Chapter Text
Welcome to Elk River the sign read, and Sebastian pulled his car over.
He sat behind the wheel, glaring up at the sign as his cigarette burned down. There wasn't anything remarkable about it – just a painted figure of an elk, antlers circling the name of the town with pine trees and a stream in the background. He could think of a dozen just like it. There probably hadn't been an elk so far south in ages but that didn't stop every small country town up and down the east coast from slapping one on their city limits.
Still, he watched it for a long time. Elk River wasn't like those other towns, and he wondered if that much was apparent somewhere in its banner. There should have been a warning carved somewhere deep in that sign, some indication that the town's population counter of 1,397 was eleven people short of what it should have been. He traced each line and brushstroke with his eyes until everything blurred together, leaving the shape of the elk a nearly indecipherable smear, like a creature in motion.
Sebastian tossed what was left of the cigarette out the window and rubbed his eyes. "Fuck," he muttered. "The fuck am I even doing out here?" Then he put the car back in gear and drove into town.
Sebastian had never been to Elk River. A few of the older detectives had, back when the killings had made news, lending their big city expertise to the terrified locals. Captain Remmington had told him once that heading into the rural villages was like going back in time. As Sebastian turned down Main Street he couldn't say he disagreed, though he had expected worse. The country houses with their wraparound porches were intact, their residents fresh and fleshy. The barns in the fields stood tall with fresh paint. There were no rotten palisades circling a compound of sagging farms, just a tall, white picket fence and cozy, family run shops.
Almost two weeks since Beacon, and Sebastian still half expected the undead to wander out from behind the general store.
They'd told him to go on leave. "Get your head on straight, because you'll never find Oda with it loose," they'd said. "Leave it to us," they'd said. But they'd read Sebastian's report. Joseph was either dead or worse, and with the feds chewing through Beacon, there were no leads and no reason to go looking. No one at KCPD was sticking their neck out for Sebastian or his partner.
So Sebastian went to the only place he could think to look. It took some cash to get directions out of the locals. By the time he made it down the overgrown dirt road leading away from town, the light pouring through the trees was a deep orange, and he'd smoked the rest of his pack. Amidst the ancient evergreens and ferns he found an old iron gate hanging from its hinges, stone on either side. He recognized it, and again he stopped, just staring for a long time before finally leaving the car and stepping through. And then he saw it.
The Victoriano Mansion. He had convinced himself that it wasn't real—just an illusion from Ruvik's mind that had chased him out of the mental hospital, haunting his sleepless nights. But it stood before him anyway, a blackened shell of its former self but still achingly identifiable. Sebastian took in the mangled grounds, the creaking stone foundation, the charred oak eaves. Even decades later the stench of the fire hung heavy in the air like the fog in a madman's nightmare. It was real, though, as close to Sebastian as anything ever had been, and it was compulsion more than rational thought that drove him back to his car in the lane.
"There's nothing in there," Sebastian told himself as he pulled his shotgun out of the trunk. He loaded it with shells and slipped four more into the pocket of his coat. "It's just an old, empty house." He made sure his revolver was loaded, an extra bullets in his other pocket, and tucked his hunting knife into the back of his belt. "Probably isn't even a clue worth finding."
Even so, he kept the shotgun held tight as he ventured inside.
The layout was a skeleton of what he remembered. The broad, curved staircases that bordered the foyer were still standing, and the evening breeze whistled through gaps where Sebastian remembered windows should have been, but all the furnishings--the curtains, the paintings, the mirrors and fixtures--had been reduced to ash. A family's history crumbled with every breath through its foundations. Sebastian felt the loss of it all like a hard stone in his gut. He should have been beyond sympathy—he was beyond sympathy for the family of obsessive recluses that had perished within and without the mansion's walls—but still, the ruin around him made him ache. It was the smell, he told himself as he pushed a shell of an ornament off the west staircase's post. It disintegrated against the floor with a puff of black. The smell of too many things burned could get its teeth in a man, and he already knew it so well. It made him sentimental when he ought to have been numb.
A pair of doors stood ahead of him, partially opened in a hint of an invitation. Sebastian crept forward, barely breathing, fully expecting Hell on the other side. With shotgun raised he pushed the door open using his foot.
Hell might have very well waited beyond, but it wasn't the gruesome blood lakes from Beacon. There were no gauntlets of dead-eyed mannequins or piano wire traps. There was only a room, scorched empty by the fire, where a young man had once sat at the table his father made for him, playing doctor.
"It's real," Sebastian murmured. He could almost see a ghost moving about the room, reenacting old horrors. When he moved back into the mansion's entrance hall, the vestiges of the dining room lay to his right, a parlor to his left. "What he showed me was real. This place really did exist."
What it all meant, Sebastian wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure if it mattered. But within all the insanity and deception Ruvik had cast before him that afternoon in Beacon, there was also truth. The community of Elk River may have hidden the facts well, but once upon a time, in a hundred year old mansion on the outskirts of a rural village, an act of cruelty had created a monster.
"Were you trying to show me the truth, Ruvik?" Sebastian asked aloud. "Of what really happened to you?"
He didn't expect an answer, but then he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, and a man said, "Yes, I was."
Sebastian whipped around, but before he could determine where the voice had come from, his ears erupted with a shrill pitch he knew all too well. Like an ice pick through his skull the noise shattered any thoughts or focus he might have been able to pull together, and he could only grab at his head, scanning the dark corners of the room with watery eyes. When a flash of white crossed his bleary vision he didn't wait to make it out before lifting the shotgun.
Five meaty fingers closed around his wrist and wrenched it back. Metal creaked close to his ear, followed by a grotesque squelch of wet muscle. There wasn't time to react; by the time Sebastian had his hand up the tentacles were around his neck, yanking him up on the tips of his toes and closing his airways. A broad arm hooked under his armpit to prevent him from reaching for the knife in his belt, and he was trapped against the creature's heaving chest.
"Fuck." Sebastian pulled at the slimy tendrils, but they were as unwavering as the white-knuckled grip on his wrist, and he had to fight hard just to breathe. He waited for his flesh to split, for the safe to snap shut with his mangled head inside, but then the beast stopped. Its attention was steady but it didn't try to break his arm or tear his head free, it just stopped, patient and waiting.
All around them, the mansion changed. The blackened ash melted away, giving birth to polished wooden moldings, flickering candles, lush rugs and brass lights. The Victoriano's long-lived estate came to dreary life, complete with its master: a man made of scars in a white robe, flashing into existence before Sebastian's eyes.
Sebastian stopped struggling, but his heart was fast and heavy in his aching throat. "Ruvik."
The corner of Ruvik's lip twitched with bitter amusement. "Seb," he greeted. "How good of you to come."
Sebastian's gaze swung left and right, half expecting a charred she-devil or a slew of barbed undead to be waiting in the wings, but it was only him, and Ruvik, and the safe-headed beast behind him. "You were expecting me."
"I knew that you would search for me," said Ruvik, moving slowly closer. "And also that you would only have one place to look. So I've been here, waiting for you." He stopped, and the tentacles around Sebastian's throat loosened just enough that they could meet each other eye to eye. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me."
Sebastian winced against the unearthly whine in his ears. He knew he probably wouldn't get a straight answer, but he asked anyway. "How is this possible? That last time I saw you, you were a brain on the floor. I killed you."
"Do I look dead to you?" Ruvik retorted. "Do you really think you know anything about death? How to quantify it, how to fight it?" He wound the front of Sebastian's vest in his fist. "You think the boundary between life and death is so firmly drawn that I couldn't surpass it if I wished to?"
"You're not real," insisted Sebastian, yanking at the beast holding him captive. "The Feds tore the STEM apart—your brain was on the floor—you can't be real!"
Ruvik snatched the hunting knife out of Sebastian's belt. A flick of his wrist split Sebastian's vest open, and then he was pressing the blade hard against his ribs. Sebastian tried to fight back. He grabbed at Ruvik's hood, trying to get to his throat, but then the slimy ligatures around his neck drew in even tighter. He couldn't breathe, and panic drove his tingling fingers back to his own throat, struggling to relieve the pressure against his windpipe.
"I could put this knife through your heart right now," said Ruvik, his voice still shockingly clear despite the room beginning to spin around them. "Let you feel every drop of blood pour from your body. Let your skin turn black and rot away." He dug the tip into Sebastian's skin, until it drew blood. "But it wouldn't matter. You see, I've already cast your mind down my well. You are as much a part of me as any of the others." He let out a quiet huff. "Maybe even more so. Your being here proves that. If I were to recreate you in the world to come...you wouldn't even be able to tell the difference."
Sebastian managed to dig his fingers into the tentacles enough to allow himself a full breath. It put spots in his eyes. "You're insane," he gasped. "And I'm going to kill you again."
"You're going to try," Ruvik corrected, tapping the knife against Sebastian's chin. "But you'll see soon enough, Sebastian. Death doesn't apply to me anymore. Or you." He licked his lips in anticipation. "Let me prove it to you."
He angled the knife, and The Keeper's tendrils parted just enough to allow him clear access to the hollow of Sebastian's throat. Desperate, Sebastian twisted and writhed, trying to get his knees up in an attempt to throw Ruvik away. Before he could mount a proper defense, Ruvik leaned back. He turned his head to the side and his eyes went dull.
"You didn't come alone," he said distantly. "Who did you bring?"
Sebastian relaxed in his struggles, and thankfully, so did The Keeper at his back. "What?"
"You brought someone with you. Was it...." Ruvik's expression hardened. "No. No, you were careless. Mobius followed you here. They're here to kill you." His gaze flickered to Sebastian and then away again. "As if I would allow that."
He narrowed his eyes on a shadow somewhere across the room. Sebastian didn't know what he was up to and didn't care—all that mattered was that Ruvik was distracted. He lunged at the knife, clawing it from Ruvik's hand, and then put all his strength into stabbing it behind him, into the unholy face of his captor.
The Keeper reared back, thick blood spewing nauseatingly against the back of Sebastian's neck. A jerk of the knife severed the largest of the tentacles and Sebastian was free. Ruvik was uncharacteristically slow to react, and in moments Sebastian had him by the collar, swinging the knife toward his eye socket.
Kill him, he thought in a frenzy. Kill him, fucking kill him!
The noise hit him like a strike from a mallet. Sebastian tried to stay on course but his body crumpled beneath the weight of reality screaming all around him. He gripped his ears and couldn't help but cry out, his voice lost in the shrill Hell ringing throughout the mansion. No, no, no, you have to kill him! His knees shook as he righted himself, ready to try again, but then he realized: Ruvik was crying out, too.
It didn't make any sense. Ruvik was hunched before him, gripping the sides of his head, his teeth gnashing. He wavered and groaned as if caught in the same terrible symphony of his victim. And then he was gone. In the blink of an eye, he vanished—as did his faithful servant, the living mansion, even the knife in Sebastian's hand. Sebastian snapped as if waking from a nightmare and found himself standing alone in the Victoriano's burned out shell, the last light of sunset creeping through the stones.
"Son of a..." Sebastian turned in place. His vest was intact and unbloodied, and when he touched his throat he found no bruises. His knife was still in his belt. All that remained of the encounter was a fleeting sensation of warmth against his face, like skin against skin. He was half convinced he had hallucinated it all until he heard a soft, choking sound coming from the floor.
There was a body—a young man lying crookedly on the scorched wood, twitching and gurgling. His pale eyes were rolled back and his paler hair was streaked with ash as he quivered in the grip of what appeared to Sebastian as some kind of seizure. Even so, he snatched up his shotgun and leveled it at the helpless, familiar figure.
That's not Leslie Withers. He remembered the weakness in his knees as he stood at Beacon's entrance, watching a head of white hair disappear amongst the flow of Krimson's officers. He remembered the noise splitting his skull open. You fucked up, and that's not Leslie—that's him. Kill him. He curled his finger around the trigger. Kill him for real this time.
Gradually, the young man's shaking stopped. His limbs were still fiercely locked in rigid angles, his eyes wide and unseeing, but as bile dribbled from his parted lips he at last fell still. Sebastian didn't move, either. He swayed with every percussion from his heart until he felt dizzy, until nearly a full minute of silence had passed. Only then did he lower the gun.
"Leslie...?" Sebastian knew better, he did, but for once in his life optimism got the better of him. Keeping one hand on the gun he crouched down in front of the crumpled figure and took his shoulder, tugging him onto his side that he wouldn't choke. Leslie didn't react, but his pulse was steady beneath Sebastian's seeking fingertips. Faint, but steady. Sebastian let out a breath.
This isn't Leslie, he told himself again. Leslie was wearing dark jeans and an oversized hoodie over an undershirt, so different from the hospital sweats Sebastian had last seen him in. And even if it is, he's something else now. But as Sebastian watched him struggle after each breath, he couldn't fathom putting a bullet in him. He hadn't come to the house for that; he wasn't Juli Kidman.
"What are you doing here?" Sebastian murmured, leaning back on his heels. He raked his hand through his hair. "Fuck. Now what do I do with you?" He was trying to remember if he had a pair of handcuffs in his trunk when he heard the mansion's front gate creak.
Sebastian stood. His instincts as a cop had always been strong, and in the wake of Beacon he understood better than ever the importance of paranoia. He moved quickly but quietly to the front door and peered outside. Ruvik had been right; there were men slipping onto the grounds, dressed in dark combat gear with rifles in hand.
They're here for him. Sebastian hurried back to the fallen Leslie. They know what he is—they must be the ones behind all this. He dragged Leslie's arm over his shoulders and grabbed him around the waist, hauling him upright. As much as he hated going into Ruvik's old workroom, it was the nearest shelter, and the overturned table against the far wall provided a small alcove for him to hide Leslie inside. You can't let them have him, he thought as he covered Leslie with his coat. They don't know what he's capable of. And if they do, but don't kill him...
Sebastian left the room and drew the door shut behind him. By then he could hear the men climbing the steps to the entrance, and their voices drifted in through the shattered windows.
"We're approaching now," said one. It was too late to find proper cover, so Sebastian hunkered down beneath the western staircase. "Standby."
Two entered first. Sebastian knew better than to stick his head out for a peek, but he could hear their boots scuffing through the house's charred remains. They paused in the entranceway, likely scanning the layout, and Sebastian's heart thudded with the realization, They don't know this house like you do.
Because Sebastian well remembered running up and down the halls, ghosts and monsters on his heels. He knew the rooms, the sightlines, the connecting doorways. Memorizing its twists and secrets had saved his life.
"Two take the west doorway," the apparent leader passed instructions to his men. “Carson and I will take the east. You two, the middle. We'll regroup here for the upstairs. Remember: aim low. We'll take him alive if we can, but if he puts up too much of a fight, drop him. We have to neutralize him here, whatever it takes."
The men grunted their understanding. Before they could fan out, Sebastian backed away. Using the staircase to block their view of him, he crept into the dining room and pressed his back to the wall. There was a hole to his left where a window had once been; he could have slipped out, doubled back to his car or theirs, but there didn't seem to be much point in escaping. Not if they found Ruvik.
Six, Sebastian thought as he pulled his hunting knife. You fought off worse, at Beacon. Two of them were coming closer; he crouched down, bracing himself. At least these won't bite.
The first man stood in the doorway, leading the way with the muzzle of his automatic. He seemed to know what he was doing, but Sebastian stayed low, stayed perfectly still. He stepped inside. Sebastian waited only long enough to mark his target: the gap in the body armor at his neck.
It's their fault, he told himself, a sudden, eager tremor in his hands. It's because of them that Joseph is dead.
The human skull was a lot tougher when it wasn't rotten from the inside and half split with wire and rebar. The impact of the knife reverberated down Sebastian's arm and made his elbow ache. But his aim was damn good; he caught the man below the ear, stabbing behind his jaw and into his brain stem. It was more than enough to kill but he twisted the knife anyway. The second man was just behind, and he swung the muzzle of his rifle around, but he couldn't maneuver past his doomed comrade in time. Sebastian was already so close he didn't have to aim; he just braced the stock of the shotgun to his shoulder and pulled the trigger.
Most of the buckshot caught in the intruder's body armor, but what slipped past tore his throat open. He was still on his way to the ground as Sebastian wrenched his knife free and shoved past him.
Don't go into the dining room. The rest of the men turned, but they were expecting Sebastian to retreat deeper; instead he darted behind the staircase again, circling around in their confusion. It dead-ends at the kitchen, but the upstairs has more rooms, more halls and alcoves, it's all connected—you can out maneuver them up there. He rounded the crumbling post, and having no time to contemplate if the stairs would hold him, he bolted up them.
Three of the men were just below him, having hurried to investigate their fallen comrades. Only the leader was in any position to spot Sebastian, and his shouts were blurred out by his gunfire shredding the stairway rails. Luckily, the angle was bad, and the wood more solid than it looked. Sebastian reached the landing unscathed and put his shoulder to the nearest door.
He burst through into a hall. Library on the left, he recalled as he sheathed his knife. The bedrooms. No furniture to hide under this time. He ducked into the far bedroom and pressed himself again to the wall. The library connects straight to here.
The men were in the hall, but they were cautious. None spoke but there was conviction in their slow advance and Sebastian suspected they were using hand signals. At any moment one of them could find the passage through the library straight to him. But he waited, breath held and ears straining, listening for the hiss of their breath against their face masks. They were only men, after all. They weren't much smarter than monsters.
Sebastian unclipped the flask from his belt. He was tempted to empty it. You've earned yourself some whiskey when this is done, that's for sure he thought with an almost manic detachment. He heaved the bottle through the doorway on his left, into the next room.
The men paused, and though it wasn't much of a distraction, Sebastian made the most of it. He swung out from his hiding place and into the hall, unloading his shotgun into the nearest man. He heard a scream but didn't wait to confirm a kill—fired three shells as he backed away, driving the men into cover, and then bolted for the end of the hall.
Only two shells left. Sebastian threw himself through the next door and into another hall. But if you circle around, maybe take out one more and get downstairs, you can take the guns they dropped and—
Sebastian looked to his left and stopped. There was a door in the corner, shut tight and not nearly as rotted out as the rest of the house. His stomach dropped with the memory of the floor rocking beneath his feet, of the doors flying open to reveal ravaging metal. The shrill screech of machinery filled his ears and he waited for the world to tilt. He knew the trap was in there.
Is this even real? Sweat trickled into Sebastian's collar as he stared, helplessly captivated, at the door. Is this Ruvik? What is really behind that door?
Gunfire screamed past Sebastian, jarring him back into action. The hall was long but he didn't have any choice other than to make a run for it. The connecting hall had plenty of turns—he'd already taught his enemies caution and they wouldn't rush around corners anymore. He could get ahead of them—he could win.
The corridors were just as he remembered, and he moved swiftly through them, though occasionally cringing when the old wood beneath his feet creaked and threatened to give way. By the time he reached the study he could still hear his pursuers rounding the corners, just as he'd expected. You can get to the extra shells in your coat, he thought as he reached the far door. Or get one of the rifles. That ought to even—
The door flew open, and Sebastian was close enough that it caught him full in the face. Years of decay softened what the blow could have been, but it still put splinters in Sebastian's lips and blood filled his nose. The odor of copper and ash was overwhelming. Head spinning, he stumbled back, and when he tried to raise the shotgun someone jabbed a rifle butt directly into his solar plexus.
He lost all his air. His diaphragm seized and before he could think he was on his knees, doubling over. The asshole must have spent years perfecting that handy technique. Sebastian tried to keep a hold onto his gun but it was kicked out of his hand, and he couldn't breathe or even see well enough to prevent it.
"Sebastian Castellanos," said a man's voice from somewhere above him. "It's over. You need to—"
Sebastian didn't have his wits pasted together yet, but he threw himself forward anyway. A rifle went off too close to his ear and left him dizzy, but he didn't feel a bullet, so he didn't relent; he devoted all his strength and weight into heaving the armored man off his feet. They landed in a tangle of hands outstretched for the gun. When their scrambling only pushed it further away, Sebastian abandoned the effort in favor of getting his hands around the man's throat. "What is Mobius?" he hollered as he shoved the man beneath him, putting the strength of his shoulders into his choking fingers. "Why are you trying to kill me? Why did you take my partner!"
The man sputtered and squirmed, but he was no match for Sebastian and his leverage. His eyes bulged beneath his faceguard. Instead of trying to pry the hands from his neck, he suddenly lashed out, grabbing for the revolver in Sebastian's shoulder holster. It made Sebastian angry more than anything. Even when the man squeezed the trigger, and Sebastian felt the heat of the shot through the leather, righteous fury guided his hand to his hunting knife, and his hunting knife into an eye socket.
Destroy the brain, he thought wildly as he jabbed the knife all the way to the hilt, or he might get back up.
The rest were coming. Sebastian abandoned the knife and instead freed his revolver as he made a dash for the stairs. There were only three left, maybe two, if his shotgun had caught one of them in the hall. He could still win. He all but flew down the eastern staircase, heart skipping on every stair that threatened to give way beneath him. When he hit the floor he heard shouts above, and then gunfire ripping through the rails and ornaments. He grabbed the stair post with his left hand and swung about, trying to propel himself out of their line of sight, but there were bullets everywhere, cutting through the wood like icicles through snow. They were everywhere, stabbing into his thigh, slicing through his holster, tearing flesh from his throat. Agony erupted up and down his entire left side, and again when his back hit the floor.
Oh, Sebastian thought, breathless and burning. This is real after all.
Everything became blood: blood slicking his teeth, blood pouring from his leg, blood pumping against his hand when he reached for his neck. Even his muscles felt liquefied for all the good they were doing in his limbs, and he couldn't draw his legs in let alone hope to stand on them. All he could do was shudder, smothering the wound in his already copper-clogged throat, until the men were over him.
"Shit," said one. "I shot his fucking throat out."
"He just killed half our team—I think that counts as enough of a fight."
A boot pinned Sebastian's wrist the floor. It wasn't until he felt the revolver grip digging into the meat of his thumb that he even remembered he still had a weapon. "HQ, this is Alpha," the man who owned the boot was saying. "Target is down. He killed three of our men, including the captain. He didn't leave us any choice."
Sebastian could barely see more than a smear of shadows above him, but he strained his eyes anyway, trying to make out anything of his killers. There were three men left, two with their rifles trained at his head. The third was standing back, arm held tight to his chest and blood on his uniform. Three red stars decorated his chest.
A radio crackled. "Is he dead?" said a woman's voice.
"Getting there. He won't be talking, at least."
"...That's fine. Bring the body when you're finished."
"Yes, ma'am."
The radio clicked off. Sebastian squirmed, but there was nowhere to go and he had no strength to take him there. He waited for his life to flash before his eyes or something, dreading it, but the bark of the gun came too soon to be his death knell. One moment the man standing above him was reaching for his trigger, and the next his brain was spilling out the back of his shattered helmet.
He crumpled. The other men whipped around, and another was felled just as easily, the vertebrae in his neck splitting beneath a bullet. The third man got his rifle up fast for being injured. Without waiting to see if a third shot would take him, too, Sebastian lifted his revolver and fired. He pumped six shots into the bastard and got lucky when two caught him in the armpit, burrowing past the body armor and into his lungs. With a sickening gurgle, he dropped.
Sebastian let his arm fall, and the revolver skidded out of his grip. They were dead. It didn't change that he was dead, too, but he took some morbid pleasure in dragging a few shadowy goons with him. But then he heard footsteps approaching, and his already tingling limbs went cold. Leslie was standing over him, an old hunting rifle in his hands.
That's not Leslie. If Sebastian had harbored any secret hope that a trace of the poor young soul still resided in his own body, it was scattered at the sight of Ruvik's emotionless glare fixed on him. Even without the scars and protruding brain he barely looked human. Sebastian groaned; if he was lucky, Ruvik would think him not worth the effort and put him down quick. And it looked for a moment that that might be the case, but then something in Ruvik's unimpassioned face twisted, and he slung the rifle over his shoulder. He crouched down at Sebastian's left and reached for the hand on his neck.
"Let me see," he said.
Sebastian jerked back, and when Ruvik reached for him again he tried to fend him off with his other hand. Ruvik snorted with irritation, even though it didn't take much effort to brush off Sebastian's feeble attempts at resistance. "If your jugular is severed, you're already dead," Ruvik said sharply. "Let me see."
Sebastian shuddered; he knew it wasn't beyond Ruvik to torture a man who was already dying. But he peeled his hand back anyway, and gagged at the sensation of fresh blood escaping the wound. Ruvik leaned over him, hissing softly through his teeth as he prodded at the torn flesh. "Hmm, you're lucky. Five stitches ought to do it." He pressed Sebastian's hand back. "Keep that pressure tight."
"What...?" When Ruvik leaned back Sebastian tried to keep an eye on him, but he couldn't lift his head. He felt Ruvik unbuckling his belt. "What are you doing?"
"Saving your life," said Ruvik. He slipped the belt around Sebastian's thigh and drew it tight; pain skittered up and down Sebastian's frayed nerves and he cried out. Once satisfied with the tourniquet Ruvik moved to Sebastian's other side. "Bend your right knee."
Sebastian grimaced as he tried to comply, but it took Ruvik's help to draw his leg in. "You," he gasped, grabbing at Ruvik's shoulder. "You were...going to kill me."
"Don't be an idiot." Ruvik reached across his chest to grip his gun holster; though torn by the rifle fire, it held tight enough when Ruvik pulled. "Roll toward me," he instructed, and once Sebastian was semi-upright Ruvik drew his arm over his shoulders. "Now push with your right leg—push, push against me. Get up."
Sebastian clenched his jaws, shivering beneath his sweat as he forced himself up. He only made it half-way before a wave of pain and nausea threatened to drop him, and when Ruvik couldn't bear his weight, they stumbled awkwardly into the wall. With a muttered curse Ruvik wrapped his arm around Sebastian's waist and pulled, until they were stable and upright enough to move.
"I can't carry you," Ruvik warned as he half-dragged Sebastian toward the eastern door. "If you pass out, I'm leaving you."
"Fuck you." Sebastian tested his left leg, just to see if it would hold any weight, but the burning that flared up and down his side was so great he almost collapsed again. "Fuck," he growled. Ruvik had to lean them against the wall another moment before he was able to continue. "Fuck, what the fuck did they want with me?"
"What Mobius always wants," Ruvik muttered. "Now stop talking."
He led them through the parlor and into the next hall. By then Sebastian was panting and light-headed, blood soaking his shirt and pant leg, and he couldn't be sure if he made the entire trip to the music room fully conscious. He snapped awake quickly enough when he heard the soft metallic whirr of a safe dial. Ruvik was opening the secret room in the corner. Sebastian cringed, expecting a burst of blood and muscle, but the passageway opened like any other door, into a shadow-cloaked hallway.
"When the men don't report back, Mobius will send more," Ruvik said as he pulled Sebastian to the end of the hall. Even though the passage didn't seem to have been badly affected by the fire, everything was still black in the lightless workroom at the hall's end. "And they'll keep sending more as long as they think you survived. We'll have to be quick."
He guided Sebastian onto a stool and urged him to lean back against the work bench. It wasn't much of a reprieve but Sebastian sagged against the rotting wood as if it were silk sheets. The strength went out of him, and cold crept in through his fingers and toes, wringing the blood from his wounds. Even when Ruvik lit a small kerosene lamp on the table, his vision was too weak to make out any detail in the room, and he didn't try. He tried to concentrate on each breath, each pulse, not certain if there was any point left in fighting. It would have been easier to let go, he thought, listening to Ruvik rustle about the room. He should have left Ruvik to the fuckers that had created him. They weren't his problem anymore.
But then Ruvik started to pull his hand away from his neck again. He clapped it back, snarling through his teeth like a wounded dog. He couldn't let Ruvik win. Even if it meant dying alone in the enemy's house, he couldn't bear the thought of giving him one inch of his compliance. "Don't touch me."
Ruvik was sitting on a crate next to him, his cheeks deceptively warm-colored in the lamp light. It didn't do much for his eyes. "What is it you think I'm going to do?" he asked.
"You were..." Sebastian swallowed hard and winced. "You were going to kill me before they showed up."
"You think I'm trying to kill you now?"
"Aren't you?" Sebastian looked past him to an open case on the table, scalpels gleaming orange among needles and glass bottles. "It wouldn't be the first time."
"Sebastian," said Ruvik, the certainty of his voice drawing his focus back. "Mobius is coming for you, and you are bleeding out in two places. If I wanted to kill you, all I'd have to do is walk away."
Sebastian stared back at him, trying to see the lie in Ruvik's false face. There was no reason to trust him and plenty of reasons to just let everything slip away, but every throb from his neck screamed, You don't want to die here. Not here, not with him. Teeth clenched, he put his hand to the table.
Ruvik immediately went to work. Even in the dim light he moved with swift precision, wetting a wad of gauze to clean the wound. Sebastian braced himself as Ruvik scooted in closer, expecting rough treatment, but Ruvik's hands were steady as he wiped away the blood and traces of ash. He disturbed the wound only as much as necessary with each swipe, finally emptying a bottled water over anything that remained. Sebastian kept still as best he could, but when Ruvik ripped open the suture packaging, he couldn't help a shudder.
"Where did you...?" he croaked, eyes wide as Ruvik threaded a curved needle.
"These supplies have never been used," said Ruvik. "They're as sterile as they can be, not that we have luxury of worrying about that now." He finished threading the needle. "Now stay still." He nudged Sebastian's chin into a suitable position. "And don't speak."
Sebastian sucked in a long breath. It wasn't his first time getting stitches by far, but the situations hardly compared, and his hands were shaking. He flinched when Ruvik pinched the wound shut and couldn't help a thin groan of pain at the first prick of the needle. The sensation of the metal easing through his skin rattled his stomach. "Fuck..."
"Don't squirm," Ruvik ordered. "You've had stitches before."
"How would...." Sebastian squeezed his eyes shut. "With anesthetic."
"Pain is important." Ruvik drew the thread through. "It's how your body communicates with you. Damming it is like smothering a screaming child."
Sebastian grimaced. "Christ, the things that come out of your mouth."
Ruvik tightened the first stitch. To Sebastian it felt as if his throat was being turned inside out, and he gasped, one hand tightening against his knee while the other latched involuntarily onto the closest brace: Ruvik's shoulder.
Ruvik grunted. He passed the needle to his other hand so he could pry the hand off him. But instead of shoving it away, he drew it down, guiding it his hip. "If you have to grip something, grip here," he said. "At least then your arm is out of my way."
Sebastian started to reply, but then Ruvik leaned in closer again; Ruvik's knee rubbing against his wounded thigh drew from him another jagged gasp as pain shot up his side and down to his ankle. He wound his fist reflexively around the waist of Ruvik's jeans. "Fuck," he hissed. "Fuck you, be careful."
"I need to be close to see," said Ruvik. "There's not much light, you know." But he did adjust, turning enough to take pressure off Sebastian's leg, instead leaning into the crook of his elbow. He nudged Sebastian's chin again. "Now stop talking."
He went back to work, and Sebastian did his best to not cause any more interruptions. It seemed to take hours—Ruvik piercing him, and then again, drawing the thread tight, tying it off. The world became a dark blur of tightening agony; the pounding of Sebastian's own heart in his ears; the flicker of red light against his closed eyelids; the stirring of Ruvik's breath against his jaw. The monster commanded his new body with confident authority, never stuttering or missing his mark, even when Sebastian clenched and quivered against him. Just one stitch after the other, quiet and unrelenting, until the final knot was tied.
Ruvik smeared a dab of sharp-smelling cream across the closed wound with this thumb. "Five stitches," he said as he ripped open a clean bandage. "Just like I said."
Sebastian breathed a long sigh, his shoulders sagging. Ruvik had to prod him again in order to affix the bandage, securing it in place with tape. He then wrapped Sebastian's neck with gauze. "That wasn't the worst of it," he warned as he stood. He eased Sebastian's hand from his jeans. "Are you ready for the leg?"
Sebastian stretched his back carefully against the worktable. "Do I have a choice?" he grumbled.
Ruvik repositioned his crate. He stretched Sebatian's leg out slowly, with more care than Sebastian would have thought him capable of, but as soon as he was seated he slung his own leg over Sebastian's shin and then bent his knee, locking the injured leg in place. Sebastian moaned and tried not to fight back.
"God, that hurts," he breathed.
Ruvik tore his pant leg open around the wound. "No exit wound," he murmured. "The bullet is still in there." He pressed both hands flat to Sebastian's trembling thigh and splayed his fingers. "Take a deep breath," said. "And hold it."
Sebastian did so. He expected pain, but what followed he was almost at a loss to comprehend. A tingle spread up and down his already unsteady frame, like a low level current, tightening his overworked muscles. He hissed, clutching at the edge of the workbench, but what frightened him beyond reason was the sensation in his foot: his toes were wiggling. With no help from him his toes curled and stretched, and his heart beat rapidly against his ribs with the realization that his body suddenly didn't belong to him.
"What are you doing?" he demanded. When he tried to reach for Ruvik, he quickly realized that he couldn't; his arm simply wouldn't obey. Panic lit him ablaze. "What the hell are you—"
"Quiet," Ruvik snapped, and Sebastian's jaw clapped shut. "I'm trying to listen."
Sebastian whimpered through his closed teeth. No, no, no, he can't still do this, he thought madly. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about boils rupturing his skin. He can't do this to you—this is you fucking body!
Abruptly, the feeling dissipated. Sebastian jerked as he regained control of his limbs, weak as they were. His breath came fast as he glared at his benefactor. "What the fuck did you just do to me?"
"I was asking your leg where the bullet is," said Ruvik calmly. He ripped Sebastian's pant leg open further and then cleaned the wound and surrounding area as best he could. "There's been some damage to the muscle. Even with surgery, you'll probably have a limp for the rest of your life."
He leaned forward, retrieving a scalpel and forceps from his case. The sight of the gleaming blade turned Sebastian's stomach. "You didn't just survive the STEM," said Sebastian tremulously. "You didn't just take Leslie's body. You brought something else out of there with you—you're a monster."
"Don't be dramatic." Ruvik felt out along the outside of Sebastian's thigh and then stopped, tapping with two fingers. "There it is." He tightened his leg around Sebastian's. "Brace yourself. This won't take long."
Sebastian took in another deep breath and held it as Ruvik cut into his skin. The scalpel was so sharp he almost didn't feel it at first—it was the forceps gliding into the wound that drew fresh sweat to his brow. But true to his word, Ruvik was swift. He guided his instruments with unwavering accuracy and within seconds the bullet was pattering on the floor.
"There's not much else I can do without opening you up," Ruvik said as he re-threaded his needle and began stitching the incision he'd opened. "But I doubt you'd want me doing that here, even if we had the time."
"No shit." Sebastian wilted. The pain was finally becoming overwhelming, and he had to fight to keep his eyes open as he watched Ruvik work. It was surreal; Ruvik was so calm, so focused, with almost no hint of emotion in his downcast eyes. "I wouldn't have thought you even knew how to do this," Sebastian muttered. "I thought all you cared about was taking people apart."
"The human body is an incredible thing," said Ruvik as he moved to the entrance wound. "I've taught myself as much as I can about how to keep one alive. Live bodies make better subjects than dead ones."
"Jesus Christ..." Sebastian grimaced with revulsion. "I should have killed you. I should..." He wavered on his stool and had to grip the bench to keep from slumping off it. "Kill you..."
Ruvik finished with his stitches and reached back into his bag for bandages. "Stay awake, Sebastian," he warned as he covered the two wounds and wrapped them tight. "Now that I've stitched you up I can't let Mobius find your corpse, or they'll know I was here."
Sebastian bit his lip hard, but it didn't help his focus any. The air in the room was too heavy; it was weighing him down, it was hard to draw into his lungs. He forced himself to watch Ruvik finish his work, and then, with trepidation, Ruvik preparing a syringe. "What's…?"
"Cefazolin," said Ruvik. "To prevent infection." He stretched Sebastian's arm out and administered the drug; Sebastian didn't feel the needle, though he couldn't be sure if it was a testament to Ruvik's skill, or how profoundly screwed the rest of him already was.
"That's all I can do, for now." Ruvik packed everything back into his case. After a moment of rustling around, he pressed a plastic bottle into Sebastian's hand and uncapped it. "Drink this," he said, guiding it to Sebastian's mouth. "Slowly."
Sebastian growled and tried to lean away. "What is—"
"It's orange juice," Ruvik said impatiently. "Stop being so difficult—I just saved your life twice over."
"Force of habit," Sebastian grumbled, but he did drink. The tang hitting his tongue helped a little, but when he tried to get a proper gulp, Ruvik urged the bottle back down.
"Count to ten," Ruvik instructed, "out loud, and then take another sip. And keep doing that until I get back." He lifted the lantern off the workbench and grabbed a duffel bag from the floor.
Sebastian tried to straighten up. "Where are you going?"
"Keep drinking, and don't move," Ruvik insisted. "I'll be back."
"Wait, what are you—" But before Sebastian had finished speaking, Ruvik was gone, the light with him, leaving total darkness behind.
Sebastian shivered, eyes wide as he waited for them to adjust, but there was no source of light to draw shapes from; not so much as a crack in the wall. "One," he whispered. "Two, three...fuck this." He took another drink, gagging a little at the taste of blood that came with the juice, but he kept it down. He wanted to swallow the whole bottle at once, but he understood what Ruvik's intentions were; he was only trying to keep him focused, keep him conscious. After another few seconds he drank again.
The house was silent. The cement blocks that made up the walls crowded out any noise from outside, even the wind through the bricks. He couldn't see his own hand in front of his face. Panic started to seem like a viable option as the minutes ticked away; maybe Ruvik wasn't coming back. He had to—he had left his supplies, his pet to torture, it made no sense to leave then—but Sebastian couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if he didn't. Maybe "Mobius" would find him, whoever the fuck they were, and finally put him down. Maybe if he talked a little, someone would talk back. Maybe his leg would rot off and he'd die alone in a lightless room, everything already so dark and cold he wouldn't even be able to tell the difference.
But what if he comes back? Sebastian continued to take small sips of his orange juice as he reached out along the bench, feeling for Ruvik's medical case. He fumbled the latches open and drew his fingertips carefully over each instrument. You could drag a scalpel across his throat. Wouldn't that be worth all this pain? His fingers were half numb but he pried the scalpel from its casing and drew it close to him. Even if you make it out of this fucking mansion, there's nowhere to go that these bastards won't find you. Do you really think you can be a hero and take them down yourself? At least if you deny them Ruvik...
His hands shook. He downed the rest of his drink and let the bottle fall as he continued to convince himself. He deserves it, after the people he's hurt, he's killed. He's going to keep doing it, if he gets away now. Then all those deaths will be on you. Sebastian palmed the scalpel in his right hand and pressed it to the work bench, trying to look as if he needed the support—which he did anyway. Ruvik wouldn't be able to see it until he was in range. Kill him. His death is worth more than your life now. Just kill the bastard and let it be over.
Sebastian stewed in his bitter resignation for what felt like ages. By the time he heard Ruvik returning down the hall he was half-conscious and wishing he had taken the advice about the juice. But the footsteps wakened him. The lamp light, dull as it was, hurt Sebastian's eyes as it bobbed closer. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. Kill him. He braced his empty hand to his knee as he leaned forward. Kill him.
Ruvik set his bag down on the floor; it made a heavier sound than Sebastian remembered. Then he looked up. There wasn't any way he could have seen the blade from their positions, but he regarded Sebastian coolly and said, "If you're going to use that, don't aim for my throat."
Sebastian tensed. "What?"
"The scalpel." Ruvik took a step closer, putting himself deliberately in range. He set the lantern onto the bench. "You should put it through my eye socket," he said, leaning over Sebastian. "As deep as you can. Because if you leave my brain intact for even a moment, I will make you wish you had never left Beacon."
Sebastian tried to remain firm. His fingers curled around the metal and he stared Ruvik straight in the face, gauging the distance he had to cross. He could do it, if he was quick. It was worth it. But then he thought of Beacon. For two long weeks after leaving that cursed asylum he had sweated through his nights, his only real comfort knowing that nothing he faced for the rest of his life could ever match the horrific ordeal. The longer he met Ruvik's unblinking eyes, the more he doubted. His heart thudded and his stomach threatened to empty.
If anyone else had warned him that a worse fate awaited him than what he had already overcome, he would have laughed; but Ruvik himself was before him, eyes hard in his deceptively youthful face, and Sebastian believed him. From his throbbing neck down to his traitorous toes, he believed him, and when Ruvik held out his hand, he surrendered the scalpel.
"What are you?" Sebastian whispered. "What are you really?"
Ruvik lifted his free hand, and Sebastian cringed but didn't try to retreat as five blood-smeared fingers cupped his chin. "You have a lot of questions for me," Ruvik said. "And I intend to answer. I have a few questions for you, too, after all. But neither of us can get our answers from corpses." He lowered his voice. "Do you want to die here, Sebastian?"
The answer thundered through Sebastian's bones with a ferocity he didn't know he was still capable of. "No."
"Good." Ruvik leaned back. "Take off the tourniquet. You're going to have to use that leg."
Sebastian did as he was told while Ruvik packed the scalpel back into its case. As soon as the belt was loosened, fresh blood flowed into Sebastian's aching leg with a feeling like daggers under his skin. He hissed and shuddered as he fixed his belt around his waist once more. "I don't know if I can walk," he admitted.
"Then you'll run," said Ruvik. He packed the case into his duffel and then returned, sheathing Sebastian's hunting knife in his belt and his revolver in its holster. "They're already here. I know where we can go, but it's not close, and we have to stay ahead of them." He drew the duffel over his shoulders, and it was then that Sebastian noticed his shotgun, along with Ruvik's hunting rifle, sticking out of it. "And like I said: I can't carry you."
Sebastian tried to bend his injured leg, without much success; his muscles spasmed as if preparing to abandon his femur all together. Sheer stubbornness put enough strength in his elbows and knees to force him off his stool. He stumbled almost immediately and had to catch himself on the wall. But despite the agony, and the cold sweat soaking him, and the blood wailing through his veins, he remained upright. "I'll manage," he said.
Ruvik blew out the lantern and then moved closer, grabbing Sebastian's belt. Taking it as an invitation, Sebastian in turn grabbed Ruvik's shoulder. Between his support and the help of the hallway wall, he managed to hobble, grimacing, out into the music room.
Ruvik guided them to hollowed window in the northern wall. Ruvik went through first, his shoes crunching the overgrowth in the yard. As Sebastian sat down on the ledge, preparing himself to swing his legs about, he heard the front door of the mansion bang open.
"Shit." Sebastian had to grab his shredded pant leg to get his injured limb through the opening. He expected a harsh landing, but Ruvik had him by the belt before he came through, helping to ease the transition. Practicality more than sympathy, he assumed.
It was as they headed through the rear gardens that they were interrupted by a percussive blast from somewhere inside the house, followed by a crash of wood and men's shouts. Sebastian tried to look back, but Ruvik hurried them on.
"Just something I left for them," Ruvik said. "Come on—before they find your blood trail."
Sebastian kept his jaws tightly clenched as they made their way to the property's far gate. Every step was anguish, and by the time Ruvik was dragging him into the woods, he was shaking so hard he couldn't believe he was still upright at all. He put everything he had into his forward momentum, into Ruvik's shoulder beneath his white knuckles, into Ruvik's arm, snaking around his waist when the grip on his belt wasn't enough. Step by step, over gnarled roots and past rotting cedars, until he was half numb and Ruvik was panting with fatigue at his side. Finally, they came out into the field.
A field of dead sunflowers.
Sebastian stopped walking. He had to; he was rooted in place just like when facing down a rusty meat grinder behind the mansion's upstairs doors. It wasn't the same sight from Ruvik's nightmare—it was ragged with weeds, every bulbous flower sagging over its stalk like hanged men, so unlike the brilliant and unending ocean of blooms that Sebastian remembered. But it was real, as real as the blackened foundation at its center, and Sebastian could only gape.
Ruvik's arm tightened around his waist. He, too, was still for a long moment before taking the first step. "We're almost there," he said hoarsely. "But we have to hurry—they've left the house."
Sebastian didn't bother to ask how he knew that; he was far more concerned with the approaching wreckage that had once been a barn. It reeked of smoke and ash almost more than the mansion, despite being even less of a structure. Only a few heaps interrupted with a handful of foundation stones remained. He didn't want to go anywhere near it, but his unsteady legs carried him there anyway. Step by step, through the abandoned crop, until they'd reached their despicable haven.
Ruvik lowered Sebastian to the ground, followed by his duffel bag, and then began pawing through the dirt. It was full night by then, moonlight gleaming on his sweat as he grew more erratic in his search. At last he unearthed an old iron handle, and when he pulled, a wooden door opened upward just outside where the barn's southern wall used to stand. It revealed a staircase made of cinderblocks leading into the ground.
Sebastian stared, apprehensive, but when Ruvik dragged him toward the steps he didn't fight back. Together they descended into the narrow space. The cellar floor was made up of only packed earth, cool and blissfully solid beneath Sebatian's weary back, and he collapsed against it with an involuntary sob. He had nothing left. As soon as he was stretched out in the dirt his body gave up, and he could only gasp weakly after each breath as he gazed into the black.
"If they find that door," he wheezed, "we'll be dead."
"They won't find the door," said Ruvik. He shoved his duffel into the corner and then leaned over Sebastian. "Stay here and keep quiet, not that I expect you can do much of anything else now."
"What? Wait." Sebastian's arms were as weak as the rest of him, but he reached out anyway. "Where are you going?"
"I'll be back. Just—"
Sebastian found Ruvik's hoodie and latched on. "Ruvik." He clenched his fist until it ached as he drew the man close. "Don't let me die in this hole," he said, "or I swear to God I'll haunt you until the end of your miserable fucking life."
Ruvik squeezed Sebastian's hand. "That was always going to be the case anyway," he replied, peeling the fingers off him. "Now rest, Sebastian. If you survive the night, we'll have a lot to discuss."
He pulled back, out of range. Sebastian reached after him, but by then his consciousness was finally failing him. The last thing he saw as he was dragged under was Ruvik stalking out of the cellar, and the door banging shut behind him.