, I am Faraday. You murdered me.

And, in an odd way, the accusations finally made sense. Philips really wanted to wake up from the nightmare before he started agreeing with the vigilante…

- o POTENTIAL TRIGGERING CONTENT AHEAD o -

Waking up was almost worse than the nightmare he'd been trapped in. Philips moaned in pain, noting absently that his gag had been replaced at some point. He curled up on his side, sobbing as his entire body screamed in pain. Samuels had done a lot more than just tossing him down the basement stairs. How much of the nightmare had been his imagination, and how much had been Samuels remained to be seen.

Philips chose to ignore, as best he could, the damp, sticky feeling between his legs or on the mattress. He just…didn't want to think about it.

Nothing had happened.

- o END POTENTIAL TRIGGERS o -

Vince paced around his hide-out, trying to figure out how he was going to break his news to Dana in…six hours time, he guessed as he checked his watch. Ideally, he'd have a lot more time to think about this. For that matter, he wouldn't even be doing this… If not for all the crazy happenings of the past week, he'd never even think about doing this.

But that wasn't fair to Dana, his conscience argued. Dana deserved the truth, after all. And, his conscience added helpfully, she might stop seeing Jack…

The vigilante muttered a few choice curses under his breath. There was no reason to have this much of an argument with himself, honestly. He was going to have to tell Dana the truth. He should have told her sooner; he'd meant to tell her sooner, but… Things had come up, and…

Vince sighed and flopped down on his tatty couch, head cradled in his hands. If not for the serial killer, he wouldn't have to deal with this, his son wouldn't have to live with nightmares… And ARK would still smell of roses and sunshine and all things wholesome. There had to be an upside to the serial killer, didn't there? He'd have questioned it more, but then…his life had stopped making sense months ago. The vigilante shook his head and sighed.

He had to deal with this sooner, rather than later… But what a time to do it.

Four hours later, the sun had set and true night had fallen. Vince donned his costume and left his ear piece turned off. There was no point in being bothered by Orwell's natter or, worse, Anarchy's. (Anarchy was like a five-year-old on speed…or meth. It was insane.) The vigilante straddled his motorcycle and gunned the engine. Five minutes later, he was out of Trolley Park and heading for the very edge of the business district. There was no sense in keeping Dana waiting too long…

- o – o -

Dana sat on a lawn chair on her apartment's roof, watching the horizon for a familiar pair of tights. The Cape had a lot to answer for, and… She sighed, sending another mental prayer out, hoping that this time, her husband would be with him. Jack had begged off being there for the revelation, saying he had more paperwork to file.

And that was another thing. Jack had approached her this morning while she was working through the necessary paperwork for her only case with an interesting offer. He was starting his own law firm, and had offered her partnership in it. He'd even told her that he'd wait until tomorrow for a reply of interest. A definite yes or no could wait until he actually had a chance to get his firm started.

If she didn't get the answers she wanted from the Cape tonight, she'd join Jack's firm. She had given up on waiting for the Cape to stop dancing around the issue of her husband, or even for the vigilante himself to make a move. It just wasn't worth it.

She sighed and leaned back in her chair. Trip was downstairs, in bed. Sawyer was keeping an eye on him; the other was firmly trained on the apartment's front door. A reporter had somehow managed to break in. Sawyer was lucky, Dana thought, that he worked for the police and that his boss owned the media. Hanging a reporter out a fifth-story window by his ankles while reading him the riot act would have gotten him time for attempted murder—or at least intent to cause grievous bodily harm—anywhere else.

"Mrs. Faraday?"

Dana jumped as the familiar rasping voice broke into her thoughts. The vigilante was perched on the corner of the roof, looking like nothing so much as a giant bat. (She was secretly sure he'd absolutely loathe the comparison.)

"Cape!" Dana said pleasantly, standing up. "How are you? Would you like a drink?" She'd come well prepared for this little event. She had a giant thermos, filled to the brim with fresh coffee. She also had two mugs; Sawyer, still downstairs on the lookout for more intruders, had a third mug.

"That would be nice," the Cape replied. Dana poured him a mug. The two of them sat together in comfortable silence for a few minutes while the vigilante drank his coffee.

"So…" Dana said slowly, breaking the companionable silence. "You said my husband is still alive. Where is he?" She'd ignored the pleasantries and gone straight for the hard questions. Judging by the look on her vigilante's face, he wasn't exactly looking forward to this. But she had to know…

"D…Dana, the fact is…"

Dana paled at that. No. No. No, he couldn't—! She pressed her hands over her mouth, trying to block off the impending sobs. Vince had died, hadn't he?

"Oh hell," the vigilante muttered. If Dana had been paying attention, she would have heard the rasp drop from his voice. "Dana, look at me!"

Dana looked up, eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"Dana, the fact is, I…" He reached up and pulled his mask off. "I really should have planned this better."

The public defender threw herself into her husband's arms, sobbing for all she was worth. She'd kill him later, but right now…

Right now, everything was as it should have been.

Even if her husband was such an idiot.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Should I finally cut poor Philips a break? Drop a line and let me know.