Chapter Text
“It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end, because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness will pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines…”
Sam is dimly aware that this scene had made him feel something, once. What was it? Comfort? Encouragement? Inspiration, maybe?
He feels nothing of the sort, now. Sluggishly, he wonders if he’s feeling anything at all at the moment… bitterness, maybe. And something deeper, something strong and terrifying far below the surface of his conscious mind.
Remember when Peter called you Samwise? How pleased you were that someone had given you the nickname of one of your favorite fictional heroes of all time? You were grinning so hard you had to bite your cheek. Remember?
Sam remembers. And then, with tremendous effort, he forgets.
Awareness comes and goes, these days. Dully, he is aware of Enya singing her lullaby again. That means it’s time to change the DVD. If he doesn’t change it, the home menu will play over and over, and become irritating. Irritation makes his mind more active, makes him more awake, and that’s bad.
His loosely drifting thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door. As if there’s any reason to knock, any pretense at privacy, when he’s under 24-hour camera surveillance and one of his four walls is a shatterproof glass one facing the inside of a lab.
But Brent always knocks.
“Good afternoon, Sam!” Valmont’s cheerful voice barges into Sam’s ears. “I’ve brought you something!”
Sam doesn’t turn to look. He can’t be bothered to move.
“Oh, come now, you’ll like this one, I know you will.”
When Sam still makes no reply, Valmont crosses the room and stands beside Sam’s bed. “You can pretend you’re sleeping, but I know you’re awake. Here, I chose this just for you,” he cajoles.
Something small is set down on the bed, next to Sam’s pillow. Something… breathing. Little, tiny animal puffs of air. A chinchilla.
“I know how taken you were with Alejandro,” Valmont says softly, “and how you must miss him. Well, this one is called Barnabus.”
Barnabus snuffles at Sam’s face, and Sam blinks slowly.
With a sigh, Sam sits up, gently pick up the chinchilla, and places it in his lap.
“What’s wrong, Brent? Worried there’s not enough enrichment in my enclosure? Concerned about a visit from the ethics committee?”
“Oh! You’re actually talking today, that’s wonderful! I knew Barnabus would cheer you up.”
Rejecting the gift would only anger Valmont, and an angry Valmont mistreated his employees. Besides, who knows what would happen to Barnabus if Sam doesn’t keep him?
“Thank you,” he intones dutifully.
“You’re welcome!” Sam’s jailer beams down at him, ever the benefactor. Ever the proud owner of a prized specimen. “Now, don’t forget to shower,” he continues. “And brush your teeth. Your health is paramount to us. To all the world.”
Sam sighs.
Momentarily, he realizes Valmont hasn’t spoken for some time. He must have left a while ago. In the corner, there’s a cage with hay, a water bottle, and bedding for Barnabus.
Sam puts the animal in its cage and lies back down.
~
It’s been months, and nothing. No sign of Sam anywhere. It’s like he never existed. When they finally, finally get a scrap of information (at an exorbitant price) from one of Amelia’s contacts, it leaves Five so frustrated she could scream. Fucking Valmont! He’s taken him out of the country, somewhere on a private fucking jet of all things, and how can he even find the fuel? That asshole. That rich, smug asshole! They were heading east, and Amelia’s best guess is that he’s going to one of his strongholds. Yes, he has several of them, like goddamn supervillain lairs, throughout the world.
Veronica – the original, communicating via shoddy radio relay network– manages to coax details out of the local ANNIE. They narrow it down to two possibilities: The Maldives, or the UAE. Of the two, the UAE is easier to reach, which is not to say that it’s easy at all. Veronica gives odds of 73.14% (Five honestly wishes she came with an off switch, or at least a mute button) that the base between Dubai and Abu Dhabi is the correct one, as it’s equipped with the most advanced biological laboratory facilities.
Maldives, Amelia notes with abundant disdain, was more of a recreational location. He called his base there Scarif, because of course he did.
It takes weeks just to plan and arrange for transportation, and all of them are on edge. Maxine, who helped them all escape from Valmont – all except one – leaves them to stay in New Agadir. She’s taken the panacea component from Five’s blood and the thumb drive and is working on recreating it. She and Five don’t part on good terms, Five accusing Maxine of being “just like Veronica” by choosing research over her friend. Maxine doesn’t even defend herself. She just shakes her head and tells them all to be safe, then walks away from them. They leave New Agadir days later without speaking to her again, traveling by camel, by jeep, on foot, and finally by sailboat.
The winds aren’t fast enough, and progress is slow. Every morning Five stands on deck, jaw clenched, glaring at the rising sun. Every day, she trains as best she can in the small space available. Every night she whispers to Sam, “we’re coming to get you,” and wishes the wind could carry her message ahead of them.
~
“Just a small prick,” the technician says.
That’s what she said, he can almost hear Five snigger.
Whatever they’re injecting him with today burns. He barely registers it.
“You may experience body aches, fever, nausea…”
Sam tunes her out and lets the static in his mind take over. He thought about Five, just for a second. Now she’s going to keep popping up in his thoughts all day. He’ll probably dream. Sam hates when has dreams – especially happy ones. He hates waking up.
(six months earlier...)
Sam is contemplating The Sandman graphic novels – the part where Morpheus is imprisoned in a glass cage in a rich man’s basement. It hadn’t ended well for Roderick Burgess, and Sam wonders if Valmont’s ever read it. Of course, he probably owns original hand drawn manuscripts with Neil Gaiman’s autograph, as well as Mike Dringenberg, but has he actually read it? Probably not.
Sam is entertaining a daydream of being in possession of Dream’s pouch of sand when Valmont enters the room, carrying a briefcase.
“Come to apologize and let me go?” Sam asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because I’m telling you, you really don’t want to mess with my friends. I mean, you should know better - you’ve met them, right?”
Valmont looks at Sam, brows furrowed. “You may want to sit down, Sam,” he says, sounding grave. “I have some rather… difficult news.”
“Like I’m going to believe anything you tell me,” Sam scoffs.
“Then I won’t tell you. I’ll let you see for yourself. But please, sit down first.” Valmont gives him a sickly, soulful look and places a box of tissues on the bedside stand. Sam rolls his eyes. “Fine.”
“We’ve pulled some footage from your cameras around Abel – oh yes, of course we’ve been monitoring them for years. Easy task for ANNIE. She still has plenty of satellite feeds too, you know. Anyway, I’m afraid it’s all rather shocking. I’ve had my technicians edit out the gorier bits, so you wouldn’t be subjected to… well. Here.”
Valmont opens the briefcase and pulls out a tablet. “The footage is here,” he says. “Best get it over with.” He taps an icon, pulling up a video app, and hits play.
“ALL ABEL RESIDENTS, TAKE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. ALL ABEL RESIDENTS, TAKE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.” Sam doesn’t recognize the voice over the PA, but that doesn’t mean much. With over 2000 residents at last census, he doesn’t know everyone personally anymore.
What follows is mostly short clips of blurry night-vision footage from cameras surrounding the township. Sam watches it with his arms crossed over his chest, dripping with skepticism. Abel destroyed. Buildings leveled; friends shot, or stabbed, or engulfed in flames.
He swallows his fear, determined not to react. “It’s fake,” he shrugs. “It’s got to be.”
Valmont raises an eyebrow, then cocks his head to the side, the very picture of sympathy. “It’s a lot to take in. I’m so very sorry, Sam, you know I am. Despite our… conflicts of interests, it pains me to show you the destruction of your beloved township. But I’m afraid this is the real thing. And I’m sorry to say, there were no survivors.”
He pauses to let that sink in, watching Sam’s face go blank and his arms go slack at his sides.
“There is more. An audio transmission. If you’d like…”
“Play it.”
“Hello? Does anyone copy?”
It’s Paula.
“I’m broadcasting from inside the bunker in Abel Township. We are under attack. I have children here. Please, if anyone is reading me – please help us. Shh, it’s okay Sara. Mummy’s here. It’s okay, we –“ there’s the sound of an explosion, followed by static.
It could be fake. It has to be fake. “Play it again,” Sam demands, and Valmont does.
“Sara,” Sam whispers, after the third time listening. He sways, and Valmont catches him.
Get your hands off me, Sam thinks but doesn’t say. He lets Brent lower him to the ground. He lets him pat his shoulder and mumble platitudes. A strange sort of lightness begins to spread through his body, and soon he feels nothing. His mind goes blank.