that which you fear {{Mi&Vash&Lud

[Mihai C. Eliade]

The handcuffs felt heavy around his wrists, a constant distraction of steel pressed to bone. They irritated him, made his chest feel too tight with anxiety, and he could barely resist pulling at them until his skin was raw. They weren't necessary, as per official procedure regarding him, but it seemed that some guards were too daft to imagine escorting a mutant anywhere without some means of controlling them. So there he was, his hands locked behind him, and the burly man's fingers wrapped around the chain to guide him the way he chose, which was mostly roughly and with impatience. Mihai did his best to ignore the metal around his wrists. He would've preferred any other method of being led into the Underground; a stun gun or a baton to his back would have reminded him slightly less of certain people's preferred areas of restraint. As it was, he was already carefully timing his breaths, concentrating on the rhythm so his focus wouldn't be on his inability to move his hands, yet his shoulders were tense with unrest, a steady thrum of it beneath his skin that he was only barely repressing.

There was nothing about this situation that was comforting. Being called into City Hall without any warning, some information about a new supervisor—a Vash Zwingli—and about wanting to meet with him… He didn't understand the formalities of the situation very well. His higher-ups got shifted around often enough, most likely because working Mutant Affairs wasn't the most prestigious department that could be coveted (quite the contrary, really) so they abandoned ship as soon as they could. He'd tried to get on their good side at first, but it became a pointless endeavor as one after the other transferred to a better job once a minimal amount of time had passed, not to mention his own increasing withdrawal into himself. He wasn't sure he'd even met the last guy face-to-face, but he saw little sense in dwelling long on the matter, much less to regret it; it's not like knowing who his superiors were nor the politics behind selecting them changed his lot in life, and he was sure anyone who worked for the government had a less than charming personality anyway. He was already surrounded by such revolting characters on a daily basis—he could do with knowing one less.

It was odd, however, that this one wanted to meet him. What for, Mihai couldn't imagine—usually they just read his profile and sent a specialist to do whatever work needed to be done. He supposed they were technically supposed to keep an eye on him in person, but if there was one thing he knew about the politics of the Mutant Affairs department, it was that few people actually gave a shit. As long as he got them what they wanted—information—and remained compliant, they signed off his monthly allowance and freedom-to-roam forms, and that was that. It was an arrangement that worked just fine for Mihai—the less of them he had to see, the better—and he wasn't sure how he felt about this new pattern that Zwingli was setting. Especially since it entailed being escorted into the Underground.

He had very few fond memories of the prison, and even "fond" did not describe it well. They were more like memories he had to make do with, because he could hardly anticipate better ones to come along. What he remembered of the Underground was by and large dominated by unpleasant memories, recently that of an assault of which the recollection he did not wish to turn over. The musty smell that clung to the walls only brought those repressed images writhing in the corners of his mind, and he had to swallow the bout of nausea that threatened to overtake him as the stench grew stronger the further they drew away from the entrance. What were they here for? He couldn't fathom a reason why Zwingli needed him in the Underground—unless his illicit relations had been discovered. The thought made him feel sick—even harder now to contain the panic that threatened to burst from his chest.

Too distracted by his own thoughts, he stumbled on an uneven piece of the flooring. He recovered his balance quickly, but not enough for the guard leading him. He gave Mihai a rough shove, his voice revealing his thinly-veiled annoyance as he growled, "Move it, mongrel." It was always difficult—so difficult—to not bite back at those words, but Mihai gritted his teeth, stifling his pride as it was so common for him now. Yet, he offered no apology and declined to lower his head, keeping his eyes locked ahead, mustering whatever dignity he could while cuffed, being shoved ahead by the government's lackey, and fighting down a bout of panic. Concentrating on his steps and the ground in front of him was, at the very least, a distraction from ill thoughts, as were his quick studies of the few people who passed them in the wide corridors. When he'd been younger, using context cues to divine a person's background, personality, secrets and desires had been an intrigue, a pass-time for his own amusement—now it was more of a tool of survival, almost automatic during his good days. Which this was quickly shaping up not to be.

The path they were taking was familiar to him, at least. He recognized it as the way to the guards' quarters of the Underground, known to him only because a supervisor had seen it fit to demand his presence whenever she visited the prison. It was the most likely place to ask a human to wait, so that was probably where Zwingli was now, and as he had predicted, he found himself being shoved through the door to the guards' lounge not minutes later. There were a few humans occupying the room; he did not know their faces well enough to say which of them might be Vash Zwingli. That is, not until he was being pushed towards one of them.

"Mr. Zwingli?" the guard said, stopping him in front of someone. The man's tone was considerably more polite than it had been out in the corridor, and Mihai almost scoffed. "You requested this mutant be brought down."

His first impression of Vash Zwingli was that he was rather unremarkable. Short, which was actually probably unusual for Russia (but "Zwingli" didn't sound Russian anyway), and blond, which was very not unusual. But he certainly wasn't the sort Mihai expected to take up a job at Mutant Affairs, even though, granted, he'd had a unique assortment of superiors in his four years. He was still wary of this personage, however—suspicion of others was a trait that could not be but built up over the years, whether towards mutants or humans, and it applied even to the most unassuming-looking types. Anyone could be vicious, especially humans, and judging by Zwingli's serious appearance, he was either someone who followed the rules with commitment or someone who could make another person suffer unflinchingly. These were not mutually exclusive traits either. Mihai would figure out which one—or both—later, as soon as Zwingli started talking.

[Vash Zwingli]

Vash was in anything but a good mood at this very moment, then again that wasn’t exactly unusual for him, however today held a special degree of ill-will to all those that came his way. This, it seemed, was a developing trend whenever he saw or heard from his father. Their relationship was just barely hanging on by a thread and he knew that, he knew that all too well but at the same time he felt the need to at least try and fix it…after all if he didn’t bother than why go through all of this. He hated this job, it was dirty work and he knew it all too well—if there were anyone to blame for anything, he would be the one with the literal or metaphorical blood on his hands…since anything and everything would be blamed on mutants, and who was supposed to contain them again?

Either way, the visit he had from his father that morning telling him just how to deal with the obedient mutants that he had to do his bidding and give him yet another little test of loyalty was something he was not entirely willing to deal with. He would have been far less than happy to deal with this on a good day, which he hadn’t had any of recently—not since the numbness had noticeably travelled up his fingers further than it had been originally, all thanks to his venture into the forest the other night. But he had to listen, when his father told him to do something, it meant it was an order—as if he didn’t he knew the repercussions would land him in a position where he would rather be dead. He still had to prove he was loyal to the humans; he had to do that in order to overcome this tension between him and his parents…and so he knew he wouldn’t have to worry about the threat of the Underground coming back to get him. He knew that there was no way of assuring his safety from that though, and if anyone actually found out that he had shed blood in order to hide his mutant abilities, well he was as good as dead.

So this was where he found himself, sitting in the security office in the Underground waiting for the mutant his father had told him to try out, and how to do so. Really, the only thing that was keeping his mind at ease at the moment was knowing and constantly reminding himself that these beings were evil—they always had been, and they had put this curse upon him. Any sense of rest was nowhere to be seen in his expression, not like he would even bother pretending that he had obtained any of that recently—maybe one day he’d just collapse out of exhaustion. Hell, that probably would happen one day, but that was something he was going to bother with then, at the moment that was of no consequence to him.

While that might have been the case, the mood that Vash seemed to have startled more than a few of the guards, after all it was no secret that he was paranoid enough to carry all manner of weaponry hidden under his suits that he wore to give the appearance of a hard-faced businessman—and well technically, he was.

When he had entered the Underground, most of the guards had just did as they were told without question or even speaking about anything, as they seemed to have come to the conclusion that remaining quiet was a wise idea—which it really, really was.

At the very moment, the only thing that was keeping Vash awake was his own temper and the mug of coffee that he held in his hands, which had been refilled several times. Honestly just wanting to get this over and done with so he didn’t have to think about it and go home…or something like that. That however did not mean that seeing Mihai finally enter the office improved his mood at all, more made him aware of the growing headache from earlier this morning.

Vash looked him over evenly, not really blinking, nor the expression softening, more so keeping that look that expressed his desire to shoot anything that moved too quickly.

Taking a sip of his coffee as he did so, taking his time he finally glared up at the guard, not bothering to get up from his seat. “Did I say to cuff him?” he growled. Perhaps, yes that was rude, but really he didn’t care right now—no patience for any niceties, usually he could at least muster up a please. Either way though, Mihai was released from the cuff s, but the guard still kept a hold of him. This earned another low growl from Vash before he took another sip of his coffee. “Out, everyone, I don’t need you hovering over me, I know what I’m doing.”

The guards left at the snippy remark, leaving Vash and Mihai in the room alone, and Vash’s gaze looking back over him. “Don’t try and test my patience.” He wasn’t overly astonished by Mihai’s stature, he looked a lot weaker than what he was expecting. However that really didn’t matter, he didn’t need to be strong, not for what he was used for. Vash finally stood up, tossing the files that he had been reading on the table, Mihai’s files.

He looked over him again, moving closer and his irritation really starting to show along with the dark circles under his eyes. “I’ve been informed it would be wise for me to see exactly what your….abilities can be used for, not that I would trust a mutant with anything—no matter how much we promise you. But I have people to please.” He rubbed his temples for a second, resulting in a slight sting from the raw skin under his gloves. “I really don’t feel like I’ll care much for using it again but it will be interesting.” He pulled out a vial filled with red fluid, one that he was given and he knew what was in it, but didn’t bother seeing who it was from. They were all the same anyway and all of them would be treated as such. “You know what this is I bet.” He handed Mihai the small bottle.


“Drink it.”

[Mihai C. Eliade]

Silences were well and all, but being kept there in chains, immobile, was making Mihai's stomach crawl. He was suddenly very aware of the position of each guard, of the behavior of the man seated before him; even with his gaze lowered, he could still feel Zwingli's eyes on him. At least practiced indifference from the many times he'd been inspected as goods to be purchased kept his body language unreflective of the slow, sickening twist of his guts. What did they want with him? What was he here for? The blood hummed in his ears like pulsating white noise.

Leaving him in the unknow was worse than being told what was expected of him, but Zwingli's decision to speak came, at least, as a slight relief, moreso when he ordered the handcuffs to be removed. Feeling the guard grab his arms to unlock the cuffs—more gently this time, perhaps due to Zwingli's presence—he kept his expression impassive, only letting the tension in his shoulders go when he felt the metal being slipped off of him. With no more reaction than that, he drew his hands forward and rubbed at his wrists where the cuffs had tugged and chafed, the skin red and tingling a bit as his ability began to set it. Within half a minute, he wouldn't even feel it.

It was a curious thing though, for a supervisor to reprimand someone for handcuffing him. Though some did not demand it, they were never quite irritated by a guard's decision not to follow policy when it came to mutants. Was Zwingli one of those self-absorbed bleeding-heart types, or just a control freak who wanted his orders (and non-orders) to be followed to the letter? Regardless, Mihai hated them both, but he was beginning to feel a little curious about the other man's motives, though he kept that under a careful rein. Wanting to know something did not always mean that the answer was going to be a desirable one. The opposite, more often than not.

It was only when Zwingli shouted everyone out that Mihai raised his head, glancing behind him to watch as the guards scurried out the door, then he looked back down again. He knew that some officials liked to take care of their business privately; some for actual reasons of practicality, others out of personal preference, so it gave him no clue as to what he was wanted for. He supposed he wasn't going to be told either, since his supervisors never really explained the purpose of his actions to him, probably didn't see it necessary to do so. Instead, it was a string of orders: 'do this,' 'do that,' he hardly ever knew if the person he was being used against was actually a criminal (though he supposed that Archadia's laws were such that anyone who opposed them were, legally, criminal).

Finally, with everyone else out of the room and the door shut behind them, Zwingli addressed him. Yet, it wasn't the words, but the files tossed onto the table that interested Mihai the most. So the director had been reading. Mihai had seen the papers enough times to be able to identify them on sight, but—well. That wasn't too strange either. Since Zwingli was new, it made sense that he'd need to read over the information about the mutants he was supervising. No—that was normal. It was all normal except for where they were.

He frowned in confusion when Zwingli started talking again though—about his abilities, about trust. He didn't know why exactly Zwingli was saying those things to him, after all, it didn't matter to him whether he was actually trusted or not; those decisions were tasks relegated to humans, who were capable of higher thinking and could tell whether someone was trustworthy or not. In comparison, mutants were nothing more than simple beasts; hence, Mihai said nothing, letting the foul words slide off of him like water. He was used to it, anyway. They all were.

But then, the word 'again' caught his attention. With just a simple key, he felt his breath suddenly die off, leaving him with an eerie stillness like the sudden cessation of wind by the sea. Zwingli hadn't only been reading… He'd been planning an evaluation.

Mihai's mind began to spin. His mouth was dry, a nervous sweat breaking out on his forehead, and his vision was all of a sudden nailed to the ground even as he bit his tongue to keep his expression neutral. But he was sure even Zwingli would be able to see it if he looked him in the eye, so he didn't dare to raise his head, focusing instead on his breathing. In 1 2 3, out 1 2 3. He wasn't ready for this. And Zwingli wasn't about to give him the time to get ready.

A small vial was thrust before him, and Mihai raised his eyes only to look at it, the liquid inside deep and red. The blood rekindled a deep sense of revulsion in him, as it did whenever he was presented with it, and his breathing started to stutter even as he bit down harder on his own tongue until he tasted iron. The same taste that was gathered up and condensed into that small vial. Yes, he did know what it was, he knew it well, better than he could have ever wanted to.

"E-excuse me?" he managed to whisper, hoping desperately that he had misunderstood, misheard, anything so that the end result would not be… this. Even doing this after getting some sort of warning was bad enough, but without any? At least being told about it ahead of time meant that he could act composed, but this, now, was making him lose grasp of the situation, quickly slipping from his tentative hold. He tried to go over his list of things to make himself look unperturbed: was he breathing right? Was he standing straight? Was his expression neutral?

"Drink it."

Maybe it wouldn't be the same as usual. Maybe it would be like the pinprick experiments back in Weeds, just a few needles and it would be all over. Were his hands shaking? Humans were not needlessly cruel—mostly. He hadn't done anything wrong (Was his expression revealing?), so maybe it wouldn't be that bad. But what if it was? Breathe.

How could he respond? 'No.' But he couldn't do that. 'No' was not allowed for him. 'Yessir, as you wish.' Nonononono. There were ways out, there had to be ways out, ways to say no without saying no. Think, dammit, thinkthinkthinkthinkthink. Breathe. His mouth tasted like blood. Think.

"I'm prohibited from using my powers outside of City Hall," he said, finally, quietly, "sir." Breathe. Keep talking. Don't look at him. "Under secrecy provision seven-point-three of my contract, I am only permitted to use my ability within government-sanctioned locations, which includes only—" His voice caught. Keep talking. "Which includes only operating room three in the medical wing of City Hall." The words came out methodical, monotone, if a little rushed, and it was working a little. For him, at least. Reciting the manual of the contract (code of conduct, list of rules, prohibitions, compulsory provisions, whatever you chose to call them) thrust before him four years ago was making him concentrate on something other than the sickness curling in his guts. Stop the shaking in your hands. "Furthermore, all operations must be carried out under the supervision of a medical professional licensed by the state." Breathe 1 2 3. Don't stutter.

"Forgive me, but I'm required to inform… anyone new of the rules, sir, and I have not been told of any… changes," he murmured, trying not to take too long to piece his words together so that he could say as much as he could. Humans were impatient, and if they didn't cut you off then they would take over the moment you stopped speaking. He couldn't stop speaking until Zwingli had put that vial of blood away, so he kept pushing, trying to keep the stammer out of his voice, trying to steady his fingers by digging them into his legs. "And… if I may point out, documentation of every single one of my tests and… operations have been made. The conclusion as of two years ago is that there is nothing more worth testing, as all of the capabilities of my powers have already been assessed and recorded. Something like this…" He paused, took a stuttering breath, hoping, praying, that this would work. "I'm sure this would only be a waste of your time," he finished quietly.

[Vash Zwingli]

The aggravated state in which Vash had found himself was only growing to a more intense degree with every single word that the evidently nervous mutant—(Mihai it was...right? Ah well, that didn’t matter anyway)—uttered. His head had already started to pound a little with the increasing lack of sleep he was getting due to the nightmares that he’d started to experience, and those nightmares in particular involved this place. Just that past night he’d encountered a nightmare where he couldn’t discern whether it was reality or not, and that had left him in a rather…paranoid state for the rest of the night. Sure he had his own security measures put in place, such as sleeping at an unregistered lodge he’d constructed near the forest in the event that he lost control of the growing charge which he felt threatening to electrocute the next thing he grasped without his gloves on. However, that didn’t stop his innate fear of waking up finding someone staring down at him and electrocuting them: in particular, his sister. Yes, she was one of the two people who knew what exactly he was, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t absolutely petrified of accidentally hurting her. This is why he couldn’t see her…not until after he’d released the electric charge that he was developing a growing need to get rid of.

That, however, hadn’t been what his nightmare was about the previous night, whether that was a good thing or not he still wasn’t quite sure of. No, it was about this damned, disgusting place that he was currently sitting in, and ending up being stuck down here, with all of the other mutants…all of those that the world screamed he belonged with. So, at the very moment this was the last place he wanted to be, and his temper was only growing shorter as he knew he needed to get out of here as soon as possible and if he could, tonight, go to the forest and release that charge which was only making his temper worse.

No matter, none of this affected his ability to read the mutant, merely his patience on dealing with this whole situation, especially after his father had told him what he wanted from him. The nonsense that the mutant was muttering at him were things he already knew, he’d just read them and he knew most of the details of the various contracts of mutants he was to interact with, he knew them and he didn’t want to hear them again. Especially since he knew that his father’s request was made specifically to test his loyalty to him over the state. It didn’t sit well with him that he was breaking rules which he had to deal out on a daily basis, it could result in him being questioned…and in a questioning that would be hard to explain, especially if he were to keep his loyalties to his father in tact. He, himself wasn’t exactly sure why his father had asked him of this other than for the fact that he was testing his loyalties…and sympathies towards the humans over the mutants.

Vash just wanted to get this damned task done with and out of the way so he could go home, go home and be rid of the smell of mutants rotting in cells.

Even if he was in the offices, the smell of sweat from the guards and their interaction with the mutants permeated the room and left Vash with a bad taste in his mouth.

After a moment, he placed the vial of blood on the coffee table beside where he had been sitting before the energy in his expression started to die a little. Apparently the interrogation tactic wasn’t going to work with this one…not right now anyway. He let out a rather frustrated sigh as he ran his fingers through his bangs for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose to try and deal with the growing pulsating concentrating in that region.

“Sit down.” His tone still carried a comparable amount of aggression as it had in his prior commands, but it was slowly starting to reveal just how tired and fed up he was with this all.

“I know all of that. But the person who has put in the request is the person that made the rules. I don’t ask questions, I take orders too.” He muttered, his tone a little quieter then as his gaze ever so carefully darted around the room under his bangs to locate all of the cameras. He’d made a note of them when he had been waiting down there with the guards, and even if it didn’t necessarily do him much good to know where they are at the moment, it was developing into a habit. A habit that was based on the fact that, well, should he have to, he could super charge the cameras in a blind spot by sending a charge along one of the series of wires that connected to the lighting in the rooms.

“The sooner you drink it, the sooner it’s over and you’ll be left to your own devices for the rest of the day to recover. We’ll both be able to get out of here sooner.” Trying the honesty route might work….maybe, well, either way it was a bit easier than having to try and come up with some sort of lie at this hour with his growing inability to think. It wasn’t like any of this information was of importance; he just needed to get the job done.

On that note, Vash wasn’t exactly sure what his father had said to have this act approved of since it did break conventional contract, but he supposed since he was one of the more active members of t he current ruling party, almost anything he did went unquestioned.

[Mihai C. Eliade]

For not the first time in his short life, he wanted to vanish from existence. Any way was fine–sucked into the ground, vanishing into thin air, spontaneous combustion–he just didn’t want to be here, in front of a new stranger who wanted to open him up and see what was inside because they could. Here, controlling his breathing, clutching his hands so they didn’t shake, keeping his head lowered, standing still when all he wanted to do was run, run, run. Out of this place, out of this city, disappear into oblivion and if not that, then somewhere where no one would bother him at all. But if he tried to run, he’d just be gunned down again–he didn’t even have to be halfway out the door–and he’d wake up with exactly the same tasks laid out for him, and they’d just make it worse because they could, because he could be punished.

So when he was ordered to sit down, there was none of the usual care or hesitation. He backed up until his legs hit the edge of the chair opposite Zwingli, then crumpled into it, resisting the urge to draw his knees up to his chest. As though that could protect him from anything. Instead, he sat as primly as he could, legs pressed together and hands in his lap, fingers still clinging together with a force that made them white-knuckled. He realized there was no getting out of it when Zwingli started to speak again, and that unease in his chest felt a little closer to crawling up his throat, out in the form of pleading or cries.

Not that it mattered in the end if he suffered one more or one less. In the long run, it would just be another experience, another memory to slip seamlessly in with all the others. He couldn’t even remember what had happened at the last interrogation anymore, or the one before that, or the one before that. How long ago was it that they decided eyes were as good a target as any? Or skin? They stopped being memorable after the first few times, and as long as Zwingli didn’t do anything memorable, this would soon enough just become part of a long, long story. Perhaps there was not even any point to avoiding one interrogation or the next anymore, but that thought did not provide him with any comfort.

Zwingli continued to talk, offering him the day to recover, offering him the prospect of getting out of here sooner. He had to chew again on his tongue, bringing to his mouth another fresh wave of blood, to stop himself from asking how Zwingli couldn’t see how he didn’t want to “recover” from anything, how he wanted to “get out of here” now. Zwingli spoke like he was a nervous patient coming to get a malignant tumor removed, not–not like a tool, whose parts were worn down from use, parts he’d never get back even if he had the next ten years to recover. Did Zwingli think it was as simple as the healing of flesh and bone?

It was that part that most made him want to scream. If they were going to keep him as this tool, they might as well acknowledge what they were doing to him. That he wasn’t going to recover, that he would never recover–didn’t they at least have the grace to treat this seriously? Treat his pain seriously?

But that was too much to hope for, he knew that well enough that he would laugh if someone else asked him the same. As long as he healed, they’d treat him (and others like him), like tools that always grew back their edge, their durability, and they would call that recovery.

”Your concern is most gracious,” he said after a moment, keeping the bitterness from his voice with well-practiced discipline. ”I’m sure the rest of the day will be more than enough for my recovery, so I suppose, as Sir says, it is best to finish this as quickly as possible.” If only he could say it as sarcastically as he wanted, but he dug his nails into the backs of his hands to make his tone as demure as possible.

Not even that little bite back felt like a victory. It wasn’t going to get him out of this predicament; if anything, it’d make it worse if Zwingli took it as an affront, as it was meant to be. His mind continued to scramble for answers, but it seemed that the other man wouldn’t be moved. Giving up was so much simpler. It was a familiar companion anyway, but it didn’t stop his chest from tightening at the reality that he was going to have to go through with this. But what did another experience matter?

The sickness threatening to rise up made it a chore to speak again, and when he did, his words sounded forced and breathless. ”If you insist on this, then please, just give me a moment,” he said, trying not to choke on his fear. He raised a hand, pressing his fingertips against his eyes, willing back the desperate tears, willing back his nausea, willing back the feeling that his own skin was slowly suffocating him.

He dragged in a few deep breaths. Perhaps Zwingli would be true to his word. Perhaps he could live this through as painlessly as possible. Perhaps in a week, he wouldn’t even remember this violation among the countless others.

Unable to hide the tremor in his fingers, he reached for the vial, unscrewed its cap, and drank.

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Vash Zwingli