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The room in which Maverick is being held is white. Incredibly white. White walls. White ceiling. White floors. The only break from white is the thick metallic-type bars that keep prisoners from interacting with one another. More often than not, Maverick is in here alone. There are, in total, four separate cells — divided by vibranium bars. There's no question that the project is exceedingly well-funded.
The constant hum of the lights ahead echoes across the room. Each cell has a single (rather uncomfortable) bed, and there's little in the way of company, and even less to do in this place.
Over the last few days, Maverick hasn't seen many souls — not workers, and not prisoners. He's most been alone-alone. And after awhile, he's taken to waiting in whatever position urges him.
Sleep hadn't come for some time, but after days, even the wicked grow weary.
There's an eerie darkness that overcomes Maverick's consciousness as he drifts into whatever dreamland befalls him. For a moment, that place between the sleeping and waking worlds blurs, making it an indiscernible juxtaposition of fiction and reality.
A single face imprints over his senses. Her face, heartbeat, scent, and breath, speak to a day long past in a perfect place in both time and space.
*
At first, David had been incapable of rest. He was too furious. Furious for missing what had been right under his nose for so long. At Stryker for the years and years of one lie after another. At himself for the letter he had sent to Luke Cage before arranging his own kidnapping and risking Miss Pryde's return to… this.
He'd tried everything he could to get out of the cell. He had punched the clean white walls until his fists were bloody trying to build up enough strength to rip the bars from the ground, only to discover they didn't even seem to realize he was there. Not even concussive blasts did him any good.
He may have indulged in some frustrated screams. It was important not to bottle one's emotions.
But now… now, the tedium and the solitude have taken their toll. He's lost track of how many days he's been there, how long he's been awake. He can go a long time without sleep, but not forever. One moment, he's in a cell.
The next, he's blinking groggily, his brow knitting in confusion at the familiar face that begins to come into focus above him.
"Ginetta?" David asks. It takes him by enough surprise that, for a moment, he forgets to be concerned by the presence of a woman who tried to kill him.
*
The name warrants one in turn. "Christoph," the woman's voice levels with just a hint of irritation. Her ever-rounding belly protrudes in front of her, and she desperately reaches for his hand to press upon it, "I said I felt a kick. I think he's going to play football," she virtually sparkles as she presses his hand just a bit harder against her.
The nurse shifts her weight from one foot to the other, prompting a rather exasperated and honest breath, "My feet are killing me." She sighs lightly. "And my shoes are shrinking," or, rather, her feet are growing. Her head cants to the side inquisitively while her eyes blink owlishly, "How was work?"
*
David — rather, Christoph — makes no attempt to resist having his hand taken and guided to rest against her belly. He very nearly jerks his hand away in surprise when he feels a kick against his palm. Something isn't right.
But he'll be damned if he can figure out what it is.
"I… long. It was long," Christoph replies, looking up to her face and offering her an apologetic smile. "I don't even remember coming home. Sit, sit," he says quickly, giving himself a hard mental shake. "I'll fetch you something to drink."
*
A knowing smile pulls at Ginetta's lips. "Mmmm," it's a sound of ascension that Maverick has become all too familiar with. Even after some time together, the woman has always remained a bit of a mystery. Her hand drops from her stomach, and she looks towards the kitchen table and chairs. Arching a single eyebrow, there's just a hint of skepticism in her gaze.
"You're too kind to me," she murmurs as she slides into the chair. Her feet slip out of the tie up nurse-shoes, and she groans lightly. "I miss the days when I could easily tie my shoes." There's a hint of mischief in her gaze.
Her hands lightly rub her back. "Tell me, my love, did you check the mail?" It's a simple enough question — so routined in its simplicity that it almost deserve an automatic response.
Yet, as she asks it, Christoph can't fight the deja vu that tugs against his consciousness.
*
Christoph follows alongside her until she's made it into the chair. He doesn't question the desire to fuss over her, even if he's certain to earn an earful for it. She is a perfectly capable woman.
"Just a few weeks more," Christoph tells her with a lopsided smile, leaning over to press a kiss to her hair before he carries on into the kitchen. He promised a drink, and a drink she shall have.
He stops with an empty glass in his hand when the question comes, beginning to open his mouth without even thinking. That tugging is… odd. Had she already asked him that today? No. No, of course not.
"I'm sorry," Christoph replies, wondering why the words feel so strange as they leave his tongue. "I'll do that now."
*
The chair squeaks as she slides from it, pressing herself to a stand. Her arms hug her body lightly as she moves, drawing into herself defeatedly. While Ginetta might be a capable woman, the assertion that she has tired feet suggests she should be off them, but something seems even more off. "I need to know why you did it," she whispers levelly. "Tell me why you did it."
Her tired feet slowly shuffle to the kitchen. She opens the fridge door and takes out a large watermelon before drawing a chef's knife from the chopping block.
SCHLING The sound of metal wedging against watermelon rind rolls over Christoph's mind like some ill-fated bell calling bell ringers to those accidentally buried alive.
Ginetta's face pales as she works. Her jaw tightens. "You did it. You know you did. There is no one to blame but yourself."
*
Despite his words, Christoph is not moving to fetch the mail. In fact, he isn't moving much at all. He's rooted in place, the empty glass held in one hand as his eyes watch Ginetta moving across the room. His brow furrows slightly and one corner of his mouth twitches. Something is wrong. What's wrong?
He isn't sure why, bye the sound of the blade slicing the watermelon is making him feel sick.
"I… you will have to be more specific, my love," Christoph replies slowly, trying to force some lightness into his voice. There's a laugh there, but it's born from unease. "I have done a great many things."
*
Oddly, as he asks for specificity, whatever anger seemed to have built in Ginetta fades, becoming replaced by an unusually sweet answer: "Why darling, you lost us." She blinks vapidly, while a charming smile plays on her lips, and she reaches out to touch Maverick's arm. Ice cold fingers hue blue to the touch. "You were only ever good for one thing and then you used it on your own family. You could've defected. Found happiness in some other life, but you went to what you knew. What you know. What you will do once again." She smiles sweetly, releases his arm, and goes back to chopping the watermelon.
Her hand absently lifts to her neck, fingers running over the carotid, and coming up bloodied. She tilts her head at him expectantly. The glint of metal in his own hand reflects from the light overhead. "It's not that everything you touch breaks that is so bothersome to you. It's that even the things you create you break." She smiiiiiiles.
*
No. No, no, no, this is all wrong. Not what she's saying, that's all true and Christoph knows it deep in his bones, but this — that she's here, saying it — it's wrong. He finally remembers why.
She can't be here. She's dead. He killed her.
The glimmer of light catches his eye and Christoph looks down to find the glass long gone, replaced by a bloody knife he can't drop quickly enough as nausea and a sense of horror threaten to overwhelm his senses. He backpedals away from her in a state of near-panic, blindly crashing back against the refridgerator. Just breathe, Christoph.
"This isn't real," Christoph chokes out, wide eyes fixed on Ginetta's face. If he looks away, God only knows what she'll be replaced by. "Who are you?!"
*
The light continues to glint against the metal dropped not he floor, giving a shiny white beam upon the ceiling. But the question earns nothing more than a sadistic smile — almost as if Ginetta's face shouldn't smile, thereby acting as something maniacal and detached rather than warm and joyous. Shadow cross over the teeth in an unsettling combination of madness and joy.
"You. I am you, Christoph. David. Maverick." She sneers as she reaches for his hand again, this time beckoning him to run fingers across her slit throat, "Feel your handiwork. A master at your trade. You crave it. You deny it, but you crave it. Chaos, mayhem, and bedlam are your bedmates."
She reaches up to run her cold, dead fingertips along his cheek. "You bring doom where you tread. You know you can't save them. None of them. You'll only kill them instead."
*
Pressed back against the refridgerator door, David tries to jerk his hand away but he's either incapable or unwilling to overpower her. The sound that he makes when his trembling fingers are drawn across her throat is not one a grown man should make.
"No — no! I was defending myself!" David shouts, a note of desperation in his voice. It isn't her, not really, but for the moment, it doesn't matter. "You were one of them! You tried to kill me! I wasn't trying to — I would never have -"
David's words cut off abruptly when she touches his cheek. "This isn't real," he repeats in a hushed whisper, struggling to stave off panic. Perhaps squeezing his eyes tightly closed will help. "This isn't real."
*
The air in Maverick's lungs bares heaviness borne of moisture, heat, and, perhaps disease. His clothes cling to him as the humidity dampens everything it touches. And the smell of gunpowder, and burning flesh tug reminiscently at his nose.
When his eyes finally open, thick, rich, lush greenery enters his gaze. Vines connect trees, and a team attempts to take some semblance of tactical advantage while they move to higher ground. "Remember why you're hired," a gruff man at the front states blandly. "They pay us for this. We push back the locals and let the Belgians leave." He tilts his head to the ice, "This isn't the time to grow a conscience. Any locals touch our people, and we don't get paid."
The combat team, decked out with large heavy weapons, move up the hill. "We hold them back with extreme force until the people are in flight. Understood?"
*
Something doesn't feel right.
Warily, David opens his eyes, one hand coming up to cover his nose and mouth as the stench and sense of disorientation threaten to knock him over.
"I don't — I shouldn't be here," David mutters under his breath, turning in place and taking in the view. He's been here. He knows this. He remembers this.
Oh, hell, he remembers this.
David's eyes snap to the man in front and he feels his hand twitch towards the sidearm at his hip. He could stop it this time. It would be simple. Noone would miss these men.
*
"None of us should be here. Where even is here," one of David's comrades quips. "It's like someone is just sitting at their desk scribbling down one torturous thing after another — " the man issues David a very boyish very lopsided grin. He's much younger than his older counterpart, and something of a trickster. Everyone knows it.
The men all look down the hill, and the weapons get raised. The commander in charge repeats, "Ready your weapons. Anyone that comes over the hill gets fired on until those planes are in the air, understood? Anyone."
People begin to come over the hill. At first they spot the greenery like ants come out of an ant hill, but soon they form hordes.
The mercenaries begin to open fire, taking down the first trickle of people, and creating a first wall of bodies along the jungle floor.
*
David is jolted out of his thoughts and looks to the younger man. Despite himself, he feels his mouth twitch upwards into a smile. "You're not wrong, Wilson," he says lightly, clapping him on the shoulder on his way to join the line. After all, that was where he was supposed to be.
He doesn't draw a gun. Instead, Maverick simply raises one arm, extending his reach towards the masses that crest the hill. Like a bunch of ants under a magnifying glass. Nothing personal.
But no blast issues from his fist. He's charged — he knows it — but Maverick can't bring himself to fire. He feels sick.
"This isn't right," Maverick says slowly, blinking hard to try and clear his thoughts. "Wilson. Wilson, something's the matter with me."
*
"It's like I just like getting a damned pay check — " Wilson's lips hitch up into a smug toothy grin. "And cheap liquor and cheaper women cost money." He opens fire on the incoming horde, picking off people one at a time.
The remarks from Maverick cause Wilson's eyebrows to lift higher. "Just think of it like gophers." His head, however, turns from his work and he watches Maverick for several beats, "It's what you always do, and you are a fucking god. Now get these bitches on their knees worshipping the damned ground you walk on." His eyebrows lift expectantly.
"We are who we are. Don't overthink it."
*
There's an odd taste on Maverick's tongue that he can't quite place. Probably just something in the air. He tries not to dwell on it.
He finds himself snickering in response to Wilson's attempt at a pep-talk, slowly shaking his head and drawing in a deep, steadying breath. "You've got a hell of a mouth on you, Wade," he says dryly, and with a narrowing of his eyes, he feels a rush of power lance from his shoulder and down his arm, eventually bursting from his extended fist. The concussive blast catches one man — gopher, ant, target — square in the chest.
"Ah. That's better."
*
An approving nod follows the action with Wilson all too pleased with both himself and his buddy. "Annnnd gopher down! Score one for us guys," he imitates an announcers voice before picking off another with a bullet.
Oddly, however, even as the bodies accumulate, one of them in the pile twitches. It's fingers move slightly, gaining some kind of momentum against rigour mortis that slowly sets in. As if drawn to something, the corpses push themselves up from their places on the ground.
Battered bodies, caked in burned flesh, blood, and earth amble forward, dizzily moving against the crowd. And as the bodies move, Wilson and the rest of the team disappears — evaporating in the jungle humidity. "David North. You. David."
*
Once whatever that peculiar initial misfire was overcome, Maverick had fallen into his usual rhythm with little effort. Killshots whenever possible — to prevent suffering, perhaps, or maybe just for the sake of efficiency. Precise. Effective. That's what he gets paid for.
Maverick's eyes narrow when he sees the motion and slowly, he lowers his arm, even as some residual energy wafts from his fist like brightly-colored smoke. "Wade, are you seeing this?" Maverick asks, looking to his right to see… nothing. Where the hell did that little bastard run off to now?
Wait. They're all gone. "What the hell?"
His eyes go back to the one body that has suddenly grown into a horde and Maverick's eyes go wide. Reflexively, he starts backing away, his hand hurriedly going for the handgun at his hip. This isn't right. None of this is right.
*
The gophers close in, drawing towards David in their bid for life. Feet trample towards him, stopping the ground and beating it senseless with perfect rhythm. You killed them a feeling rather than a voice shifts over David's consciousness. You liked it. You break everything you touch.
Rhythm continues to drum across David's thoughts. The consistent sound of something he knows. The pounding on the punching bag feels right.
The gym is familiar. He's spent time here before.
A new girl treads through the door. Her cropped, nearly fuzzy hair, distant look in her eyes, and general lack of expression say spades without words.
"Hey, David!" one of the regulars waves at him. "Did you meet Joan?" she doesn't look like a Joan. She looks distant, empty, and withdrawn. "Heard you might want to take a couple kids under your wing. She can fight like anybody's business."
You even break the things you create.
*
David catches the bag in both hands when he hears his name. Just as well, he could use a brief break — not to catch his breath. Purely for appearance's sake. He cranes his neck to see who has come in and his brow furrows slightly.
"That isn't her name," David murmurs to himself. He hesitates a moment before he raises his voice to call back. "She won't learn anything worthwhile from me," he says confidently, turning his eyes back to the bag. "She'll be fine."
*
"That, we can agree on," the regular says before pushing Joan towards David. "She's perfect in every way you weren't and aren't." The man grins and steps aside, waiting for some measure of instruction.
Joan stands there, looking generally empty as she waits. Her hands ball into easy fists, but she doesn't even seem to be poised to fight. If she wants to fight at this gym, she doesn't have the resources to do it.
"Heard you have a soft spot for 'em young gals," the regular notes as he rubs his nose. "If that one," Joan, "doesn't strike your fancy to fight, what about the other girl?" His eyes trail to the door where another young woman has entered.
Hazel eyes, pale skin, matted-normally-curly hair make this one more than fleetingly familiar, but the emptiness in Katherine Pryde's eyes contains no warmth, no mirth, and no spirit. Nothing about Kitty remains. She is a vessel.
"You see," a serpentine smile creeps over his features, "they're not yours to save. They're merely mine to collect."
*
When Joan is pushed in his direction, David blinks and turns away from the bag. His eyes flick between her and the regular, his posture increasingly uncertain. He's supposed to be doing something here. What is he supposed to be doing?
That sense of nausea starts settling into the pit of David's stomach when they're joined by another. Her name, he remembers, but he doesn't say it aloud. He's pretty sure he isn't supposed to.
"I don't… why would I fight them?" David mumbles, one hand drifting up to touch his forehead. Something's not right. What is it? Is it him? "I don't understand what you want me to do."