Stark Estate, Hollywood, California, United States, September, 1947
The air reeks of ozone. Crackles with electricity. He's trying to catch his breath. Looking around to see if everyone's alright.
It takes him far too long to realize Roger and Emily are gone.
Michael wakes to Roger stirring in his arms, turning to a more comfortable position. He can't settle back down into the bed. Roger is safe and sound and not going anywhere. But he can't shake the guilt of knowing Emily's out there, on her own. She's smart, and strong, and fully capable of taking care of herself and Dottie.
Still, he remembers London all too well. And he needs a smoke.
He slips out of bed, puts on his trousers and wanders around for a strange time until he finds an exit to the garden. Maybe the night air can sooth his frayed nerves for a moment. He finds a covered patio area with some decent looking seats. It's still rather warm outside, but Michael can at least release his held breath.
Michael focuses on the smoldering end of his cigarette, letting it burn down close to his fingers.
"Old habits die hard, do they?"
Peggy stands in a near silhouette from the hallway light, hands in the pockets of her robe. He hastily moves to stub out his cigarette. She snorts, "Please, I'm not going to tattle on you to Mother."
"I do wonder about that."
"I don't want to fight, Michael."
"Really? Because I distinctly remember you were having a good time biting my head off earlier."
"God, you have such a martyr complex."
"So I've been told."
Peggy lets out a frustrated sigh, "Why'd I even bother."
Michael shrugs, "Well I couldn't sleep, what's your story?"
She walks over to an armchair and collapses into it, resting her head in her hands with resigned exhaustion. "You know, I thought I'd be used to this by now."
He looks away, knowing full well that his presence didn't help.
"I don't think this will ever get easier," Michael replies, trying to find something to say.
"That's reassuring."
"I try to speak the truth."
"Would've loved that six years ago," Peggy snarks back.
At least she tries to. There's no bite to it.
He leans back in his chair not knowing what to say. The fight is gone, only regret and anger remain.
"I don't want to fight you, Michael, but what did Thompson do?" She asks.
"Why did I shoot him, you mean?"
"Why did you kill him? Why did he have to die?"
He stares at his sister. She's exhausted. She's in pain. She wants answers.
He answers, "You won't like what I have to tell you."
"Do you think I care at this point?" Peggy says. "I grew tired of others coddling me a long time ago. I'm very used to bad news. I was part of coordinating missions during the war. Analyzing the gathered intelligence. I learned to live with the knowledge that many people were sacrificing everything to win the war. I knew what they would go through if caught. I knew that a swift death was a mercy. I knew that we sacrificed those brave souls regularly because our trade is a rather unfeeling one. If you are incapable of operating without empathy or compassion then you will drown and no one will help you."
"Intelligence work has only one moral law - it is justified by results." Michael takes a drag before delivering the answer that will damn him anyway. "Thompson was killed because he had both of our files that were stolen from the Service, Peg. From my perspective, when we were tracking him down, he was Vernon Masters' protege doing his bidding. Masters was a HYDRA member. The calculation was simple."
And you hate yourself for it. You're always breaking things.
"So that was it," Peggy replies after a long silence. "The value of a life reduced to a formula." She lets out a heavy sigh, staring at her brother. "And don't you dare say 'I told you so.'"
He holds his hands up in mock surrender, but there's no mirth in it.
"Is your girl alright?" she asks.
Michael nods, "I have to trust that she'll be alright. She's more than capable, anyway."
That small bit of jealousy starts boiling up again and Peggy swiftly finds a way to change topics. "She was in London with you when everything happened, right?"
"Yes. Unfortunately."
"What happened, exactly?"
"I guess you do have all night."
Mayfair, London, United Kingdom, January, 1947
Old Priam was first to see him, shining like a star as he sped across the plain - like the star that comes in autumn, outshining all its fellows in the evening sky. They call it Orion's dog, and though it is the brightest of all stars, it heralds no good, bringing much fever, as it does, to wretched mortals.
It was a strange quote to think of more for its appropriateness than how suddenly it came to Brigadier General Sir Thomas Halloway's mind. He wondered if he were Old Priam.
It will be a reckoning, nonetheless. The smell of French cigarettes is a dead giveaway.
He turns on the lights to the reception room, finding Michael Carter and Edith Harker sitting next to a lit fireplace. Carter leans against a bookshelf and Harker stiffly in an armchair.
"How long have you been here?" Halloway asks.
"Long enough to get into your liquor cabinet," Carter replies before taking a sip of scotch.
"And he didn't offer you any, Harker?"
She shrugs, "I don't drink alcohol, sir."
It's only now that Halloway sees how red her eyes are from lack of sleep, or tears, or both. He looks over at Carter, who looks more like an ashen ghoul with the dark rings under his blood-shot eyes.
"I have been briefed on the firefight in Deptford."
"Rather convenient for you to be in Washington when this all happened," Harker says accusingly.
"They took Aubrey and Gower, was that in your briefing?" Carter adds. "Pack of 'mutants', too."
"Two brutes, a psychic, and a German girl with electrical powers," Harker adds.
Halloway looks between the two of them. They're angry and exhausted. They're devastated. He is tired and starting to feel his age, but his sorrow cannot fathom the depths of Carter and Harker's. He's too removed nowadays to know the pain they have suffered.
But he does have a certain advantage in perspective. Enough experience to inform him that the current state of British intelligence will only lead to self destruction.
"It was in Joyce-Frank's telegram, that was why I left Washington early." He sighs at how unmoved they were. "I am not your enemy. At my rank, I am more of a politician than commander, and I have tried my best to protect the Invaders. And in that I have failed."
Carter huffs, "Surprised to hear that from a general."
"You know I have tolerated your bolshie proclivities, but I have very little patience for insolence, Carter. You of all people should appreciate the independence I have given you. I never wanted you and the Invaders to be used to put out bushfires in some god forsaken corner of the empire. The day the Yanks dropped that bomb on Hiroshima was the day we raised a red flag to the rest of the cosmos saying 'we can now level cities in an instant and we shall not stop there.' It's likely helped awaken things that have been sleeping for eons that should have remained asleep. My plan for the Invaders was to keep you focused on those threats. But I did not see how our entire intelligence community would be turned into a pack hyenas fighting over a carcass. For that I apologize, as there is no excuse for such blindness."
There's a long silence, punctuated by the rain and wind outside, and the ticking of the clock on the mantle.
Carter now sighs, "Thank you, sir, for the clarity. I am afraid, however, that it has become impossible for us to carry on as we have. We did not come here to ask permission, sir. At most we came to beg forgiveness for what we are about to do."
"What is there to forgive?" They look at Halloway somewhat astonished. He takes the opportunity to pour himself a drink, continuing, "We have factions turning against each other. Attempted murder and kidnapping of our fellows? Theft of top secret files and assets? Hostage taking? HYDRA infiltration? My lord, I thought this was England, not Florence under the Medicis. Menzies truly let the service go to the dogs."
"Sounds like an opportunity to clean house, sir," Carter replies, flashing a rather grim smile.
"Indeed."
"They need to be taught a lesson their children will feel in their bones," Harker quietly says.
"Are the Joyce-Franks aware of this meeting?" Halloway asks, taking a sip of his scotch.
"Their suggestion," Carter answers. "So you know ahead of time that you'll be concocting a story about how Union Jack's gone mad. Because there is no coming back from what needs to be done, sir."
He sighs, "It is a shame. I had hoped that it would not come to this. But if there is no other way to handle this problem, I understand. And I will not stand in your way."
"Cry havoc and all that," Carter lets the bravado go. He drains the last of the scotch, making his voice harsh. "All we want is Roger and Emily back, and to live in peace. That's it. We are not weapons."
"I know. You and the rest of the Invaders have earned your peace a thousandfold. I regret that we have treated such treasures so poorly. You do not need anyone's permission, let alone mine, Carter. Same to you Harker."
Carter puts the glass on a side table before offering a hand shake. The two men clasp hands. "It was good working with you, sir. Sorry it has to end like this," Carter says.
"Don't be. You are only doing what must be done. Now go and make those bastards howl for their mothers."
Lower Clapton, Hackney, London
In an abandoned back-to-back house slated for demolition, the unfortunate Tod Radcliffe - a middling intelligence officer from a good family who liked to puff up his credentials to unwitting Americans - lies tied up on a dirty pallet. The unfortunate soul was tasked with breaking into the Service archives and stealing sensitive documents.
Michael looks out into the early morning gloom, only moving when he sees a familiar Vauxhall pull up.
"Get the guest up, Pat," he says as he moves to the stairs. Pat nods, takes a bucket they've been using to catch water from a leak, and splashes its contents on Radcliffe's face.
"Look alive, laddie," Pat says to the sputtering captive. "You've got a proper lady with some pertinent questions for you."
In the front room, Michael greets Robby and Maddie. The latter makes no attempt to blend in into the bombed out neighbourhood with the sumptuous fox fur coat draped over her shoulders.
"Is it too much?" Maddie asks in response to the look on Michael's face.
"I don't think you would care about my opinion."
"Absolutely not," she replies, then far more seriously. "Where is he?"
"Upstairs. Pat's guarding him. Can you manage the stairs, Robby?" Michael asks, gesturing to his leg and cane.
"Yes, of course."
Maddie climbs up the stairs, followed closely by Michael and her husband, to find the bedraggled Tod Radcliffe. They exchange glances of vague recognition - they traveled in similar circles after all - but there is no warmth, only cold politeness at best. A little mustered defiance in the eyes.
It won't help him though.
Pat brings out chairs for her and Robby. Maddie takes her seat gingerly, unsure of the chair's stability. There's a damp chill that causes her to reflexively draw in the coat closer. Once settled, she looks at their captive and asks, "Do you know why you are here, Mr. Radcliffe?"
He shakes his head, "No." It's a partial truth. He has many sins to his name and may need help narrowing them down. But a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth gives more away than he will ever know.
In the years since her powers manifested, Maddie has become acutely aware of the most subtle of body motions. How the cadence of a voice can reveal an origin. How a discrete turn of phrase can hide the truth. And aside from that, her throat no longer hurts when she uses her gift. Observing minutiae of human speech and gestures has become a pastime.
"Do you know who Waltham Pierce and Harry Manners are?" she asks.
"No."
"Well that's queer, because I know you and Manners used to club together, you trained together, and you both served in South America together." Now he's looking a little panicked. In the voice that seems to come from deep within her, harsh and echoing in her own head, {In Argentina, correct?}
"Yes." Radcliffe looks shocked at his own voice.
{Is that where you met Herman Zemo?}
"Yes." He looks around, trying to find a reason why his mouth betrays him.
{Were you introduced to Baron von Strucker?}
"Yes."
He's scared now. Radcliffe knows she's on the right trail. Knows she'll unravel the secrets soon. She exchanges glances with Michael. He's got himself wound up tight; shoulders hunched up to his ears, one hand clutching his elbow, free hand in a fist before his mouth.
"Ma'am, what are you doing to me?"
Maddie ignores him. {Were you three responsible for the break in at Service archives? Who came up with the plan?}
"Yes. Manners planned it all."
{Who did you give those files to?}
"Jack Thompson, SSR agent in New York."
Maddie purses her lips in mild surprise, "An American, how interesting. And from our former sister organization."
Pat nods in agreement.
{Do you know where Roger Aubrey and Emily Gower are being held?}
"Milbury House. It's west of Epping."
{What is it? Why was it selected?}
"It's a top secret laboratory. It's rather isolated in the countryside and Pierce worked for the chief scientist there during the war."
"Do you have a name?" Michael asks. There's an excited, nervous edge to his voice.
{Who is in charge of the laboratory?}
Radcliffe struggles against the voice, trying desperately not to say something. Strangely, from Maddie's perspective, not out of fear of her, or Michael, or the Invaders in general. The fear is of the name. Like saying it will invoke some fairytale boogeyman.
His face twists trying to keep his mouth shut. But Radcliffe cannot fight the voice for long. In a gasp he yells out, "Nathaniel Essex!" He takes more breaths, shocked by his own outburst.
"Nathaniel Essex?" Michael asks. The name is familiar. But where did they hear it?
"Yes," Radcliffe almost sobs out. "Yes. Pierce worked with him. He's been in charge of Milbury House since the start of the war. If not earlier. Man's a freak. Some call him 'Mister Sinister'."
{That's enough. Go to sleep, Radcliffe.} The man slumps over, snoring.
Maddie turns to Michael, "Did you recognize that name?"
"Milbury's familiar. He was a boffin at Porton Down attached to Operation Meridian if I remember correctly."
"That sounds right," she replies, casting her mind back to earlier days. "Halloway wanted me to check up on him when we took over."
"I remember you telling me that," Robby says. "Because that name and 'Dr. Essex' kept coming up in our medical records."
"Weren't they those vampires who wanted blood samples from us?" Pat asks from his corner.
They look at each other in stunned realization.
Every few months after Fidonisi, they would be asked to submit tissue samples - mostly blood. First it was just Michael, as he was the focus of Operation Meridian. Then Roger and Emily soon after. They took Mark's blood once but never asked again - Maddie suspected that Kushiel's possession would not appear so physically. Anthea was only asked once as well, but Lord knows how they would store the ichor of Olympians. And finally Maddie herself when her powers manifested. The most common requesting doctors were Essex and Milbury.
"Robby, wasn't Milbury the name of that one obstetrician?"
"The one who looked like Legosi and was too keen on the twins?"
"Yes. Dr. Nathan Milbury." She feels sick thinking about him with his slicked back hair, corpse-like skin, and simpering manner.
"And I doubt there are a lot of doctors in England named Nathan Milbury and Nathaniel Essex, either," Michael says. "But in any case, Em and Roger could be in a lot more trouble than we thought."
Stark Estate, September, 1947
"Wait, 'twins'?" Peggy cuts in.
"Yes," Michael answers. "Maddie was rather glad - a boy and a girl."
"I cannot imagine Maddie being pregnant. Would've killed her social life."
"Trust me, Peg, she adores those children, but she hated every minute of it. Lord knows what she'd do if the twins were in danger, though."
Milbury House, Epping, Essex, January, 1947
Milbury House is well hidden from the road, secluded behind trees and a hill. The giveaway is the electrical pylons leading over the hill. There's a gatehouse at the road, and near the back of the property is an open field.
"There's a two-layered perimeter," Anthea explains, pointing on a map. She had spied out the place disguised as a wren. "The outer perimeter is mostly fields and has patrols going through every fifteen minutes in jeeps. Usually a pair in a jeep. On the east side there's a break in the hedgerow because of a large pond and a copse of trees on the south side. The main grounds - the house and what's left of the gardens - are surrounded by a ring of trees."
"Are there any outbuildings?" Michael asks.
"There are stables directly north of the old house and a collection of hutches east of that. Only a few yards between them. The road to the back of the house is lined with trees."
"So on the one hand, we gotta creep through a lotta wood," John interrupts. "But on the other, they got a blind spot."
"Precisely," Michael responds. He looks at his watch, then the map, then finally the assembled team. "First, Anthea will be putting as many guards to sleep up top. Gisele will take the north road to drop off John and Pat" He nods to the two men. "Your job is to keep the rest of the guards occupied while Mark and I come from the east drive. Edith will be our getaway driver." She nods in understanding and Michael continues. "We'll exit out of the car once we're past the gate, but I need you to get as close to the house as possible - we don't know what shape Roger and Emily are in, so we need to get them on the road as swiftly as possible. But if you run into any trouble, reverse out and try to pass yourself off as a lost traveler."
"Understood," Edith answers.
"Good," Michael turns to the rest. "Anthea will give the signal for the all clear and we clear out as quickly as we came. Understood?" There's a chorus of agreement as he looks down at his watch. "One hour until it's dark, we leave at 2000 hours, and it should take us thirty minutes to get there. We strike at 2100 hours. Once we're done, we will rendezvous at Greenmantle."
Michael has never felt this excited for action in a long time. Maybe ever. It's a rush. It's the excitement that comes with the scent of gunpowder, cordite, and diesel in the air. It comes with the rumble of engines. His heart's pounding.
He needs it. He wants it. He longs for it.
"Hey, boss," Mark says, pulling Michael from his reverie. "Why'd we need all this plastiques?"
"Because, Mark Anthony," he answers with a malicious grin. "We're going to burn Milbury House to the ground."
Malabar Foundry Company, Vernon, California, September, 1947
Ivan returns to the workshop, most of the men were sitting around, cleaning weapons, chatting, smoking, the usual. Three are keeping watch.
"Alright guys, got some news for you," he says to the room. "Things got a little more complicated."
"How so, boss?" Nico asks.
"Well first off, Volkova's little more valuable to us alive for the time being. She's not doing well right now, but once she's awake, we can get more information from her. Secondly, if we're not being fed a line, Emily Gower, the blonde girl, is an associate of Union Jack - the British version of Captain America. And he wants the girls back."
A murmur goes through the men. Ivan continues, "Whether or not he's the real thing isn't a concern right now. We should be concerned about a potential raid on us. And if there's one thing I know about English commandos is that they hit fast and hard. Make sure your weapons are clean and ready to go. Nico, take Javi and Raúl, scrounge up as many bottles as you can and start making petrol bombs." Ivan then sighs, this is the crazy stuff. "We're going to need those and to find a way to heat up this place, because if the Gower girl is right, we've stumbled onto a HYDRA science experiment. And from all of my encounters with them during the Great Patriotic War, we need to deal with it now. The first thing we need to do is get those furnaces going. Pablo, I want you to find that camping stove, get it working, and set it up in the holding room. It'll be a long night, but I have every confidence that we can face this."
My, my. If you were going to be such a bore I'd have done this earlier, dearie.
Emily pushes back the unwanted memory. She can't lose focus now.
Dottie's sleep is fitful. She murmurs something; repeating something in Russian. Emily only catches a little, a word here or there. Edith had taught her some Russian, whatever she remembered from her Oxford days. She picked up a collection of Slavic words and phrases - it helps that the languages are so close together - but when she went undercover in the Balkans, she defaulted to an ethnic German.
"Mama…" Dottie whispers.
Oh lamb. "Well, I'm not your mama, but if you can hear me, I'm not going anywhere Alya."
One of Comrade Ivan's men - the oldest given his weathered face and greying temples - comes into the room with a camp stove. He speaks in Spanish as he sets up the stove, seemingly giving Emily instructions on how to operate it. When he finally notices her lack of response, he asks, "¿Hablas español?"
"No," She shakes her head. Then for some reason answers in schoolgirl French. "Non, je ne parle pas espagnol."
He lets out a hearty laugh, "Ey! Tu parles français! Moi aussi."
She can't help but smile at that. "Oui. Mais ce n'est pas bon."
He waves the comment off and introduces himself, "Je m'appelle Pablo."
"Je m'appelle Emily."
"Alright, then, let me show you how this works," Pablo continues in French. "The boss wants it hot for Volkova."
"Yes, that should help her."
They finish setting up the camp stove next to the camp bed as the building shutters and hums.
"The furnace is now working," Ivan announces from the doorway.
"I noticed," Emily replies. She's trying not to be too curt, but she can't let her guard down. Just because these communists are nice now, doesn't mean they'll try to stab her in the back the moment it's convenient.
"What else do we need?" he asks with equal professional brusqueness.
"Probably something to tie her down. It won't be long until the Deep One realizes it's getting uncomfortable and it'll get rough. We need to start making noise, too. Are there more pots and pans around here?"
Pablo says something to Ivan, who translates for Emily, "He said that the radio gets loud and there is a bell to signal the shift changes and emergencies."
"That'll be damned loud when we get it going."
Dottie stirs in the camp bed. From where she stands, Emily can see the slightly discoloured veins creep up from under her shirt collar. They need to hurry.
Ivan says something to Pablo, who leaves the room, then turns to her, "How much time do we have before she...?"
Emily sucks in a breath, "Not enough." But she'll be damned if she lets Dottie suffer like she did.
Milbury House
"My, my. What a specimen you will make, dearie."
Emily wakes up sick and disoriented on a cold, hard surface. Metal, she thinks. The chill almost burns against her aching body. There's a light above her burning too brightly into her eyes. And in the distance, a smell - sterile like a chemical cleaner, but she can pick up something rotten underneath it. Something butchered.
She tries to sit up, but finds she can't use her arms. She feels them pinned above her, held fast by thick metal cuffs around her wrists and ankles. Beyond the light, from the little Emily can see, the room is dark yet full of strange machines. Tubes line the wall like vines. There is something sickeningly organic in this mechanical room.
Turning her head, Emily sees Roger, bound to another table like her. He's unconscious, the blood drained from his cheeks, and his breaths shallow.
What is this place?
She sees a man looming above her. He's silhouetted against the light from the lamp above her. Yet she can make out the deathly pallor of his skin - the bluish white of a corpse drained of blood.
"Take him to the secondary lab," the man says. "He might prove useful yet, if Whitehall's notes were accurate."
Two attendants come from nowhere and wheel the gurney Roger is stuck to away. She tries to call for him but she's still dizzy, and her throat is painfully dry. All her attempt does is draw the man's attention.
"As for you…mutation and vampirism. How curious!" His fingers are suddenly in her mouth, opening her lips and jaw to examine her teeth like a prized racehorse, unbothered by her sharp canines. "My, my. What big teeth you have, Little Red Riding Hood."
In animal rage she snaps at his hand, which gets her pinned tighter to the table by the throat.
"Do not test me, Sergeant Gower. You may be as fierce as a shrike, but you are just as fragile. And you have so much potential, it would be a pity to waste it."
The last thing she sees for a while is the glowing red diamond in the middle of his forehead.
Malabar Foundry Company
Emily hates herself for what she must do to Dottie. They use handcuffs to bind her wrists to the cot. One of Ivan's younger men brings a length of rope that they use to tie her feet and and cut part to tie across her abdomen. Some candles, a hotplate, and two space heaters are brought, to add to the camp stove's heat. Then they cover her in blankets. Slowly, Emily starts feeling the heat from the furnace on the work floor.
"So the plan is to draw this Deep One out of her," Ivan asks.
She replies, "Pretty much. Like making a brown sauce."
"Brown sauce?"
"I mean, as the sauce simmers, you're supposed to skim the waste off the top. Similar enough principle for me."
He shrugs and gives a resigned but accepting expression. "The alarm's ready."
"Good," Emily replies.
Please let this work.
It's getting bloody hot, but instinctively she wraps her arms about her shoulders, as if to ward off the cold. A way to remain in the present. A way to stave off the ill feeling in the pit of her stomach that will drag her down the moment Emily lets herself slip.
Dottie's breaths start coming fast and shallow. She starts moaning.
"Are you ready?" Ivan asks.
Emily looks at him slightly stunned. She's still uncertain of Ivan's sincerity, given the circumstances. But he has treated her and Dottie respectfully and he has listened. And now he looks at her with some degree of sympathy. With some kindness, perhaps?
She nods, "As I'll ever be."
Dottie's moans grow louder and more painful. She tosses and turns as much as she can. Emily goes to her, crouching down next to the camp bed and tries to sooth her.
"Alya? Alya, can you hear me?" Emily asks, putting a hand on her head. It likely won't do anything to help, but there must be something she could do.
"Mama?" she whispers weakly. "Gde ty?"
"What's she saying?" Emily asks Ivan.
"'Gde ty'? Where are you," replies. "She's asking for someone. Her mother, perhaps."
"How do you say 'I am here,'" she asks, not entirely sure which tact she's taking.
"Ya zdes'"
She repeats the words to herself to get the feel before saying to Dottie, "Ya zdes'"
"Ne ukhodi."
"She says, 'do not leave'."
"What's 'I will stay'?"
"Ya ostanus'"
Emily repeats the phrase to Dottie, holding her hand and stroking her sweat damp hair. Doing what she remembers her own mother would do. She adds, "Just follow my voice, Alya. I'm not going anywhere."
Dottie starts shaking. Her body rattles the camp bed. Struggling to breathe. Fighting against her bonds. Her eyes flutter open.
They're jet black, showing no whites or irises.
"Hold on Alya." Emily looks up at Ivan. "Ring the alarm."
He nods, then turns down the hallway, shouting at someone, "Suena la alarma!"
The alarm bell starts ringing at the moment Dottie lets out an inhuman, blood curdling scream.
Milbury House
Roger's been in-and-out of consciousness for the past half-hour; waking just enough to know he's in danger but unable to get enough wits about him to do anything about it. When he does finally manage to keep his eyes open, he sees the kind of observation bay he's seen dozens of times before. HYDRA labs are built just like this, but he's never been on this side of them - the subject of the experiment.
He cannot move his arms or legs - thick leather straps bind him to the table he's on. And there's a queasy feeling running through his body - something is off, something doesn't fit. He tries to look down, and now he notices his neck is bound too. His struggle to move it is too much, too similar to when his father was fed up, and he doesn't have the strength to go far enough. The best he can muster is peering downward, and what he sees is what must be two dozen needles plunged into his arms and torso.
"Ah, he's awake!" a voice declares, far too jovial to inspire any calm. "Not that you can do much with that right now, hmm?" A man walks in front of Roger and jabs him in the chest. "I suppose I'm a bit of an old hag, aren't I?"
"Em…Emily," Roger murmurs.
"Oh, she's fine. She's fed! At least she should be by now. Very picky, the female. I figured I'd see what makes you tick while I wait." The man - Essex, most likely - brandishes a scalpel. "I have a theory. I've heard about your skin, how tough it is, but we were able to get all these injections into you while you were unconscious. Which means you have to decide to turn it on and off." He holds the blade up and flicks it at Roger's cheek, and Roger hears it clink off as he crystalizes that side of his face.
"Hmm, yes. But if I were to do this," he makes another motion with the blade, but Roger can't see it. "And then this," another swipe unseen. "Well look at that. We've filled you with so many numbing agents that you have no idea what's happening down there. You could bleed out and not even know!"
Now Roger does feel something - a warmth, and something dripping from his fingertips. He can barely see the crimson pulsing out his forearms. He tries to use his abilities but they're stuttering, not reaching the wounds because he can't find them.
Essex chuckles at this. "Whitehall suggested someone like yourself - Inhuman, he called it? They need a more exploratory touch." And numb or not, Roger knows when his captor plunges the scalpel into his abdomen and drags it upwards. "Let's see what makes you tick."
As his sides are torn open, Roger howls in agony. Something in his body clicks as his entire body feels like it fills up with shattered glass.
His captor raises an eyebrow. "How fascinating. Good thing I came prepared." He places the scalpel on a medical tray and picks up something resembling a large wirecutter. Roger's vision begins to go white, but he cannot mistake the feeling of something being pried.
Stark Estate
There's a shift in the light and for the first time Peggy sees the scars that riddle Michael's body. It gets her mind off the ill feeling growing in her stomach. And it's still so strange to see what her brother's become. They look almost silvery against his pale skin. Like the moon's craters. She thinks, almost absently, about Steve's skin, how marked it became. He hid it well. She saw the bruises, welts, cuts, gashes, stitches, and bandages. But he never showed off the scars, and those that were shown had healed quickly. It's not like the public wants to see their hero beat up. It was better if few knew about them.
The public needs myth and legend. Not flesh and blood.
He notices and Peggy instantly feels embarrassed. "It's fine, Peg," he says. "I'm used to being looked at."
That's a lie if she ever heard one, but she doesn't call him out on it. "Are most from after the serum?"
"Yes. But the worst ones came from France." He gestures to the puckered skin down his left side. "Mostly grenade shrapnel. This one," he draws a line across his right cheek, "was courtesy of Kenneth Crichton. Turns out he was right about the vampires and became a turncoat for them and HYDRA."
Peggy feels a little sick at the name. She never met the worm but was all too aware of his reputation.
"Got some lashes on my back from Julia Koenig's bullwhip. I've got enough burns and bullet wounds to last a lifetime."
Peggy stares at what looks like claw marks on the lower right side of his abdomen. "Who is she?" she blurts out.
Michael looks puzzled, "Who?"
"Emily." Peggy doesn't mean to be blunt, but this entire Emily situation has been eating at her since Santa Clarita. Part of her - a very petty and immature part - wants to know the woman who replaced her in her brother's affections.
He doesn't answer, but the disappointed look on Michael's face cuts like a knife. She puts on a mask of indifference and pushes a line of questioning that could hide her jealousy. "I understand them targeting Roger. You're careful, but anyone with two eyes and half a brain can see how close you two are. But her… did they snatch her because of opportunity? Because of some abilities?"
"Emily is a mutant. She is immensely strong, can run as fast as a speeding car, and can heal from injuries that would kill anyone else. She seems to have been born with those abilities, but they were awoken by the war. That scar from Crichton, that was from when he tried to turn her."
That stops her heart a little. Emily Gower wasn't some Girl Friday, but some strange creature. The sylph in Santa Clarita with some muscle and a bite.
Michael continues, seemingly unaware of Peggy's shock. "We're not certain how extensive the vampiric infection is. Whatever abilities her mutation gifted her seem to fight the worst of it off. Emily can be out in the sun, but her sight's sensitive to light. Her eating habits are almost reptilian. For the most part the bloodlust is under control. But we don't know if she can pass the infection herself."
He shifts, and very briefly in the moonlight, Peggy can make out bite scars on Michael's forearm.
"More importantly, for me, is that Emily's a dear friend. She's saved my life, too. I owe her a lot."
Milbury House, England
"My, my. If you were going to be such a bore I'd have done this earlier, dearie."
Emily's held pinned at the arms by two orderlies. She's dizzy and disoriented. Every time she looks at the strange looking woman with pale green hair, Emily gets more sick. There's a puddle of vomit at her feet from the last wave of nausea. Punishment for insolence.
There's a man tied up and gagged on the floor.
"I gave you such a lovely meal, Sergeant, and you reject it so rudely."
Sinister readies something to her side - opening a bottle, filling something.
"It is a good thing I prepared an apéritif just for you."
He strides in front of her, as an orderly yanks her head up by her hair. Sinister smiles down at her holding a contraption that looks like a pistol with a syringe replacing the barrel. Emily sees a crimson liquid sloshing about the glass. If she didn't feel so weak, she would struggle.
"I should have done this earlier, but c'est la vie."
In a swift, practiced motion, Sinister presses the syringe gun to Emily's jugular.
"It will only pinch. Little more than a mosquito bite."
The needle plunges like a knife in her neck. The liquid feels like fire surging through her veins.
Within her, the beast starts to roar.
It's a moonless, starless night. There's enough of a wind to cover their sounds as the Invaders approach Milbury House. The gatehouse guards are quickly dispatched and they manage to get past the patrol jeep undetected.
The grounds in front of the house are illuminated by floodlights, revealing a Georgian era country house that's seen better days, given the broken masonry and boarded up windows. Though there's a chance the rundown appearance was to hide the estate's true nature.
Anthea gives the signal and John and Pat begin their attack. An alarm goes up, guards rush to the front. Michael and Mark sneak through a ground floor window. The hall is mostly exposed brick and largely empty.
"Looks like there ain't much up here," Mark says after pointing a torch up a stairwell, showing a crumbling staircase. "Place is falling apart."
"Does Kushiel sense anything?"
Mark closes his eyes and concentrates for a moment. "He sees something. Seems like a lot's going on down below. It's… it's…shit!"
"What's wrong?" Michael demands, putting a hand on Mark's shoulder.
He takes a breath, then answers, "It's real bad, boss. There's somethin' real dark down there."
He's alone, finally. No more poking and prodding. No more leering. No more touching. It's strange how Roger finds relief in the coffin-like crèche.
As long as he doesn't look beyond the little observation window. The place is strange and dark. There are large tubes full of strange, orange liquid. He's tired and sick and just wants to sleep. He doesn't want to think of what was done to him. He doesn't want to think of what's happening to Emily. If anything, the thing keeping Roger from sleep is the guilt for this small fortune.
He wants to move his hands. They're not bound, but he's afraid. He fears reaching for his stomach and finding a gaping hole. He was out for the worst of it, but he knows something has been done to him. A violation unthinkable. For all he knows, he's still laid open for the world to see.
Roger closes his eyes, hoping for some sleep. Perhaps he can hatch a new escape later. He's just too tired right now.
There's a popping noise. Hard and metallic. A sound he knows so well.
The noise gets louder, there's shouts and cries. Roger tries raising himself, but his limbs feel heavy and the best he can do is raise his head for a few seconds before flopping back onto the crèche mattress.
The only thing keeping him in this coffin is a locked lid and his own exhaustion. He turns his hand to its diamond form - it works as normal, and that gives him hope - and starts scratching at the viewing window. It doesn't take long for the grooves to get deep enough that Roger tries punching the glass; weakly at first, but he gets lucky. The right punch at the right spot shatters the glass.
Right as the door to the room crashes open.
There's a sudden burst of heat and a hellish fiery glow. The world becomes a storm of fire and bullets, to which Roger tries to shelter in the crèche. The air fills with smoke and sulfur.
When things get a little quieter he sticks his arm out of the broken window and yells (more like croaking) "Are you done making a mess?"
"Roger?"
Michael's voice is the mostly heavenly sound he's ever heard.
"I'm here!" he replies with a little more strength. There's a terrible crashing and tearing noise as the lid of the crèche is ripped open.
In the dim light, Michael shines like the moon.
"Oh darling," he breathes.
"Good to see you, too," Michael replies, reaching down to help Roger out of the crèche. "Can you stand?"
Roger moves his legs to lever himself up and nods . Whatever drugs or procedures Essex did to him sapped enough of his strength that he feels like a newborn lamb. He's so glad for Michael's strength. For the small bit of warmth from his body. It's only now that Roger realizes that he's rather déshabillé. The underwear does nothing to warm him.
"Don't you worry," Mark says. He pulls out some clothes from his rucksack, saying, "We got you covered."
He needs a little help, but soon enough Roger is slightly less embarrassed. He spies a glance downwards - crude stitches, but still in one piece. They can fret over the details later.
"Mark will take you out of here, Roger. We have cars waiting to take you and Emily to a safehouse," Michael says.
"If you find her," Roger replies.
"I figured she wasn't here. Do you know where they're keeping her?"
"Don't know," he says, shaking his head. His mind reeling at the thought. "They've kept us sedated and that beast took an interest in her… Michael, I'm scared."
"I know," Michael soothes. He drapes his coat over Roger's shoulders. "Go with Mark. I'll find her."
"Hey, boss! I set those charges for ya!" Mark calls from the hall. "Got thirty minutes!"
"Good!"
"Oh, boo! I wanted to do that!" Roger whines.
Michael kisses him on the forehead, "Next time."
They walk to the hallway where Michael passes Roger off to Mark. "I'll find Emily, and we'll be back up soon."
"I'll hold you to that, darling."
Michael nods and turns to go down the hall and heads for the door at the end of the corridor. He clears his mind. Steels himself. He cannot anticipate what he will find, just respond to it as best as he can.
The hall is dark - half lit and lined with black tiles. There's more doors that lead to rooms or down other halls, lord knows. This place is a maze, mostly cleared out, but a rabbit warren of offices, laboratories, and strange rooms. From Michael's assessment, Essex, Milbury, or whatever his name is, has a vast operation going. Perhaps far greater in ambition than whatever the government desired.
He checks his watch. Twenty minutes. One more room. Maybe this time. He must tell himself something. She never gave up on you.
Michael enters yet another laboratory. He's about to move through it, he has to stay focused. But then a label on one of the samples catches his eye. A vial of blood marked 'Aubrey, R.' sits with others in a holder. A strange calm descends upon Michael. He examines the vials, finding familiar names.
So this is where all those samples went. With all the time that's passed, how long would it take Essex to make a perfect replica of Erskine's formula? Make improvements to it?
He flings a vial against a wall, barely registering his actions.
No more.
He grabs more vials, throwing them against a cabinet. Staining it red. Shattering glass. He tosses the holder which makes a satisfying crash. He throws more things - samples, chemical bottles, beakers, notebooks, whatever he could get his hands on - out of rage, perhaps? But he still felt so calm. So resolute in his actions. Perhaps he knows that no government will stop at just one super soldier.
No more. That's the phrase that repeats in his mind as he smashes the laboratory apart. No more.
The lights flicker. The air grows cold.
Michael returns to his senses. Did he break some lights? No, it doesn't look like it when he looks up at the ceiling. He checks his watch; there's fifteen minutes left. He has to move it. He goes back into the hall and finds a different set of doors. Behind them, he finds an empty room. White walls, dark tiling, lights flickering. There's an electrical hum in the air and half of the room is hidden in shadow. Then Michael hears the sound of a drunken giggle.
"Good God."
Emily rises from a shadowed corner. Head down, blonde hair disheveled and covering her face, swaying a little. The hospital gown is covered in blood; soaked through and clinging to her in places. Blood stains go from her hands up to her elbows, dripping down to the floor. At her feet is… it looks like it used to be a man.
"Emily?" Michael asks, cautiously moving towards her. "Emily, can I help you?"
She doesn't move. She giggles again. The lights flicker more, as if the power is shorting. Different scenarios play through his mind. None good. All leading to some combination of outcomes they've been dreading. Each one more horrifying than the last.
"Emily, I can help you. We just need to - "
Her head snaps up. Michael's hit with a wave of some sort of energy, like being hit by a tidal wave. Blood is smeared across her mouth. Her eyes glow a vivid, terrifying crimson. She lolls her head to the side with a menacing grin revealing her sharp canines that turn into a snarl.
"Emily -"
She lunges. Michael tries to dodge but Emily's much too fast. They collide and the impact sends him sprawling. She stays on top of him, attacking him with tooth and nail. Biting, snapping, clawing. He's trying to defend himself, trying to get Emily off him, and trying not to hurt her. Even as she rips at his jumper deep enough to leave gashes on his side.
"Emily!"
Because she's not some rabid animal that needs to be put down. He manages to get a hold of the hospital gown, gets a knee under her. "I'm sorry," he whispers as he flings her against a wall.
Despite the impact and crushed tile, Emily gets up with ease and presses her attack again. Michael's ready for it, and manages to counter her better, staying on his feet. But even in this feral state, she's a wily fighter, finding ways to rapidly crawl up the walls to get above and behind him.
He needs to knock her out and get the Hell out of here before this place explodes.
Then she makes a mistake. Emily takes hold of Michael's arm and bites down hard at his elbow. He gasps. Tries to breathe through it. Fight through the pain. His arm is numb. Emily's distracted drinking his blood. He sees it dribble down her cheek before his mind is assaulted by Emily's howling thoughts. She wants to feed, drink, consume. To fight, fuck, rip, tear. Destroy! Burn it to the ground!
The pain's too much and Michael lets out a cry.
Help me! Save me! Save yourself! Let Go! Let Me Die!
Michael sees a vision of Emily caught in a tangle of thorns. Leave me. It's what I deserve.
I wish I could free you. She held on fast to him during some of his darkest times. When the world seemed poised to swallow him whole.
"Please forgive me."
With all the force he could muster, Michael slams Emily into the wall again. Her head flies back, hitting the wall hard, and she slumps to the ground.
Stark Estate
"I thought I'd killed her."
Michael takes a breath to steady himself. Emily recovered from the blow, but dear lord he will never forgive himself.
He sees her in his mind, lying crumpled on the floor. She was so still. Too still. He remembers shaking her, heart in his throat, fighting against the nightmare. He has to take a few deep breaths to beat back the terrible memory.
C'mon sweetheart! Wake up!
Peggy feels sick.
She knows all too well what sort of animals fascists become when they get their hands on someone they think is 'inferior'. She knows all about their savage 'experiments' that were just an excuse for torture. That's what Zola did to Barnes, rest his soul. And now she must wrap her head around her fellow countrymen doing this to one another. Torturing Michael's loved ones all because wouldn't be their plaything.
One cannot afford to be less ruthless than one's enemies. But this was cruelty for its own sake. What the point of all the blood, sweat and tears of war if they were just going to fall to the same madness?
Malabar Foundry Company
Dottie thrashes against her bonds. "Let me go!" it screams through her with an eerie resonance.
"Can't do that!" Emily shouts over the alarm bell, holding Dottie down by the shoulders. "You have my friend!"
The thing in Dottie roars back at her, rips an arm away from the cot and tries smacking Emily off. She catches the fist and pins it back down beside Dottie. Liquid starts pouring from Dottie's mouth and welling up like tears. It stretches out, trying to take hold of Emily, grasping at her face, limbs, neck. It takes hold of her arms, gripping her tight. It sends a chill through her body despite the heat. Emily pulls back while trying to maintain her grip on Dottie.
Ivan brings out his lighter, pressing the flame to the tendrils holding onto Emily. It sends the creature screeching, and lets her go. Ivan turns to someone, shouting orders. The creature tries to shrink and hide in Dottie again. Emily takes hold of the thing and starts pulling it off Dottie.
"¡Cuidado!" someone shouts.
Emily stands, seeing one of Ivan's men comes running in with a red hot poker. She stretches the liquid and allows for the man to stab the black ooze with the glowing end. The Deep One howls in agony. It loses its structure and starts pouring out of Dottie onto the floor. Ivan takes Emily by the arm and pulls her away from the liquid and they watch as it slithers across the floor, trying to get away. Even then, tendrils reach out to grasp at anyone who would make a suitable host.
"Give me the poker!" she demands, extending a hand to the young man who had come in with the poker. Emily's got an idea.
He hands over the poker and Ivan asks, "What are you thinking?"
"I'm gonna try to get it down to the work floor."
Emily follows the liquid, poking, prodding, and guiding it; using the poker like a shepherd's crook. It howls and tries to fight back at first. Eventually it seems to give up and focuses on trying to evade her. It crashes down the stairs, strangely growing in size and forms into a black blob, trying to maintain some shape.
"Get out of the way!" she shouts to others on the ground floor. Despite the alarm ringing, the heat, and the pain, it tries making a stand. The Deep One liquid rears up and attacks Emily. Hurling its tendrils towards her.
Emily's faster.
She darts and weaves between the tendrils, slashing and stabbing at the Deep One. Not minding the bullets flying past her ears. Nor the Suffocating heat. Nor the pounding in her head. Nor the roar of her heart in her chest. Emily stabs, and thrusts, and pushes the shuddering creature closer to the white hot furnace. It howls with every strike.
Then a tendril snakes around Emily's leg and pulls her down hard. The poker clatters to the floor. Her ears ring. Her head swims. The world is muffled and hot. Everyone's shouting so much. It's dragging her towards it.
It would be so quick, she wouldn't even scream.
Someone grabs her under the armpits and starts pulling her away from the creature. Ivan comes into view, swinging the poker down on the tendril to sever it. Emily comes back to herself enough pull on the tendril once she gets her free leg under her for leverage. With a cry, she breaks free and tumbles to the floor right as a lit molotov cocktail flies over her head.
The beast lets out a horrible, bone rattling shriek as flames start engulfing it. But it won't be enough, not yet.
Emily looks over at Ivan and somehow they seem to understand what must be done. He gives her the still hot poker. He calls for one of the molotovs. She takes a swing at the creature, forcing it's back right against the furnace. It tries escaping, and Ivan throws his molotov. It bursts into flame as the glass bottle shatters on impact. Emily thrusts the poker into the creature, feeling the flames lick her skin and singe her hair and clothes.
An arm wraps around her waist, dragging Emily away from the dying thing. The flames glow bright and the heat becomes far too unbearable.
She doesn't look at first. Ivan has her wrapped in a bear hug. Emily could break out of it if she were so inclined. There wasn't much the good comrade could shield her from. In fact she should be the one protecting him.
Yet all Emily can do is peek over Ivan's shoulder to watch the wretched Deep One seemingly raising its gaze to the sky hidden by the roof. Like in prayer and supplication to a god on high…
Only to fall back down into a funeral pyre of itself.
The darkness swirls and envelops her. It invades every part of her. Enwrapping her in an icy embrace. Whispering the sweet nothings of oblivion.
There are many things here, little one. Many wondrous things. Such sweet things. Such delights.
Alya tries fighting back. Punching, kicking, biting. But how does one fight water or the wind? The darkness tightens its grip. Tightens its hand on her throat. It's laugh echoes through her head, mocking her futile attempts to resist.
You want this little one. You long for this. Destruction. Release. Oblivion. It can all be yours.
No. No. No.
Alya screams and cries and fights. She's a Black Widow. Soldier, assassin, and huntress for the revolution. A protector of her people and her motherland. She has to fight. She must fight. Win or lose, she must fight.
That's all she can do. So she doubles her efforts - punching, kicking, biting - doing whatever she could to get away. And if not escape, then at least make the darkness bleed.
The abyss laughs back. It knows her fight is futile. It has already infected Alya. It's spread through her blood. It will become one with her, and she will be just part of the gestalt. As with all things.
And yet she fights. Because it's all she can do. It's all she knows. And even if she doesn't survive, damnit, Alya will make it hurt.
The abyssal laughter soon turns to shrieks of terror. It howls and withers and cries Not fair! Not Fair! NOT FAIR!
Madam B never taught her students to fight fair. She runs and rips and tears. She has no means to create fire, her voice is too weak to hurt the abyss. And yet she feels the swirling back world heat up. The world becomes brighter. Beams of light break through the primordial gloom like the sun after a vicious storm.
There are voices, too. Sweet, soft, and angelic. Just follow my voice, Alya. I'm not going anywhere.
Mama?
Stark Estate
"So how'd you escape?" Peggy asks, trying to stifle a yawn. It won't be long until dawn, she reckons.
"Barely," Michael answers. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. A sure sign of his own exhaustion. His mind is still at Milbury House, trying to get Emily to safety while the building starts collapsing down on them. Hoping against hope that she'd revive and would be fine and whole again. He huffs a mirthless laugh. "I apparently looked quite demonic when we emerged."
In her mind's eye, Peggy sees her brother. His pale skin covered in blood. His eyes wild. Black hair matted from sweat and lord knows what else. Silhouetted by the fire blazing behind him. Like Achilles coming off the battlefield, she imagines. Achilles' rage as Agamemnon takes Briseis. Achilles cradling the body of Patroclus.
"We went to a safehouse in the Cotswolds to lick our wounds. Put the puzzle pieces together," he continues on. Michael has that look again - the far off look, his mind in a completely different place and time.
"Not to be selfish," Peggy starts. "But how did my file get mixed up in all of this?"
It brings Michael back to the present. "Your file. Well it's a bit… it's a bit anticlimactic, you see."
"Isn't everything?"
"Well, perhaps not," Michael says, reconsidering his previous statement. "Perhaps, initially, your file was snatched because it was next to mine. Or close enough. But after we got those files from the hotel -" Conveniently leaving out Thompson, Peggy notes. "- I noticed that pages from your file had been doctored to make you look bad. The timeline was completely off, anyway."
Peggy laughs a little, "Is HYDRA truly that petty?"
"Laugh all you want, Peg," Michael says gravely. "But I think they're scared of you."
Malabar Foundry Company, Vernon
Emily breaks away from Ivan, bolting back to the little cell room before any backstabbing could begin. She'd never forgive herself if something worse happened to Dottie.
She finds the room boiling hot and in shambles despite how bare bones it is. Old Pablo's there, loosening some of Dottie's bonds.
"Is she alright?" She asks in French.
"She's breathing."
Emily walks over to Dottie. Even at her most desperate, Dottie never looked so close to death. She's so still and ashen, her breathing laboured. Emily's almost afraid that her touch could prove fatal. Yet she screws her courage and goes to Dottie's side. She takes Dottie's hand (which doesn't crumble, thankfully), and that's when Emily sees the still black veins at her neck. Her heart sinks.
It's not enough. It's never enough.
People walk in and there's voices talking, arguing, perhaps. To Emily it all sounds muffled. Like she's underwater. Dottie's eyes flutter for a moment, dull with exhaustion and pale grey-blue in the light. It's a brief and knowing look. We fought and we almost won. Just couldn't stick the landing.
Isn't that the fate of us monsters?
"How is she?" Ivan asks, crouching next to her.
"Alive," she answers. Barely above a whisper she adds, "Didn't get it all out, though."
He looks over Dottie. Inspecting her. Taking her measure. Weighing his options, perhaps. Calculating Dottie's life. Ivan's got quite the poker face, giving nothing away. It's a prized quality in this business. It's funny how their trade comes down to simple maths - the value of one life versus another.
"You fought, Miss Gower. You fought very hard. That is what matters," he says to Emily, soft and low. Like Edith or Michael when they try comforting her. Strange that her mind went there.
He continues, a little louder for the rest of the room, "I'll call your man in the morning."
She watches the men leave the little room. The stares. The looks of fear and distrust. Her clothes are burnt, she smells of smoke, yet she remains unharmed. The little witch who brought trouble to their doorstep. Things would have been easier if Emily had just left Dottie behind.
The door closes and the room truly becomes a cell. All Emily can do now is wait. Waiting for Dottie to wake up. Waiting for Ivan to decide their fate. Waiting for Michael to come to the rescue. Waiting for the -
Stop thinking that. It won't help anyone. It leaves you open, vulnerable. She wipes away her tears, belatedly realizing she's crying. It does little and only reminds her of how weepy she's become in private. A silly and unseemly habit.
But someone must weep for us with so much blood on our hands.