Hey, it's a new chapter! Be warned: Samuels is especially psychotic in this chapter, and it is completely deserving of the M rating. There is a warning, and it may be wise to heed it.
Un-beta'ed.
- o – o -
Chapter twelve: Black Moon Rising
Dana paced around her apartment, chewing on the side of her thumb as she thought. She'd gotten a phone call from Jack half an hour ago. He'd jokingly accused her of avoiding him, before asking if she was swamped with work. The sad thing was… She actually was kind of avoiding him. Ever since Vince had revealed that he was actually the Cape, she'd been trying to avoid Jack. Even if Vince was legally supposed to be dead, he was still alive; Dana didn't want to break her vows.
The public defender sighed and flopped down on her sofa. She'd spent most of the day going over evidence and statements with her least favorite client. Quite frankly, he was beginning to weird her out a little. Considering that it was Scales, though, Dana was surprised it had taken longer than four days to do that.
So far, they'd determined that ARK couldn't say, with one-hundred percent accuracy, that Scales was the shooter. There were no cameras in the area, and the only one who could testify against the smuggler was a vigilante whose real identity was supposed to be dead. All in all, it was the perfect crime. Which was why it was so annoying…
Dana practically jumped off the couch when she heard someone tapping on the living room window. She turned around and smiled as she saw her husband perched outside on the fire escape, hand raised to tap on the window again. The public defender crossed the living room to unlatch the window and let him in, mentally giving thanks that her son's bodyguard/watchdog sat out in the hall during the evenings to prevent intruders or reporters from getting into the apartment.
"Hello Dana," Vince rasped, stepping into the apartment. Dana smiled and pulled him down for a kiss. They resurfaced for air a few minutes later, breaking the kiss reluctantly. It really had been too long since they'd been able to do that.
"Hey you," Dana replied softly. She led him into the kitchen and pulled a plate out of the microwave, where she'd warmed the contents fifteen minutes ago. Vince fell on the food like a starving animal; given his chosen career, Dana couldn't blame him. Being a vigilante burned a lot of calories, and probably didn't lend itself to regular meals every day.
After Vince had finished his food, he looked up at Dana. She'd been staring at him with an odd expression on her face, one that made him rather uncomfortable. "Dana? Is something wrong?"
Dana started out of her thoughts and smiled, shaking her head. "No. No, I was just thinking…" She trailed off. "I talked to Jack earlier today. He accused me of avoiding him."
The vigilante sitting across from her had an odd expression on his face. "Did you tell him about…?" He gestured between them, trying to say something he didn't want to voice.
"Not in so many words," Dana replied. "I… Would you at least consider letting him in on this little secret?" She was using the same wheedling tone she'd used when they were first married and she was trying to convince him to shave—his grooming habits had slipped a little after leaving the military. "Jack is one of my only friends left, after everything that happened with you and ARK, after all…"
Vince sighed in defeat and Dana knew she'd won without even trying. It was good to be her, some days.
- o – o -
Vince waited for the inevitable call from Orwell. He was expecting her call to be loud enough to rupture his eardrum. After all, she'd had enough problems with him letting his wife in on the secret. What was wrong with Orwell, for that matter? She was acting like a jealous teenager who'd just learned her father was dating again after a divorce or similar twist of life…
He brushed the thought aside for later and headed for the hideout. It was nearly six in the morning, and the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon behind him. He was also bone tired and wanted to sleep, without having to deal with the fact that he'd broken into Fleming's penthouse two nights ago, and had had dinner with his wife (and agreed to let Jack in on the secret) tonight.
The vigilante knew some things were too much to hope for as soon as he entered his cave. Orwell and Anarchy were having some kind of row, and it was getting explosive. He wondered what it would take to get both of them to sit still and shut up for at least twenty minutes in each other's presence… Aside from a massive dose of horse tranquilizers, of course.
Vince headed for his bathroom, intent on at least washing the dirt off his face before having to speak with the two screwy squirrels out in the main section of the cave. Patrols were starting to get lethal again, no doubt thanks to rumors that Scales was going to be out of prison soon. (Vince felt rather unhappy with that fact, but he wasn't going to tell Dana, his darling wife who upheld the law…even if she didn't like it, sometimes.)
Five minutes later, Vince was clad in his off-duty uniform of sweatpants and a ratty green t-shirt that had truly seen better days. Orwell and Anarchy were really going at it now; Vince avoided the argument and pulled himself up onto his bed. The funny thing about hacker fights was that they could devolve into all-out brawls, but they'd never go near their computer setups if they could help it.
He was startled out of his thoughts by a meaty-sounding thump and a few muffled curses. The vigilante spared the two a look and sighed, rolling onto his side so he was looking at the wall.
Anarchy was going to make a big production out of the shiner he'd have later, Vince just knew it.
- o – o -
Peter paced around his penthouse, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He was not worried. Worrying was for lesser men who didn't have criminal psychopaths with genius-level intelligences sharing a body with them. He was about to go out of his mind with…well, terror. (More out of his mind than he already was, of course; one had to take Chess into account, after all.)
There was a simple reason for this: Chess had, for once, begun volunteering information and his suspicions. That the psychopath was telling him these things, without snarky commentary as an unwanted bonus, was worrisome. If Chess had been a separate person, Peter would have immediately put him in the hospital to be checked over for some sort of illness. As it was, the willingness to volunteer information was making him sit up and take notice.
As to his psychiatrist…
Peter growled something obscene under his breath and began pacing again, feeling more and more agitated. Chess' suspicions had rarely, if ever, proven to be wrong. That the psychopath suspected Doctor Samuels of having a connection to the serial killer currently terrorizing Palm City said something about Chess' opinion of the man. And yet…
Therein lay the problem: Chess made things far too believable for them to be ignored. When certain facts were added together, such as Chess agreeing with something Samuels said, it was beginning to look like a possibility.
And yet, you still won't listen to my comments regarding Orwell, Chess grumbled.
"It's not like you've given me a valid reason," Peter murmured in reply, stalking over to the sidebar so he could get something to drink. It was far easier to converse with his other half when he could hide his side of the conversation. The last thing he needed right now were strange looks from his staff. Even Charles, with his loyalty, wasn't loyal enough to keep his suspicions of health issues to himself. (Peter wondered what he'd have to pay the man to get him to keep his mouth shut when conversing with Samuels, before deciding it wasn't worth it.)
Oh, I would, but then you'd do something stupid, Chess replied. As to what Chess would consider stupid, Peter didn't know. Now that hurts, right here, the psychopath replied, catching the tail end of Peter's thought.
"Of course it would, you moron," Peter replied, sticking to childish insults. Chess used them often enough, so why couldn't he?
Fine, Chess muttered sullenly. But you should still consider doing something about that shrink of yours. He's…not well.
And coming from Chess, that said a lot.
- o – o -
Philips had never considered claustrophobia to be one of his problems. He had the usual fears—clowns, heights, narrow bridges—but he'd never been afraid of enclosed spaces. The security guard was beginning to understand why some people hated enclosed spaces with a passion, though. Being locked in the basement of Samuels' home, which seemed a lot smaller in the dark, wasn't good for anyone's mental health. He kind of wondered how long his colleagues had lasted before their minds had snapped, before discarding the thought as a little too morbid to contemplate at the moment.
The biggest question on his mind concerned the connections his subconscious had made a few nights ago (or had it been yesterday night?). Somehow, his subconscious had come up with the idea that Vince Faraday had survived the explosion and had become the Cape. Oddly—or perhaps it was the insanity setting in, finally—the idea made sense. It explained a lot of the more vendetta-like qualities of the vigilante, and why there had never really been a one-hundred percent positive ID of the body recovered at the scene. Faraday's widow hadn't been allowed to identify the body; in fact… None of the deceased cop's friends or family had been asked to ID the mangled, charred remains that had been recovered.
It figured that insanity and imprisonment would be just the things to allow him to have these stunning leaps of logic.
The man groaned and hid his face behind his hands. Of course he was going insane, which led him to another conclusion: All psychiatrists must have some odd hobby, like being a serial killer on their off days, so they could improve their study of the human mind. Philips had no desire to help advance the cause of science and mental health if this was the result.
Philips rubbed his temples, thinking. His lower abdomen was still aching, as were his legs, ankles, and wrists. He'd made a mental list of his injuries, but was fairly sure he'd erased or suppressed the list because he was in too much pain to want to know what was causing it. The headache was the result of the black eye, the one that was swollen shut, and getting his head slammed into a cement wall a few times.
The ceiling creaked and Philips felt his heart stop for a second. It was evening already. Doctor Whackjob was back, which meant he'd be getting another visit. Philips felt his mind wander back to his love of horror movies. He liked it when the bad guys and the psychos had motivations for their level of depravity. He'd hated the last Hostel movie because it was pointless, but liked Saw because the motivations were good and the villain was psychotically likeable. Samuels was like the second Hostel movie: A pointless horror flick with an attempt to put as much gore as possible on-screen. Unfortunately, it was looking like he wasn't going to be as lucky as the hero of the movie.
The security officer rolled onto his side, wincing at the sharp jab of pain in his side. If he was quicker this time, he could make it out of the basement, and possibly out the front door this time. Sure, he'd endured a few days of being locked in the dark without food or water, but he could survive a few more minutes if he could just escape…
With that cheering thought, Philips rolled off the cot. He came up in a painful crouch, one hand pressed against his abdomen. The security guard clenched his jaw, determined to make it up the stairs. He was sure he had enough bruises to down an elephant, but he was still able to walk, which was half the battle.
The G.I. Joe theme song was now firmly entrenched in his mind, but Philips considered that a small price to pay for an escape attempt. He hobbled painfully up the stairs, not bothering to question the luck that had made Samuels forget to lock the cage door before he'd left for work. Getting out of the basement meant he'd have to wait for the psychiatrist, though. The security officer crouched on the top step, muscles tense and coiled, ready to spring into action at a seconds notice.
Samuels barely had time to react when he opened the door to the basement. Philips knocked him down with a roar and a tackle that would have made his football coach proud back in high school. He hit the slick linoleum floor of the kitchen, skidding a little on the surface that was so different from the rough cement in the basement.
Philips ran for the back door he'd seen once, praying it was unlocked. It was, and he pelted out the door to freedom. As his luck went, though, it had to run out as soon as he stepped out the back door. He was in the middle of nowhere, on the back porch of a nice looking cabin. The only conclusion he could reach about his current location was that it was in the middle of nowhere, and the middle of nowhere was probably the Wolf Creek state park.
He was screwed.
Still, that didn't mean he couldn't run. ARK had a company policy that the security troops—no matter what they were actually going to do later—had to go through physical training that made the combined might of the world's special forces look like little girls. The combat-oriented troops and police officers in Palm City had to undergo a modified version of SERE training. Among the courses offered for the truly insane or dedicated was wilderness survival. Philips had sailed through both with flying colors and a minimum of effort.
He could survive a few days in the woods until he found a park ranger. With that in mind, Philips headed for the stairs off the porch, feeling optimistic for the first time since he'd been abducted.
And really, he should have expected Samuels to be some sort of sociopathic energizer bunny. The tranq rifle was nicer than the crowbar to the head a week ago.
- o Potential Triggering Content o -
Philips awoke strapped to the operating table at the other end of the basement he'd been imprisoned in for the past week. He was missing his clothes, again, and the straps across his chest, wrists, and hips were sticking uncomfortably. The temperature in the basement had gone up considerably, or it was just his mind playing tricks on him.
The man looked around, as much as he could in the restraints. Samuels was at the far wall, washing his hands. Philips recognized the procedure from watching stupid medical dramas with Kia. (He preferred his old horror movies or football games.) Doctor Whackjob was scrubbing for surgery—which was infinitely more worrisome than anything the man had done so far. Philips looked away and his eyes fell on a tray of surgical tools, and an IV line that led up to a bag filled with a clear liquid. He hoped it was saline, and knew it probably wasn't.
"Oh good. You're awake," Samuels said conversationally. The man walked over and studied the drip bag, a contemplative look on his face. "It says something that the evidence officers never notice when something goes missing. I will have to commend Mr. Chandler for his work someday—this paralytic is superb."
Philips decided not to comment on the fanboy-crush tone in Samuels' voice. Although, if the man were telling the truth (and he probably was), he wouldn't be able to anyways. Philips tried twitching his fingers experimentally and mentally swore as they refused to move. Since he'd apparently stumbled into the plot of a horror film, the security officer guessed that his only ability would be to blink his eyes. Shit.
"Now, obviously I'm getting tired of the escape attempts. My back can't take many more," Samuels continued, picking up a scalpel. "I'd take your eyes out, but I save my trophy collecting for when I've finished."
Psychotic prick, Philips thought viciously. I hope you choke on mine and die.
"So," he said with a smile, "I'll just remove your ability to walk." As he began methodically cutting into the skin on Philips' ankles, Samuels began whistling.
Philips squeezed his eyes shut and wished the paralytic had knocked him out.
- o – o -
Well, what did you think? Good? Bad? Need me to get to the point and kill Samuels already? Drop a line and let me know.