by H. M. Wolfe
Feeling completely refreshed after a night full of sleep, Alasdair was excited to start the first day at the lab. Escorted by Landon, a tall, pale, skinny and very quiet guy, he stepped inside the huge, white room where pleasant smells of flowers and herbs mixed, scenting the air.
A kid in his late teens, dressed in a white coat, was working in a corner, mixing some powders in a large porcelain bowl. Alasdair stood next to him, curiously watching the procedure. The boy ignored his presence, entirely focused on whatever he was doing until, at some point, he started to frantically look for something. After a while, the kid collapsed to the ground, starting to sob uncontrollably.
Alasdair knew better than to touch him or try to offer some comfort because, when they talked about the redhead working at the lab, Ardan had warned him that Dubois hated to be touched or even spoken to, so he looked around the room, trying to figure out what the boy was searching for and couldn’t find.
Finally, he saw the object, a small balance used to weigh the ingredients for different medicines. Carefully taking it, the redhead moved nearer to the older boy, crouching down.
“Is this what you were looking for?” he signed, waiting for Dubois to react.
“Yes, thank you,” the teen answered, using sign language. “You must be the Alasdair boy,” he signed again.
“Exactly,” the other kid replied, using the same communication method, then grinned. “What can I do to help?”
Dubois pointed in a certain direction. “Plants and charts” were the only two words the redhead understood from his gesturing tirade.
Going there, Alasdair could see a multitude of pots full of plants, each of them having a chart attached. The kid suspected it was much more than that, so he looked around very carefully, noticing that there were two thermometers inside each pot.
Removing the instruments, the redhead could see that each of them served different purposes, one indicating the soil’s temperature while the other one measured the level of humidity. Alasdair noted the values on the chart attached to every pot, then, after thinking for several seconds, collected all the charts, going to where Dubois was working.
“Plant charts.” He pointed to the pile when the boy lifted his head from the glass recipients he was surrounded by.
“Excellent.” A shadow of a smile graced the kid’s features. “That will be your job from now on,” he gestured to Alasdair.
“Yes, sir!” The younger teen mocked the military salute, collecting the charts and putting each of them where it belonged. “Now what?” he signed when finished, returning to Dubois’ table.
“How about that?” The boy pointed in the direction of two sinks full of recipients of all kinds waiting to be washed.
The redhead nodded in understanding, rolled the sleeves of his shirt and started to clean everything, just how he used to do at the clinic. Then, in a large pot, Alasdair sterilized the equipment, heating the water until it reached the boiling point. When he finished, Dubois cast a surprised glance in his direction, visibly impressed.
“I know. You probably thought that I’d barge in here, sticking my fingers everywhere and messing around. I know better than that. I’m not the bratty, snotty, nosy kid everybody here thinks I am,” Alasdair gestured.
“I didn’t think, not even for a moment, that you were snotty, bratty or nosy, but you are right about all the other things. Sorry about misjudging you,” Dubois signed, then sighed.
“It’s all right, no harm done.” The redhead’s relaxed facial expression and sincere eyes made his gestures even more convincing.
“Could we be friends, then?” the older boy tentatively extended his hand, but Alasdair just lightly brushed his fingers against it.
They spent the rest of the day in silence, rarely stopping to communicate, each of them busy with different things. From time to time, Dubois stopped, examining the redhead from the corner of his eye. Shaking his head in disbelief, he got back to work, the smallest of smiles playing on his pale lips.
Alasdair, on the other hand, was tense as a bow ready to shoot the arrow, and it wasn’t because of his co-worker. On the contrary, he appreciated Dubois more and more with each conversation the two of them had. It was an extremely nagging sensation that the two of them were being watched, and it wasn’t a good kind of watch.
There was nothing Alasdair could do, at least for the time being, so he decided to push the thought to the back of his mind, at least until he could speak with Ardan. Acting normally around Dubois and minding his own business was all the redhead could do in the meantime, so he decided to just wait and see what would happen.
CHAPTER 7
For the first time since he’d been at The Base, Alasdair was scared, powerless and helpless. Things were happening around him, bad things, and he had no one to turn to, no one to speak to and share his worries with. All the guys he trusted were not available at that moment, for one reason or another.
Ardan had left for a few days to an unknown destination to meet the mystery man who backed him up financially. Seymour, who had been shot a few weeks earlier while protecting some kids from those who wanted to kidnap them, was still recovering in a secret location. Drew was always busy with getting the necessary supplies, everything from food to blankets and medical equipment.
There was, of course, Landon, the tall, quiet, skinny guy in charge of guarding the sector where the lab was located. He didn’t talk much, kept things to himself, just like the others, but he shared a strong bond with Alasdair and was always worrying about him, watching over him, like an older brother, a good one.
However, the redhead couldn’t talk to Landon about the problem he had because the guy was the problem or at least a part of it. Some weeks earlier, the kid had noticed how Landon had started to lose his appetite, eating less each day than the previous, losing his strength bit by bit.
When Alasdair asked him, Landon smiled, saying that he was fine, although he was weaker by the day until he couldn’t get out of bed. This was just before Ardan’s trip and, under pressure, he’d decided to temporarily replace Landon with one of the newer guys, Casey Cantrell, a beefy fellow, who, when greeted or asked something, just grunted in response.
One of the first things Alasdair learned when he arrived at The Base was that none of the guys, Ardan included, had last names. They only went by their given names and, from this point of view, the presence of someone who also went by his last name seemed pretty suspect to Alasdair. However, the little redhead knew better than to disobey the boss’s decisions.
That was until the day Casey, the moron, stood too close to Dubois, putting his large hand on the back of the kid’s neck and hissing something in his ear. It must’ve been in a foreign language because the redhead didn’t understand. On the other hand, poor Dubois’ face became as white as a sheet of paper. He’d only been at the lab for a few weeks, but he’d known the rules from the beginning.
“Back off, dickhead. You’re too close to him,” Alasdair barked the warning, shooting daggers in the guard’s direction. “He doesn’t like it when someone invades his personal space.”
“Don’t talk to me like that if you want to live a long, happy life, you little piece of shit. I didn’t hurt that pathetic whore. I just had a few words with him, that’s all.” Casey flashed an evil grin in Dubois’ direction.
“I didn’t understand a thing of what you said.” Alasdair stood next to the other kid, maintaining a safe distance, but close enough for him to feel protected. “I highly recommend you speak in English, so everyone, me included, can understand what you’re saying. That’s one thing. Never touch, stay close to or speak to Dubois again without asking him for permission first. That’s another thing.”
“Listen, snotty brat. No one tells me how I’m supposed to do my job. Not a little whiner like you, anyway. I can speak to the little bitch or even lay my hands on him as much and for as long as I want because there’s no one to stop me. I’m not stupid. I’ve taken care of everything.”
&n
bsp; As he spoke, the guard came dangerously close to Dubois, but Alasdair reacted faster, coming between Casey and the kid, who was staring ahead of him, too terrified to move. The redhead’s body went rigid, his fingers curled one by one until the hands balled into fists.
There was something wild, untamed, in Alasdair’s expression, something that made the guard back down, even if it was only a little. Just when he was getting ready to launch the attack, the door creaked, announcing the presence of one or more visitors. Casey turned his head for just a second, enough for the redhead to hit the man hard on the back of his head, making him fall to the ground.
“Hey, look at our little man here! I didn’t know you were practicing self-defense, at least Ardan hadn’t told me when we spoke over the phone.” The voice made Alasdair turn, his eyes widening when he saw one of the two men who stepped into the lab.
“Seymour, you came back! I missed you so much. I thought you’d forgotten about us, or that something bad had happened to you, but no one had told us because you didn’t want us to worry and...” The redhead stopped talking, tightly hugging the man.
“Whoa, calm down, little one. I’m still alive and kicking.” Seymour smiled at Alasdair’s unusual demonstration of affection. “Plus, I brought help.” He pointed in the direction of the silvery-blue-eyed man standing a few steps behind him.
“Hello, nice to see you. I’m Benjamin Van der Meerwe, but everyone calls me Benji. Our friend here has told me a lot about the two of you, and I’m looking forward to working with you.”
Alasdair gave the newcomer a ‘whatever’ look, then he turned his attention to Casey, who had recovered from the blow and was scrambling to his feet. “Better now?” he said in an ironic voice. “I hope that’s enough for you to learn your lesson and never pull a stunt like that ever again,” the redhead hissed into the guard’s ear.
“You little...” the man started in a venomous voice but stopped at the sight of Seymour and Benji, who stared at him in amusement. “What’s so funny?” he grumbled.
“Hello, Cas. I’m happy to see you too,” Seymour said, trying not to burst into a fit of laughter. “Well, I guess that the David and Goliath legend is based on a true story, after all.”
The man didn’t say anything, just glared in the newcomers’ direction, shooting daggers and cursing mentally. It was a piece of cake, the boss had said when he’d assigned him the mission. He only had to be the bait, messing with that French lab boy’s mind while his partner from inside did the hard work.
When Casey had arrived at what those pathetic ‘Justice League’ imitators pompously called The Base, his teammate informed him about everyone who was considered important there. Well, not everyone, since the man omitted to mention that the boss’s whore was more than just an average slut.
He had to meet the inside man again and talk things through once more. Casey had the feeling that the other one wasn’t going to be thrilled at the idea, but he hadn’t much of a choice. Making a new plan was the only thing to do if they wanted to take down that simulacrum of organization and capture its leader. The man created too many problems and made Casey’s boss lose a lot of money. The situation was becoming intolerable.
“So, what do you say?” Seymour turned to the guard, who failed to mask the sourness of his expression. “Does the kid have any potential?”
“He does if you ask me,” the new guy, Benji, replied, casting an appreciative look in Alasdair’s direction. “The execution was impeccable. I didn’t see the blow coming, the speed of the reaction was amazing. Congratulations, kiddo. You put a lot of hard work in there, and you have a hell of a trainer too.”
“It’s not—I trained by myself,” the redhead said, blushing. “I mean, I saw the moves in one of the ancient medicine books Ardan gave me, and since the style is not based so much on force but rather on knowing the location of vital pressure points... Name’s Alasdair, in case you wondered.”
Benji smiled. “Defender of men. Why am I not surprised,” he said, giving Casey a warning look. “Nothing is what it seems. This is a lesson I’ve learned very well,” the man smiled mysteriously.
“Starting from tomorrow, you two will have a new helper,” Seymour pointed in the Van der Meerwe heir’s direction.
“Don’t touch anything, don’t stay too close to Dubois, don’t speak to him unless he speaks to you first, mind your own business. These are the rules, break them and you’ll be out of here the next second. Do I make myself clear?” Alasdair said, looking Benji straight in the eyes.
“Yes, sir,” he answered in a half-serious, half-amused voice. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“There is one more thing,” the redhead answered in a very serious tone. “You have to start learning sign language. I would advise you to learn it really fast if...”
Alasdair stopped abruptly, looking at Dubois, who had laid on the ground in a fetal position. Suddenly, the boy sprang to his feet, starting to run in the door’s direction. The redhead followed him, opening the door of an almost empty room while Seymour directed Dubois in there.
Closing the heavy door behind the kid, the two of them listened intently. After a while, they heard some thumps. At first, the noises were low, but they became more and more audible as time went by, making Alasdair’s heart wrench in pain as he knew the origin of the sounds.
They were produced by Dubois’s body hitting the padded walls of the room, the punishment he directed against himself for whatever reason. It was the second fit of rage Alasdair had witnessed, the first one happening about a week before Seymour was shot. That one took a whole day, leaving Dubois totally exhausted in an almost catatonic state.
During all that time, the kid hit himself against the walls of the safe room, clawed at his skin, letting out sharp cries of pain, saying unintelligible words in an unknown language, pleading, crawling, then hitting himself against the wall again and again. Alasdair’s heart was bleeding because he had become as emotionally attached to Dubois as he was to Peyton and Ezra.
At that time, the redhead wondered what could have possibly triggered such an extreme reaction from the painfully shy, quiet kid. Not finding any answer, he asked Ardan, who explained to him that this was Dubois’ brain’s way of coping with the horrible treatment the teen experienced at the hands of Carter, a twisted-minded psychiatrist.
“You can’t leave him like that, alone in the room. He could easily hurt himself. And even if he doesn’t, it isn’t fair to let him bear that burden alone. Someone has to help him,” someone spoke from behind Seymour and Alasdair. It was Benji, a pained expression on his face.
“And what do you suggest, genius?” the redhead replied acidly. “Do you think we haven’t considered other options? Everything else triggers him even more, makes the rage fits even more intense. We’re his friends. We can’t afford to lose him. You, on the other hand, are a stranger who doesn’t give a flying fuck if Dubois lives or dies,” Alasdair said, sadness in his voice.
“Three years ago, someone accused me and a group of friends of not giving a flying fuck about another friend, who was suffering in silence. I promised myself then to always give a fuck about people who need help.” Benji’s voice was soft but firm.
“Okay, what do you need to know?” Seymour said, giving Alasdair a look that told the redhead he could trust the newcomer.
“First of all, I want you to unlock the room and let me in, then I would like to know his given name because I don’t think it’s Dubois, am I right?”
“Yes, you are, but it’s the only one he answers to. The poor boy can’t stand his given name because that twisted-minded fuck used to call him by it when he did things to him. It’s Armand, but please, don’t call him that.”
“Desperate situations require desperate measures, my friend, and if this is not a desperate situation... Unlock the door, please,” Benji said, giving Seymour a reassuring look.
The man nodded, doing as he was told, then stepped aside, letting the newcomer in. Slowly, car
eful not to scare Dubois, who was curled in a corner, hugging his knees and staring blankly into space. Getting close to the boy, Benji slid down, sitting on the floor. He put a protective arm around the kid’s fragile shoulders, waiting for him to react.
A small, almost imperceptible flinch was the only sign that Dubois registered the other man’s presence. However, after a very short time, he started to shiver badly, scurrying away into the opposite corner, where he laid down in the same position as he had been in the lab, protecting his head with his hands.
Benji followed the kid there, laid down next to him, gently wrapping his hands around that slim, delicate frame. Dubois went stiff, straightened his posture, getting ready to jump to his feet, but this time, the man anticipated his move, so he blocked the way, circling the boy’s waist.
“Relax, Armand, you are safe here. I will protect you from whoever would want to harm you. They’ll have to take me down first if they want to get to you, and I’m a die hard type of guy.” A shadow of a smile was playing on Benji’s lips while he spoke, no trace of threat in his silvery-blue eyes.
“Don’t say that name.” Dubois shook his head, sheer horror in his big, doe-like, innocent eyes. “Carter could hear you, and he could come here, looking for the boy. And when he finds the one he’s looking for...”
“That son of a bitch can’t harm you. I’m here to make sure no one gets to you. The question is: do you trust me enough to let me protect you?”
“You don’t understand,” Dubois whispered terrified. “Carter is everywhere, even here. He will grab Armand, lock him up and throw away the key, so nobody could ever find it and save him. That’s why we should never say that name, that’s why he never speaks, never says a word, only uses signs...” The kid abruptly stopped talking, covering his mouth with both his hands.
