Won't Back Down: Won't Back Down

by Unknown

  Alex was a snarling streak of black and silver, bolting away from Liam's side. Liam let out a strangled cry. He couldn't have moved quickly enough to stop Alex, but he pulled out his gun in a fraction of a second. The first shot came from one of the bodyguards he'd known were concealed in the darkness, and that gave him a target. Liam fired blindly in the direction the sound had come from.

  A shout of pain told him he'd found at least one of his marks. The scream and gurgle from Doyle's other flank told him that Alex had found his.

  Doyle looked stunned, and Liam felt a surge of vicious satisfaction. "You thought we'd go for you," said Liam. "But we're not stupid." He wasn't about to admit that his heart had been in his throat when Alex had surged forward. He'd known Doyle would have gunmen waiting and for one terrible second Liam had been sure he'd have to mourn his twin's death a second time.

  Alex hit Doyle and knocked him off his feet, pinning him to the concrete; Doyle grunted when he hit the floor. Liam took a deep breath to shake off the adrenaline rush and paced over to them. He kept his gun out and ready.

  Under Alex, Doyle was smiling faintly. "You're a flawless team. You should be working for us."

  "No," said Liam coldly. "He's not yours anymore, and neither am I." He gestured to Alex, and Alex rose gracefully, putting his right hand-claws delicately into Liam's left hand. As if they'd rehearsed it, Liam slid his gun back into his belt. He cradled Alex's hand for a moment, and then reached up to thumb at the leather collar, feeling gently for a hidden catch. He found it, just to the side of the silver symbols that proclaimed Alex a number, a possession, instead of a person. Alex tipped his head back obediently and inhaled a deep breath as Liam slipped the collar off of him.

  Liam threw the collar onto the floor next to Doyle. It made a small, dull sound on the floor, along with a faint jingle from the metal fastening. "And you're going to let us walk out of this place."

  "I'll give the order." Doyle leaned up on one arm, brushing off his suit jacket. "You know you'll have our Dogs and the Slayers both after you, if I choose to send them."

  Liam looked over at Alex, who lifted his chin in determination. "We'll be ready," said Liam softly. He threaded his fingers carefully through Alex's claws, and they walked away.

  They took the stairs back up because it was the most direct route back to the street; the Dog and handler still lay on the floor, unconscious. Liam pulled his gun back out in case Doyle went back on his word. He had given them no reason to trust him.

  But the suited man at the top of the dank stairwell was just hanging up his phone when they reached him. He gave them an unreadable look through his shaded glasses then stepped aside.

  Liam halted, squeezing Alex's claws gently between his fingers. He licked his dry lips to dampen them and tried to steel himself to lead them outside. They would have so much to do. They would have to find their mother and make sure she'd be safe from Universal's long reach somehow—and without the money Doyle had always given him. And then, the only way they would be able to keep fighting Doyle and Universal, the only way out that Liam could see, would be to track the rest of the Slayers and somehow earn their trust. They could steal the Dogs away and reunite them with families, lovers, friends…

  And the nagging, horrific idea lingered that even this might somehow be a part of Doyle's plan.

  Liam let out a rough breath and gazed at his reason for existing, his everything. "It doesn't matter. We can do it, together," Liam whispered. He lifted Alex's hand and brushed a kiss across his metal knuckles.

  Alex's lips moved for a moment. His expression held the same determination Liam felt, his eyes bright with it. "Together," Alex repeated haltingly.

  "Yeah." Liam started to nod. As long as he had Alex he didn't care what the odds against them were. "Together."

  Alex smiled at him and pulled Liam out into the sunlight.

  ROUND FOUR

  EXPERIMENT NUMBER SIX

  MINA MACLEOD

  Jason Slate regains consciousness one step at a time. Hearing returns first. People are mumbling all around him, but he's still too confused to make any of it out. The murmurs sound like garbled white noise—distant, unimportant.

  His eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds. It actually hurts when he tries opening them. Jason's limbs aren't responding to any of his commands. They, too, are heavy, fuzzy appendages. He feels disconnected. Adrift. He inhales deeply, as quietly as he can. The room smells like disinfectant and sweat.

  Someone grabs his arm, making him start. "He's awake," the person says. There is more muttering, some in English and some in Spanish. Then the person holding his arm wipes it with a moist cotton ball. The implication is clear; it gives Jason the strength to move.

  His eyes fly open. He sees everything in quick succession—the bright lights, the monitoring equipment, the straps binding him to the bed, and the attending team in scrubs. "No," he tries to snarl. It comes out as a weak croak. Jason starts struggling, kicking, and thrashing, but the restraints hold firm. He only manages to flop pathetically atop the thin mattress. The man holding his arm doesn't even lose his grip.

  "Keep still," he says. "Or you will hurt yourself." His tone is clipped and clinical.

  Jason stops fighting and stares at him, trying to commit the face to memory. He's wearing a face mask and glasses. Oily strands of black hair are poking out of a soft blue cap. He finishes wiping the inside of Jason's elbow with alcohol. "Who—" Jason stops to cough. "Who are you people?"

  At the masked man's gesture, another man in scrubs appears. He shoves a plastic straw under Jason's nose. It's then that Jason realizes how thirsty he is. Despite every instinct being to escape these people, he can't help himself from closing his lips around the straw. He drinks greedily. It's some kind of rehydration solution, a touch salty with a pinch of sweetness.

  He spits out the straw when the syringe appears. "Wait, what is that?"

  The masked man ignores him, double-checking the dosage. "Log it," he says over his shoulder. Jason hears someone scribble on a clipboard.

  "01:42," someone else says. "Experiment Number Six, log thirty-one begins."

  "What are you doing?" Jason demands, an edge of fear creeping into his voice. He starts thrashing again. This time, more scrubs appear. Four pairs of hands are on him now, weighing him down and holding him still. "Let me go." He feels the prick of the needle, and panic comes in full force. "Let me go!"

  The people in scrubs may as well have been robots. They betray no emotion behind their face masks. Jason's arm is cold, chilled from whatever they're pumping into him.

  "Three hundred milligram dose administered." The masked man sounds like he's reporting the weather. "Subject seems disoriented, perhaps from the anesthesia." He stands and gestures to one of the attendants. She shuffles away. "Vitals monitored prior to administration. Pulse: sixty-seven. Blood pressure: 120 over seventy. Eyes focused and clear. Breathing regular."

  Anesthesia? "You put me under?" Jason starts struggling once he's released. "Who the hell are you people? What do you want with me?"

  It's like talking to a brick wall. No one answers him. In fact, most of the attendants end up leaving the room. The woman returns with a saline drip, coming around the other side of his bed.

  "Let her," the masked man says. "That will help keep you alive."

  Jason balks. "What the fuck is going on here?" He clings to his anger. It's better than giving in to terror.

  The woman pokes him with an IV and sets up his drip. Jason glances around. The place is decorated like a small hospital room, full of patient monitoring equipment, but the walls are made of stone and brick. It's very dark, and there are no windows. He has no idea where he is.

  He's wearing his camo pants and a drab olive T-shirt. He can feel the dog tags around his neck. His boots are gone. "What did you just give me?" he asks. The others remain quiet. He realizes that only the masked man—the doctor—and his scribe are still in the room. The silence is maddening.

 
; The dizziness comes suddenly, like he's drunk too much wine. Jason stares at the camo pattern on his pants, watching it swim before his eyes. The warmth comes next, starting in his heart and blossoming out toward his extremities. He lets his head fall back and lolls it against the pillow. "What did you do to me?"

  The doctor mutters something to the scribe. "We'll get to that, Mr. Slate. First we have a question for you: Who is the conduit?"

  Jason rolls his head over. The doctor is blurry now. "The what?"

  The doctor sighs. He walks over to the bed, peering down at Jason with squinted eyes. "Log it. Slight dilation of pupils. Sweat glands aroused."

  Jason realizes that he is sweating. He moves against the bonds, whining when they irritate his feverish skin. He protests when the doctor takes his vitals again.

  "Pulse: seventy-six. Blood pressure: 135 over eighty. Displaying symptoms of disorientation."

  "Fuck you," Jason snaps. "Of course I'm disoriented, I don't know what the hell you're—hey!" The doctor ignores him, picking up another syringe. "No, don't. Don't!"

  He tries struggling again, but the doctor doesn't even subdue him. Instead, he switches out the saline drip for the syringe. Jason chokes down his panic, wincing when the cold medication goes into his veins.

  "Are you poisoning me?" Jason asks.

  The doctor says, "Inducing stage two."

  *~*~*

  When Jason regains consciousness, the world is a fuzzy, incomprehensible mess. He's drenched in sweat. The skin under his bindings is itchy. His limbs are tingling, and he's pretty sure he's pissed himself. His head feels like the rest of his squad tried to kick their way out of his skull.

  Kilik. Oh, God. What did they do to him? Jason tries asking as much, but his tongue feels swollen.

  The doctor is here again, pacing back and forth. "You came to assassinate Magenta," he says for the millionth time. "You got more than you bargained for. They were ready for you."

  Jason doesn't bother answering. The doctor is wrong, but Jason isn't about to correct him. Jason hadn't come to kill Magenta—he'd been on a recon mission. He doesn't know how they know his name. He's not even sure if he's even still in Oregon. He groans through a spike of pain. It feels like his veins are rebelling. He'd thought they were giving him some kind of truth serum. He doesn't know what it really is, but it sure as hell isn't truth serum.

  "You must have known what you were coming to stop." The doctor looks down at him. Jason closes his eyes. He wonders how long he's been here. They stopped logging the times out loud a long time ago.

  "I don't know what you're on about," Jason says tiredly. "You're just… talking."

  "Who is the conduit?"

  "I don't know."

  Silence. "Who is the conduit?"

  "I don't know."

  Bustling at the table. "Who is the conduit?"

  "I don't know."

  When he feels the prick of metal, Jason chokes out a sob.

  *~*~*

  Once, he wakes up on his stomach. He's strapped down spread-eagled, lying on sweat-soaked sheets and sleeping in a puddle of his own spittle. He pulls at the bindings, hoping whoever changed them slipped up. No such luck.

  "Feel like cooperating yet?" the doctor asks. His hand comes to rest against Jason's lower back.

  "I don't know what you want," Jason says. He rubs his face against the wet sheets, stubble scratching the fabric.

  The hand creeps under his shirt to lie flat on his clammy skin. It's a gesture meant to offer comfort—or maybe intimidate. "Are you thirsty? Hungry? Would you like a shower?"

  Jason grits his teeth. They've asked before. He doesn't have the answer to their question, though. Even if he did, he wouldn't give this sick bastard the satisfaction.

  "No?" The hand disappears. "Back to business, then."

  "Wait," Jason says, self-preservation winning out. "Could I take a shower?" He doesn't know if his own legs will support him at this point, but a chance at escape is more than he's had so far.

  "Of course," the doctor says. "Just as soon as you answer my question."

  Jason visibly deflates. "I don't know who the conduit is," he mumbles into the mattress. "I don't even know what the conduit is."

  The doctor sighs, a long-suffering sound, and comes back to the bed. He tangles one strong hand in the short blond hair of Jason's high-and-tight. Jason grunts when the doctor pulls his head back, exposing his throat.

  "What did you do to Kilik?" Jason asks, hoping to distract him. "Is he okay?"

  But the doctor, like all the madmen in this facility, has a decidedly one-track mind. "Who is the conduit?"

  "Jesus Christ," Jason moans. "I don't fucking know."

  Lying facedown, he doesn't bother resisting when they drug him again.

  *~*~*

  He dreams of past assignments. The names escape him, the places elude him, but he remembers the missions. He recalls the delicate, precise weight of his M40—the way he closes the door to his emotions while looking through the scope.

  His target walks to the window, a dark silhouette against lamplight. Jason aims, weighs his odds of success, and takes the shot.

  *~*~*

  Jason wakes up thinking he's a free man. He feels warm and fuzzy all over, like he's riding an amazing buzz on a ten-day leave. The scotch must have been spectacular.

  Then he tries sitting up, and the illusion is shattered. The bindings hold fast, and now his left arm is stretched out. Jason turns to look at it; his head moves first, his vision following leisurely after. They're pumping… something… into him. He doesn't think it's scotch, but it feels really good.

  His heart is pounding in his chest. The sensation is a faraway one; he's pleasantly disconnected, observing his body from somewhere that tingles up and down his spine. Even the scratchiness of his growing beard seems distant.

  The masked doctor appears, studying him intently. Jason wants to ask him something—anything—but his mouth feels like it's full of cotton. The doctor scratches his chin and studies the monitors Jason's other arm is hooked up to.

  "Log it. Pulse: 160. Blood pressure: 180 over 120. Pupils extremely dilated. Profuse sweating. Euphoria." He shoves a thermometer into Jason's mouth, but he barely feels it. He floats, high on whatever's dripping into him, until the doctor takes the thermometer out. "Temperature: 102.8." Even the doctor's voice is warbled, hard to hear outside the bubble of well-being.

  Then the doctor reaches down, taking Jason's face in both hands. This helps ground him, and the world shifts a little into focus. The doctor leans so close, Jason can see the fibers in the blue scrub mask. "Jason Slate, who is the conduit?"

  In a way, the cottonmouth is liberating. He can't answer—can't say he doesn't know, can't participate one way or another. His eyes roll to the back of his head as he rides the euphoria.

  *~*~*

  He comes to feeling frozen to the bone. Through the gray haze, he can feel himself shivering violently. There is some scrambling going on around his bed. His vision swims and swirls, forcing him to close his eyes.

  "Pulse and temperature continuing to fall," the doctor says. He barks something at one of the others. Jason can't make it out.

  He's cold. There's ice in his belly, hard and unyielding. He's shaking so hard, he's flopping atop the mattress.

  This isn't how he thought he'd die for his country.

  *~*~*

  The world around him explodes. It makes more noise than there has ever been in the makeshift hospital. Jason's eyes fly open. There's commotion coming from somewhere else in the building. Lots of yelling. Lots of banging. Jason cranes his neck to look, finding all the machinery around him gone. The IVs have been ripped out of his arms and discarded. He's missing his pants. Only one lamp is lit, forgotten in the corner.

  He tries shouting for help, but he can't speak. He can barely groan as he struggles against the leather straps. His limbs feel like they're encased in cement.

  The door slams open. Jason sucks in a deep breath. He'
s alone and tied down—helpless. Who—?

  "Found someone—holy shit!" a woman exclaims. When she gets closer, Jason feels a weight lift from his chest. He goes limp from relief, the corners of his eyes prickle with tears. She's a U.S. Marine.

  "Sarge, got a prisoner," she shouts, shouldering her weapon. "Hang tight," she says to Jason. "It's going to be okay." She bends over and starts pulling at the bindings. "Name's Hernandez," she continues. "Don't worry, we're going to get you out of this."

  He tries to thank her. All that comes out is a raspy cough. She gives him a reassuring pat, going around the bed to untie the other straps.

  The rest of her squad comes pouring through the door. "Smells like death in here," one says. "Holy shit, what happened?"

  Jason's free now, but he still can't move. Hernandez kicks at something solid by her feet. "Found him alone, sir. All the medical equipment has been destroyed. He's in bad shape. Looks like one of us."

  The sergeant bends over him now, scrutinizing him closely. With his helmet on, he looks very nondescript, all angular bones and age lines. "Hang tight, son." To the others, he barks, "Get a medic down here. Make sure it's safe to move this guy, and then get him out."

  It's a flurry of activity after that. Jason isn't lucid enough to keep track of it all. The medic pokes and prods at him, checks his vitals, and murmurs soothing nonsense. Jason can't answer any of the questions; his brain is done processing. All he can think of is that he's safe—he's with the Marines. He's home.

  Two of the soldiers loop their arms around him. When they drag his numb body off the bed, an aluminum bedpan clatters to the floor. Its contents spill, prompting a string of curses. Once Jason is upright, whatever monstrosities he's suffered take their toll.

  He collapses.

  Who is the conduit?

  Who is the conduit?

  Who is the conduit?