(A/N) Hey all, we're back with another X-Ray and Vav chapter, just a Rooster Teeth launch those teaser pics of the X-Ray and Vav animated series! Soon, guys, soon! Will be a little sad to slip in non-canonity, but it'll be great to see how RT's interpretation stacks up next to ours! And let's face it, there could be some cool things in the series that we'll "borrow" for ours, but we'll have to wait and see.
Anyway, we have a great chapter here, provided by the fantastic TunelessLyric, here with her first chapter in this fic, and I think you're all going to love it! I know I sure did! Also, in case you guys didn't know, we're looking for a writer to take over Agent Connecticut in our Project Freelancer fic, so if you're interested either fire a PM over to me or head on over to our forum – The Freelancer Collaboration – an fill out an application for our consideration!
Enjoy!
Chapter Thirty-Three – That Insidious Little Voice
Michael Jones / Mogar
Written by TunelessLyric
"The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph." – Thomas Paine
"You want a bone? You want a bone? Uh…" Gavin stared down at the kneecap he was offering Michael. "I guess not."
Michael felt his lips pinch as he watched the other surgeon wave their patient's old knee around the OR. Behind his colleague, some nursing student edged toward the door. There had been a time when Michael didn't mind his friend's really bad jokes, but today, he just wished it would stop. "Quit fucking around and put the fucking titanium one in the bitch's leg, moron," he snapped.
Gav drooped a little and set the patient's kneecap aside. "The natives are not friendly. It's like my parents all over again."
Since returning to his daily job, Michael had been cautious around Gavin. His antics had always been a source of anger for the surgeon and now… well, it wouldn't end well for the Brit if he got too stupid. Actually, now that Michael thought about it, Gavin's horrible jokes and weird behaviour had stopped for the first week Michael was back at work on his normal schedule. Maybe it was because he had watched Mogar on the news. Whatever the reason, it made the façade of normalcy easier to maintain when Mogar wasn't raging through the hospital or removing tumours or that shit.
But still, even from that weak dog trainer impersonation, Michael felt the familiar surge of fury. He took his calming breaths, setting his scalpel down slowly. He closed his eyes and just breathed for a moment.
Gavin shifted on the other side of the table, his scrubs rustling gently. "I'll get the replacement in," he said, subdued.
That asshole makes a fucking joke like that every goddamn operation!
Michael inhaled and imagined exhaling his anger right out of the building. He was slowly calming down – he could go on with his life and job, he knew it. All of this anger…it was counter-productive. He was in control of his emotions, not the other way around.
Really, you think I'm falling for that? You're such a tit sometimes, you know that?
Calming, calming, calming. It was a mantra of sorts for Michael. He listened to Dr Sorola's voice telling him to control his rage in his mind, the Hispanic scientist's voice smoothing away the waves of anger, calming, calming, calming. Yep, controlling his rage was something he could do alright.
"Are you going to do the sutures?" Gavin's voice broke into Michael's little reverie of calming energy, or whatever the fuck Sorola had called it.
"Fuck, Gavin, just do the damn stitches yourself! You're a big boy now, do I have to hold your fucking hand while you do it?" shouted Michael, eyes snapping open.
The room was hazing over, coming into fever-bright focus around the other surgeon. Gavin was nearly finished. Shit, had Michael been standing there wishing himself calm for two hours? Time flies while meditating, apparently.
Gavin turned his eyes down to the woman's leg and got his suture kit, he gave off waves of wounded pride that Michael had a difficult time sympathizing with.
That shitstain of a friend deserved it, whispered Mogar, deep down into Michael's psyche, lurking quietly, waiting for his chance to take over.
Shut up, I don't need you right now.
Micoo, taunted Mogar in a vicious impression of Gavin, I'm so gay I can't sew a leg shut. Micoo, do you want a bone? Micoo, why do you spend more time with Lindsay than me? Micoo, can you cover my shift, I have to stay home and play with my dick all day.
It made Michael so angry that Gavin was always asking for shift swaps. He didn't have a girlfriend… or a boyfriend for that matter, so why was he constantly requesting to change the schedule? Michael had to cancel plans with Lindsay more often now. And on top of that, he was being called by the Feds to fight the Community with Iron-Ryan – or whatever the fuck that guy called himself – every now and again, which ate up a hell of a lot of time. Every time Michael turned around he was texting Lindsay to apologize for having to bail on her to work overtime or save the fucking city.
Of course, Lindsay was cool about it to his face, but Michael could sense her frustration at the situation they were in. Or maybe he was just projecting.
Thinking of Lindsay again, eh? I like her.
Whoa, that was just beyond stalkerish, and Michael balked at the thought that suddenly jumped into the fore of his mind, unwanted and unbidden.
Lindsay was lying motionless on the sidewalk, blood seeping from a head wound. A banged-up brick rested near her, covered in bone chips and smears of gore-
No. Lindsay was at work. She was perfectly fine.
You fucktard, I know that's not where she is. It's were I'll put her.
Michael's hands began to shake. "You're never going to touch her," he hissed.
Gav's head popped up from where he was manoeuvring his forceps to begin stitching the knee. "I'm gonna have to touch her to do the sutures," he said slowly, confused, and completed the look with a blink of uncertainty, something that passed across his face at least twenty times an hour.
The other surgeon opened his mouth to say, 'Not you, idiot, I'm talking to the guy in my head'. That was definitely a bad plan. Instead, he stood there, mouth hanging open and no sound coming out.
Real smooth, pansy.
Shut up.
You must look like a retard, standing there like that.
It's you, too, dipshit.
Fucking right, it's me, too!
Michael felt pain in his palms for an instant as his fingernails grew into Mogar's claws, slicing through his surgical gloves and the thin layer of skin effortlessly. In that instant, Michael felt his breathing control whirl away, his steady inhales and exhales becoming something more on the level with sharp panting like he'd just run ten miles.
"Gotta get home, Gav," they managed to wheeze out, struggling to regain control of his breathing, holding his hands up close to his chest and turning away from his friend, keeping them out of sight.
Fuckin' right, it's they now!
Dr Free gazed over the half-stitched knee at his friend, worry and something else across the features not obscured by his mask. "What?"
Michael pulled enough of himself together to lurch out of the OR. Knocking into walls, he tried to shove the boiling rage into some dark hole. The more he fought, the harder it was to put one foot in front of the other.
He didn't stop at his locker to change out of his scrubs or grab his wallet or anything. He just bolted for the nearest exit and tried not to knock anyone down. In the end, Michael found himself blinking in the sunlight on the stairs for the fire route. He staggered down the steps and onto the sidewalk, trying to orient himself through the images of Gavin and Lindsay dead in Mogar's clawed hands.
Michael nearly cried with relief when he found himself in his greens, nose to knocker, on his front step. It was eleven-thirty in the morning and the house was empty. While he couldn't break down the door or smash a window to get in, Mogar wasn't really into the idea of letting Michael find the spare key to at least get out of the semi-public eye to settle the whole control dispute.
Don't we have a backyard or did I imagine all that?
There is no we!
But that didn't stop Michael from circling around the building and vaulting over the fence and into the backyard of his house. It still left the super-surgeon outside, but now he was in relative privacy.
You're fucking useless. Look up, assface.
A blip of confusion pushed the fury back enough to let Michael figure out he was going to get into the bathroom one the second floor through the window. Standing at just over ten feet tall once the transformation took place, the question was not how to get up that high, as he could easily jump and pull himself up. The question was how to squeeze into the tiny window afterward.
Aw, Micoo's too scared to face wittle Mogar out in the open? Scared I'll get the drop on you, pony-boy?
Michael dispelled the image of a pony lying dead on the grass, twisted and bloodied by his headmate. Instead, he took let his body reshape into Mogar's form. Focusing all his willpower on staying in control and ignoring the other personality's nonstop taunting, Michael jumped up and hooked his claws over the window frame. With a slash of his claws, the screen split into tiny ribbons.
Now all he had to do was revert back to an average-sized human.
Lindsay, breathe in, hold it. Breathe out. Lindsay can't come home to you hanging off the side of the house with screen all over your face. Breathe in. Hold. What would the neighbours say if an FBI van pulled up in front of our house?
It was working, Mogar was being pushed back enough. Michael felt his body shrinking to fit into his torn scrubs again. He heaved himself into the bathroom, legs flailing for leverage against the siding of the house, and fell into a graceless heap onto the cool tile.
In a flash, Michael was up and stumbling through the house. Mogar wrested limbs from his control, now tying fingers around a doorjamb, now lunging over the back of the couch and Michael found himself face-to-floor once again. The walk from the bathroom to his room wasn't far, only about twenty-five steps at the most, but it was the farthest simple walk Michael ever faced. At long last, he heard the door click locked behind him.
He slid down to the thin carpet and shut his eyes tightly.
You're so weak, Michael. Where would you be without me to help you hide? Where would you be if someone attacked you again? I saved your sorry ass. I helped you fight back. You're pathetic. I should be in charge.
This is my body, I was here first, jackass! You have no right to control me, this is my life.
I'm part of you, I always was. I'm just a better model.
In the background, a car pulled into the driveway. Lindsay was home from work for lunch.
You will not take her away from me. This is my life and she is my girlfriend and this is my body! You have no right, you can't take that away. I will fight you for the rest of our sorry life if you try it. I swear, I'll find a way to kill you, even if I go down with you.
There was no answer from Mogar.
Michael let out a long breath and sat up. He heard the door open. With a glance down at himself, he figured he may as well just bite the bullet and greet his girlfriend. It took a long-suffering sigh and a rather pathetic groan to get up off the floor.
Lindsay jumped when Michael came out of the hall and into the kitchen-slash-dining area. Her reaction was caused by his quiet approach and the fact that he was still clothed in his tattered operating getup.
"What happened?" she asked gently, continuing to put a ham sandwich together.
Michael shifted his feet. "I, uh, had an argument with the other guy."
An eyebrow cocked, but Lindsay didn't reply right away. Instead, she waited until her sandwich was cut in half to say, "Looks like you at least won."
"Yeah… By the way, we need to replace the bathroom screen." He kept his gaze on the floor, tracing the grouting between the tiles with the toe of a shoe.
Lindsay shut her eyes for a quick moment. Michael was afraid she'd be angry with him for not being able to control himself or remember to grab his key before Mogar crippled his reasoning skills. She surprised him by crossing the room and taking his hand. "I can call work and stay home today."
"What? No, you should –" Michael cut himself off. Their date nights had suffered lately. He'd been working overtime so much recently. Would it be so bad if they played hooky one afternoon? "If there's nothing too important."
"Nah, it'll be cool."
Michael squeezed Lindsay's hand. Sometimes he wondered if he would be better off like his FBI-mandated teammate, Iron-Ryan, emotionless and invincible in the face of Mogar. Then he would remember that Lindsay was always going to be around for him.
Not for the first time since his transformation, Michael thought of the ring hidden in his sock drawer, hidden ever since his first transformation had thrown all of his previously laid plans into the gutter.
Not today, but maybe soon.