frost ✖ cobb (nevertopple) wrote in thereincarnates, @ 2013-06-02 00:50:00 |
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Entry tags: | mallory "frost" reynolds |
Who: Frost and Michael Wilder (NPC)
What: Checking up on her mole in the Resistance after Willa's rampage.
Where: Wilder's apartment in NYC
When: Around 3:00 AM on June 2nd, 2013
Warnings: Dream logic and mentions of torture.
Their meetings were always random and never real. Never prearranged, and completely untraceable. It was the only way to protect both their interests – or rather, her interests and his life. The failed invasion of Camelot territories prompted Willa Thompson's wrath, and predictably, it was her own agents who suffered. But Thompson wanted facts, hard evidence of betrayal, and she'd never get it from Michael Wilder. Dreams were just dreams, and he could never reveal something that hadn't actually happened. In theory, it was foolproof.
It should have been foolproof. But dreams don't work that way.
Even before Frost had tampered with his mind, Wilder wasn't a stable man. Maybe that should've been obvious given who he'd chosen to work for, but it became abundantly more clear tonight when Frost let herself into his apartment only to find him drugged into oblivion, and for good reason. He was cut and bruised and unpleasant to look at, but Frost didn't flinch, emotionless eyes cataloging each injury and determining the damage. For as much as there was, it didn't take her long, and then, quickly and efficiently, she set herself to work. She hooked the PASIV into a vein in his ankle – his wrists, broken and set in crude casts, were both useless to her, and unavailable. A minor setback, nothing more. She inserted her own needle into a small scar on her wrist, numb from use and invisible unless you knew it was there. Then she pushed the button and closed her eyes.
When she opened them, she was in a house she didn't recognize. Her nostrils flared at the sharp smell of salt, and she looked around, brow furrowing slightly as she tried to determine where she was. A beach house, but an old one. Shabby, but loved. The sun reflected brightly off the water, yet inside it was very cold, almost enough to give her a chill. This wasn't where she usually met Wilder in his subconscious, but this was her dream. She made the rules, to a certain extent, and after what he'd been through with Thompson, Frost wasn't surprised to find herself here. This dream was isolated, yet familiar. This dream was safe.
She blinked again, and found herself in the room she didn't know she was looking for. A child's room, completely with bunk beds, mobiles of dolphins, and dancing seashells in the wallpaper. It looked empty, but it wasn't. There was a closet in the corner, so nondescript she only saw it after a double-take; knowing yet again that's what she was looking for, she walked toward it, loudly enough to announce her presence but slowly enough not to be a threat. She rested her knuckles on the wilting white paint, rapping softly. "Michael?"
For a beat there was silence, and then there was a child's voice, small and scared. "You didn't say 'ready or not, here I come.' Those are the rules. You're s'posed to say."
Frost pursed her lips. This wasn't a good sign. "I'm not here to play games, Michael."
Another pause, longer, and then the same voice, even smaller. "You're not... her, are you?"
She shook her head, even though he couldn't see her. "No. I'm not her. Can I open the door?"
"... I guess."
The door unlocked with a quiet click, and setting her jaw, Frost opened it. She saw exactly what she expected: a little boy sitting in the very back corner, clutching a picture book tightly to his chest. He had Michael Wilder's distinct green eyes and all of Michael Wilder's injuries. Any other woman might have felt some sympathy for the boy, but not Frost. She was unfazed. She looked at him and felt nothing. This boy was a lie – he was really a man, who was really a murderer. This boy was one of the reasons why her children were dead. Most importantly, though, this boy was the only way she could beat Willa Thompson. Beggars couldn't be choosers.
The boy looked up at her with eyes that would have been wide and innocent had they not been practically swollen shut. "I didn't tell her. I didn't tell her nothin'."
"Good," Frost said coolly.
"I kep' it safe. See?" He held the book out to her and bit back a whimper, skinny arms heavy from the disproportionately large casts. She took the book from him and flipped through it, skimming, memorizing. The pirates and mermaids on the cover were as false as the boy in front of her. She turned to the back, where the most recent information was written. Plans. Dates. And even better, locations. Frost nearly smiled.
Finished, she handed it back to him, and hastily he clutched it back to his chest, as though he were holding on for dear life. "Thank you. That'll be helpful."
He nodded and swallowed hard. "Will... will you shut the door when you go? She's lookin' for me, but she can't get me here. It's the best hiding place ever. Papa said so." He started rocking, back and forth. Back and forth. "She can't get me. She can't. She can't."
She didn't say anything. Just shut the door and locked him in the dark, just like he wanted. If his dreams were already this broken, it wouldn't be long before his mind went, too. Arguably, that was her fault, but she felt no remorse. This was war. War had casualties. Michael Wilder would be one of them.
She turned to go.
And then she woke up.