Won't Back Down: Won't Back Down

by Unknown

*~*~*

  Jason goes ballistic. The first thing he does is grab the empty chair and swing it at the window. Eric dives out of the way, vaguely aware of Grier doing the same. The chair hits the bullet-proof glass and clatters to the floor.

  "Slate!" Grier shouts in a voice like thunder. "What the hell are you doing?"

  Jason looks like a caged animal. His skin is flushed, his teeth are bared, and he's panting. His eyes are wild and crazed; Eric can't see a trace of conscious thought in them.

  "Jason," he says, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Calm down."

  Kent has other ideas. "Kill them," he orders, backing behind the desk. "Kill them and everyone else in this base."

  Before Eric can say anything else, Jason comes at him in a terrifying rage. "Jesus!" Eric cries, scrambling out of the way. He manages to duck the wild swing, wincing when Jason's fist cracks the sturdy wall. He's not as lucky the second time. Eric gets punched in the eye with more power than he's ever felt. The force nearly knocks him to the floor. The bones in his face feel brittle, and Eric fights down a wave of nausea when he realizes Jason could have shattered his eye socket. He manages to stay upright by sliding along the wall. Jason keeps coming. Eric tries to feint, but Jason is as swift as he is strong.

  Jason's iron fist sails into Eric's gut. It makes him double over, nearly vomiting. Jason's hand closes over Eric's face and shoves his head hard against the wall. Eric barely manages to cushion the blow with his own hand in time. The blow stuns him all the same; his vision swims, and he feels disconnected from his limbs.

  The steel grip on his Adam's apple makes Eric panic. "Jason!" he shouts, clawing at the hand. "Jason, it's Eric!"

  Jason doesn't answer. He squeezes Eric's throat with inhuman strength. His lip peels back in a snarl, and for one keen moment Eric is sure he is going to die. Then Grier appears.

  He's never seen Major Grier in action before. He proves the decorations and accolades aren't just for show. His arms wrap around Jason like massive tree trunks, pulling him away from Eric. Eric slides to the floor, sucking in a massive gulp of air.

  Jason looks like even more of an animal now. He thrashes in Grier's arms, kicking and screaming. It's surreal. It can't be happening.

  Then something catches Eric's eye. Dr. Kent is making a run for it, unlocking the door. "Hey!" he snaps, rage replacing pain as he scrambles to his feet. "He's from the Order!"

  Kent doesn't stick around to gloat. He's out the door before Eric can get there. Fortunately, one of the many alarm consoles is just across the hall. Eric pulls the plastic cover clean off and punches in the code for lockdown and sweep. In seconds, the sirens are blaring.

  Eric hits the intercom button. "This is Archer! Do not allow Henry Kent to leave the building. Detain anyone at all costs!"

  A crash over the wailing sirens makes Eric turn around. Grier. Jason. Eric runs back to the office. It looks like a war zone. Grier is slumped against the desk, dazed. Eric can see a ribbon of blood trickling from his temple. Jason is fumbling with Grier's coat.

  Shit. "Don't!" he cries desperately, willing Grier to move. "Don't let him get a gun!" Jason can shoot the petals off a daisy at a hundred yards; if he lands a firearm, they're all dead.

  Even with a concussion, Grier manages to shove Jason aside. Eric takes advantage of the distraction, sprinting over and tackling Jason with all he's got. They roll away from Grier and into the wall. Eric tries shoving Jason's face into the paint, but Jason uses the wall as leverage and pushes them away from it. He rolls them, trying to get Eric into a headlock.

  They've sparred almost daily for weeks now. Eric knows how Jason moves. He braces against the headlock. With his other hand, he gets Jason with an uppercut, knocking his head back with a painful crack. Jason rolls away and scrambles to his feet. Eric dives for his legs, putting all his strength into bringing Jason back down.

  Eric presses the advantage, climbing on top and pinning Jason's shoulders with his knees. He grabs Jason's face and gets as close as he dares. "Jason, it's Eric. You're okay; you're with Dawn Division. Remember?" He has to pull his face back when Jason tries biting him. "Remember Kilik?" He slams Jason's head against the floor harder than he intends. It works; Jason's eyes get unfocused and glassy for a moment. "What would Kilik say if he saw you like this?"

  Jason roars—it's raw, primal rage. With unbelievable strength, he uses his free legs to somersault, flipping them and reversing their positions. The action forces Eric to roll, too, bringing him closer to Jason than he should be. He feels the teeth on his nose and acts on reflex. He lets loose a roar of his own and pushes back, shoving with everything he has. Fueled with adrenaline, Eric and Jason roll around the floor in a pile of limbs and rage. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Eric thinks that it will only end when one of them is dead.

  And then, when Eric's face is smushed into a bloody tile, the weight suddenly disappears from his back. Dimly, he registers Jason's squawking. He tastes coppery blood in his mouth. His nose feels like it's swollen three times its size.

  Jason's enraged roaring becomes shrill terror. The fear in his voice makes Eric force himself to roll over. He blinks away the blurriness. Four soldiers are holding Jason still, and nurses Stevens and Carey are trying to administer a syringe.

  "No," Jason whimpers—the first word he's spoken since Kent set him off. Eric is shocked to see tears staining his bruised face. He strains against his captors but they hold firm.

  "Keep him still," Carey says as Stevens taps for a vein inside his elbow. "We have the right dose for him, but we need to give him all of it."

  "No," Jason sobs, trying to pull away—from the needles, from the drugs, from the restraints. "Please, no. No, no, no—please."

  Eric understands. "It's okay, Jason." He crawls forward, reaching out to touch Jason's knee. "I'm here. Everything's going to be fine. Trust me."

  "… Eric?" Jason asks, as if seeing him for the first time.

  Eric keeps their gazes locked, but from the corner of his eye he can see Carey administering the sedative. "Yeah," he says, giving Jason a reassuring smile. "Yeah, it's me."

  The drug gradually takes effect, and Jason mellows. Once he's relaxed enough to be of no danger to himself or others, the soldiers get him onto a gurney and rush off to the medical wing. Eric stays on the floor for several minutes, groaning through newly awakened pain. The adrenaline is long gone, leaving aches and stings in its wake. Among other things, Eric's eye will be swollen shut soon.

  "Get yourself patched up," Grier says, making Eric start. A man that large should not be able to appear out of nowhere.

  "You, too," Eric says. "Make sure that head wound gets looked at, sir."

  "I will." Grier offers his hand. "Let's go now."

  Eric accepts the help. Once he's on his feet, he touches his swollen face gingerly. "Slate is a fucking powerhouse."

  Grier favors his right side as they amble along. "He was a sleeper agent."

  "But how?" Eric asks.

  "That's what the second round of tests are going to tell me." Grier's mouth sets into a hard line. "And we're compromised. Kent's coming here means the Order knows about us. I should have known better."

  Eric's face is starting to burn. "Did we get Kent?"

  "We did. He tried to goad Diallo into shooting him down, but she wasn't fooled. He's not talking, of course—but I'm sure he will eventually."

  Eric nods, satisfied despite the pain shooting through his body. "So it's not a total loss."

  Grier favors him with a rare grin. "On the contrary, Archer, I think we're onto something."

  *~*~*

  Grier has everyone pack up. They move to another Dawn Division base in New Mexico. Then he pulls some strings to get Jason's tests analyzed in record time. They return only a week later, when the three of them are still recovering from the beatings they gave each other. The results are shocking.

  "They programmed data into your DNA," Grier explains. He's sporting a crisp white bandage around his head.r />
  Eric's injuries are mostly superficial. His face is almost back to normal. Jason is more exhausted than anything else and relegated to bed rest until further notice.

  "My DNA?" he echoes, looking down at the saline drip in his arm.

  Eric says, "The practice of storing data in DNA is still in its infancy. It's not the kind of thing we would think to test for, or even suspect. We think the Order has been testing the practice on prisoners like you."

  "Turning us into programmed soldiers?" Jason frowns. "But how am I not… still in the program?"

  Grier fields that one. "When we raided the lab we found you in, we must have interrupted their research. You weren't 'perfected' yet, so to speak. I haven't managed to uproot the latest round of spies yet, but someone caught wind that you had been rescued and gone to ground." He smirks. "They had to either recover you or get rid of you, lest we eventually notice something about your tests. Kent probably would have pinned our murders on you and then had you arrested or killed."

  Jason considers this for a long moment. Then, almost as if he's afraid of the answer he asks, "Can you reverse it?"

  "We're working on it," Grier says. "We're also combing through our records for soldiers who went MIA or AWOL and suddenly reappeared. They'll be tested, too. For all we know, the Order has been planting super soldiers for years, preparing to strike." He reaches down and squeezes Jason's shoulder with a large hand. "Once we know the extent of what we're dealing with, we will get our top experts working a way to erase the malicious data."

  "And in the meantime?" Jason asks, mouth working. "What should I do? What about the, uh, magic words?"

  Eric exchanges glances with Grier. "We haven't told anyone else," he says with a shrug. "It's probably a better idea than putting the idea of the phrase in anyone's head. We're going to try and find out if the phrase means anything." His gaze flicks up to Jason's hazel eyes. "I suggest you stay with us for now. At least until we know how deep this goes, and we can get you permanently deprogrammed."

  Grier's phone rings, and he excuses himself. He starts yelling into it before the door shuts, muffling his orders. Eric looks back at Jason with a grin, but the grave look on his face brings him up short. "What's wrong?"

  Jason makes a vague gesture to Eric's healing face. "I haven't apologized for that. I'm sorry."

  "Are you serious?" Eric asks, coming to sit at the edge of the bed. "Until five minutes ago, did you even know it was possible to store data on a strand of DNA?"

  This brings a smile to Jason's face, but it's forced. "But I knew something was wrong. I knew that months ago."

  "We all did," Eric points out, giving one of Jason's bruises a gentle poke. "So we're all sorry."

  "But—"

  "Shut up, Slate." The look he gets in response makes Eric bark a laugh. "Front line bravado," he teases, bending down for a kiss. He intends for it to be a soft brush of lips, but Jason curls a hand around his neck and makes it something deeper.

  "Thank you," Jason murmurs into his mouth. "For being you."

  "Always here for you," Eric hears himself say, rubbing his fingers over Jason's stubble.

  The door bangs open, and they spring apart. Eric scrambles to his feet and attempts to look professional, but if the look on Grier's face is any gauge, he fails miserably. "Plenty of time for that later, Archer," Grier says wryly.

  Eric stands up straighter. "Sorry, sir."

  "Major," Jason ventures, sitting up as best he can. "I know I can't be much help until I'm safe for the front lines again, but I want in."

  Eric glances down at him in surprise. "You're sure?"

  "Positive," Jason says firmly, keeping his eyes on Grier. "You can't expect me to go back to my old life after this. The Order killed my best friend. It used me as a fucking portable hard drive. Hunting them down will be better therapy than anything I could get from a shrink."

  Grier considers the request for a long minute. Eric knows him; he is weighing the pros and cons of permitting Jason to join the fight. Finally he says, "I'll make it happen." His phone buzzes again, demanding attention. Grier points a thick finger at Jason on his way out. "Report to me for the official briefing in a week, once you're back on your feet. We've got work to do."

  Jason grins. "My pleasure, sir."

  The door clicks shut, and Eric finds his voice. "You're staying," he says. The idea makes his heart swell.

  Jason looks up at him almost shyly. "Do you mind?"

  "No," Eric says, feeling breathless. He reaches for Jason's hand and follows the beckoning tug. "God, no."

  "Good," Jason quips, and pulls him down to the bed.

  ROUND FIVE

  KNIGHT & NOVICE

  CASSANDRA PIERCE

  ONE

  Lifting his quill from the freshly inked parchment, Renulf turned toward the paneless window and inhaled the fragrant breeze drifting into the sanctuary. He gazed longingly at the sundial in the center of the run-down courtyard. Its shadow had moved only fractionally since the last time he had checked. Bored and exhausted after a long day's work at his desk, he would have liked nothing better than to slip outside and walk, maybe even run, under the sunny sky. His fear of Master Ozwyn's disapproval, however, was enough to keep him in his seat.

  Ozwyn was in the garden now, he noted, the blazing sun glinting off his dark hood, his wrinkled hands working at the plants as he culled the weeds and picked vegetables for the modest supper the two of them would share. As soon as he had finished, Ozwyn would return to the scriptorium to check Renulf's progress. It was a foregone conclusion that he would find the work going too slowly, as indeed it was. Scrolls and unbound pages crammed the shelves, most of them deadly boring as they recounted the histories of various kings, their offspring, and an occasional enemy, all of them dead for hundreds of sun-cycles. Yet each and every one of them had to be duplicated. Renulf doubted he would leave his inkwell before he grew stooped and wizened like Ozwyn.

  How old was Ozwyn, exactly? Renulf had often wondered, and he mused on that same subject again as he stared out the window. Possibly he was not as seasoned as he appeared, but years of running the Sanctuary of Xir with only Renulf's assistance had taken their toll. Despite Ozwyn's salty disposition and often harsh temper, Renulf always thought of him as aged and frail, someone who would not survive long without his help. Ordinary decency called for him to stay. Otherwise, he might have fled like all the other young men Ozwyn had tried to take in over the years.

  Shaking his head, Renulf reached for his quill once again. Even if he did try to leave, where would he go? Most of the failed novices had been the sons of minor noblemen, and that type could make their way in the world some other way. Renulf, who had no family and no connections, could not. The Sanctuary of Xir lay exactly in the middle of nowhere, by the design of whoever had built it ages ago. A massive forest surrounded them, the only path through it overgrown with brambles and ferns. Walking to the nearest village, where Renulf occasionally went for supplies, took a full day in each direction. Every time he ventured out, he returned as expected. So he would for the rest of his life, he supposed.

  When he looked back down at the page he'd just completed, Renulf groaned to see an error in the lettering. A splotch masquerading as an alphabetical flourish would have to cover it. He glanced back up at the window to make sure Ozwyn was still occupied there.

  His mouth dropped open in shock.

  A stranger had entered the grounds. The being—for Renulf hesitated to think of it as a man—stood in the garden, speaking to Ozwyn. Never had Renulf seen such an ugly being, which reminded him of some of the trolls in the ancient stories he'd copied, with greenish skin, yellowed fangs protruding from his lower lip, and coarse black hair running from his scalp down the back of his neck. Thankfully, a leather tunic and dark brown leggings concealed the rest of his stumpy body from view.

  Renulf was less happy to see a sword belt and a number of smaller knives dangling from the intruder's waist. Though Renulf was too distant to make ou
t the exact words, the intruder was speaking to Ozwyn in a loud, angry manner, and he tried to snatch away the vegetables Ozwyn had just plucked. Ozwyn, perhaps foolishly, was putting up a hardy fight. To Renulf's astonishment, he seemed determined to risk his life for the sake of a few crookneck gourds.

  Abandoning his work, Renulf hurried outside to aid Ozwyn. On his way, he picked up a long wooden pole he sometimes used to balance pails on his shoulders when he came back from the nearby well. Woefully inadequate as a weapon, in the absence of anything else, it would have to do.

  As he rounded the side of the sanctuary and came upon them, he could hear what the two were saying. He approached the intruder from behind, raising the wooden staff over his head.

  "Wine," the troll-like being demanded, grunting the words rather than articulating them. "Want wine!"

  "We have no wine," Ozwyn barked at him, holding the gourds with one hand and waving him off with the other. "You will leave this place at once! The Sanctuary of Xir is open only to those seeking spiritual solace—not miscreant, thieving Garwigs like yourself! Off with you!"

  A Garwig! Renulf nearly froze in shock. He'd heard that word before. Brutal enemies that had begun invading from the north some years ago, Garwigs were known for their barbarity, stupidity, and utter lack of respect for culture in any form. Most could neither read nor write, and to judge by this one, it appeared they couldn't speak too well, either. They tended to travel in packs—where could this one have come from? Were there more? Renulf sincerely hoped not.

  "You lie, monk!" The Garwig drew his sword. "I will have wine and food alike!"

  "Indeed you shall not!" Ozwyn argued. Renulf was nearly close enough now to deliver a stunning thwack to the top of the Garwig's head. He might have accomplished it, too, if Ozwyn hadn't raised his eyes at just that moment and looked directly at the staff coming down.

  With surprising speed, the Garwig turned on Renulf and swung his sword. Renulf jumped back just in time to avoid being sliced in half at the waist. Lowering the staff in front of him, he tilted and parried the Garwig's angry blows. It worked well enough for a moment or two, until the thick blade shattered his pitiful stick of wood into a shower of splinters. Renulf heard Ozwyn shouting for him to fight harder, but he made no effort to help.