Archive of Our Own ^beta

~*~*~*~

"Hello?"

Ow. Okay, speaking is painful. Good to know.

A room attempts to swirl into view, darkness and the clammy sense of the ominous veiling any true recognition.

Alright. What is it people in movies do in these situations?

Panic? That's stupid. Mark that off.

Look for a way out? I can't even see my own feet, let alone where I am. How am I supposed to figure out an escape when I don't even know-- Oh, God. I don't know... I-- I!

Realization floods in, knocking the wind out of the man sitting on the cot in the dark. Heat prickles at the back of his eyes, his tongue thick, over-sized for his mouth suddenly, and a fist grips at his throat from the inside.

Using every technique he can think of, the man takes several agonizing minutes to calm himself enough to hear his own thoughts.

Let's assess the situation.

One: I can see absolutely nothing. I see more with my eyes closed than open.

Two: My whole body feels bruised and abused, and I know I'm not into BDSM, therefore, I must be here out of anything but my own free will.

Three: I have less than no idea where "here" is. Pretty sure I'm not on water- in a boat or otherwise- and I don't hear...

Four: The only sounds at all are the ones I'm making. My heartbeat is the loudest thing in the world, as far as I'm concerned. Also, there is no echo in this place. Soundproofed walls? Well, that's encouraging.

Five: I'm not exactly chained to this terribly uncomfortable slab of bedding, but I'm disoriented and anxious enough so that I'm not feeling any desire to explore too far at the moment. I was probably drugged. Again, a happy piece of news.

Six: So, I'm clear on my distinct uncertainty as to Where, How, When, and What. Now for the biggest problem of all: Who. Not 'Who has done this?' but 'To whom has this been done?' And I can't answer that. I can think and reason and I know certain odd factoids about myself -re: bdsm- but as for who "myself" might be? Yeah, I'm drawing a sizeable and numbing blank.

I've changed my mind. Panic is an excellent response to this situation. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to behave like a blonde cheerleader in a teen scream flick.

~*~*~*~

Adam paces furiously in his room. If you can even call it that. There are four walls, sure, and a "bed" with a pillow and everything. He was even given his own sink and toilet- a courtesy very few have been afforded, especially so soon after their introduction into the business.

It's only been fifteen months, and already he has made a name for himself.

'Brilliant,' they say. 'Truly gifted in several key ways.' 'An asset not to be underestimated.' 'Someone who can charm the pants off of literally anyone, any time he pleases.'

Except...

Except this isn't who Adam is. Or was. Before. Before They happened.

It happened twenty-two months ago. They happened.

"Hello-o!" Adam calls into the spacious loft belonging to his best friend. "I come bearing gifts!"

"Adam, I told you, I don't want you to bring me strippers. I'm really okay." Kris rounds the corner of the hallway in baggy jeans and a white v-neck t-shirt, roughly tousling his wet hair with a towel.

Oh, god, really? Really? Right out of the shower? Just like that? Which one of the pantheon did I piss off this time?

He's used to this by now, the impossible being tangible, and yet still impossible. In fact, Adam's been dealing with this for so long, he's not sure he'd even know what to do if he ever got what he wanted.

That is a bloody lie. There are very specific, well-thought-out things I'd do. There may or may not be maps and Venn diagrams and pie charts in my mind indicating the things I would do. But it's all just fantasy.

Adam chuckles, "Not this time, Allen. Nope, just alcohol."

"Ooh, my favorite." Kris comments, taking the proffered bottle of wine from his friend with one hand and pulling him into a hug with the other.

The, "I know" is lost in the towel on Kris' shoulder.

A shared smile, and Kris leads the way into the living room, setting the wine on the counter of the bar.

"Would you like some now, or...?"

"Uh, not quite yet, thanks. I, um. I have something else for you."

And now he's nervous. It wasn't an impulse thing- Adam had gone out in search of a gift for Kris- but now that he's standing here, staring into curious, brown eyes, Adam isn't sure his lungs have remembered how to function.

Kris smiles, bright. "More prezzies?!" He teases, mimicking their mutual friend, Allison.

Adam holds out a wrapped box about the size of his palm, bow neatly -excruciatingly, obsessively- tied, four-square.

Kris is obviously somewhat taken aback, looking pleased and touched as he takes the package from Adam, and moves around the couch to sit down, indicating Adam should follow suit.

"Did you do this?" Kris inquires, carefully slipping the ribbon off of the box, admiring the time and care that went into this surprise.

Adam most definitely does not blush.

"Yeah. The lady at the store said they could do it, but, I dunno, I guess I was feeling crafty or something." A rueful chuckle, "I'll tell you, though, next time? I'm totally letting the professionals handle it. I had no idea folding in a straight line was so complicated."

Paper mostly off, Kris pauses to one-arm, sideways hug Adam, then returns to his task.

Kris has always been this way. The hugs, the touches, the freeness and comfort, it's all been there since, well, pretty much since their first meeting.

A semi-scrunched nose peers at the plain, white box.

"Is it a Christmas ornament?"

"I don't celebrate Christmas."

"I know; hence, the confused face." Kris jokes, pointing at his twisted features.

Adam knows them all. Every face, every expression, every micro-twitch. Memorized and catalogued and set carefully in his 'Kris Allen' file in his brain. And he loves every one of them.

See, here's the problem: Adam is gay. Not, like, Liberace gay, just, ya know, normal, I-Like-Men gay. Also, I-Love-Glitter gay, but he really isn't into stereotypes.

Kris... is not. Kris is something else. He's 'classified' as straight, but doesn't behave in any way known to humankind, so there's a considerable amount of uncertainty and interrupted sleep on Adam's part. But, anyway.

Adam met Kris on the ‘thirteen and a half week anniversary’ of Kris' divorce, in a bar in LA. Having recently broken up with his boyfriend of over three years, they had a lot in common. That night, the two of them drank and laughed and complained about their exes and maybe drank and laughed a bit more, and at closing time, they left with each other's numbers.

At first, Adam wasn't sure what to make of the strange little southerner, but when Kris called him two nights later, inviting him to a small club on the other end of town to watch his friend play a gig, something inside Adam flipped, and he knew this was going to be special. Not so much in a booty-call kind of way, but something better. Something... permanent. And he was right.

That was a year ago.

One year exactly, actually.

Adam gnaws on his bottom lip, fidgety hands shoved in between his knees to keep them from flapping around like they really want to.

"How many boxes are there?" Kris laughs, pulling the dark blue, classy box out and setting the white one on the ground beside him.

"Last one."

Opening it, Kris' stomach knots, terrified of what it might be. Even more scared of what it might not be. What it might not mean.

He reacts a little like a girl; he's man enough to admit it. But seeing a pewter guitar pick with a lightning bolt engraved on one side, lying on a pillow, attached to a necklace rope, Kris can't help but gasp slightly, eyes going comically wide, eyebrows toying with his hairline.

For a moment, he doesn't say anything, just stares at the necklace, taking it out of the box and holding it, inspecting it.

Finally, Adam can't take any more.

"Kris, you're killing me! What do you think? Do you like it?" He fairly explodes.

Kris laughs, basically launching himself at Adam, full-on, arms-around-the-neck hug, clutching the necklace in one hand.

"I love it. It's perfect. How did you--" He pulls back, focusing on the pendant now, slightly embarrassed over his reaction.

Like Adam really needs another guy throwing himself at him. How many guys would kill to be me right now? Just being his friend is a gift.

"What made you think of this?"

Adam tucks his head down. He had hoped Kris would remember and not make Adam spell it out. "Well, I, um-- I-It's been a year. You've put up with me for an entire year, today, actually. I figured you deserved some kind of reward."

The look on Kris' face makes the admission totally worth any embarrassment. "You're ridiculous, but I'm keeping the necklace. You-- Can you-" Kris motions for Adam to help him put it on.

"Oh, yeah, sure."

Do not think about that skin. That pink, soft, fresh skin. That shower-damp neck and hair. Do not think about raking your fingers up through the bottom of it, gripping a fistful, tilting that head back, and marking your territory all along that pale, perfect column of flesh. I said don't think about it!

And then Kris is moving back to where he was, and Adam is shaken from his daydream, his tongue sadly never connecting with the bumpy spine of the smaller man.

"Where are you going?"

Doe eyes blink down at Adam, a blush creeping along sweet cheekbones.

"I, um. Just- wait here." And he jogs off toward his bedroom and out of sight.

Did I say something out loud? I'm pretty sure I've kept myself in check.

Kris reappears, a small box of his own in his hand. There's that grin and rubbing of the neck gesture Adam knows to be Kris' shy, uncomfortable, or uncertain expression. The box is stuck in Adam's face, an anxious body behind it.

As he sits back down, "I remembered. I've um, I've had this for about a month, now, but I thought... I don't know what I thought. I mean, it's kind of an anniversary, right? So--" Kris isn't sure how to finish that sentence.

He'd felt silly, wanting to wait until today to give this to Adam, but after Adam's gift, Kris knows he did the right thing.

"I didn't wrap it as nice as you did."

Adam spares a flashing glance at Kris, telling him everything in that split second. What Adam sees stops him cold.

When he doesn't respond, and doesn't respond, and doesn't respond, Kris gets jumpy with nerves.

"I just figured, you come over enough, and- and it's dumb to always make you use the key above the door, when you could just have your own. It's- it's nothing like your gift. I-" Kris touches the pendant on his chest. "I wish I'd known. I would have gotten you som--"

He doesn't let Kris finish.

It's different when Kris flings himself at Adam. Adam has the strength and build to withstand the assault. When Adam glomps Kris, Kris nearly disappears. If Kris minds, he's never said a word, and his actions prove otherwise.

"You're the best friend I've ever had."

He doesn't know what makes him say it, and he feels kind of, well, kinda stupid, honestly, but Kris tightening his grip and muffling out, "You, too," removes every negative feeling in Adam's being.

~*~*~*~

The following Tuesday, Adam shows up at Kris’ place, and uses his brand new key to let himself in. Kris is still at work.

Adam chose this time specifically for that reason; he’s here to put together an outfit for Kris to wear tonight, since he decided the weather is too beautiful to waste staying in. He’s already made reservations at their favorite bistro.

They know the two of them by face and name, there. Adam is pretty sure most of the staff thinks he and Kris are lovers.

What Adam doesn’t know is how much Kris has fueled the rumor by his vague responses when questioned, and, of course, his actions- again, the hugging, touching, occasional snuggling... Don’t get Adam started.

The last time Kris made reservations there, he was asked if his 'partner’ would be joining him.

“Adam? Yes, he’s the other one in the party of two,” he teased lightly. “Isn’t he always?”

“Yes, sir. Does that mean you’ll be wanting your regular table?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” Kris hadn’t realized they had a ‘regular table,’ but now that it’d been brought to his attention, “Adam really likes that booth.”

It’s the seating for optimum people watching both inside and outside the restaurant.

The first time a waiter said something to the effect that Kris and he were a couple, Adam had been sure to set them straight. Mostly.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Hi. Um, reservations for ‘Allen’ or ‘Kris.’”

The man’s eyes lit up at the name. “Oh, yes. Smallish fellow, charming, terribly handsome?”

Adam chuckled at the British waiter’s description of Kris. “Yeah, that’s him.”

More grinning.

“Yes, he’s already arrived and said to be on the lookout for you. You must be Adam.”

Adam nodded, and the waiter batted his eyes, clearly enamored, but not necessarily with Adam.

“Right this way, sir.” He paused to grab a menu. “Your partner certainly knows you well. He insisted on the booth near the back on the left side, informing us that it would be your preference.”

Ah. So that explains the googly-eyes. He’s a romantic.

Not wanting the man to get the wrong impression and say something to make Kris uncomfortable, Adam spoke up, “Yeah, he does know me pretty well, but he’s not my p--”

Too late.

“Adam!” Kris’ face beamed, and he stood up to greet his friend with a hug.

A hug. Cuz that would show they’re not a couple.

Once seated, the waiter handed the menu to Adam. “Camille will be around shortly to take your order. Meanwhile, may I get either of you anything to drink?”

Kris jumped in, “I’ll have a rum and Coke, and he’ll have a vodka martini, straight, with a twist, and an olive, not an onion, please. Thank you.”

More silly faces from the UK native.

“Wonderful. I’ll have those brought to you right away. You two enjoy your date.”

Adam tried- no, he really did- to correct the man.

“This isn’t-- He’s not m--”

“Thank you,” Kris smiled genially, noticing nothing out of the ordinary with what the man just said or its implications.

After the waiter floated away on a cloud of false romanticism, Adam stared at Kris until his smile started to curl downward.

“What?”

“You realize what you’ve just done, right?”

Kris had no reply for that.

That’s okay. Adam’s a good talker. “That guy thinks we’re on a date. A date, Kris. Now he thinks we’re together, and every time he sees us, he’s going to think we’re on another date; that we’re a couple. Are you understanding?”

The most impassive, un-phased expression lay comfortably on Kris’ face.

“And this is a problem for you,” Kris guessed blindly. He really did not get why Adam was being so emphatic.

“For me? No, see, I actually go on dates with men, so this is par for the course. For you?”

He left it open-ended, as if the rest should be clear to Kris. Kris tried again.

“You think it’s going to hurt your dating, if people think we’re together? In a, ya know, ‘together’ together kind of way.” The little creep smirked, “Aw, Adam, am I salting your game?”

Adam rolled his eyes, trying to mask his amusement. He failed pretty miserably, especially considering how well Kris can read him. They’d only known each other a few months, but there was already such a connection, they could almost read each other’s minds.

“I’m worried about your ‘game,’ Allen. Why aren’t you… freaking out or something?”

Kris shrugged. “My game will do just fine, with or without you, don’t worry. And why should I freak out? So, the waiter guy thinks we’re a couple. So what? You realize most places we go, people assume we’re together, right? Don’t tell me you’ve missed the stares and glares, man.” Before Adam could get angry at the ‘glares’ comment, “I swear, I’m gonna start carrying defensive weaponry when I’m out with you. Some of those jealous looks are really kind of scary. I never knew skinny men in make up and glitter and occasionally chiffon could be so intimidating.”

“Jealous?”

“Dude! You are, like, mega-hot property, man! I’ve landed myself a frickin’ diamond of a boyfriend, and everyone who looks can see it. See, I figure I can weed out the unworthy ones, right? And then for those who might be worth a shot, I make it so you’re the ‘want what you can’t have’ guy, except I let them have a chance to get you.”

“Get me?”

“Oh, yeah. The last two or three guys you’ve gone out with? Totally thought they were stealing you from me. Frickin’ kick-awesome, man.” Kris seemed extremely proud of himself and entertained by the whole situation.

Adam thought back to his last few dates.

Aw, crap.

Also, Adam didn’t exactly do much more than go out a few times with those guys. Actually, he hadn’t been on a really good, could-go-somewhere date in…

Aw, crap.

“Yep. I’m, like, the best wingman ever,” Kris proclaimed, happily accepting his drink from the waitress.

Adam took a healthy drink before ordering for both of them. Which he belatedly realized did not exactly help the ‘not a date’ message he’d been trying to send.

“Adam, you’re not- you’re not really mad, are you? Cuz I was only trying to help. I didn’t think--”

“No, no, Kris. It’s cool. I appreciate you trying to look after me. Just out of curiosity, what happens to those you deem ‘unworthy’?”

“I kill them and bury their bodies on some land I inherited.”

The fact that Kris said this with an absolutely straight face and without inflection made Adam’s brain itch a little. So much so, that Adam was momentarily taken aback.

Not that he believed Kris, because, seriously? Kris, a murderer? Please. But he was just stunned that he came up with that so quickly, and said it so matter of factly.

Kris made a face, then, teasing Adam and making him laugh loud enough to attract some attention, for which he immediately apologized.

“I don’t know. It’s pretty easy to keep them away, once I’ve made eye contact. I mean, a few I’ve had to corner and tell to back off, but--”

“Are you serious?”

Kris looked confused. “Yeah.”

“You’ve actually told people to back off?” Adam couldn’t believe this. He just couldn’t.

“Only a few,” Kris responded, sheepishly, thinking he’d done something else to make Adam upset.

“You’ve gone up to people and said the words ‘back off’ to them?”

He thought a moment. “Um, on one or two I’ve used those words, but mostly I just say something along the lines of, like, ‘look but don’t touch’ kind of thing.” Shrugging, Kris avoided Adam’s intense gaze.

Putting his hand over Kris’ on the table, Adam squeezed.

“You are unbelievable,” Adam confided, letting his feelings about this show in his eyes.

Kris’ returning smile was blinding.

~*~*~*~

This memory runs through Adam’s mind as he steps through the front door, halting on Kris’ smile like an old roll of film before it starts looking washed out and eaten away.

Adam has never seen Kris’ house look like this. He’s never seen anything Kris owns look like this.

All the furniture is gone. Like, absolutely is not there anymore. The carpet is a disaster, tape and torn boxes and newspapers litter the floor. The cupboards are open and bare.

Racing for the back of the loft, Adam begins calling out Kris’ name, bordering on frantic.

What could have happened? Kris wouldn’t just up and move without so much as a warning or a goodbye. Especially in the eighteen hours or so since I last saw him.

The bathroom is in similar shape as the front room and kitchen.

Adam is afraid to go into Kris’ bedroom. He’s been in there before, but the good TV is in the front room, so it’s usually just to grab something for Kris, or help him put something away. Or for fashion-related reasons, of course. He isn’t sure he can handle seeing it empty.

He soldiers on, anyway. Hangers, more tape and newspaper, and a strange odor greet Adam at the door.

Standing in the middle of the room, where the bed once was, Adam feels everything swirling around him, making him nauseous and dizzy, a wet ringing in his ears that he can’t block out, and he’s on his knees, curling into himself, and the tears won’t stop coming.

A while later, after Adam composes himself, he takes another, critical examination of the house, and starts noticing several glaring inconsistencies. The two greatest of those being a tiny, broken ceramic figurine, and a plaid shirt crumpled in the far corner of the closet.

That figurine was of a dolphin with a ball on its nose. Kris’ niece painted it for him, and he never would have let it get broken, never mind leave it behind. And that stupid shirt, which looked just like all his other plaid shirts, happened to be Kris’ favorite. If anything had happened to it- a lost button or a rip- he would have mended it, or turned it into something else he could use, he loved it that much.

No, something was definitely off about this, and the more Adam sees, the more convinced he becomes that Kris did not leave of his own free will. Which leads Adam to the insane but only conclusion that Kris had been kidnapped.

Or abducted by aliens, but Adam very much doubts that one, and resolves to stop watching those X-Files marathons at night.

Over the next four months, Adam becomes a regular fixture in police stations, the lobbies and rooms of the FBI headquarters in his area, and has worn out his welcome in several, if not all, possible groups that can legally assist in any way, shape or form in the recovery of Kris Allen.

It’s in the seventeenth week of Kris being missing that Adam accidentally stumbles upon a surprising clue; one that takes him into a world he never knew existed. One that will consume every aspect of his life, push him to become a different person, and, ultimately, be the death of him.

{Chapter 2}

It starts with his being ‘dismissed’ from yet another police department.

“We’ll call you if anything comes up, Mr. Lambert.” And the precinct door closes in his face.

The longer Kris was missing, the more evidence Adam found that pointed to his not just picking up and leaving like he’s frickin’ Jason Bourne or something. Except, to anyone outside Kris’ personal circle, that’s exactly what it would look like; someone looking to get a fresh start in a hurry.

Adam even made a trip out to Arkansas to visit Kris’ family and see if they knew anything. Maybe there had been an emergency, and Kris had to go back home, and in his worry and rush, he’d forgotten to let anyone -namely, Adam- know. That had been in the second week of his disappearance.

Plopping down heavily on the grass in Golden Gate Park, Adam takes out his well-worn photocopy of the letter “Kris” apparently sent his parents a few days after Adam found the empty apartment. It was so generic, so vague, and so very un-Kris-like, it made Adam’s stomach ache. The gist of it is that Kris needed some space. He’d been doing a lot of thinking lately, and decided he needed a radical change.

Yeah, because moving from Arkansas to California wasn’t enough. Because Conway and San Francisco are so similar.

Because he didn’t have any reason to stay right where he was; his life being so boring and terrible that he just had to get away.

Like he didn’t have a best friend to talk to, to confide in. Like I wouldn’t have been on that plane or train or gondola right beside him, ready to drop everything and start a brand new life, whenever, wherever he wanted. Like he wouldn’t have at least told me, hinted that he was having any of these kinds of thoughts.

No, whoever wrote this doesn’t know jack, that much is clear.

Adam obviously has some very strong opinions about this subject.

Back to the topic of Kris’ letter -that he absolutely did not write- it seems to indicate that no one would be hearing from Kris for quite some time, but not to worry about him. He would most likely be heading overseas, and doing a considerable amount of traveling, seeing the world, finding himself.

What a load of crap.

The phrasing is all wrong; Kris never used punctuation marks properly, and yet there they were, like he was getting graded on it; and then there was the signature. Adam has seen Kris sign things dozens of times. It’s not that he signed it like he was writing a check- that could be easily forged. It’s that Kris never signs letters “Kris”.

To his family, he’s “Kristopher,” to his friends he uses silly names like “Big Papa Allen” or “K-Money” or the ever-popular “Me” or “K” that he uses when he’s leaving notes to someone, usually Adam.

To sign his farewell letter to his mother with “Love, Kris” is quite possibly the most obvious proof that something is terribly wrong. Adam seems to be the only one truly concerned.

How does no one else recognize this? Why am I the only one worried, the only one really missing him? Did everyone drink the blue Kool-Aid or something?

He’s letting himself get worked up about it, again, when he hears someone talking. It sounds like they’re on the phone, since he’s only getting one side of the conversation, but he can’t place where it’s coming from.

“I told you, it’s taken care of.” A pause. “No, you’re not going to have to do any of it, it’s all worked out with the judge. They’re going to take Seventeen in your place; you’re completely free and clear.” Another pause. “You’re welcome, sir, it was our pleasure. Please, don’t hesitate to use us again, for any reason, should you have any other needs. We treat our repeat customers very well. Congratulations, again, sir. Enjoy your freedom. Goodbye.”

Adam finally spots a figure moving on the other side of the lake. The sound must have been amplified and carried by the surroundings, instead of masking the voice, as the man no doubt intended.

Did he understand correctly? Did someone just buy their way out of something illegal, and use a judge to do it? It’s one thing to know it happens, but to hear it first-hand is more than a little disconcerting. Especially the ‘repeat customers’ part.

“It’s me. We’re going to need a new Seventeen.”

Having spent the last few months working out puzzles and using his brain far more than he’d ever intended, Adam’s gotten pretty good at deciphering and putting shreds of information together. It takes him a minute to wrap his head around it, but Adam is almost positive he just overheard a weird form of human trafficking taking place.

‘Seventeen’ isn’t a dollar amount, it’s a designation used to reference a person. A person who is going to be put in prison for something someone else did. This is not okay.

No, Adam, one cause at a time. Unless…

What if these things are connected? What if these people who sell other human beings took Kris? It’s not like Adam hadn’t noticed Kris’ predictability in his routine, and that, plus the fact that he lives alone, and has the manners of a true southern gentleman and the naïveté of a puppy -and the eyes of one, too; gods, Adam misses those eyes- all combines to equal the perfect target.

On top of all of that, he’s obscenely cute, so God knows what they’d use him for, and, oh, this is so not a train of thought Adam wants to even remember having.

The worst part is, deep in his gut, Adam knows he’s right.

There’s a shift; a crack of light and the man on the cot is completely empathetic towards moths and their inexorable urges.

“Hello?” He grates out.

A nose and mouth move into the light beam, becoming the only things visible until a finger is raised in front of them, indicating a preference for silence.

Well, screw that.

“Please, I can’t remember- I don’t even know my name.”

The finger moves insistently against the tight lips, the features shaking back and forth. After a few moments of compliance, more of the visitor comes into view, letting in the barest amount of light possible, but it’s enough for the prisoner to spy the basic outline of his cell.

Not a lot of room; ten feet by twelve feet, probably, and made of cement or brick, he can’t tell, but it’s solid and thick and not just a little foreboding.

The source of the light remains a mystery, as does the placement of the door, because all the man can see is four completely solid walls connected to each other and the floor like the room had been hollowed out from one single block of stone. Which obviously begs the question: Where’s the light coming from?

For a second, the man has the wild thought that this muteness-enforcing stranger is himself the source of the light. He dismisses the notion as madness.

~*~*~*~

“Your turn with the new Tabby, Brant.”

Grey nods, buttons up the collar on his uniform, secures his staff to his side, and heads for the induction chambers.

This is possibly his least favorite part. These confused, terrified, lost souls who have no idea what’s just happened to them, or what’s about to, which is far worse.

The drugs they use suppress memories, effectively numbing the synapses in that part of the brain, and they work on both short- and long-term memories, depending on the dosage and length of time administered. This is his only solace in what he has to do; they will never remember.

As Grey reaches the chamber’s inner door- a thick, solid piece of cement built into the building, high enough into the ceiling and low enough into the ground that no light passes through into the room until it’s slid open on its rails- a sickly feeling oozes down in his stomach, just like it does every time.

No, not Grey’s stomach; Adam’s. Grey doesn’t care. Adam wants to bore his own eyes out and slit his own throat for what he’s watched himself do.

But right now, Grey is on, so Adam’s self-loathing is shoved down along with that stupid tingle of hope that still plays in the back of his mind -maybe this time; maybe it’ll be him-, and Grey punches in the code to open the door.

See, this is truly the worst part- when his eyes adjust and he sees the latest face, and it isn’t Kris. Now that he knows exactly what happens to the people in this room, Adam doesn’t know if it’s a relief or the most profound disappointment, every time.

“Hello?”

Oh my God.

A finger is pressed to lips, the message clear: No talking.

There is disinclination for acquiescence.

“Please, I can’t remember- I don’t even know my name.”

It can’t be. It isn’t, because it can’t. But… that voice. It’s gruff and exhausted and a little weak, but…

He really isn’t allowed to speak, so the only visible features increase their insistence.

Don’t panic. Right now, he’s just like everyone else who comes in here. That isn’t Kris. Kris doesn’t exist at this moment.

And, oh, God, that makes Adam back into the shadows for a moment to collect himself, to swallow and take a breath with eyes closed against the truth. There is no Kris Allen. We are our memories, the sum of all that, and this man doesn’t remember anything, and therefore he is not Kris Allen.

Even if he really, really is, and oh, my god.

I did it. I found him. Or, he found me, but whatever. Semantics. He’s here. Kris is here.

Holy crap, now what?

He’s begging. Kr-- The man is begging for help, for anything, and Adam has to pretend like it’s just another routine workday.

Forcing himself to stare impassively at the prisoner, Adam suddenly becomes all too aware of what lay beneath his collar. He found it in the closet by the front door in Kris’ hauntingly empty apartment. He doesn’t know how Kris managed it, but somehow -and when (not if, thank you very much) Kris gets himself back, Adam will be sure to ask- he was able to leave these little, seemingly innocuous clues. Like he knew Adam would figure it out, would come looking for him, would rescue him.

Adam is almost grateful that Kris isn’t, ya know, Kris right now, because he doesn’t think he could take the look of betrayal on that sweet face when he realizes what Adam -Grey- is. Has become.

For him. It’s all been for Kris. I’ve become my own Hyde in order to rescue him.

The pendant burns like an ember on Adam’s chest.

~*~*~*~

The man loses sight of the stern, silencing features, and a panic begins to rise in his throat.

“Wait, please! Don’t go. I-- Please,” It’s a whisper, pleading, and he feels ashamed of how small he sounds. “Help me.”

It’s all he can think of to say. So many questions, but it all boils down to those two words.

The strangest part -and that has got some serious competition in this situation, Good Lord- is, somewhere deep in his heart, he actually trusts this fearsome, imposing stranger to do just that. Help him.

~*~*~*~

“Help me.”

Oh, God. Oh, Kris.

There is not an ounce of his not inconsiderable self-control that isn’t in use, holding Adam back from flailing and diving at Kris, wrapping him up and never, ever letting him go. Seriously. He dares anyone to try and pry him from that tiny body once it’s in his possession. Let’s see how long they last.

Steeling himself, putting ‘Grey’ back on, a hard finger points at the man on the cot, then jerks back up to unmoving lips. It’s a final order; there’s an air of a promise: next time, there will be consequences.

The man nods, finally compliant.

~*~*~

Not that he’s subdued, by any means; he’s just not talking about it anymore. The expression on his face speaks volumes.

Once the guard is satisfied that his prisoner understands ‘quiet’, he emerges from the dark, a ration packet in his hand.

The man sits forward a little more, already on the edge of the cot, pretty much sitting on his feet. The imposing figure tosses the packet that resembles a thick block of power bars, and watches the other man flinch slightly at the echoless smack as it hits the floor beside the bed. (The echo thing still weirds Adam out.)

A questioning look from the ration to the guard- or whatever he is- and it’s kind of killing him to not talk.

“Eat.” Comes the command.

The voice surprises the man. It’s strong, authoritative, sure, but there’s a sort of underlying softness to it. The surprise is in how familiar it feels.

There are two lines on the packet, written with what looks like a black marker. Hesitantly, the prisoner bends down and picks up the ‘meal’, pointing to the marks and giving the guard a curious face.

For a moment, it looks like the guard is debating something, like he’s not sure he should say any more, but whatever put that low softness in his voice must have primary control over his mouth, because he gives in and answers.

“Eleven.”

Oh, yes, very helpful. So glad you filled me in.

If the man didn’t know better -or if he knew anything at all- he would swear he saw the single most brief, well-masked glimmer of a smirk and amusement in the guard’s eyes. It’s almost like he knew what the man was thinking.

A twitch of pursed lips, and the guard seems to crumble a little more.

“You are Eleven.”

Something pricks the man in the base of his spine, and he shifts in preparation of the oncoming snark.

Raising a hand, he holds up a forefinger, then makes a dash through the air, and then holds up all ten of his fingers. Pointing to the number on the wrapper, then to himself, he puts on a faux-gracious face and uses the ASL sign for ‘thank you’.

‘On a scale of one to ten, I’m an eleven? Aw, thank you.’

The expression that had been matching this cell of stone, with eyes like ice, seemed to explode right off the guard’s face. Obsidian eyebrows shoot upward, everything below them shedding the harsh front in favor of genuine delight.

As if forgetting where and who he is, the guard’s widely smiling mouth opens, and the prisoner can almost hear the laugh before it sings its way out.

He waits for it.

It’s such an odd sensation, to know, absolutely know what sound is about to be made, when only a few seconds ago he wondered when the other man had last cracked a smile. In the back of his mind, he still wonders.

It never comes. Reality slams down on the guard like the cell door had fallen on him, and whatever sounds or expressions he would have made are swallowed whole. Taking a full step backward into the shadows, the man on the cot can literally feel the guard shut himself down, close himself off, and there’s an inexplicable sadness that follows.

In the same manner that he arrived, the guard disappears, leaving Eleven disoriented and not even able to make a noise of protest to being left alone in this freaking creepy chamber with his weird, vacuum-packed lump of ‘food’ and the kind of darkness that is tangible; that he can taste as he breathes.

The door doesn’t make a sound, so it’s unexpected when a voice comes from roughly its vicinity, before Eleven senses its total sealing.

“Eat.” There’s very little force in it, now. A sad, exhausted-sounding resignation, maybe, to go along with the lack of volume. It’s possible there was even a hint of a request hidden inside the word, and Eleven wonders which one of them is hurting the most.

Eleven. That’s who I am. A number. Two lines on a package of… whatever the heck this is. What is this wrapper made of, anyway? It’s not aluminum. Cellophane is clear. It’s a sort of space age, sci-fi movie food wrapping, and a little bit like a dog food bag.

The man on the cot stops, his brain halting his thoughts like a car trying to avoid a wreck.

“Oh, seriously? God, whoever you are, dude, you are most certainly a freak.” He tears open the package at the corner.

{Chapter 3}

Seventeen Months Ago::

“You are coming along well, Adam,” His teacher comments after class.

“Thank you.” Adam isn’t a big talker, anymore.

“It’s…” Master Kiru pauses. “It’s almost like you have a purpose for this. Like you’re… intent. Is everything all right?”

It’s obvious he is choosing his words carefully, but that’s sort of the way of the man, anyway. Adam stares at Master Kiru a thick moment. He tried lying to him once, and that… ended badly. And he needs to talk to somebody.

“A friend-- a good friend of mine, he…” Adam sits down on the wood bench where he was gathering his belongings in a gym bag.

Pained, tired blue begs sagely brown for understanding, for help.

“Come. My office.”

Settling into the sofa, Adam gratefully accepts the cup of tea handed to him, blowing lightly over the steaming surface. He isn’t sure how it happens- one minute he’s just sitting there, cooling his tea, and the next he’s spilled his life story, edging on wild and breathless.

“… I miss him. I miss him like a phantom limb; like every other breath is ripped from my lungs, and I just-- I can’t--”

There are tears, and Adam would be embarrassed, but right now he can’t gather the strength to feel shame, because it’s all he can do to stay conscious under the weight of his grief.

Surprisingly strong, wizened hands wrap around Adam’s shoulders and pull him into an embrace.

“Ah, my son, my son,” Master Kiru whispers into Adam’s hair. And then he says what Adam’s brain has refused to tell him for a year, five months, and eighteen days. “You love him deeply.”

Drops still spilling from the bottom of Adam’s eyes, he jerks his head up, gasping and unblinking.

“You knew this.” But it sounds more like a question.

He can’t get his mouth to close, which is just as well, since he can’t breathe out of his nose, anyway. “I- oh, I-I--”

Oh, god. I do. I love him. I so, so totally, completely, unequivocally love Kris. I love Kris. Kristopher Neil Allen- I am in love with him.

Oh, I am so screwed.

“Why else would you have such a strong need to find him?”

Adam covers his mouth, wiping at his face, shaking his head at first, but then nodding to let Master Kiru know that he gets it.

“I do, you’re right. My god, how could I have-- And now--”

“No. No, my son, do not do that. You cannot live your life now by reaching to change what has already been. Forward is the only way we can go, and it is forward that will bring you to what you need. This path you have taken is not an easy one, but you knew that, I think. I think it matters not to you how treacherous the road, or where its winding will take you, just so long as the journey ends with your Kris, safe.”

So, martial arts, telepathy, and he makes a mean cup of tea. This guy’s a regular, modern-day Yoda.

Master Kiru arranges Adam around to look him in the eye. There’s something there, deep inside that honey-oak, that grabs hold of Adam more than any hands ever could. Like fate placing a finger under his chin, leading him along, and it’s right there inside a little, old Japanese man.

“It is good you confided in me this day. I can help you.”

“Help me?”

“This, what you are learning, is all well and good, but you need more for your journey. I will give you what you need, and teach you, and then you will find your Kris.”

That sounds like a really great plan, dude, but…

But you’re a little old man who teaches beginner’s martial arts in an LA studio, and I’m trying to rescue someone from an organization of psychotic mobster people who think humans are perfectly acceptable currency, and, well…

And Yoda was two feet tall with a limp, and couldn’t place prepositions in the right order in sentences, but he was a frickin’ mf-ing rock star of a Jedi, so get over the cover and work with the book.

Also, he wants to kind of curl up on Master Kiru’s lap every time he says, ‘your Kris’. Adam thinks he’d do just about anything to live in a world where that’s true.

The next two months are filled with advanced, specialized training sessions in several forms of martial arts.

The old man knows how to fight dirty, too, which Adam thinks is hilarious until he’s being held in some kind of a rodeo-influenced ‘Nelson’ or something, and he’s pretty sure all of his ribs are broken from their collide with the ground, wind knocked clean out of him with gale force.

Adam also gets a crash course in underworld activities. Apparently, Master Kiru used to be a feared criminal, both in Japan and when he first immigrated to the States. Most of it he won’t talk about, and merely tuts at Adam when his questions get too personal or ask for too much detail. He hits harder, too, after those inquiries, so Adam learns quickly to stick with the vague.

It’s truly amazing what eight weeks can do to a person. Adam has never been more fit in his life, and if he weren’t so myopically focused on getting Kris back, he’d totally be taking advantage of all the attention he’s been receiving. The boys, the parties, the clubs- it all seems so mundane, so trivial, so wasteful. He doesn’t let himself think about the fact that those things used to be the highlights of his life. Before.

Adam rakes long, unadorned fingers through his newly shorn hair. It’s less than three inches long on top, doesn’t touch his -naked!- ears, or his collar, and is a more natural shade of black (because there was no way he was going back to ginger, thank you very much).

Barely-lined eyes stare warily back at him from the mirror. At least he was granted the concession of concealer, but only because freckles are a distinguishing feature, which is something Master Kiru has been trying to rid Adam of.

“Physically forgettable” is the phrase he used.

“You are to be remembered for what you do, not how you look.”

They have an obvious difference of opinion, there. Clearly, Master Kiru hasn’t gotten out much in the 21st century… or any century before that.

Finally, Master Kiru hands Adam a packet that holds all the information he’ll need to infiltrate that world. Birth certificate, license, school records, bank statements, employers’ references (Adam didn’t ask about that one), a credit card, lease documents-- literally an entire life in a manila envelope.

“This is all I can do for you, my son. There is no further I can go. Here begins your solo journey. May the forces of good smile upon you, and speed you on your way in finding your Kris.”

The tiny, old man gives Adam the most reassuring, twinkling, fatherly smile of Adam’s life, squeezes his arm, and shuffles away in that deceptively frail way of his.

Adam stares at the packet like he has x-ray vision; like he can see through the pages, past the lying and danger, the fear and the loss of himself, and can see Kris, safe in his arms in some distant, solitary place.

When he turns around to face his new life, Adam Lambert no longer exists. A resolute, cold, chameleon-like man stands in his place.

Grey Brandt steps out into the flow of humanity with a mission.

{Chapter 4}

“So, what do we think of Baby Eleven?”

Stretching long legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, Grey leans back in a chair in the Socialization Chamber (and yes, it really is called that).

A small, unaffected shrug lifts one shoulder, a bored expression almost permanently attached to his face. “You mean professionally or personally?”

“Both.”

The other Empirists love hearing Grey’s assessments. They find him almost equally amusing and threatening, though the latter always trumps.

“Willful. Has a strong independent streak, and a stubbornness that won’t be easy to break. There’s something else, too, a kind of… trusting nature underneath that tough front. Definitely a challenge.” He says that last bit with a grin that looks more like a sneer. Grey loves a challenge, a “worthy opponent,” as he calls it.

Adam sits inside the shared consciousness, all bright, fond smiles and irrepressible pride at how much of Kris has been retained, despite the efforts to erase him.

They call them a “Tabula” or, informally, a “Tabby”. The Rasa process- a combination of drugs, sensory deprivation, and comprehensive conditioning- is what turns human beings into chattel.

The Initial Phase of the process is done before Grey and his co-workers ever see them. Kris- or, Eleven, really- is undergoing the Intermediate Phase, which is only slightly longer than the Initial Phase, but where the Initial Phase is the most intensive, the Intermediate Phase is consistently immersive. The Final Phase prepares the ‘merchandise’ for ‘shipment’ to wherever they’ve been requisitioned.

Between the Final Phase and Shipping, Grey’s duties end. He is to make sure They’ll be imprinting on a blank canvas, hence the Tabula Rasa inferences.

Adam still thinks in terms of ‘They’ and ‘Them’. He isn’t a part of this.

Continuing his response in the articulate, well enunciated, semi-methodical way Grey speaks, that stretch of lips widens. “Let’s just say, from the look of him, I think I can guess for what he’s going to be called.”

The two other men in the room lean forward slightly in anticipation. Grey does not disappoint.

“And it’s a crying shame we aren’t allowed to test the merchandise, because I could lock that boy in my room for a month and never do the same thing twice. I’m tempted to buy him, myself, I really am.”

Grey settles back and watches the men next to him, plus the one that happened by and was listening in, explode.

Laughter, raucous and bawdy, accompanies the slap of a twenty-dollar bill going from one palm to another. “I told you!”

Filling in Grey and the fellow Empirist that’s now joined in on the fun apparently being had, “I bet Hoyt twenty bucks that Brandt would want to ‘bone up’ on the Eleven Tabby that came in this morning.”

Unconcerned with the assessment and gentle ribbing, Grey lets his smirk soften into a small, genuine grin. “What can I say? I have a type. It’s no secret.”

Speaking of secrets…

A few more minutes, and Grey finally stands up, lithe limbs looking longer with the pin striping down the sides of his uniform. “Well, I’m coming off a double shift, so I bid you good evening, gentlemen.”

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Yes, and I’ve been up since seven thirty, yesterday. Not all of us sleep on the job, Malloy.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You just want to get yourself some privacy for all those ideas you have for the pretty Tabby.”

Grey neither confirms nor denies, choosing rather to smirk enigmatically and saunter out of the room and toward his quarters with a flick of a dismissing hand.

Once in his quarters, Adam begins pacing furiously.

Kris is here.

He tells himself over and over that he absolutely must keep a cool head about this. Emotions cannot be allowed to distract him into stupidity- for both his and Kris’ sakes.

It’s around that point in his thinking process where the idea of Kris is here! kind of takes over, says, ‘screw rational, logical planning,’ and behaves like a sugar-high, sleep deprived four year old on a cross-country road trip.

This is what he’s been waiting for, though. Today is the beginning of (no, not the rest of his life, shut up) the countdown. All that’s come before has been preliminary establishing and necessary placement.

Now there’s an end in sight.

Now is when the work begins.

~*~*~*~ ------END PART ONE------ ~*~*~*~

{Chapter 5}

Over the next three days, Grey connives his way into being the only one to look after “baby Eleven”. Sometimes a Tabby will be changed easier if there’s constant confusion, with no familiar voices or routine. Others respond in the opposite way, being more willing to allow themselves to meld into human Play-Dough if there’s a semblance of monotony, blending every interaction into the one before and the one after, until there’s no more time consciousness left in their drug-addled, poi-resembling brains. Grey has convinced his superiors that Eleven -Kris. It’s Kris you-- ahem- is of the latter.

It’s probably true, anyway, but Adam would like to think that Kris is strong enough to annoy the crap out of Them by not being phased by either method. Whatever the case, this gives Grey/Adam unrestricted, unlimited access to Eleven/Kris, and Adam can see no bad there.

There hasn’t been nearly enough Kris in my life for almost two years; I’ll take him any way I can… which came out way dirtier than intended, but whatever. Not like it isn’t true.

For three days it’s been the same thing: one packet of that food-like substance every twenty hours, one quart of water per twenty-hour day, enough light at varying intervals where the Tabby can get a sense of the room (mostly to intimidate them) and see the ludicrous excuse for a toilet in the far left corner beside the sink, and making as little sound as possible.

Okay, so Adam isn’t the best at following that last directive.

Basically, Adam is a giant bottle of fail when it comes to being quiet.

Grey does his job, and is fine with silence; Adam learned sometime after the fifth Tabby to get sent on to Phase Three, that getting attached is the worst thing you can do in this line of work. Hence the quiet. Silence can also be very disorienting, and that’s just how They like them- confused out of their fuzzy minds, and pliant.

This is not, however, how Adam likes his Kris to be, and if a few minor infractions happen to be committed… well, that’s just too bad, isn’t it? Yes, it is.

Grey has earned relative autonomy, and is known for getting results, so his visits to Eleven’s cell go unnoticed. He’s a bit of a workaholic, too, so the odd hours and extended stays aren’t seen as anything but a zealous employee, and maybe a horny guy taking advantage of the convenient eye candy.

It’s three o’clock in the morning on the fourth day of Eleven’s interment, and Adam can’t sleep.

Typically, he brings the “food” around five or six, depending on how the weird twenty-hour-day shift is, but it’s painfully quiet in Grey’s room, and it’s keeping him awake. So, fine, he’ll bring Eleven his ration early or something.

“Back so soon?” The watchman lightly ribs Grey as he buzzes him in.

“What can I say? I missed your pretty face.”

The watchman snorts, “Yeah, sure, it’s my face you’re here to see.”

Grey just grins, salutes the guard, and makes his way to the induction chamber housing Tabby Eleven.

~*~*~*~

It’s been who knows how long- the days and hours and heartbeats are all out of sync, wrong and flipped upside down- and Eleven is starting to feel the shredded vestiges of his sanity slipping away like sand.

That’s what he’s dreaming about, actually- he’s standing in a sandstorm in the middle of an endless desert, but it’s under water, and there are lightning fish sparking in his peripheral. He’s watching himself floating, suspended in the center of a snow globe, shiny bits of sea-sand drifting down to settle at the bottom before he tips his miniature self and the little world he’s trapped in. And then he’s back, swirling in the vortex of the underwater sandstorm again. He stares out at his own, giant face, the one holding his world in his hand, but he doesn’t recognize the features. It’s blank, nondescript and blurred, and he knows it’s him, but…

“Oh.”

~*~*~

He isn’t supposed to care. In fact, it’s considered a bonus if you get to screw up the sleep patterns of the victims- um, the subjects. Being tired is worse than being drugged.

Which is fine, except for how Adam totally cares. Especially when the one he’s waking up is his best friend and the love of his life. Then, he just feels like crap, pretty much.

He knows he should go in there without pausing, as hesitation would be strange behavior, but Adam can’t help stuttering when the light hits the lump on the cot and he realizes Kris isn’t suffering from the insomnia plaguing Adam.

He always did have this way of falling asleep anywhere, anytime. On anyone. Like, for instance, me. Specifically my lap, often during movie nights on the couch.

“Oh.” A whisper escapes, and Adam feels trapped.

The lump moves.

~*~*~

“Back again?” Eleven mumbles, still thick with sleep.

His hair is sticking up in more directions than Adam has ever seen, and his rumpled, tired self is soft and lazy, a hand rubbing at his eyes. Adam’s heart aches, splitting wide open just to allow more aching in.

Taking the last few tentative steps into the room, Adam closes the door behind himself before turning on the palm-sized light he brought with him.

Eleven gasps, eyes widening, zeroed in on the pixie in the guard’s hand.

No, not a pixie. Tinkerbell isn’t real. Right? No. No, stop being crazy.

Focusing, Eleven can now make out the details of the little lamp, and he shuffles himself around so that he’s sitting on the cot, feet hanging over the edge.

Wordlessly, (of course) the guard sets the little lamp on the back of the sink, then turns back to face Eleven, handing him something. A packet.

It’s not food, or whatever that stuff is. Eleven inspects it through the clear plastic cover.

Toiletries. A toothbrush- single use, toothpaste built in- and a disposable razor, a tiny bar of soap, and a very small, probably also disposable, hand towel.

Eleven double-checks the guard’s face to make sure he’s reading this situation right, before getting the nonverbal go-ahead to open it up and use it.

The guard stands back and watches him, keeping a special eye on him while he shaves; just in case he gets any ideas, Eleven assumes.

I wouldn’t. I don’t have any clue what’s going on, or even who I am, but I know I am nowhere near desperate enough to try to get out of this that way. Somehow, I get the feeling there would be someone very sad if that happened. Although, they probably think I’m dead, already, anyway, but. Still.

It feels so good to be clean, Eleven can’t suppress the shiver that tickles his whole body. When he glances up, he’s just in time to catch the tail end of what could have been a grin on the guard’s face.

“Thank you.”

He’d stopped caring about that whole ‘no talking’ rule a while ago. If this guard doesn’t want to hear him talk, he can send someone else. Besides, who doesn’t like to be thanked?

There’s a surprising flit of expression over the man’s features; a sort of pleased, almost shy thing, and Eleven convinces himself that any hint of color he sees on the man’s cheeks is a trick of lighting, or imagination, or both.

The guard puts the razor and used toothbrush back in the plastic pouch to be thrown away, but refuses to take the soap or towel when Eleven offers them.

This time, when the guard puts his finger to his lips, there’s a hint of a smile there, a conspiring lift to the corners, and an unusual glint in those eerie blue eyes. Like they’re sharing a secret. Like they’re… friends or something.

Eleven doesn’t have a lot of memory, time-wise, but he does know that out of all the confused he’s been- which is a lot, okay?- this might top it all.

A glance back at the door (that is still closed, why so paranoid, dude?), and the guard does something Eleven was seriously not expecting.

He speaks. Like, sentences.

“You can keep those. I’ll do what I can about the disposable things- toothbrush will be way easier than the razor, but you don’t need to shave every day, anyway. I’m the only one that comes in here, so just don’t go shouting about this, and we should be able to work something out.”

Eleven finds himself reaching for the sink to hold onto something, because he is about to embarrass himself right now if he doesn’t. For a mouth that opens and closes as much as Eleven’s does, you’d think some actual sound would be made, but it turns out, not so much.

Shocking Eleven even more, the guard lets himself smile, like, a real, lips and eyes and cheeks and stuff smile.

It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

He ignores the fact that it is pretty much the only thing he’s seen in all his ‘ever’ time, because he’s fairly certain that if he could remember, it would still be true.

Unbidden, but not unwanted, Eleven answers with his own smile, which only seems to brighten the guard.

He wants to ask, wants to know why and who and what, but all Eleven can form is the “wh” part.

“Because,” the guard responds to the questions Eleven never voiced, “Nothing is what it seems. Okay, a lot of it is, about this place, ya know? I mean, yeah, all this?” He nods, looking around the room, “This is pretty much what it looks like. All this is, um, well, let’s just say calling this a pit of evil wouldn’t be overstating matters.”

At Eleven’s worry, the guard makes a rueful face. “Sorry. If it’s any consolation, I’m not really a part of it.”

He seems to consider Eleven for a minute, before straightening out the bed sheets and inviting Eleven to join him in sitting on it.

“Can I tell you something?”

Eleven nods, dizzy.

“I’m not who I am. What I mean is, this person isn’t who I really am. It’s a… it’s a sort of disguise, I guess.”

“A-” He finds his voice, at last, “Are you a cop?”

The guard flashes him another brilliant smile, like he just said the greatest thing ever. “No. I’m more of a… private consultant. I’m here because-”

He pauses, and Eleven has the irrational urge to wrap an arm around him. He doesn’t.

“I lost someone. They were- they were taken. From their home.” He’s obviously emotionally attached to this person, so Eleven tries to comfort him. He doesn’t ask himself why.

“Girlfriend?”

Okay, how is that comforting? Honestly.

The guard doesn’t seem to mind, though. “No.”

“Boyfriend?”

It just slips out, on automatic or something, and Eleven blushes hard, turning his head away to hide it.

And, really, sound a little more desperate, would you? I don’t think he quite got the hint that you think he’s--

What? I think he’s what?

Oh. Oh.

Am I…?

Huh. There’s something I’ll have to think about later.

If nothing else, this proves the guard really isn’t evil or the cold, scary creature Eleven has been introduced to these past few days, because he isn’t offended or annoyed at all with Eleven’s interruptions and nosiness.

He does, however, make a tiny sigh-like sound before speaking. It’s sad, and Eleven wants to pet his hair.

Yeah, that’s not freakish behavior. You don’t need psychological help. Creeper.

“No.” A quiet beat, then, “I had hoped-- He, uh, he was- is straight, so. No.”

“Did you ever ask him?”

Oh my god, dude! This guy is your one chance out of here; what are you doing?!

“He was my best friend.” A wry grin tugs at half his mouth. “It’s funny, but I didn’t even know how much- how much he meant to me, until a four hundred year old Japanese ex-criminal mastermind told me.”

Eleven’s mouth hangs open for a second before he lets out a startled laugh. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you, just--”

The guard brushes it away, fond, bright smile shining down at Eleven.

Finally, “So, is that why you’re here? Looking for him?”

“Yeah. It’s been- well, he was taken twenty-two months ago, and I’ve been trying this avenue of finding him for a little over a year. I was trying all the usual ways at first, ya know? But when I found out about this place, I just knew. I could feel it.”

His gaze becomes gelled, unfocused and far away, his voice following. “I became this.” The disgust is clear in his tone; he truly hates the person he is right now. “And when I take him home, it will all be worth it.”

No, Eleven did not tear up; he’s still adjusting to the light, that’s all.

This time he can’t help it; Eleven puts a hesitant hand on the guard’s forearm. “You’ll find him. I know you will.”

For a long minute, the guard stares at Eleven’s hand. “Thank you.” It’s barely audible, but as there’s no other sound in the room, Eleven was able to pick it up.

“What, um, what’s his name?”

The guard looks startled at that, but replies, “He won’t remember.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know your name?”

Oh. Good point.

“Right.” Then, “Oh, God, right. Wow. Well, then, how-- Never mind. I’ll shut up.”

“It’s fine. I got myself into a position where I get to see all the people who come through here. I’ll find him and I’ll bring him home.”

Eleven still doesn’t know how that’s going to work, but he figures if the guy spent the last year doing this to find his friend, he’s probably got a plan worked out. He seems smart, and obviously is a good enough actor to fake this whole other persona.

Why Eleven doesn’t think more than in passing that maybe this is the lie and the guard is tricking him, is kind of beyond Eleven. There’s just something about this guard, a sort of vibe, like their energies are working on the same frequency or something. He just knows.

“Not to sound… um, I’m not sure, but, I’m just curious. Why are you telling me all of this?”

The guard smiles down at Eleven. “Because I’m getting you out of here. And I’m gonna need your help to do it. I need you to trust me, no matter what. I know that’s a lot to ask, but--”

“Okay.”

Wow, could you sound any more like a cheap, drunken prom date? Good lord, Eleven.

“Really? Just like that?”

“I know, right? But, yeah, pretty much just like that.” Eleven shrugs, “Can’t get any worse than whatever the evil overlords are plotting.”

Something comes to him, though. “What about your friend? How are you going to- I mean, have you done this before? Aren’t you worried they’ll catch on? Not that I’m saying I want to be left in here, but…”

The guard gives Eleven a look he can’t decipher. He kind of wants to be looked at like that for the rest of his life. Preferably by the guard, whose name he doesn’t even know. Of course, he doesn’t know his own name, either, so.

There are two arms swooped around his tiny frame, hugging him close and breathing into his neck.

Completely caught off guard, Eleven goes scared-bunny still. Inside, his gut is screaming at him to reciprocate, but there are layers upon layers of experiences and trauma and confusion that suppress the reaction.

The guard doesn’t seem to notice any of this. “Let’s just think about getting you out. Leave the rest for me to handle.”

Eleven muffles an affirmative response into the broad chest.

Once he pulls himself away (which seems to take a great amount of effort, and Eleven thinks maybe this guy needs to be hugged more), the guard stands and straightens himself up.

“I have to go. Too much time, and they’ll start to wonder.”

They nod at each other, and Eleven offers a hopeful smile up at the man he misjudged so very wrongly. The guard softens again, where he was starting to put on that indifferent shell, and he runs long fingers through the mass of Eleven’s still-wild hair, the ghost of fondness smoothing across his features.

“You’re going to be okay.” It’s both a question and a reassurance, said quietly enough that Eleven has the insane urge to push up into that petting hand and purr.

I-- I don’t even know what to do with that. You’re on your own, man.

On its final pass through his hair, the guard lets his hand slip down Eleven’s stubble-free cheek and jaw, then quickly turns, taking long strides toward the door.

“You can keep the light, but be very careful. A bar of soap is one thing; that is… dangerous.” He speaks to the cement, and Eleven hurries to bathe the room in darkness so the guard can leave without incident.

A satisfied nod, and the door begins its slide open. The man that leaves is the cold, imposing creature he’s been acquainted with.

He misses the other man already. So does Adam.

~*~*~*~

“Hey, what took you so long? You’re not sampling the merchandise, are you?” The watchman queries, half teasing.

The watchman’s attention is drawn to the slightly damp packet not quite hidden in Grey’s pocket.

Grey smirks. “Unfortunately, no.” Tossing the packet into the incinerator hatch, he continues, “Kid was starting to stink up the whole room. Couldn’t stand it; you know how I am.”

“Ohh, yeah. It’s practically a disease, man. Maybe you ought to look into getting some help.”

“Hygiene never killed anyone. The lack thereof was close to doing me in, though. It was this, or an all-out attack with Lysol and bleach.”

“Well, thank you for restraining yourself.”

“I’m glad someone appreciates my sacrifice.”

“See you tonight, Brandt.”

“Yes, sir.”

That was too close. Definitely going to have to be more careful. At least we got rid of that beard; that thing was just a crime.

Adam was glad to note that Kris’ time spent in the Rasa process hasn’t seemed to affect brain functionality or awareness (other than memory loss). Sometimes, a person’s brain can’t handle the combination of drugs, psychotherapy, deprogramming, and brainwashing that happens in such strong doses during Phase One. The result isn’t pretty.

Usually, those who end up with permanent brain damage are weeded out before they make it to Phase Two, but every once in a while, they’ll get someone who… let’s just say there’s trauma that could qualify them for asylums, or they end up resembling coma patients, and there’s nothing that can be done for them.

Grey doesn’t ask what happens to them once that diagnosis has been made- it’s not part of his job.

Adam doesn’t ask, either. He doesn’t think he could know, and stay at all useful to Kris.

{Chapter 6}

It works. For two weeks, Adam is able to visit Kris at least once a day, sometimes timing it during the guard change, so he can have an extra few minutes with him.

He is able to explain what this place is (the Devil’s Earthly lair, for shorthand), what happens to the people who are unfortunate enough to be brought here (re: Play-Dough flavored poi brains), and how to behave so the fact that he’s being treated differently doesn’t give them both away.

Adam shows him the powder that the Tabbies are forced to drink in their water; the ones that suppress memory, do a number on the prefrontal cortex, and short out the temporal lobe, basically.

Eleven looks dubiously at the jug of water beside his bed. Adam notices.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Adam asks, waving three fingers past Kris’ face.

Kris -not Eleven, that is totally a Kris face- quirks his mouth, raises an eyebrow, and replies, “Three.”

“If you were being drugged, you wouldn’t even be able to comprehend the question at this point. Which reminds me, if anyone ever gives you the finger test--”

“Give them the finger right back?”

Adam does his best to keep the boisterous laugh that wants to be let loose within a non-suspicious sound range. Not that anyone outside can hear him, but it’s better to be on the safe side.

“Exactly. Except for how, maybe, until we get you out of here, you instead stare blankly at their hand and pretend to see blurry trails.”

“So, act like a slug-brained, tripping hick with a speech disorder, but be vaguely alert enough to follow basic commands like a good little puppy.”

“Maybe you should be the one explaining and plotting, cuz clearly you’ve got a better grip on this than I do.”

So, yeah, it works.

And then an Emperist named Beyard decides he wants to see what is so special about Tabby Eleven that it -yes, they actually tend to refer to the Tabbies as ‘it’- monopolizes so much of Brandt’s time.

~*~*~

The door begins to slide open, and Eleven finds his way out of the twilight zone his brain had led him into -which means he stops his recitation of what he doesn’t realize is his entire third grade school play- sits up, and squints a little at the light breaching the dark he’s grown unsettlingly used to. Eleven’s first thought is strange.

Did my guard shrink? Oh my God, do they do experiments on the guards, too?

He feels suitably stupid, and shakes his head back and forth once to clear it. Opening his mouth, Eleven goes to greet his guard -and it’s kind of less a ‘my guard because he’s been assigned to me’ and more a proprietary thing, which is worrisome, but only in a vague way, considering the circumstances- until his vision gives him more information, and the smile forming falls immediately off his face.

That is not his guard. That is nowhere near his guard, and his guard is nowhere to be seen, and, wow, this is really, really bad.

Quickly, Eleven rearranges himself to mimic the way he’s been told the other poor souls in this Hell would react, and thanks God for the practice sessions and controlled sample dosing his guard has been giving him.

The concrete slab makes its silent way shut, leaving Eleven alone with this stranger.

The dark speaks. “So you’re what all the fuss is about.”

It doesn’t echo, but the words seem to slither their way around the walls of the room, searching out Eleven’s ears and worming their way in.

“I don’t know if Brandt actually talks to you, or if he just comes in, feeds you, and hoses you down- the guy’s got this thing about hygiene, I swear, it’s weird. Heh- you don’t even know what I’m saying to you.”

The dark shifts, movement like a hand through a pool of black mercury.

“’Course, he says he’s just doing his job; and, ya know, I almost believe him. Or I did, until I saw you. Yeah,” the stranger turns on one of those little hand-fairies- um, lights- and the two get a good look at one another. “There’s no way.”

No way, what? Eleven wants to ask, but this guy isn’t giving him a warm and fuzzy feeling, so he puts his training to good use, and pretends.

The intruder stalks around Eleven, surveying him, studying, inspecting. He sets the light down on the edge of the sink.

You don’t know what’s going on. You’re barely aware of a presence in the room. He isn’t giving you any instructions or orders, so you can ignore him. Ignore him. If you play zombie well enough, he’ll just go away. Please, please go away.

His guard’s words run through his mind, and Eleven focuses on them like a mantra; like a prayer.

That’s a song. A girl sings it. Famous. He loves her.

And then the thought is gone, like a phantom itch that disappears as quickly as it came, the only briefly lingering niggle trailing after is, ‘‘He,’ who?’

‘Steve’ -as Eleven has decided to call him- makes a noise of approval.

“You are a pretty one, aren’t you? No wonder Brandt’s been spending all his time in here. He never did learn how to share.”

Steve gets uncomfortably close, and Eleven fights harder than he can remember ever having to, to keep up his act.

Brandt. That’s my guard’s name. Brandt.

He isn’t sure why, but the name doesn’t sit right in Eleven’s brain. It… tastes funny. He thinks it fits the guard the man becomes when he leaves Eleven’s cell, but not the man that Eleven knows when the door is closed.

*-*-*HERE BEGINS THE POSSIBLY TRIGGERY SCENE*-*-*

He doesn’t have time to dwell on this conundrum, however, because Steve is taking Eleven’s chin in his rough hand, jerking his face this way and that, like Eleven is some kind of doll.

Steve smirks, “I wonder which team you played for. Not that it matters, now,” and he starts unbuckling the straps of his pants with his free hand.

Oh, God. Oh, no. No, this cannot be happening. What is he-- Brandt! Brandt, where are you? Please. Please, no…

“You’ll hafta get used to this sooner or later. My guess is, with all the time you’ve been spending with Brandt, you know exactly what to do.” The words are slimy, mocking, nauseating.

He would never! You’re the twisted one. He treats me with respect; like a friend, not a whore in training. Oh, God, is that what I am? Am I supposed to be sold for… that?

Eleven tries to close his eyes against what’s happening, but Steve shakes his head again.

“Pay attention! Don’t need teeth marks on my favorite appendage cuz a stupid slut can’t keep its mouth open.”

The syllables echo in his head the way nothing in this room does.

Stupid slut. Stupid slut can’t keep its mouth open. Slut. Its.

Fear bubbles over, taking control, and Eleven starts fighting to get away.

“What are you doing? Hey!” There’s a sharp smack! across Eleven’s face, and it sends him back into the wall, bouncing his head against it, as well.

It’s enough to both disorient and refocus him. Back to docile mindlessness, Eleven slumps, hoping to be left alone, but knowing that if he has any chance to escape a life of this, he can’t struggle this one time. He has to let it happen.

God, help me.

“That’s better. Brandt’s gone soft on ya, huh? Surprising. I’d take him for a bit more rough-and-tumble kinda man, but whatever. Now,” Steve -and Eleven apologizes to every Steve in existence for insulting their name this way- takes a painful grip of Eleven’s hair at the back of his head, holding him in place.

A bare cock juts out obscenely from the uniform, pointing itself at Eleven’s face.

That smirk takes over Eleven’s vision, even when his eyes close. “Open wide,” he singsongs.

Eleven holds a still as he can, breathes through his nose, tries to make his mind take him anywhere but here, and waits for it to be over.

*-*-*THUS ENDETH THE SCENE*-*-*

“Good morning, sleepy head,” Adam teases, putting the light on the sink and sitting down on the edge of Eleven’s cot.

Eleven is curled up in the fetal position in the far corner of the tangled sheets, huddled against the wall.

He almost does it. Adam almost calls him ‘Kris’. Later, he’ll wonder how the other man would have responded.

Now, though, “Hey. Come on, honey, wake up. You feelin’ alright?” Adam rearranges himself to be in front of Kr-- Eleven, running a hand through his hair and feeling his forehead for a fever.

That’s when he sees it. Right there, on that precious face, is a red welt with distinct shapes that will bruise the cheekbone.

Knuckles. Faint outlines of a few fingers. And farther down, there’s more.

Taking his favorite face in his hands, Adam tries to get a more complete look at the damage.

Damage. There’s been damage done. To his Kris.

The boy winces, pulls away, eyes not opening, but his hands are up defensively.

They say that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. They haven’t seen anything like what’s coming.

Adam whispers calming words, coaxing Kris to awareness. “It’s just me, baby, it’s okay. It’s me, I’m here. I’m here. You’re safe. Open those beautiful eyes, lemme see you.”

Finally, groggy and pained, Eleven wakes up fully. It’s wariness, followed by confusion, recognition, and relief in rapid succession.

Arms fling themselves around his guard’s neck, and Eleven clings like a spider monkey.

Adam holds him fiercely right back.

“Baby, what happened to you?” He can’t help but ask. He also wants to know who happened to him, so he’ll have a proper outlet for the volcanic rage building.

Eleven can’t talk. He tries, but words just… skitter away. Trying to catch a butterfly without touching its wings.

“Let me see you,” Adam says after a while.

Adam once again takes the boy’s face in his hands, gently, tracing the lines and marks he finds. The obvious backhand across the right side of Kris’ cheek; the bump on the exact opposite side of his head; what turns out to be -god, someone is going to pay so dearly for this- a thumb print bruise on his chin and right underneath, like he’d been held in place; swollen, unhappy lips, red-rimmed eyes, and tear-stained skin put a neat bow on the package.

He can see it so clearly, what happened.

The way whomever’s hands were on his Kris’ face, his head; the wounds and how they got there-- yeah, Adam is going to go frickin’ Pompey on this guy.

“Oh, my god, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t--” Eleven shakes his head, a placating hand over unnecessarily apologetic lips, to a tense but friendly shoulder. “Who was it? What did he look like? Were you able to see him? I’m going to kill the motherf--”

“Brandt, no. Don’t get into trouble; we’ll never get out of here.”

Seems Eleven found his words, after all. That sort of shocks Adam backwards, and he stares at Eleven.

“You- you called me ‘Brandt.’”

Eleven bites his lip and nods, then instantly regrets both actions.

“He called you that.”

“He talked about me? What did he say? Holy crap, that sounded way too high school.”

A half-smile forms on Eleven’s abused lips. “Ohmigod, he thinks you’re totally hot,” he teases back; a reassurance that he’s really alright.

“Ugh. Not my type.”

“What is your type?” It just comes out. Just pops right on out, like when they first started talking, and it isn’t like he’s even asking for any reason in particular. He doesn’t think. Anyway.

“I dunno, it might seem picky, but I just can’t be attracted to cowards and rapists.” Once the word is out there, it hangs, heavy and loud -“hanging like bricks don’t”- and neither man is breathing.

Adam closes his eyes for an extra blink. Eleven puts his hand closer inward on Adam’s shoulder, and rubs lightly at his neck.

“Sorry,” Adam breathes.

“’s okay. Not your fault.” Which is when it hits him: his guard is blaming himself for this. “Hey.”

Shining blue eyes meet his own, and he’s lost for a moment. “This wasn’t your fault, Brandt. In no way are you to blame. Okay?”

There’s a bit more staring, and then a slow shaking of a head.

“No?”

“No. No, this is not okay; no, I am to blame; no, this should not have happened; no, no, no.” He’s starting to lose it.

“Brandt. Brandt, you’re- you’re freaking out; calm down.” Too late.

Adam is up and pacing, breathing like an angry bull, muttering to himself. He knows he can’t go outside like this, but he can’t ‘calm down.’

Someone in his care was raped! No, not just ‘someone’- his someone. Kris. The love of his life. His Kris. And some… all his insults and rude names are blending together and jumbling up until all that’s left is a scream like a train whistle inside his head.

They thought they could come in here, and, what, there’d be no repercussions? Even if this were just another random Tabby, this is not tolerable behavior.

That’s how he has to act. Like his anger is professional, not personal. Screwed up the process, not that they screwed with a person. His person. No, gotta keep focused.

“Ad--” Eleven finally gets his attention.

Adam rounds on him, “What? What did you call me?”

The boy looks scared, and, alright, Adam can be a bit intense, especially when he’s pissed off, but Kris should know he has nothing to fear from-- Except that’s not Kris.

“I--”

Eleven is suddenly crowded by six-plus feet of emotion.

“It’s okay. You were- you were talking, trying to get my attention?” Eleven nods. “And you started to say something. What was it?”

There’s quite a bit of procrastination and muttering until, “I don’t-- It just sort of, ya know, popped out. I wasn’t even thinking, I just--”

“What was it?”

Eleven thinks hard, refusing to let the verbal impulse tear away and melt into the darkness that is his memory like all his other cotton candy thoughts. “I’m not totally sure, but I think my mouth wanted to say… Adam?”

His whole being goes numb. Absolutely loses all sense of everything. It’s the weirdest sensation Adam has ever experienced.

Not that he can say anything about it, because there’s no way to explain everything, and-- it just can’t be done right now. There are reasons. He knows this. His arms may have forgotten, though, considering they’re wrapped around the tiny frame like they’re hanging on for dear life.

“It’s still there. It’s still in there,” he hears his voice whisper; feels his lips press into the soft spiky hair, his temple.

He’s still in there. My Kris is still alive.

“Uhm… what?” And, god, that was such a ‘Kris’ response.

“Nothing. Never mind. It’ll make sense later; don’t even think about it for now.” He smoothes the rumples he caused all over Eleven -Kris! Kris! Kris!- and himself.

He’d had a question. If only he could remember what it was.

“So, what did you do?”

“Do?”

Adam nods, trying to detach his feelings from this, and failing miserably. “During the-- When he-- Um, wh--”

“Oh. Um. I. I did what you told me.”

Okay, Adam is absolutely positive he never gave either Kris or Eleven guidelines on what to do if they’re ever being forced to blow somebody.

Of course, if he were ever to do something like that, his advice would probably be… “You bit him?!”

Stunned, Eleven stops, then busts out laughing. “What? No! I- Okay, I thought about it, but that would have given everything away. I couldn’t-- I wasn’t going to risk-- There’s too much riding on this. I’m not going to blow it for us, or for your friend when you find him- and I just realized that I maybe could have used a different turn of phrase, there, holy crap.”

This time, they both enjoy a minute of laughter. Eventually, he gets back to his point.

“I pretended I was, ya know, a- a- one of the brain-challenged, or whatever. I spaced out. Acted drugged and stupid. I freaked out at first, tried to fight him off, but I got a hold of myself real quick, and he didn’t suspect anything.” A rueful non-grin, “He thought you were being too nice to me.”

Adam shakes his head once in disgust, making an accompanying noise. “You’re sure you didn’t get a name or anything?”

“Yeah, he came in and introduced himself, ‘Hi, I’m Steve Creeptasterson, nice to meet you. Say, mind if I shove my dick down your throat?’”

Adam winces hard and blanches. A soft, “I’m sorry,” but Eleven is already making his own apology.

“No, no, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me. I’m just lashing out; I didn’t mean to do it at you.”

Adam nods appreciatively.

Eleven scoffs, “You’re the only good thing in my life.”

Inside Adam’s head, Grey pulls on a malicious grin, the idea of betrayal so delicious, it makes his stomach growl. It makes Adam shiver and feel sick at the very thought. He keeps his worry over how any part of him could revel in that kind of evil locked away for another time.

Instead, he tells his boy the truth, “And you’re the only good thing in mine.”

Surprised features shoot upward, meeting slightly shy ones above. There’s a minute where Eleven looks like he’s contemplating something.

“What is it?”

“He- he said some things--”

“Whatever he said, they’re lies. He is an awful, bad, evil creature, and he will never bother you again. Especially after I figure out who he is. Then he’ll never bother anyone again.”

“Don’t get into trouble,” he reminds his guard. “But, no, I mean, he was saying about you. Um. That everyone thinks that’s the reason you spend so much time with me. Because you’re…”

He makes a gesture that could mean literally anything, but Adam takes to represent (ahem) ‘sampling the merchandise’.

“And I’m pretty sure I was able to convince him otherwise, what with my outstanding lack of skill, and nearly choking to death, and all.”

Adam’s fists ball up in the blanket on either side of his legs.

“But, I was, uh, wondering.”

He pauses long enough that Adam prompts him, “Yes?”

“Is- is that something you, um, do? A lot? Like, is that-- What I mean is, I sort of figured that’d be against some kind of rule or something; but is that sort of your, uh, reputation, I guess?”

Eleven is knotting himself up, and Adam is doing his level best not to find it meltingly adorable.

He’s failing, if anyone hasn’t guessed and is curious.

“It is.” He pauses a second, the wicked little thing.

Eleven reacts beautifully- hiding the joint feelings of mild surprise, vague disappointment, less-vague disappointment, and even a hint of jealousy.

“That kind of thing is totally against the rules, which is how I’m going to nail the SOB to the wall. As for my reputation,” another maddening break, “I’ve never hidden my preferences; it isn’t a big deal, here. It figures, right? The center of the earthly layer of Hell, and it’s the one place completely free from judgment over sexuality. Anyway, I tend to be attracted to certain features, and when you showed up, there was a general acknowledging and assuming that happened.” Adam shrugs. It’s not like they were totally wrong.

“So… your type, then, it’s--”

Adam notices before Eleven’s even finished forming the thought in his head.

“Whoa, hey, no. Don’t start thinking that. I am not doing this because I think you’re cute, okay? Or because I expect anything from you. Everything you know about me, that’s real; don’t let that bastard start making you doubt. I’m getting you out of here because you deserve to be free, not because of… any other reason. I swear.”

Eleven looks a bit shocked that his guard could read him that well, and slightly guilty for having the thoughts in the first place. He really does know better.

“Your name isn’t really Brandt, is it?” It’s less a question than it probably should be.

Adam smiles. “No. But for now, it is. And, if you’ll recall, I never actually told you that.”

“I know. It’s funny, but when he called you that, it felt wrong. It didn’t fit you. Like, I could see the guard guy you are while the door’s open being called that, but this guy- the one here, now- it doesn’t fit him.”

The smile widens and is joined by a, “Thank you.”

“Um, sure.”

“It’ll--”

“Yeah, yeah, it’ll make sense later.”

Adam huffs a laugh and takes a friendly swipe at Kr-- Eleven’s -he is never going to get used to that- head.

Which is met with a grin until contact is made, where it’s replaced with a small grimace. And that’s when Adam remembers, and he starts hating anew.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Adam whispers among a string of expletives.

“I’m okay.”

He doesn’t mention that this is the second or third time he’s called Eleven ‘baby’, mostly because he doesn’t totally know how he feels about it, and would rather hold off on a conversation until he’s more prepared. Plus, it’s possible he kind of likes it, and doesn’t that just complicate the crap out of things?

“No, you’re not. But you will be. We both will. Now, can you give me any kind of description of this…” Yeah, Adam’s ability to call people inventive names isn’t something we should share, here.

Eleven does his best to recall every detail of his assailant. Hopefully, along with the log at the desk, Adam will be able to determine exactly who will be on the other end of his Biblically proportioned wrath.

{Chapter 7}

Grey storms out of the cell and down the hall like a bat out of Hell. In fact, the idea that he is Hades, god of the dead, and is dragging the Underworld along with him, would not be too much of an overstatement.

“Beyard!” He bellows.

Spotting the shift watchman, Grey thunders up to him. “Malloy! Where’s Beyard?”

Seeing the usually impassively enigmatic guard so far beyond having lost his cool, Malloy stutters and shrinks back.

“Uh, I-I don’t know, Brandt. Why? What happened?”

“I hope you two aren’t friends, cuz he’s about to be a dead man.”

The man is fuming.

“Jeez, what’d he do?” Malloy asks quietly, glad he isn’t the target.

“What did he do? What did he do? He screwed up two solid weeks of work, is what he did! This kid was close; I had maybe another week until he was totally ready for Imprinting, and now I’m not sure how long it’s gonna take to salvage the mess Beyard’s made.”

“You’re still not telling me what he did.”

“He went into Tabby Eleven’s cell! Which I could forgive, and have it not be detrimental, but does he stop there? Oh, no, he’s got to not only talk to the boy, but he’s got to wail on him, too! Swollen black eye, bruises all over his face and neck, a nasty bump on the back of his head, and, oh, did I mention? Turned his mouth into a proverbial glory hole.”

That shocks Malloy, making him jerk back like he’s been slapped.

“Are you seri-- are you sure?”

Both Grey and Adam, although for different reasons, growl out, “Positive. Is his name on the list?”

Swallowing around the dryness of his mouth, Malloy looks at the record, even though he already knows Beyard’s name is there. He points it out to Grey.

“I had to get the kid to talk to me. To explain. Do you know how long it took to get him to be quiet in the first place? This is a disaster.”

Adam: master of the verbal loophole.

“And! He actually went in there, assuming- not just assuming, telling the Tabby- that I’ve been regularly sampling the merchandise. That the kid should be used to being treated like a rag doll whore because, of course, I’ve been doing that this whole time.”

At this point, Malloy has taken up a quiet rhetoric of, “Oh, jeez. Oh, jeez.”

“Which is a lie. I’ve never crossed that line with any of them, and here he is, acting like it’s fact and common knowledge!” He continues on, ignoring the watchman.

Grey has been aware of the whispers that travel; how certain Empirists in other facilities will treat the human livestock, and how he’s one that’s raised questions since his arrival. He’s been content to let them wonder, but now it’s become a threat to him and his plans (and to Adam’s, but that’s another point entirely).

“Where did he go when he left here?” Before Malloy can answer, “Wait, why did you let him in to see my Tabby in the first place? He’s a Type Two, Malloy, it’s on his papers.”

“I-I didn’t know that’s where he was going. He said he was subbing in for someone’s feeding time because of some overlap. I didn’t… I didn’t really ask. I never would’ve--” Grey waves an angrily impatient hand at the guard to quiet him.

He goes to repeat his first question, when the facility’s Rasa overseer strides into the round room.

“What is all the noise?” Andrew Shoar cuts an imposing figure, with his square jaw, military style crew cut, and six-foot-three height.

As the Western US Branch of the Rasa Project’s overseer, Shoar has the next-closest thing to ultimate authority. This all adds up to easy intimidation, and an automatic falling in line for everyone around him.

Grey does not intimidate. Adam is unimpressed.

“Without sounding melodramatic, you’ve got a criminal working for you, sir,” Grey informs him, as near to calm as either of his personalities can get at this point in time.

“Excuse me?”

“One of your employees committed a heinous crime, and unraveled two solid weeks of progress.” Unsure which argument would be most effective, Grey highlights both.

Shoar’s expertly blank face twitches an eyebrow up in a ‘go on’ gesture.

“Marcus Beyard lied his way into Eleven’s cell, beat on him, and raped him, sir.” Adam is very proud of himself in that he didn’t projectile vomit all over Shoar at having to say those words.

The reaction is exactly what Grey/Adam was hoping for. Outraged eyes go narrow from underneath, flat line mouth curling downward unhappily.

“Bring Empirist Beyard to my office immediately,” Shoar orders his personal guard, low and dangerous. “If this is true, and can be substantiated, there will be severe punishment. You understand this?”

Grey nods, sneering, “Yes, sir.”

“So, if this is a personal vendetta or grievance, and these allegations are false--”

“I assure you, sir, they are absolutely the truth.”

Shoar indicates that he believes Grey, the speech is just a formality.

“Show me the boy.”

~*~*~*~

The door begins its familiar slide open, and Eleven lets himself revel in the empty feeling the drug provides. Brandt had to dose him to keep up the ruse, and Eleven is willing to do whatever it takes to get out of here. Especially now that he knows what’s intended for him in the future, if these psychos have their way.

Showtime.

“Sit up,” Brandt orders, monotone.

Coming around to Eleven’s right, another man stands in front of him in such a way that the light from outside the room makes it impossible to recognize anything more than a dark blob. Plus, the drugs put a sort of vignette haze around everything, and Eleven is pretty sure he’s rocking back and forth like he’s on a boat.

The men talk around him, but they sound blurry and far away. He catches snatches of their conversation.

“…hit against the wall, here…”

“…held him still by…”

“…oral only?”

“You say he can positively identify…”

Lights flash in his face, but he doesn’t recognize until later that they’re from a camera documenting his injuries.

There are another pair of hands on him- unfamiliar, unwelcome- but they aren’t nearly as rough as the other man had been, and Brandt is right there, so Eleven flinches and struggles a little bit, but is soothed into submission easily.

“Were you able to find any DNA trace?”

What is this, CSI? …I got sick once, and he came over with homemade soup, crackers, and the entire first season of CSI. Huh, there’s that ‘he’ again. Oh, well, my guard is close enough to smell, now, so nothing really matters, anymore.

“I looked him over pretty thoroughly, but I’m thinking that, at the angle and depth described, anything not swallowed could easily be wiped off.”

Swallowed? Oh my god, I had to swallow. Oh, God, there’s part of that… monster inside me! Oh, God, get it out! Get it out!

Eleven starts thrashing, hurling himself over the bed just in time to puke violently into the toilet. By a power surely not his own, Adam holds himself steady, when every atom is screaming to run to Kris’ aid.

Once the heaving has slowed, Grey looks over at Shoar, voice as dead and indifferent as its ever been, “Might be able to get some trace outta that.”

Shoar pauses a moment, studies Grey, then lets out a loud guffaw. “Yeah, I’ll get someone right on that.” Shoar motions to yet another flunky, and the boy visibly blanches, but goes to grab an evidence gathering kit from storage.

“Sir, Marcus Beyard is in your office,” the man from before informs from the door, wrinkling his nose at the stench.

“Thank you. Please go and make him… comfortable.”

The inflection implies anything but ‘comfort’ will be provided.

Grey can’t say he’s displeased with the prospect.

Adam is doing an in-brain happy dance interspersed with vulgar gestures.

The guard hurries off, eager to escape the nasty cell.

“Well. That was exciting.” Oh, also, Shoar may be slightly insane. Just thought I’d point that out.

Grey doesn’t respond, because all he’d come up with is ‘uhhh,’ and Grey doesn’t say things like that.

“You know the boy best, Brandt. I’m leaving everything to do with him in your hands. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I get to go assert my authority.” Yeah, he sounds just a touch too giddy about that.

The reluctant evidence collector arrives, taking samples and leaving as quickly as he possibly can.

Eleven is huddled under the sink trough, shivering and sobbing, too drugged out to do anything for himself.

The room reeks, and Adam uses Grey’s OCD about smells to have another cell opened for relocating Eleven until the cleaning crew can come in and disinfect… everything. Including the air.

~*~*~*~

“I’ll take it from here,” Grey tells the assisting guard, who promptly nods his head and walks away.

The door finally, finally closes all the way, and Adam emerges, pulling the spacey boy up to the sink to clean off his face and help him brush his teeth. Kris always hated throwing up, hated the way his mouth felt and tasted, and wouldn’t say a word until he’d rinsed and brushed to his satisfaction.

Settling him on the cot, Adam continues petting Eleven’s hair and face reassuringly.

“Better?”

Eleven dazes slowly upward until he’s meeting Adam’s eyes, a slanted half-grin toying with the idea of being on his lips.

“Thanks,” He slurs. Then a worried look creases his face, “Sorry.”

“For what, baby?” Adam kneels down in front of him, then thinks better of it, and sits beside him on the cot.

Eleven whines a little, motioning to the toilet, keeping his head down in embarrassment.

“Aw, honey, no. You didn’t do anything wrong.” His arm tightens around Kris’ shoulders.

“’s gross, though. An’ a lot of trouble.”

“You are no trouble at all. If anything, what you did is proof of what happened, and who did it. Besides, now I have unlimited, unrestricted, uninterrupted access to you. If I spend more than the usual time in here, they’ll think it’s because I’m trying to re-break you. No one except me will be allowed in this room unless I’m with them. I didn’t want to say it, cuz it’s kind of… sick and morbid, but this might end up being the catalyst for us getting out of here.”

Eleven is quiet for a long moment, resting against Adam’s side, snug underneath the protective arm.

“You’re a very ‘silver lining’ kind of guy, aren’t you?”

Adam chuckles, biting down on the instinct to say that that isn’t the first time he’s said those words to Adam. “That’s me. Mr. Brightside.”

Another minute or so of comfortable silence passes.

“You know how your friend- how you liked him, but you didn’t know if he liked you the same way?”

Adam’s heart freezes, and then starts beating like a frantic bunny.

“Uhm, yhe- yeah?”

“Yeah. He’d be an idiot.”

Eleven is still fuzzed to the gills, and has little to no control over the things he says -sodium pentothal: because what good is a poi-brain if it can lie to you?- and is obviously having a sort of hero worship reaction or something, and Adam needs to calm down right freakin’ now, before he does something asinine. Like, you know, kiss him or something equally bad.

“If he didn’t, I mean,” he finishes belatedly.

Somehow, Adam gets himself together, takes several deep breaths and swallows, and replies in a surprisingly normal voice, “Thank you, sweetie.”

Sliding off the bed and rearranging Kris -Eleven- more comfortably, “I’d better go. There’s going to be a lot of talking in my future.”

Eleven is asleep before the door finishes closing.

Adam has nightmares. Horrible, heartbreaking, vomit-inducing terrors that haunt him at his most vulnerable. Memories dredged up from his tormented subconscious, brought into full, technicolor reality. The things he’s done -had to do- will forever be a part of him; he’s scarred on the deepest level. He can’t count the number of times he’s woken himself up crying, sobbing, screaming Kris’ name (of all the ways Adam’s imagined it, this was never one of them). Tonight is no different.

They’re chasing him down the endless maze of corridors; all those poor souls he’s had to ensure were broken beyond repair, beyond being a person. “Why?” They keep calling after him, a chorus of ghosts pleading inside empty shells.

“I’m sorry!” He can never find the breath or the sound to get the words out to them. Adam shouts, finally freeing his trapped voice, but it’s never in time. He apologizes to a dark, silent room. Gasping for air, Adam tries to come down from the heights of his panic, wiping the tears and sweat from his face, each exhale a regret.

“Why’d you do it, Adam?” Kris. Kris is standing in his room, regulation jammies baggy on his thinning frame. Adam can’t breathe. “Why, Adam?” Except Kris isn’t… Kris isn’t available right now, in a number of ways, and isn’t this perfect- Adam is now hallucinating.

“For- for you, Kris. I did everything for you.”

He has no idea why he’s talking back to not-Kristopher.

“Why?” It’s that same freaking question, and Adam’s just about sick of this whole thing.

“Because I love you.” It feels good to say out loud, even if it is to himself.

“Why?” Oh, come on.

“You know why- you’re in my head!”

“I’m in my head.”

Seriously? Riddles? That’s what Adam’s brain has been reduced to?

“I’m in my head,” not-Kris repeats.

“Yes, I heard you the first time. You’re in your head, and in my head, everybody’s in my head, it’s like freaking Mardi Gras in here! Or All Souls Day in the heart of Mexico. What do you want from me?” Because he hasn’t slept in a very long time, and he’s starting to feel truly schizophrenic, and now he’s apparently seeing astral projections of his amnesiac best friend, and, really, there is only so much one person can handle.

“Who am I?” Not-Kris asks in Eleven’s voice.

“What?”

“Who am I?”

Fine, he’ll play along if it’ll get him back to pretending to sleep sooner. “You’re Kris Allen.”

“Yes.” -Okay, honestly now, what?- After a pause, “I am Kris Allen. I am in my head.”

Which is when it finally clicks for Adam. Kris is in his own head. Even after everything they’ve put him and his brain through, deep down, Kris is still inside. Which means…

“Oh, god,” Adam chokes out.

One by one, the faces he can’t forget appear beside not-Kris, silent for the first time.

“All of you…”

Because, you see, that’s the thing about the human mind, about identity and self and the undeniable miracle that is everything that makes up a person- you can drug it, electrocute it, confuse and twist and strip it, you can try to wash it clean, all shiny and new. You can put it through just about anything non-fatal (although, even then…) to mold it into something of your design. The thing is, you didn’t get there first. There’s a reason they call it an ‘indomitable spirit.’ There will always be free will; there will always be that unreachable part that makes a person who they are, and, ultimately, no amount of smothering or cutting or searing will ever exorcise it. We remain. In the end, we remain.

A person can be ruined- turned mad or into a human pudding pop- that’s been made abundantly clear throughout history. But that doesn’t mean that who they are ever gets truly erased.

And every single one of those people Grey sent on was still in there. Ignorance doesn’t equal bliss; just because they didn’t know what was happening, or remember anything other than the present, doesn’t mean they weren’t screaming inside, dying without ever gaining the reward of death. Adam did that to them. Willing or not, he was complicit, and that’s just as bad, maybe worse. Definitely worse.

Adam has nightmares; horrible, heartbreaking, vomit-inducing terrors that haunt him at his most vulnerable. Tonight is no different.

~*~*~*~

The door closes, a tiny light illuminating the equally tiny cement room. Adam leans against the cool stone, sighing long and deep.

“Tough day?” Eleven asks softly from his cot. Adam just nods, pinching between his eyes. “You… wanna talk about it?” His voice sounds like he doubts the answer will be in the affirmative. He’s right.

“Not even a little,” Adam replies after shaking his head and a long silence.

Except, Eleven has had nothing but epochs of time here alone, and he has some things to say.

Apprehensive at first, Eleven starts opening his mouth, then stops, fidgets, and repeats the process until Adam finally asks, “What?”

“You’ve had a long day, and this is kind of a big deal, so maybe we’ll wait until a more appropriate time.”

Adam quirks amused eyebrows at Eleven’s rush of words. “Does it have to do with the trial, Beyard, or this god-forsaken place?”

After a moment’s consideration, “No.”

“Then I am all ears, honey.”

Eleven rights himself on the bed, trying to find a position that is both comfortable, but appropriate for the subject matter he’s about to introduce. “Okay, well, as you know, I have a limited amount of memories to recall, and literally nothing but time to think, so I’ve been going over things a lot. See, here’s the thing, I think I’ve-- well, not so much figured something out, but these ideas have been spinning around in my head, and it’s possible I’m just going insane, cuz I hear that’s common around here, and crazy is catchy, but, anyway--”

“Lots of words, saying very little,” Adam cuts in. Sometimes Kris can get on these never ending rambles.

“Are we friends?”

It’s sort of abrupt, and left hanging out there for a response.

“Y-yeah. Yes, of course.”

After trying- and failing- to not show the happy thrill the affirmation gave him, “And, as my friend, you’re honor-bound to tell me the truth.”

Adam isn’t really sure about all that, but doesn’t have a chance to come up with a rebuttal.

“Who am I?”

Adam freezes. Like, wind has been sucked out of the room, Han Solo in Carbonite, deer in oncoming train lights freezes. Everything from his conscious and subconscious swirls together around his brain, behind his eyes, and he’s momentarily blind.

Eleven decides to pity the poor guy who is clearly having some serious trouble verbalizing, several stuttered attempts and fractured words being the extent of his communication.

“Alright, let’s maybe start with something a little easier, since you look about ready to burst a blood vessel.” The pause is… honestly, it’s got a cold grip around Adam’s neck. “Am I your friend?”

“We just covered this--”

“No, I mean, am I- am I the friend you’ve been searching for? The reason you’re here? Is- was- is that me?”

Oh. Well, that’s- that’s really not any better, and Adam can’t decide if this new development is extremely helpful and a cause for the first genuine feeling of joy he’s felt since… jeez, since That Day, or if the house of trip-wired cards made of C-4 is about to come down in all its glory with him inescapably inside.

“Yes.” It’s quiet, sincere, and a little pained.

It’s a shock to have his wild theory confirmed, but somehow not a surprise. “You did all of this, just to get me out?” If he sounds confused by this, it’s because he is. “Why?”

Adam is transported back to his dream two nights ago, where a vision of Kris asked the exact same thing, and the scene has played so many times in his head, the reply is as automatic as it is true, “Because I love you.” And then the present comes back to him, and Adam’s stumbling, “Him. I- I l-- I was--”

“Um, aren’t I him?”

“No!” It’s just a reaction; he didn’t mean to say it like that, sharp and over-loud for the situation. “No, I mean. You are Eleven, just like I am Brandt. It’s better to keep all that separate for now.” But he can’t meet Kr- El- the other man’s eyes.

“Right,” comes whispering back, and it’s sad. Disappointed?

Adam tries to backtrack again, but, “I- no, I understand, I really do. I’m-- I may have the body of your friend, but I’m not the same,” Eleven taps the side of his head to indicate their difference. “That’s got to be hard for you; I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize! Oh, my god, you are so much the same; that’s what’s hard. Little things you’ll say or do and I forget, just for that second. You weren’t supposed to retain so much of yourself. That’s the whole point of the Rasa process- to erase you. You always were a stubborn SOB.”

“Don’tchu talk about my Momma that way.” And that is absolutely Kris right there. Adam laughs, blinking back the well forming behind his eyes.

When the other man looks concerned, Adam smiles, “Laughin’ through tears is my favorite emotion.”

A tilt of the head and studious eyes, “You’re totally quoting something, aren’t you?”

“You remember?”

Eleven hates both of his selves for having to put out the light of hope in those distractingly pretty eyes.

“Sorry. You just had that look on your face. It’s something you do, and then you look at me to see if there’s any recognition. I hate disappointing you,” he admits.

Adam slides back down next to Kris-Eleven-whomever, and the smaller of them envies his grace, “Baby, you never disappoint me. Not ever. Sure, I want you to remember things; of course I do. But even if you never get your memories back, you’re still going to be who you are, that much is obvious.”

Making sure he has the other man’s full attention via eye contact, “Even when they tried to make you nothing, you never gave in, you never let go. You are who I remember, even if you don’t. Memories can come back, or be rebuilt, but they have no bearing on whether or not you are the person I’ve been proud to call my best friend for the last two years.”

Eleven wants to reply, he really does, but all his brain is giving him is variations of ‘want to kiss him’ and that’s not very helpful. Burying his face in his guard’s shoulder seems to be the only way he can keep his lips in check, and maybe express a small amount of the emotion he’s feeling.

A few minutes later, Adam remembers something vital. “They’re going to call you into their court as, heh, ‘evidence.’ I’m going to need to prepare you for what’s going to happen.”

Without hesitation, “I’m ready, whatever you need.”

Swallowing down the thick knot that Kris’ unconditional trust and cooperation put in Adam’s throat, he fills his friend in on the plan.

~*~*~*~

That night, Adam writes a coded letter to his old teacher using their previously decided upon cipher. The note goes out with the morning mail.

Master Kiru,

I hope that everything is satisfactory; your health above everything else, remember? I expected… a course somehow above the life I’m living, now. Perhaps I over-anticipated a little, but I hardly can be expressly… dissatisfied. As your loyal adherent, lift my inner self’s spirits, please. A darkness goads at often… ignored …parts of myself.

I trust you above all others on this earth to know the answers which I seek- which I need, Master. Please. Thank you in advance, for I know you will not fail me.

~Yours, sincerely.

It says simply: He’s here. Call police. All is a go. The rest of the letter is meant to confuse anyone looking for secret messages, and keep with the style of writing used. Unsure of how to sign it, he leaves the salutation as it is.

{Chapter 8}

Here’s what’s supposed to happen:

Eleven is to be given a reduced dose, to keep him lucid enough to walk on his own, and recognize faces during the trial. He’ll be brought in with a blackout mask over his head, and placed before a lineup of five or six Elitists. Several small hand lights and a night vision recorder will be implemented so as to no skew the results due to the over-sensitization of Eleven’s eyes. As he’s turned to face each one, his reactions are monitored, and because the Tabbies are chemically altered to be unable to lie either in word or physical response, when he comes to Beyard, the remembered trauma will cause him to be an evidentiary witness.

Basically, they’ll kill his poker face (not that he had much of one to begin with), and wait for him to freak out when he sees his attacker.

Then the hood will be put back on, and Eleven will be returned to the compound for continued ‘treatment’ and eventual reconditioning, followed by Imprinting, purchase, ‘detailing’- where specifications as to behavior are tailor made for whatever his new ‘assignment’ will be-, and Shipping. And, yes, something that pretty isn’t going to be sent off to be a dog walker or jailbird, unless his new owner has some sort of kink.

Here’s what actually happens:

Eleven is given enough of a dose to play his role convincingly, though it wouldn’t take much for him to flinch away from Beyard even if he were stone cold sober.

Adam has explained everything, answered every question, considered every angle, and both men are ready for this day to just start, already.

Gathering his folders and documents, Adam double checks that he hasn’t left anything out, then snaps shut his Samsonite briefcase and heads for the loading bay where they’re putting Eleven in the back of a town car. It’s all very stealth or something.

En route the driver gets an update about a traffic jam due to an accident, and is forced to take a detour. This new way sends them straight into an ambush by some of Master Kiru’s still-loyal ‘ex-workmates’. Masked, heavily armed, and clearly not messing around, they shoot out the car’s left front and right rear tires. No acting is required when it comes to Adam or Eleven’s reactions during the car’s swerving death spiral into a broken light post.

The Empirist in the front passenger seat dies on impact, becoming a grotesque half man- or, really, parts-of-man- half mangled metal exhibit. Dark modern art telling; a testament to everything wrong with the human race: witnessing the loss of humanity.

The driver is shouted and shoved back into consciousness by the gang, being drug out of what used to be a fairly nice Le Sabre, gagged, blindfolded, hands zip-tied, yanked along carelessly toward an (oddly conveniently placed) abandoned warehouse.

With only his ears, the driver is able to discern that Adam and the Tabby are being given the same treatment. Gagged, yes, for the muffled sound of struggling, and loosely tied, with a hood they can see through covering both of their heads, and led along with a parody of the unpleasant treatment the other man is receiving, just in case surveillance footage finds its way out.

The men bark orders in Japanese, impatient with the noncompliance. The hoods are removed after a brief, noisy scuffle culminating in two gunshots and -pardon the pun- dead silence. The thump and subsequent dragging, and then the sounds of two men carrying a body into another room is enough to make anyone believe they’ve just witnessed a murder.

In actuality, the men take Eleven to a darker room than the other two- but still within sight of Adam, because, yeah, it’s going to be a long while before Adam lets Kris out of his range of vision- unbind him, and give him water and a small sandwich, easing his body back into normal functioning.

An hour passes, the driver floating in and out of consciousness, Adam kicking him in the thigh every time he starts to drift off. If he kicks a little harder than may be strictly necessary, well, no one says anything, and neither Adam nor Grey feel any guilt over their part in what’s happening, even as the driver dazedly nods his thanks in Grey’s direction.

Sounds of foreign-tongued arguing get louder as four of Kiru’s men come to stand in front of their prisoners.

Game on, Adam thinks.

“Which one in charge?” They’re asked demandingly in broken English.

Both men stay silent, and after a moment Adam hears the driver scream in pain.

Whipping his head in the direction of the sound, he notices one of the four had sneaked around behind the driver and sliced behind his left ear. Quick, efficient, and the only lasting damage will be an easily hidden scar, but enough to prove a point. Adam frowns anyway, but then sucks it up and carries on with the plan.

Making noises and movements, Adam indicates that he wants to speak.

Once the gag is removed, “I am. It’s me. He’s just a driver, he doesn’t know anything.”

The driver had been studiously avoiding looking at the men’s faces, just in case that might help him get out of this alive, but at Adam’s (Grey’s) words, his eyes raise, shocked, over to his fellow captive. It’s true, what Brandt is saying, but the laws of self-preservation are pretty clear on the whole ‘every man for himself’ rule of conduct. Besides, Brandt’s never seemed to be out for anything except what’s best for Brandt, so this self-sacrificing spirit is quite a surprise.

“Look, he hasn’t seen you. Just put the bag back over his head, and you can deal with me.” He isn’t pleading or begging or sniveling. His voice is steady, calm, and at least appears to be confident, even commanding.

The Japanese equivalent of, “Well, in that case, we’ll just shoot him,” skitters about, and one of them point his gun at the driver, who hears the click of the hammer and starts shaking, shrinking into himself.

“No, no! Wait! Don’t do that, there’s no need for you to kill him. You can easily get away with the other guy- he was dead to the world before you guys showed up- but him, people will notice missing. You’ll be bringing on way more trouble than it’s worth.”

“And you? No one notice you missing?” The man who appears to be the leader sneers.

Adam/Grey shakes his head. “I’m already dead to the world, too. Believe me, no one is gonna miss me.” He pauses like he’s formulating a plan. “Listen, if you let him go, unharmed, then he’ll tell whoever finds him that we were in an accident, and he was the only survivor. He’ll say he took care of any… incriminating evidence- meaning myself and the other man that was with us- and that the only cleanup necessary is the car outside. If he swears to that, no one can prove otherwise, and the company will be only too happy to bury the whole incident.”

While the men seem to be considering this, Adam/Grey adds, “Plus, if you do it now, there won’t be any way he’ll somehow accidentally glean a clue as to whatever the purpose of this whole mess is.” He shrugs as casually as one can with their hands tied behind their back.

The four men glare down at their captives. The driver continues to shiver, his head down and his eyes firmly shut, and, Adam assumes if he’s religious (and probably even if he’s not), praying. There’s shuffling and murmurs, and then the driver’s world goes impossibly black.

~*~*~*~     ~*~*~*~

One month almost to the day later, Shoar places the final stamp on the official papers documenting the tragic accident that took the life of one of the company’s men. He also seals the folder that holds the unofficial record of the loss of an Empirist and one count of Stock. The driver, whose name has been withheld to protect the innocent and all that, was promoted after his full recovery and successful passing of the requisite psychology examination.

“Shame,” Shoar mutters to himself. “Good man. Pure hearted. Had a buyer in mind for that Tabby, too. Ah, well.” His thoughts of them and the whole incident end there, refocusing on the new possible acquisitions.

Marcus Beyard is censured, demoted, and threatened in no small or subtle way. He now works in the mailroom. Four years from now his life will end in his prison cell by his own hand via hanging. It is supposed he could no longer endure the treatment from his fellow criminals when the lights went out. I’d dare you to find someone to mourn him, but I wouldn’t want you to waste your time.

The Samsonite briefcase went mysteriously missing from the crash site when the unnamed driver had gone to search for it. Fortunately, a young lieutenant discovered it under the back seat (strange how the driver missed it) and it, along with its contents, was logged into evidence and placed under secure guard.

“What is all this?” The police chief asks the lieutenant who had found the briefcase.

“I don’t really know, sir. But have you read any of it?” His voice takes on an excited tone. “Some of this stuff, it reads like science fiction. Was there anything more on the thumb drive?”

The chief picks up the small device with a hint of trepidation. The information contained within is enough to effectively end the careers and possibly lives of thousands of people, including CEOs, doctors, lawyers, judges, governors, and the list, frighteningly, goes on (and up).

“How is any of this even possible?” He wonders, almost to himself.

The lieutenant doesn’t have a reply.

A few moments of silence for the crushing impact three inches of plastic and metal will have, and then, “It’s suspected that there were more people in the car, but no evidence can be found to prove it. They’re going to dredge the river, but, well, you know how often anything turns up in that corner.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and a fisherman will find something interesting in a shark’s belly one day.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I do need to know something, though.”

When the pause becomes long enough to be uncomfortable, “Yes, sir?”

The usually affable man goes into Chief mode, and the younger man straightens up unconsciously. “I need to know you’re with me on this, Lieutenant Lestrade. This here,” he holds up the thumb drive, “this is going to rain down holy Hellfire for who knows how long, and it’s going to do so all the way up to the very top. The names in here-- No joke, son, this is going to get rough, rougher than either of us- maybe anyone- has ever seen. Are you going to be able to stand with me on this, or should you take a leave of absence? This isn’t a threat, mind you, but if you want out, you’d better say so now, because there will be no turning back once this starts.”

The other man stands, already having thought all of this through, and replies with no uncertainty, “Absolutely, sir, I am with you. Justice over title, right, sir?”

“That’s right. Good man.”

The chief smiles at the man he believes will replace him when he retires. If either of them survive that long.

“Please, Adam? Ple-e-ease?”

Adam rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“Well, at least some things never change.” At Kris’ tipped head and expression, “You pull out the puppy dog eyes, and I’m sunk.”

“Dude! Don’t use that word, we’re on a boat,” Kris flails at him in alarm.

Being smuggled to the other side of the world is much less fun than one might think, but once they made their destination, the accommodations became much more agreeable. It’s a dangerous business, being dead, and both Adam and Master Kiru decided that the best way to hide is to keep moving. Plus, Adam knows Kris has always wanted to travel, see the world, and what better way to do that than from a master suite on a luxury cruise liner?

It’s a first for both of them, but the 87 day cruise from Bali to Beijing gives them plenty of time to get used to it, and to each other again. Fortunately, it seems the magic that bonded them together so quickly the first time is still active. Sometimes, Adam can almost -almost- forget, for just a moment, that neither of them has changed at all.

Once this cruise is over, they’ll take one from Beijing to Bangkok (don’t get Adam started), then from Bangkok to Mumbai, and Mumbai to Luxor, where they’ll explore Egypt like Adam’s always wanted to do. After that, it’s off to Rome, and then they will, at their own leisurely pace, travel to London.

Seeing the world has the advantage of being able to experience an area first-hand before they decide where they want to live (because, yeah, like they’re going to separate after all that).

Adam hopes that since they’re dead and all, maybe they’ll be able to find a nice pyramid tomb to inhabit. Kris says that underground and dark are on his Not A Chance list, but he’s sure they can come to some sort of compromise eventually. Maybe they’ll have a basement or cellar that Adam can decorate in a grand Egyptian Pharaoh theme. Throne and all.

Adam busies himself with something -anything- elsewhere -anywhere Kris is not- until the desire to kiss Kris senseless passes.

Kris pretends he doesn’t notice. He also pretends it doesn’t hurt every time.

They don't talk about It. That Thing. Not The Thing That Happened; that's actually the easier of the two to deal with. No, it's The Thing That Was Said that hovers just to the left of their consciousness, popping in at random intervals and making a general nuisance of Itself. It's easy to ignore, usually, but sometimes, in the hazy dark of the night, with the lulling sound of the waves and the slow, soft rocking motion that puts both men to sleep in a matter of minutes... during those sometimes, The Thing That Was Said whispers like a feather across their memories.

"...because I love you."

{Epilogue}

Ten years later:

"...you can see D.I. Lestrade there leading her away in handcuffs. For those of you just tuning in, the Prime Minister's wife has just been arrested in connection with the Rasa Group case, which started almost a decade ago. I tell you, the things I've reported- I shouldn't be so shocked by this kind of thing anymore, but... human trafficking? And the Prime Minister's wife?" The newswoman shakes her head, looking slightly shell-shocked and not a little disappointed.

Kris sits on the edge of the bed, watching the same news report on different channels for the last hour.

It still takes Adam forever to get ready, a small, non-memory feeling tells him.

Most of the things Kris 'remembers' are like that: instincts, gut feelings, muscle memory casting shadows from the past onto the sparse canvas of Kris' present mind. Big things are typically rough, vague outlines that show up out of nowhere when Kris isn't paying attention. Little details come randomly as well, but are much more vivid and feel more like actual memories breaking through.

Adam finally appears, emerging from the bathroom.

"They got another one," Kris informs him.

"Oh? Who?" Adam plops down next to Kris, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Kris just points as the story is repeated as if in response to Adam's question. After the main points are given, Kris looks up at Adam with that face that always makes Adam's heart (and lungs) flutter.

"You did that. You're why that innocent young man gets to go home."

"Mm," Adam disagrees mildly, "We did that."

"Ah, yes, it was all part of my grand design- get my butt kidnapped, literally brainwashed, and nearly sold into some sort of freaky slavery, and then leave you to do all the actual work and rescue me like a medieval damsel in distress. It's a good thing I use my diabolical mastermind abilities for good, not evil. Who knows what I could accomplish!"

"I always knew you were the brains of this operation," and Kris can't tell if Adam's totally teasing or not.

"Dude, if my brain is our power point, we are in serious trouble."

"Well, it did give me a reason to turn into a BAMF ninja, so..." Kris leans a little more into Adam's embrace, tilting his head to rest it in the curve of Adam's neck.

Softly he replies, "You are a BAMF ninja," and he sounds so much like a little boy, Adam can't stop himself from placing his lips against Kris' head (His Kris).

Both of them continue to watch the dominoes they started chain-reaction collapsing, topple from their peaks.

It's not the life either of them envisioned (well, Kris is pretty sure it's not), but the main element is there, and, really nothing else matters. The world can pass by their window, doing what it will, just as long as they are together.