Archive of Our Own

When the captain started asking around for more manpower out in Elk River, Sebastian was one of the first to volunteer.

"I just wanted a change of scenery," he told Connelly as they made the drive out. An hour out of the city and the radio station was already losing signal, but he tapped out the rhythm of the familiar song against his leg, keeping the beat going. "My old man grew up somewhere out in these sticks, but I hardly ever get out here. Thought I'd give the city a rest for a bit."

Connelly laughed, thumbs drumming against the steering wheel. "You're not fooling anyone, Castellanos," he said. "You think you can just waltz down to the back country, solve their serial murder case, and impress the captain enough that he promotes you to detective before you hit twenty-five."

"It only takes one officer," said Sebastian, "asking the right questions, to the right person. All it takes."

"And that one officer's gonna be you, huh?" Connelly shook his head. "Well hell, it might as well be. God knows they could use an arrest on this one."

"Damn right." Sebastian continued to keep time against his knee as he looked out the window, watching the pines race by. Every once in a while they passed a dirt road heading into the mountains toward some recluse's cabin, or a favored hunting trail, but otherwise there wasn't much to see but trees, and low-growing ferns, and more trees. It was like any middle-of-nowhere horror flick where radioactive hillbillies sat in wait for clueless teen backpackers. Plenty of places to hide a body. Or twelve.

"It's getting to be that time," Sebastian said. "They're gonna lose another one before the week is out."

"You think?" Connelly frowned, stilling his thumbs. "It's only been two weeks since the last one was reported missing."

"Yeah, but he's escalating." He turned to face Connelly better. "The last victim, Clarissa Evans, was taken from home. Her husband was only gone for an hour. This guy is getting bolder, his MO is evolving, and he'll be back this week." He wagged his finger. "I'd bet my badge on it."

Connelly laughed through a wince. "Escalating?" he repeated. "Evolving MOs? Better keep hold of that badge, Cas. You're no detective yet."

Once they arrived in Elk River, they reported to Sheriff Rooly and received their assignments along with the rest of the volunteers: Cedar Hill. The rest of the day they spent on their feet with two other units, canvasing the small country town. Hours spent walking up to homes, asking questions, taking statements. Rinse, repeat, over and over. No one saw anything unusual, no one had anything new to offer about the alleged victims, no one had any suspects.

"This is what you have to look forward to as a detective," Connelly taunted him over dinner at the town's only restaurant. "A whole lot of door to door questions and not one damn lead."

"It only takes one," Sebastian muttered into his beer.

A local farming couple put them up for the night, along with a few of their peers. Sebastian stayed up long after Connelly was snoring, paging through his journal. Four dead bodies, eight more people missing over a period of four years, one of them a cop. No recognizable pattern. Whoever collared the son of a bitch would make a name for himself, that much was guaranteed.

The next day he woke Connelly up early and they did it all over again.

On the third day they branched out into the surrounding countryside. There were plenty of smaller splinter communities to question, country bungalows to inspect. After noon the clouds rolled in, and the oak leaves turned belly up. "He'll be out tonight," said Sebastian.

"You want me to leave you the keys?" Connelly teased as he stopped the car next to an old, rusty gate. "So you can patrol up and down countryside like you're back home on the beat?"

"Maybe I do," Sebastian retorted as he twisted his door open. "Maybe I will. He's not gonna catch himself."

The gate was locked. Sebastian gave it a few good tugs, wincing at the screech of the hinges; the gate swayed but didn't give. He turned back and shrugged.

Connelly rolled the window down. "I'll check the map," he said. "There might not even be anyone living here."

In the meantime, Sebastian peered through the bars. There wasn't much to see, as the path leading up to the house was tremendously overgrown, ancient trees leaning toward each other on either side. The dirt was packed down but there was no sign of vehicle tracks or even footprints, and the edge of a stone fountain in the distance looked to be similarly unattended. Sebastian moved further down, an uneasy feeling in his stomach. Right at the edge of the gate he spotted a glimpse of the secluded home: a cloudy window, sheltered by sloping eaves just barely visible through the overgrowth. For some reason, it gave him a chill, as if someone were watching them from it.

Connelly let out a whistle, and with a roll of his eyes Sebastian leaned into the window. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not your K-9 unit."

"We're wasting our time here," said Connelly, pointing out their location on the map the sheriff had given them for their assignment. "It's the Victoriano Estate. No one's lived here for years."

"Victoriano?" The name sparked through Sebastian's gray matter, and he tugged his journal out of his back pocket. "Hold on—I think I wrote something down about them."

"Probably. The owners died a few years back—it made the news. The property was donated to some local church or something." Connelly folded up the map and tucked it away. "Let's go. There's no one here for us to talk to, and we can't enter the grounds without a warrant."

Sebastian continued to page through his notes. "Just wait a minute. I know I—"

"Are you lost?"

Sebastian whipped around. He thought for a moment that he was seeing things: a ghost, standing on the other side of the rusty gate. He blinked, and the image solidified into a man whose face was completely obscured by wrapped gauze, a dark raincoat draped over his narrow shoulders. No sound had proceeded his approach and he stood perfectly still, as if he had materialized out of thin air.

Sebastian hastily shoved his journal back into his pocket. "Excuse me?"

"Are you lost?" the man repeated; his voice was gravely, like stone being rubbed together. He jutted his chin at the patrol car. "You're a long way from Krimson City."

"We know where we are," Sebastian said as he returned to the gate, Connelly stepping out of the cruiser behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he put himself across from their unusual host. Up close he could see hints of gnarled scar tissue beneath the gauze around the man's nose and mouth, and his eyes were the palest he'd ever seen, so much so that Sebastian wondered if he were blind. But the man's pupils, wide in the waning light, tracked his every movement expertly.

"I'm Officer Castellanos," Sebastian introduced, showing off his badge. "This is Officer Connelly. We're helping Sheriff Rooly investigate the recent string of disappearances. Do you mind answering a few questions, Mr….?"

"Victoriano," the man supplied.

"Ruben Victoriano?" asked Connelly with surprise. "I thought you were…."

The man looked at him sharply, as if daring him to finish, before returning his full attention to Sebastian. "Yes, Ruben Victoriano. Let's hear your questions."

The eyes on him made Sebastian's skin prickle, but he tried not to let it show. "Do you mind if we do this inside?"

"I do," Ruben said coldly. "You're not welcome here. Ask your questions and leave."

Sebastian and Connelly exchanged a look. This is it, Sebastian thought, goose bumps on his arms as he regarded the man through the bars. This fucker is guilty. Normally he would have scolded himself for jumping to such a swift conclusion, but he could smell it on him. Eyes like that were more than capable of killing a man.

"Two weeks ago, a woman by the name of Clarissa Evans went missing from her home in Elk River," said Sebastian. "Did you hear anything about that?"

"No," Ruben answered succinctly.

Sebastian waited a moment to see if he would elaborate, and when he did not, he continued. "When was the last time you visited Elk River?"

The gauze covering Ruben's eyebrows shifted. "Six years ago, or close to that."

"What about Cedar Hill? Edgar Tate went missing from his farm out that way a few months ago."

"I don't go to Cedar Hill," said Ruben, the name bitter on his lips. "I don't know Mr. Tate."

Connelly took a step forward. "But aren't you a member of the church there? The estate—"

"No." Ruben spared him only a briefly, hateful look, before turning again to Sebastian. "I'm not a member of any church."

Why am I the one he keeps glaring at? Sebastian stared straight back, determined not to be intimidated. "Where were you the night of October 8th?" he asked, not caring if his tone dipped into accusatory. "Two weeks ago, Friday."

"I was here," Ruben said without missing a beat. "Alone, as always. Now if that's all you have to ask, I want you off my property."

As Connelly drove them away from the gate, Sebastian looked back. Ruben watched them leave, his hands around the bars, his eyes still pale and sharp like daggers. As soon as he was out of sight, Sebastian yanked his journal back out.

"It's him," he said as he went to his notes.

"You don't know that," said Connelly. He pushed his hat back so he could rub his forehead. "Just because he looks like Freddy Kruger that doesn't mean he's a murderer." He sighed. "The poor bastard."

"'Ernesto and Beatiz Victoriano, found dead in May, 1993,'" Sebastian read from his notes. "'Car accident.'" He tapped the book against his knee. "What if Rooly's got it wrong? What if it's not twelve victims in four years, what if it's fourteen in six?"

"Castellanos," Connelly said pointedly, "don't you dare get started."

"Sure, it was ruled an accident," Sebastian carried on anyway. "But the bodies did have a few things in common with the victims that came later. They were cut to ribbons—"

"Windshield glass," said Connelly.

"—Their skulls were cracked open—"

"They were thrown from the car."

"—Their eyes were removed—"

"Force from the crash!"

"Seriously, Connelly?" Sebastian glared at him in exasperation. "How many car accidents have you seen where two vics had their eyes burst out of their sockets?"

Connelly started to answer, but then he stopped himself, shaking his head. "Look, Cas, I get it. You're hungry for this one—we all are. But conjecture isn't going to get us anywhere. Did you really look at that kid? He couldn't have been any older than you, and he was a wreck. A stiff wind would have blown him over. Creepy as he may be, he can't be our guy. You can't go making snap judgments based on appearance."

Sebastian slouched back in the passenger seat. "Should I have looked more closely at him, or should I not judge by appearances?" he shot back. "Which is it?"

"Come on, Castellanos, don't be a prick. You know what I mean."

"I'm writing it down anyway," Sebastian muttered, scrawling into the margins. "'Ruben Victoriano.'" He chewed on the end of his pen. "Do you know what's up with the bandages? What happened to him?"

Connelly shrugged. "Fire, I think. We've got a few more houses out here to get to. You can ask around, I guess."

The locals had even less to say about the Victorianos than they did the disappearances. A drunk old man in a shack off the river said something about a barn fire before shooing them out with a half panicked look on his face. When they arrived back at the farmhouse for what would be their final night, the old couple that had been so accommodating clammed up at the mention of the estate and retired early. Sebastian could hear them whispering to each other in their bedroom.

Connelly went to bed just as the rain started. Sebastian didn't; he donned his jacket and cap, borrowed the keys to the cruiser, and went driving.

The country roads were all but pitch black even with the high beams on. Rain lashed the windshield and trees howled in the wind. It was a perfect night for simple village-dwelling folks to curl up in their farmhouses, thunder covering the footsteps of a serial madman creeping down their halls. Sebastian knew he had no hope of stumbling on a killer just by driving up and down the gravel streets, but stewing in bed all night only to return to Krimson the next morning empty handed just wasn't an option. Not for him.

He followed his gut all the way to the Victoriano mansion.

The gate looked even more imposing at night, with the headlights glinting off its rusty hinges. He couldn't make out anything of the grounds that lay at the end of the overgrown driveway, but he stared into the dark where the west windows would be, imagining a bandaged wraith watching him with dagger eyes. The thought tightened his stomach with an indescribable eagerness.

I know it's you, he projected into the void. And I'm gonna be the one that catches you.

Sebastian waited for a few minutes, as if there might have been a response. When predictably none came, he shifted the cruiser into reverse. Just as he began to back up, lightning flashed overhead. Moments later the thunder followed, and Sebastian felt something hard strike him in the chest. The rain invaded through a hole in the windshield, and as he watched it splatter on the console, he felt a dampness dribbling down his shirtfront.

It took him much too long to realize what had happened. He put his hand inside his jacket and was startled by how hot and wet it was. There was a hole in him roughly the same size as in the windshield and his muscles were burning unlike anything he'd ever felt. He'd never been shot before. He'd seen Tarla take a bullet during a traffic stop, remembered the swift adrenaline of the shootout, but when he tried to take a breath and couldn't, all his officer's training fucked right off. In a panic he scrambled for his gun, but his hands were shaking, fumbling over the holster. By the time he was flicking off the safety, he could see that the mansion's metal gate was open.

The driver's side door twisted open, and there was a rifle barrel pressed to his neck before he could get his arm up. "Toss the gun in the back," said a voice made of gravel.

Sebastian tried to retort, but only wheezes came out, and the blood slicking his throat drove him not to attempt it again. The muzzle was still hot as it dug into his neck. "Toss it in the back," the voice said again. "And move over."

He tossed the gun; his instincts were more interested diverting his hands to his wound anyway. Though he managed to unbuckle himself, trying to move sent pain streaking through him that left him close to vomiting, and his attacker had to resort to shoving him into the passenger side himself. The man dropped his rifle and climbed behind the wheel.

It was Ruben Victoriano. Of course it was. Sebastian would have felt some vindication if he wasn't already half numb. "Breathe slowly," Ruben said as he shifted the car into drive and drove the gate the rest of the way open with an ear-splitting squeal. "Don't speak, don't move. You might even survive."

Sebastian crumpled against the passenger door, gagging and shivering as Ruben drove on. Everything was already growing impossibly darker, but when the cruiser halted, he was able to glimpse through the cracked windshield the manor itself. It loomed over them with its broad eaves and empty windows, shutters and sills blocky like text carved on a tombstone. Then he passed out.

***

Sebastian woke into what he could only assume was hell, just like the old priest had rambled on about every Sunday, complete with the devil himself.

The pain was so intense he nearly passed straight out again. It felt like red hot pokers were being jammed into his chest and twisted, making blistered mincemeat of his already shredded lung. Ligatures bit into his wrists and ankles, his neck and waist, not that he had the strength to move anyway. His right arm was entirely numb and everything else throbbed. But the worst of it was the plastic tube shoved down his throat. It bit into his soft tissue with every attempt to breathe, and he gagged, helpless and panicked.

"Don't fight," said Ruben, hidden somewhere above him in a downpour of blinding yellow light. "Don't try to speak, don't try to move, unless you'd rather die."

Sebastian squinted into the onslaught, and thought he made out the shape of a man's face, but then his consciousness failed him.

***

The next time Sebastian woke up, he was still in agony, but at least he was alone. He let his surroundings come back to him one sense at a time. First, it was the cold of a cellar chilling his sweat-dampened skin, the hard metal table beneath his back. Next, the sound of machinery whirring. Then the smell of antibiotics and the taste of blood, and at last, he opened his eyes to the low, unfinished ceiling and cinderblock walls of a madman's lair.

He was still strapped down at every point that mattered, still slave to the tube down his throat. The lights had been dimmed, leaving him with only bare outlines of shelves and worktables surrounding what looked like a lab. There were shadows everywhere and his eyes were continuously drawn to them. His attacker had to be nearby.

The Elk River Butcher, Sebastian thought, testing each binding one by one. None of them gave way, not that he was even sure his legs would carry him; he realized with disgust and horror that his pants had been laid open and he'd been fit with a catheter, and he wasn't sure he was prepared to go about removing it himself. He keeps his victims alive for a few days at least, so he can torture and mutilate them. Clear fluids were being fed into a needle in his arm, and something much thicker was sticking into his chest, just below his collar bone, near where the bullet had entered. Then he leaves them out in the woods, or...God only knows where the rest of them went. A moan escaped him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to make any more noise. Oh Christ, why didn't I just stay with Connelly?

Sebastian had no idea how long he lied there, but at length, he heard a heavy door scrape open and then closed, followed by approaching footsteps. He tried to crane his neck to see without success. It had to be him.

Ruben took his time. He walked from one machine to the next—Sebastian could hear the dials clicking—and transfered things between the shelves and desks. By the time he moved into sight, the suspense was nearly unbearable, and Sebastian groaned and struggled beneath his pale, soulless eyes.

"So," said Ruben. "You're awake."

He disappeared for a moment, and when he returned, it was to shine a pen light into each of Sebastian's eyes. Sebastian didn't have the strength or mobility to jerk away and could only wince. Ruben then moved between his four limbs, poking hard to see if there was any reaction, and returned to the head of the table to grip the intubation tube.

"Exhale," he said, and he pulled.

Sebastian felt as if his throat was being ripped out. He choked and sputtered, and even after his airway was clear, he gagged, his lungs refusing the effort of breathing on their own. There was still a leather strap pinning his neck. "Fuck," he managed to hiss, squeezing his eyes shut. "Fuck…you, fuck you, what the fuck is this?"

Ruben slid a blood pressure cuff around his arm and pumped it full, counting softly to himself. "You," Sebastian continued to growl at him. "You sick fuck. I knew it was you. Why are you—"

"Quiet." Ruben slid an old thermometer into Sebastian's mouth and pinched his lips shut. "Don't break this."

Sebastian huffed through his nose, but glass and mercury wasn't about to make his throat any better, so he kept still. He wants me alive, he told himself to try and stay calm. For now, at least. If I make things difficult for him, he might change his mind. So he kept quiet even after Ruben had removed the thermometer and recorded the results at the desk, trying desperately to think straight.

"Stable," said Ruben thoughtfully. "Then it's time to begin."

Sebastian gulped. "What?"

There was a click, and then a gentle whir of new machinery. "Subject thirteen," Ruben said, and Sebastian began to sweat. "White male, twenty-three years of age, presumably of Spanish descent. Hair: brown. Eyes: brown. Blood type: A positive."

The cold monotone of his voice sounded like something out of a horror movie, and Sebastian's wits fractured anew. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Recovering from a gunshot wound to the upper lobe of right lung," Ruben carried on as he circled his captive. "Sixty-three hours later, blood pressure and body temperature have stabilized. Beginning preparations."

"Hey," Sebastian said, trying to track Ruben's movements by the sound of his shoes. Sixty-three hours? Jesus, it's been almost three days? "I'm talking to you, damn it. The fuck are you doing?"

Something scraped loudly across the floor, and Sebastian couldn't help but cringe as Ruben approached the side of his head and sat down. Up close, Ruben looked every bit like that cliché psychotic killer that Sebastian expected: his eerily pale eyes, his grotesquely charred skin poking out from rolls of gauze, the total lack of human expression. His training as a cop and his dedication to crime dramas hadn't prepared him for how utterly isolating it felt to be confronted with a fiend in the rough shape of a man. He tried to cling to his anger, but then part of the table folded down from beneath his head; without the strength to hold himself up, his head dangled in the empty space, the leather tight against his Adam's apple. But it was when Ruben began cutting his hair that panic overtook him again.

"St...stop!" Sebastian tried to jerk his head away, eyes bulging with horror beneath the glint of the scissors. "Don't fucking touch me!"

Ruben's fingers tightened in his hair, and he opened the scissors so he could press the blade against Sebastian's cheek. "Don't struggle," he said. "Or I'll put these through your ear."

"Fuck...." Sebastian shuddered against the table, but he managed not to squirm as Ruben carried on. Every snip made his heart pound. "Fuck...oh fuck...." When his breath grew rapid it made the tube in his chest shift, and he tried to regain some composure, but all he could think was I'm going to die. He's going to kill me, oh fuck, oh fucking God, he's going to cut out my fucking brain.

When Ruben was finished with the scissors, he returned them to a nearby table only to return with a straight razor. Sebastian moaned at the sight of it. No, no no no, he can't do this. This isn't happening. I can't die like this! Sweat salted his lips and stung his eyes. Do something. Ruben retook his seat, bracing Sebastian's head against his knees as he maneuvered the razor closer. Do anything!

"You killed your parents," he said.

Ruben stopped. Sebastian could feel the edge of the blade against his scalp, but it hadn't drawn blood yet. "Everyone thinks they died in a car accident," he babbled. He kept his eyes closed, too afraid to see whatever reaction might have been on his captor's face. "But you killed them and covered it up. You cut out their eyes, slashed them apart. You...you must have..."

The razor bit into his skin, and Sebastian grimaced as blood welled at the incision, waiting to be sliced across the brow. But Ruben didn't go any further. "You don't know anything about my parents," he said.

He's talking, fuck. Is that good? "Ernesto," Sebastian croaked. His head hanging off the table was making him dizzy. "Beatriz. I wrote about them...in my journal." He wriggled on the table. "In my pocket."

Ruben was quiet for a moment, and then he drew the table up, smacking the back of Sebastian's head as he locked it into place. He left the razor near Sebastian's ear as he moved to retrieve the journal from his rear pants pocket. Without a word he flipped through the pages, pausing a few times. He even leaned back against the table near Sebastian's hip.

Sebastian waited in the silence for as long as he could manage. Is it working? He couldn't see Ruben anymore, only the razor on the table next to him to catch his eye. Not that it matters. If I don't say anything, I'm dead anyway, so.... "I don't know why you did it," he said, licking his lips. A drop of blood was making its way slowly down his hairline. "Maybe they beat you or something. But...but they wouldn't have been your first victims. A killer like you, a psychopath, you would have...have started smaller. On animals, maybe. Cats, dogs. Farm animals. Maybe—maybe your old man taught you how to butcher pigs." He laughed, and the sound of his voice frightened him. "That'd be...ironic, huh?"

Ruben moved away from the table. He turned off the tape recorder and left the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

I'm still alive. Sebastian went limp and could have easily passed out again. Something in that worked. I'm still alive.

It probably wouldn't last long. Even if he'd struck a nerve somehow, he was still dealing with a pyscho-killer who had already butchered a dozen people. Stay calm, he told himself, testing each of the bindings on him one by one. Connelly knows I would have come back here. He'll come—he'll find me. He could still see the straight razor lying by his head, but no amount of squirming or even reaching with his tongue got it any closer. He turned his attention to his hands and legs, tugging and twisting. Nothing gave way, but he put all his focus into his left hand, applying pressure against his thumb in an attempt to dislocate it. Not as easy as it looks in the movies, he thought. But he kept at it.

When he comes back, I need a game plan. He looked around the lab as best he could, trying to make sense of the different instruments and machines. He killed his own God damn parents. Mercy is not on the menu. Everything began to smear and spin, so he closed his eyes, doing his best to concentrate despite his instincts dragging him toward panic again. He's done this literally a dozen times before. He's probably heard and seen it all. The crying, the begging, the shouting, the bargaining. Full grown men he's cut up. No one's made it out or talked him down. So what can I do different? Think, Sebastian. What are you willing to do that they didn't or couldn't?

Ruben didn't return for several hours that felt like days. He moved first to the tape recorder and turned it on, but after a few seconds he stopped it again. "It seems you've been following my case for some time," he said, though without any inflection to indicate if he was impressed or irritated.

Sebastian didn't know if the recording being off was a good sign, but he hoped so. "Everyone is," he replied. "When you commit a dozen murders, people notice."

"What do you care about the people I've killed?" Ruben retrieved the straight razor he'd left on the table and sat down. Sebastian bit his lip hard, trying to remain still and calm as Ruben went about shaving his head. "Many of them were murderers themselves. Did you take an interest in their exploits as well?"

The blade scraped across his scalp with a terrible sound; Sebastian kept his eyes closed. "Was your father a murderer, too?" he asked.

Ruben paused, and Sebastian expected to lose some more blood, but then he carried on with expert precision. "Yes," he answered. "Though he succeeded fewer times than he attempted."

Sebastian gulped. "He tried to kill you."

Ruben paused again. He got up from his stool, turned the tape recorder on, and came back. "Subject thirteen," he said, "otherwise known as officer Sebastian Castellanos of the Krimson City Police Department." He sat down and continued working as Sebastian cringed. "Personal effects discovered on him indicate a keen interest in discovering the identity of the Elk River serial killer. How pleased he must be, to have succeeded."

You said too much. Sebastian couldn't help but whine as the table folded down, and Ruben turned his head to and fro, scraping away the rest of his hair. Don't fuck with his parents; try something else. "One of the first victims was Kevin Wallace," he tried instead. "Sheriff Rooly showed us pictures of the body. He was almost...he was three hundred pounds. How'd you manage to move him?"

Ruben didn't answer. He was almost finished, and Sebastian groped after some other angle he could work. "You put a chest tube in me," he said. "IV. Maybe even...a blood transfusion?"

"Compliments of Mrs. Evans," said Ruben. "You're lucky she was your type."

Oh, God. Sebastian gagged, wishing he could rip the IV from his arm. He put a dead woman's blood in me. But he didn't have time to dwell on it, because then Ruben finished. The bandaged hands sweeping over his bare skin made him itch. "You kept me alive," he pressed on. "It would have been easier to just let me die in the car."

"It was good practice," said Ruben. He stepped away, and when he returned, it was to run a damp wash cloth over Sebastian's crown, cleaning up the blood from the small incision he'd cut hours ago. "Besides, I want you conscious for the experiment, and for that, you have to at least be alive."

Fuck. Fuck. Sebastian bit his lip, trying to make himself focus. "Practice," he repeated, even though his throat kept threatening to choke him. "Practice, experiment...." Metal screeched across the ground, and when Sebastian tilted his head as best he could, he saw Ruben dragging over what was clearly some kind of homemade apparatus, made of steel, and cables, and tubes, and needles. "Oh fuck...." Sebastian clenched his teeth tightly shut until he could be sure he wouldn't scream, and even then, a thin whimper made it out as Ruben positioned the hideous thing above his head. No, no, don't look at it. Sebastian closed his eyes as tight as he could. Don't panic. Think, God damn it!

"So you're...." Sebastian licked his lips, but his mouth was entirely dry, and it did no good. "You're like, a doctor?" Ruben lifted his head up and drew the device over him. It gave the back of his skull something to rest on, but that was the barest relief; he could feel the needles hanging in close proximity to his temples. "A scientist? You're not just...some psycho, you...."

"You've got a few more wits about you than the last ones," Ruben said, pushing against Sebastian's forehead. He began poking his scalp, adjusting and measuring. Sebastian flinched with each touch. "I have high hopes for that reflecting in the results of this experiment."

Backfired. Sebastian told himself to breathe, but he was already becoming dizzy, his limbs buzzing as if they wanted to flee from him. "What...." He didn't want to know, but the words were bleeding out of him. "What are you...trying to do?"

Ruben took a breath, and Sebastian held his, but then a bell began to ring overhead. He snorted with irritation. "Stay put," he muttered, and he stormed out, the door slamming behind him.

Sebastian remained still for a long time. When he managed to get another breath in him, it convulsed in his chest, and half a scream strangled out of him. No—no, stop, stop. Breathe. Stop. He sucked air through his teeth, counting the seconds between each. That's an alarm, he told himself. That's how he knew you were outside—the place is rigged. Someone is here. He opened his eyes and looked around the room as if Connelly might already be there, but only polished metal looked back. Though his first instinct was to cry out, he resisted; Ruben wouldn't have overlooked such an obvious weakness when crafting a secret lair. But if there was even a chance that someone, an ally, was nearby....

Sebastian eyed the contraption surrounding his head. Some of it appeared to be only for measuring and restraining, which Ruben hadn't had time to lock into place yet. But there was a steel needle, poised just beside his right temple. When he moved his head, the tip was sharp enough that it sliced across his cheekbone, but it wasn't thick. The casings didn't look as if they'd been fully tightened.

It was a ridiculous gamble, but Sebastian went for it anyway. Not caring when the needle cut his lips and gums, he squirmed until he could get his teeth around it. His mouth already tasted like blood anyway. With as much force as he could muster, he jerked his head, then again and again, until it broke off. At first the point dug into the inside of his cheek, and he jolted, fearful of swallowing it, but he managed to trap it with his tongue. Very carefully, he worked it between his lips like a cigarette.

Sebastian shivered excitedly with his success, only to realize he hadn't actually accomplished anything yet. He'll be back soon, he thought as he strained against the leather straps holding him. This won't be worth anything if he catches me with it. Determining that his left hand was in better shape than the right, he turned his wrist and stretched his fingers as high as they could go. It has to work, he thought as he took a deep breath and leaned forward, letting the strap at his neck dig hard into his windpipe. I can do it. I have to do this, or I'm fucked. Oh God, help me.

He spat the needle as if it were gum. Miraculously, the tip struck him in the side of his thumb, lodging under the skin. Oh thank God, Sebastian thought as he very carefully got his only hope between his fingers. Thank you, Jesus. There wasn't any snap or buckle on the top of the table where he could reach it, so he shoved the point into the leather itself, close to the slots it fit in where a dozen victims before him had worn it down the most. That's it. He poked again and again, sometimes catching his wrist, but determined to keep going. It's working, it's working. If I can just get one hand free....

Sebastian closed his eyes, depending on his ears to warn him of Ruben's return. What he heard instead was a quiet, whirring noise that reminded him the tape recorder was still running.

"Ruben Victoriano...." Sebastian bared his teeth in its direction. "Here's hoping you never hear this," he said as he continued to jab at the leather strap. "'Cause if I manage to get out of this, I'll kill you. But just in case, I want you to know...you're fucking sick." He gave his hand a yank and was thrilled to feel the ligature giving way. "Really sick. Physically sick. There are names for people like you. You're lines in a textbook. You wanna look at people's brains so badly, start with your own, you fucking asshole!"

He gave another yank, and though his thumb went numb for a moment, he finally got free. His breath left him in a sob. "Oh, fuck," he whispered as he grabbed immediately for his neck. But there wasn't a buckle on the top of the table there, either, and he couldn't get his arm underneath to reach. Couldn't reach his other hand, either. "Fuck, fuck this fucking...." He grabbed up the needle again and started jabbing at the strap around his neck, angling it as best he could to keep from stabbing through into his throat. "You're pretty good, you son of a bitch. But I'm still getting out." He alternated between digging through the leather with his pick and clawing at it with his fingernails. "And I'll get you to squeal on tape yourself, how about that? Fuck you!"

Sebastian was almost through when he heard it: the door scraping open.

Shit. Sebastian crammed the edge of the leather through the slot, trying to hide how frayed it was. Shit, fuck. No wait, I can still do this. He put his hand back to the table and dragged the strap over it, too, hoping Ruben would be eager to continue his "experiment" and not inspect the table too closely. Let him get close, put the fucking needle in his eye. This'll all be over. You'll have all the time in the world to get free. Ruben was coming down the stairs. Just take a breath, stay calm. You can do this. You have to fucking do this.

Ruben entered the room. As he came closer Sebastian began to sweat, but he kept still, watching for his opportunity. "Well?" Sebastian asked. "What was that about? Pulling your cookies out of the oven?"

"That's not your concern," Ruben replied coldly.

He moved around behind his unholy contraption. Sebastian couldn't see him, but he could hear metal on metal, like bolts being tightened. He's getting it ready, he thought with mounting anxiety. Any moment now, he'll realize there's a piece missing.

"H-Hey." Sebastian banged his right knuckles against the table. "Hey, I...I can't feel my hand."

"Then stop struggling," Ruben answered.

You fucking piece of.... Sebastian kept at it. "It's cutting off the circulation, shit. I can't feel anything." He squirmed and whimpered, hoping a sound of pain would at least pique Ruben's interest. "It's fucking spreading."

Ruben sighed, moving around to Sebastian's right. As soon as he was in range, Sebastian swung his left arm as hard as he could, stabbing the needle into Ruben's flesh.

He was aiming for an eye, but he didn't come close. Instead the metal disappeared into the mess of bandages covering Ruben's cheek. Ruben choked and sputtered, but it wouldn't stop him for long, so Sebastian did all he could: he grabbed Ruben by the collar of his shirt and slammed his forehead as hard as he could into the table.

Ruben dropped like a stone. Sebastian could hear him gasping on the floor, and it filled his muscles with fight. He ripped the leather strap from his neck and attacked the remaining one on his right wrist. It wouldn't budge, and without anything sharp to help, he resorted to leaning as far over the table as possible in an attempt to reach the buckle. Hissing curses, he tugged and pried, twisting his ankles in their shackles, until he'd finally loosened it enough to get free.

Almost. Go, go! Sebastian sat up, and his head swam as blood struggled to climb in the new position. He felt out the tubes sticking into of his chest and forearm, hesitated over the catheter. Fuck, I can't just...I have to kill him. Ignoring his still bound feet, he twisted to see what had become of Ruben.

Ruben was gripping the side of the table. As soon as he started to pull himself up, Sebastian attacked, his fingernails dragging at the bandages. Ruben fought back, biting and shoving, but he was disoriented and frail. Sebastian got his hands around his throat and squeezed with all his might.

"Die," he growled as he choked Ruben until his eyes bulged. "Fucking die!" He thought he had the upper hand, up until Ruben grabbed the chest tube and ripped it straight out of him.

It hurt almost as much as being shot again. Sebastian convulsed as fire burned through his chest, and he fell back, coughing and gagging, the IV ripping from his arm. The wounds didn't bleed as much as he feared, but even after he'd covered them with his hands, he couldn't convince his lung to take a breath. His back hit the table and he lay there, quaking, as Ruben staggered upright.

"Can't feel," Ruben snarled, his anger the first real emotion Sebastian had seen out of him. "Can you feel that? Or this?" He ripped the catheter out next, and Sebastian cried out, dragging himself down the table in an attempt to draw his knees in. "If it's feeling you lack...."

Ruben stalked away. Sebastian told himself to take advantage of the absence, knowing only horror would follow once he returned, but he couldn't move. He curled up as tight as his bonds would allow and just tried to breathe. Then Ruben was back, sticking a syringe into his neck. It fucking burned, but Sebastian had worse pains to worry about.

At least, he thought so, at the time. As the drug swept through his system it brought with it an agony he wouldn't have thought was possible after what he'd suffered already. It was as if lava flowed in his veins, pooling in his chest and groin where his injuries were most severe, while also lighting fire to his bleeding wrists and bruised neck. His nerves twisted into knots. "Stop," he croaked as tears welled and overflowed his eyes. He shuddered and writhed against the metal. "Please stop. I'm sorry...I'm sorry, I can't...."

Ruben pinched his shoulder; Sebastian thought for an instant that he'd ripped a chunk of skin out of him, for as much as it hurt. Every part of him was blazing with oversensitivity and he prayed he would simply pass out. But whenever he thought he was coming close, Ruben would pinch him again, or poke, or smack, and it jolted him conscious once more.

This is Hell, Sebastian thought, and through his watering eyes he watched Ruben pry the needle out of his face with a pair of plyers. He's the Devil. And at last he blacked out entirely.

***

When Sebastian woke up, he expected to be back in the straps. He opened his eyes and knew the needle would be back in its casing, ready to stab through his skull. But he was right where Ruben had left him, curled up with only his feet still restrained, half naked and flush with fever. His entire body felt heavy, but fuzzy at the edges, as if he were diffusing gradually into the air. He couldn't lift his arms from the table. His vision burred over the darkened shapes that surrounded the lab, finally landing on a white smear that could have only been his captor.

Ruben wasn't moving. Sebastian stared at him, willing his eyes to focus, but all he could make out was that Ruben was sitting half-slumped against a desk, head bowed. The fucker's asleep, he thought, and he wanted to be angry, but he couldn't get the emotion through him. Everything was just...dull. But he still had the opportunity to act, and he licked his lips, working himself up to it.

And then he stopped. The swipe of his own tongue over his lips spread tingles across his face, rippling outward from the contact like a droplet on still water. It was warm and pleasant, and he kept very still as its echoes receded into his nerves. What is that? He licked his lips again, and again his face tickled as if fingers were spreading out from his mouth. When he tried to shift his position, everywhere his body touched the table tingled with more of the same. He could feel the disruption of every tiny hair as sweat trickled down his forehead, every beat of his heart in his various wounds, but the sensations were shockingly welcome. It was like being at the bottom of a sun-warmed stream, gentle currents flowing around him, small fish nibbling away at his dead skin....

I'm high as fuck, Sebastian thought dazedly. He rolled onto his back, hoping to get some proper air in his lungs and start thinking straight, but he was distracted by the coolness of the metal against his skin; his organs were too hot, and it felt good to rub against something cold. He fingered the bandaged taped over his gunshot wound, trying to judge how bad it was underneath, and then found himself tracing around and around the tape with his fingertips. It felt...nice. Forgetting what he was supposed to be doing, he continued to draw little shapes against his chest, letting pleasure fan out through his weary body. He deserved it, after all the torment he'd been put through.

He should have been trying to untie his feet. He should have been watching Ruben in the corner. But moving was so much work, and it was much easier just to relax for a while, shivering and sighing as the drugs made everything blissful.

Sebastian was half asleep and peaceful when Ruben stirred. It wasn't with a yawn or a stretch like any normal person; he jerked suddenly, almost pitching off his stool as he wheezed and gagged. Full minutes passed before he was able to get himself under control, and Sebastian watched, not yet sober enough to fully comprehend what he was witnessing.

At last, Ruben was steady, and he moved up to the table. There was blood on the bandages covering his face and his voice was rough. "Put your right hand back into the strap," he said.

Sebastian was too high for self-preservation. "Make me."

Ruben reached down, digging two knuckles into the wound leftover from the chest tube. The pressure made Sebastian see stars, but rather than giving him agony, it put frenzied butterflies in his stomach. He whimpered and squirmed, just barely cognizant enough to be disgusted with himself.

"Does that hurt?" Ruben asked coldly.

"Yeah," Sebastian groaned, but then for some reason, the truth came out of him. "No. No, it's...good…."

He bit his lip to keep from saying more. Ruben's eyes narrowed in confusion, and he pushed harder, but when Sebastian failed to give him the scream of pain he was probably hoping for, he pulled back. He walked away, and when he returned, it was to twist a length of steel cable around his neck.

Sebastian's baser instincts kicked in too late. The cable was too thin for him to grip or get his fingers beneath, leaving him helpless as Ruben dragged him back into position on the table. He swatted at Ruben's face, pulling at the bandages, and got a hard bite to his two smaller fingers for his trouble. Ruben hooked the cable through a loop one end to form a choke collar, then slotted the end through an opening meant for the leather. He disappeared beneath the table, securing it tightly.

Sebastian groaned, but he continued to pull at the cable even though he knew he was fucked; he couldn't cut through cable with a needle, couldn't reach beneath the table let alone do anything about whatever Ruben had used to tighten the ends together. His hands may have been free but he was still totally fucked.

"No one knows you're here," Ruben said. "They'll never find you. If you kill me, you slowly starve to death alone in this basement. Remember that." And he stormed out.

***

Sebastian lied there in the dark for a full day. It was long enough that he started to think that Ruben wasn't coming back. His stomach twisted with hunger, his eyes and throat were rough with dehydration, his right lung was very slowly caving in on itself. His fingers were raw and sore from prying at the cable around his neck, and the skin beneath it stung with every wheeze.

"I don't want to die here," he whispered, over and over. "God, please, don't let me die here."

When the door finally scraped open, Sebastian choked on a sob. He should have been wary of whatever tortures Ruben had in store for him, but at least he wasn't rotting away, abandoned. When the lights flicked on he had to close his eyes, instead listening to Ruben approach. He heard metal and plastic being rustled, and then bandaged fingers tapped the inside of his right arm.

"Hold out your arm," Ruben said. "If you fight back, I'll leave."

"Fuck you," Sebastian croaked, but he did give up his arm. He flinched beneath the prick of a needle, but when he was finally able to squint into the light, he realized that Ruben was replacing his IV. Fluids. He swallowed, wincing, with anticipation. "Where the fuck…have you been?"

"It must be very hard for you to breathe by now," said Ruben. "I'm going to put the chest tube back in." He dragged a cart closer with metal instruments gleaming atop it. "Don't fight, or—"

"I know." Sebastian closed his eyes again and raised his hands to his ears, keeping them out of the way. "Just do it."

Ruben went to work. He jabbed Sebastian with needles which were cruelly not anesthetic and reopened the small hole in his chest, threading the tub down between his lung and chest wall. Sebastian had to bite his lip and shove his hands beneath his head to keep quiet and still. Once the tube was inserted and Ruben was sealing the wound around it, Sebastian opened his eyes once more. They were close enough, and Ruben was so focused, that he might have been able to get his hands around the asshole's neck. He could bash him into the table again, and then again and again until he was dead. Then maybe he'd put the scalpel through his own eye and it would all be over.

No, I don't want to die here. Sebastian reached out, but he didn't make it as far as Ruben's neck; his unsteady fingers twisted in Ruben's shirt at the shoulder. If I kill him, all that's left is to die now or die later. "I don't want to die," he said.

Ruben went tight beneath his hand. He held his breath and waited for a struggle, but when all that followed was Sebastian pawing at the seam in his shirt, he bent down to switch on the suction machine. "Everyone dies," he said.

"Not yet," Sebastian insisted. "Not like this."

Ruben leaned back, watching Sebastian with what might have been curiosity. "What is it you plan on doing with your life that even matters?" he asked.

Sebastian glared back at him with defiance. "Catching freaks like you."

"There aren't…." Ruben paused, frowning. "Ah, that's right. You called me…'lines in a textbook.' Yes?"

Sebastian gulped. "You heard that?"

"Of course." Ruben replaced his tools on the cart and wheeled it away. "And I read through your journal. What a disappointingly primitive life you've led." He moved about the room, out of Sebastian's line of sight, as he prepared more instruments. "Average in school—pointless, pedestrian dreams. Your rejection of your parents' religion shows at least some level of thoughtfulness, at least. More so than the cattle that live near here, anyway."

"Fuck you, I worked hard to get here."

"You don't know what hardship is," Ruben snarled, and his anger was oddly comforting. At least it meant he was capable of some emotion after all. "Your 'ambition' is meaningless and unattainable. You ought to be grateful I have you now—you're more useful as a test subject than as a member of Krimson's so-called society."

Sebastian cringed as Ruben inserted a fresh needle into the apparatus over his head, replacing the one he'd ripped out with his teeth. "Test subject," he echoed. "What…what are you testing for?"

Ruben frowned, and once he was finished securing the needle, he moved to the side of the table so that Sebastian could see him better. "I'm going to stimulate your brain," he said, and Sebastian's gaze swam out of focus. "And you're going to tell me, as honestly and as accurately as you're able, how it makes you feel. As long as you can do that much, I'll keep you alive. Do you understand?"

He's going to do what to my brain? "You're fucking sick," he said, but he knew it wasn't as if Ruben was asking for permission. "I know you're not going to let me go."

"I didn't say I would." Ruben gave the contraption over Sebastian's head a yank, and it rattled ominously. "I said I'd keep you alive for as long as you're useful to me."

He turned away, and a moment later the tape recorder started up. "Subject thirteen is again stable," he said. "He is receiving fluids and breathing more or less normally. Experiment is about to commence."

"What are you—" Sebastian was cut off when a leather thong was shoved between his teeth. He tried to spit it out, but then Ruben clapped a hand over his mouth.

"You'll want to keep that for this part," Ruben said, and he began securing it man to machine with straps under his chin and across his forehead. "And keep as still as possible, or you'll end up lobotomized."

No no no, this can't be happening. Sebastian ground his teeth into the leather, breathing hard through the gaps in the side of his mouth, but he couldn't fight back. Even when he instinctually lifted his hands to try and stop Ruben, he remembered what fate awaited him if he succeeded as well as if he failed. Shaking and light-headed, he forced his hands flat to the table. Fuck, this can't be real. Make this a bad dream. He tried not to make a sound, if only to deny Ruben the satisfaction, but his willpower failed him when he heard the drills. The roar of machinery filled his ears, and then five spinning bits reached his scalp in a line from his temple to the top of his head, burrowing easily through his skin and then into his skull.

The pressure reverberated through his every bone, and he screamed, for horror as much as pain. In a panic he reached for the machine, but Ruben snatched his hand up before he could disrupt anything. With a startling grip he kept Sebastian's grasping fingers at bay. Seconds later, the drills retreated and fell quiet again, and Ruben let him go.

"There," Ruben murmured close to his ear. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Sebastian gagged, gingerly fingering the five tiny holes and the blood seeping from them. He feared he'd find his brain leaking free, but each opening was no more than a few millimeters. "Oh God," he sobbed around the leather, every attempt to regain some calm failing him. "Stop, stop, you can't…."

"Hush." Ruben pushed his hand down. "And stay out of the way, or I'll strap your arms down again."

The machine creaked, and then the metal needles were in place, inserting slowly into his brain matter. Sebastian didn't feel pain so much as a deep pressure, and he held his breath as he waited to die. But nothing happened. He kept deathly still, cold with shock and breath thin through flared nostrils, but he was still alive.

"Remember not to move," Ruben said, and he plucked the leather thong out from between Sebastian's teeth. "We're going to start with an easy question."

Focus, damn it. Stay conscious was taking so much will power that Sebastian wasn't sure he had the strength for anything else, but he blinked up into the lights and fought to regain his wits. "What…?"

"Electrodes are in place," said Ruben, the words threatening to scatter Sebastian's consciousness again. "But first, to set the pace…." He moved into Sebastian's line of sight and took his hand again. "Look at me," he said, and Sebastian sure tried. "You wrote in your journal about the traffic stop where Officer Tarla Batey was shot in the side. Remember?"

Sebastian gulped and was afraid to answer. "Yes…?"

"At the time, you hadn't been shot. You wrote that you spent a lot of time imagining what that felt like. Well?" He touched his other hand to the bandages covering Sebastian's chest. "What did it feel like?"

"It…." Sebastian bit his tongue to get some feeling back into it and tried again. "It hurt."

"You're going to have to be more specific than that," said Ruben, disappointed. "Was it more or less than you expected?"

That much easy enough. "More," Sebastian answered. Tell the fucker what he wants to hear, he thought. "It felt…hot. I could feel the metal." Thinking about it brought cold sweat to his forehead, and he grimaced as it mixed with the blood already making its way toward his ear. "The worst part was not being able to breathe."

"Were you afraid?" Ruben asked, his eyes still damnably cold.

"…Yes."

"Did you think you were going to die?"

Sebastian's gaze flicked to the metal above his head, but he couldn't focus on it. "Yes."

"You're not going to die yet," Ruben said, but it wasn't reassuring at all. He reached into the contraption and began flipping switches; the machinery hummed with electricity. "I want you to focus on that memory of being shot. See if you can remember anything else."

"I don't…." Sebastian's pulse sped up as the whine of the machine reached a crescendo. "Why are you—"

"Focus."

A jolt ran down the length of the needles, and his body went rigid beneath it. His senses tangled and for an instant he was transported back into the driver's seat of the cruiser, rain pouring in hot and thick against his chest. Everything blurred together. He remembered the taste of the beer he'd had with Connelly their first night in town, which became blood and metal in his mouth, then the dust from the road as Tarla pitched forward into a ditch. His lung burned and tore like paper targets on the shooting range. He remembered Ruben opening the door of the car, his black silhouette reminding Sebastian of the outline of his father watching him from the hall.

"Wha...." Sebastian's eyes wove back and forth, trying to find a point focus on, but all the shadows in the lab suddenly looked like half-remembered faces from his youth, and they filled him with anxiety. "What is this?"

"Describe what you're experiencing," Ruben ordered.

"I ca...." Sebastian licked his lips, sure that at any moment his mind would simply scatter like a flock of birds. No, be useful. There were tears in his eyes, and letting them turn the world around him into formless smears made everything easier. "I'm...remembering," he said, struggling to draw his thoughts into order. "I remember you fucking shooting me."

"You don't look like it," Ruben said, and he stabbed a syringe into Sebastian's chest.

It was the fucking burning again. Sebastian whimpered, knowing it would only get worse. "I remember," he said again, trying to think of something that would satisfy his mad host. "I remember...the bullet, it...." Pain seared through his chest, and then he wasn't just remembering, he was reliving—he could feel the lead digging through muscle and organ, the blood pumping out of his severed veins. "Fuck," he breathed, and he couldn't keep from crying. "Fuck, is it...you took it out, didn't you?" His lungs seized and he couldn't draw a breath. "Is the bullet...?"

"Can you feel it?" Ruben asked with sudden interest. He pressed down on Sebastian's healing wound. "Can you feel the bullet inside you?"

"Yes!" Sebastian writhed against the table what little he could and grabbed at Ruben's arm; even that contact made his hands ache with the effort. "Yes, fuck, it hurts...please take it out...."

Ruben leaned closer, half sitting on the edge of the table. He didn't try to remove Sebastian's hand from his arm. "Subject has a surgical scar on his left forearm," he said, and he reached out, giving it a hard tap with three fingers.

It wasn't even a hard tap, but in Sebastian's mind it broke his ulna in two places. Panic and shame ran in circles behind his sore eyes and before he could stop himself, he was babbling, "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have—it was stupid—"

"What did you do?" Ruben asked, and he squeezed Sebastian's arm. "Tell me."

He could feel the bones grinding under Ruben's fingers. "We were...we jumping fire escapes," he confessed. "I missed, I hit a dumpster—it was my idea to do it—Tommy got hurt worse than me." When he thought about his friend lying in the alley, crying and squirming, his knee bent the wrong way, it made his leg twitch and ache. "I didn't mean for him to get hurt, oh God, let me go!"

"Splendid," Ruben said. "Subject appears to be reliving memories as inspired by the increased pain response brought on by serum RI-4."

He let go, and Sebastian drew his arm to his chest, cradling it as if it were still broken. "Fucking ass," he growled, still feeling too much like his thirteen year old daredevil self. "Keep your hands off me!"

"With a greater knowledge of his medical history, it might be possible to test the limits of his pain memory," Ruben continued to muse. "And whether it out performs his conscious memory. For now, I can only go on his observable history. For example; a four centimeter scar located on his lower back."

He slipped his hand between Sebastian's back and the table. Every touch was already agony, but feeling him creep toward that old wound set Sebastian ablaze. "Don't touch me!" he shouted, and heedless to all Ruben's warnings and threats he lashed out, shoving as hard as he could at Ruben's arms and chest. "Don't fucking touch me—get off of me!" He felt as if he were breaking his own hands against Ruben's body but he didn't care.

Because the memory was already surfacing. He was shrinking into a young boy—the table was the cold marble floor of their small home on East Bay Lane. The wire around his neck and the straps around his head were his mother's arms, cradling him tight enough to choke, and his tears he'd already cried dry. There was blood on his back. There were police lights in the windows. His whole world was made of shame.

"Let go of me!" Sebastian cried out, and in desperation he grabbed at the machine above his head. If it was forcing him to remember, he would gladly rip it to pieces. "Get this fucking thing off me!"

Ruben tried to pry his fingers off the device, saying something about delicate experimentation and brain damage, but Sebastian didn't pay him any heed, up until he managed to give the contraption a good yank, and everything around him went black and quiet. He hadn't passed out—the pain was still everywhere—but his senses had fallen away, and he shuddered, terrified of what he'd done. Gradually, the pressure lifted from his skull. The straps stopped biting into his face. Water splashed over his lips, and though his oversensitive skin thought it to be scalding, he gulped it down. He managed to get his hands around what felt like a metal canteen, and Ruben let him take it, filling his parched throat and cramped stomach with sweet, nourishing water. Several times he had to stop to cough, choking in the inconvenient position, but once his thirst was quenched, his senses began to return.

"Subject's severe reaction suggests a particularly traumatic event," Ruben was saying. "Perhaps even a repressed memory. If I were to—"

"m'not repressing anything," Sebastian muttered bitterly. He sucked at the canteen in hopes of one last drop, but he'd already swallowed all it had to offer. "You don't get that one."

Ruben returned to his line of sight. "What?"

Sebastian stared up at him, and though his eyes stung like crazy, they were full of defiance. "You can shoot me again," he said hoarsely. "Break my arm. But you leave my old man out of this."

Ruben leaned back. Something indescribable twisted in his face and he retreated once more. Sebastian didn't have the presence of mind to wonder if he had again struck a nerve. He closed his eyes, trying to stay still to keep the pain to a minimum while Ruben yammered on to his tape recorder. The cursed drug was still coursing his system, turning his already raw body into pummeled hamburger, but if he just stayed still enough, if he breathed slowly and didn't fight....

Several minutes later, the machine and its needles were pulled back. Sebastian's head fell backwards into empty space, but then a bandaged hand was at the back of his skull, cradling it as the full length of the table was restored. Something was different. Instead of heat and anguish spreading from Ruben's fingertips, the ripples were coming back. The acidy pinpricks were receding into pleasant raindrop tickles.

Oh, thank fuck, Sebastian thought as his nerves quieted and began to disperse. At least this is better. I'd rather be high than mincemeat.

Ruben locked the table back into place, settling Sebastian's head atop it. "Are you still conscious?" he asked, and when an answer was too late in coming, he gave Sebastian's cheek a light slap.

Minutes ago, the impact would have shattered his cheekbone like a wrecking ball; now it felt like a water balloon popping against his face, splashing a soothing caress across his skin. Every echo of pain was receding beneath the waves. Sebastian sighed and turned his head toward the hand. "Yeah," he mumbled. "Awake."

Ruben hesitated, and then he poked Sebastian in the forehead, drawing his nail gently from brow to brow. Sebastian tried to lean into that, too. He rubbed his back against the table and pressed the canteen to his chest, enjoying the coolness of the metal. It felt good and he was all out of shame.

"The serum appears to be wearing off already," said Ruben. He pinched Sebastian's shoulder, but the harder he twisted the skin between his fingers, the better it felt, and the more Sebastian squirmed thoughtlessly toward it. "Subject no longer displays an increased pain reaction." He let go, massaging the flesh he'd just bruised. "What are you feeling, Officer Castellanos?"

Sebastian bit his lip to keep from admitting it, but that felt pretty damn good, too, and he prodded his lips about with his tongue. "Feels good," he mumbled.

"Speak up."

Ruben pushed against his gunshot wound; Sebastian was convinced he could feel the bullet rattling around behind is ribs, but somehow the heat was exciting instead of agonizing, his nerves buzzing with delight. He moaned and tried to lift into Ruben's hand. "Feels good," he said again, louder, his breath catching on the words. "You fucking sicko...."

"Interesting. None of the others had a reaction like this." He took the canteen away from Sebastian and stroked a line down his chest and stomach, testing. Sebastian whined and tried not to react, but his back arched without him. "Could it be a result of the stimulation? No, it may explain his reaction earlier.... Hmph. Further testing is required."

He moved away, and Sebastian ignored him for a while, letting the aftereffects of the drug give him goose bumps. When Ruben returned, it was to attach a metal clamp to his foot. It pinched something fierce, but to Sebastian it a welcome tingle that spread up the nerves in his leg and into his thigh. He wiggled his toes to feel it shift against the small bones and his balls tightened.

"Let me know when that becomes painful," said Ruben.

"You're so...fucked," Sebastian muttered. "You fucking fuck."

"Cognitive function seems impaired...."

Sebastian closed his eyes, trying to use the darkness behind his eyelids to pretend he was somewhere else—anywhere else. He focused on the waves bubbling up from his foot and remembered wading through the river shallows, a cold beer in his hand as his friends sprawled along the shore. Simple adventures outside the city when they were boys, kissing girls on the bank, sometimes kissing each other. He wondered what each of them were up to those days, if Rick and Stella had ever hooked up, if Tommy still walked with a limp sometimes....

Gradually, the pleasant aftereffects drifted away. The vice on his foot grew hotter and tighter, until needles were shooting up his leg instead of foggy remembrances. As much as he didn't want to play along with Ruben's sick games, he couldn't help starting to squirm again. "Hurts," he finally confessed, shaking his foot against the straps. "If fucking hurts now."

Ruben removed the clamp, and then moved to Sebastian's other foot, giving his pinky toe a light pinch. "How does that feel?"

"Normal," Sebastian muttered. "Cut it out."

"Interesting." Still holding the clamp, Ruben shut off his tape recorder and headed for the door. "Very interesting."

He left, but he didn't close the door behind him. Sebastian could just barely see a glow of light in the hall beyond, maybe the first step in a staircase, but nothing useful. He lay there in the dark, struggling to understand everything that had happened, and was surprised when Ruben returned only a few minutes later. He set something on the table close to Sebastian's side and then disappeared under the table. There was suddenly slack on the cable pinning his neck, and Sebastian immediately sat up, his head swimming dizzily with the effort.

"Don't get excited," Ruben scolded. He backed away, far out of Sebastian's range. "This is temporary."

Sebastian pried at his collar, but the loop had been secured with some kind of bolt, and he had no hope of loosening it with his fingers alone. He muttered a curse and tried to turn around, but his ankles being bound prevented him from reaching under the table, and the ankle straps themselves were similarly positioned to keep him from loosening them, either. "What is...."

Then he saw what Ruben had left on the table: a small basket with an apple, a few pieces of bread, and a carton of milk. His mouth watered but he didn't dare reach for them.

"It's not poisoned," said Ruben, watching him from the stool at his desk. "For that I'd just use the needle."

Sebastian hesitated a moment longer, but when he touched the bread, letting it squish beneath his finger, his hunger won out over fear. He shoved the bread into his mouth, chewing only as much as he needed to before washing it down with gulps of milk. His stomach churned with the intrusion but he didn't slow down, biting next into the apple with a sweet crunch that brought tears to his eyes.

"You performed well today," Ruben told him. "For now, it seems like there is worth in keeping you alive."

"Fuck you," Sebastian grunted. He didn't want to give them impression for one instant that he was grateful for the food, even as he wolfed it down. "Don't you have any meat?"

Ruben snorted, though Sebastian couldn't tell from his face if he was amused or irritated. "Once you're finished, you're going to lie back down on the table," he said.

"Like fuck I am."

"You'll like back down or I'll make you."

Sebastian gave him the finger and kept eating. He already knew what would happen: he would struggle, and Ruben would hurt him, and in the end, he'd be back on the table. He'd have needles in his skull in no time. It was inevitable. But as he chewed the apple down to the core, he told himself in the moment that there was still a chance he could escape. When Ruben came to force him, he could fight back, kill him, rip the straps off his ankles, and go from there. He could make it out. It was a thrilling lie that kept the milk tasting good.

"Did your father give you the scar on your back?" Ruben asked.

Sebastian scowled around another slice of bread. He swallowed. "Did yours give you the scars all over your fucking face?" he retorted.

Ruben glared at him, but he didn't answer, so Sebastian kept talking. "A drunk down river told me you burned up in a barn fire," he said. "Did your old man do that? You said he tried to kill you."

"I didn't say that," Ruben said coldly.

He was probably trying to deliver an unspoken warning, but Sebastian didn't heed it. "Was that before or after he found out you're a psycho freak? Smart man, trying to put you down."

Ruben stood up. "You don't know anything about me."

"You're a God damn cliché," Sebastian snapped. "You're a Hollywood monster—a movie of the week. You—"

Ruben grabbed a wrench off the desk and threw it at him. It caught him over his left eye, splitting his eyebrow open and exploding pain across his skull. Before he could regret having provoked his captor, Ruben was under the table again, yanking him flat on his back. He secured the cable back into place and stalked out of the lab without looking back.

"Son of a...." Sebastian fought a while longer even knowing it was useless, and when his strength finally ran out, he felt around the table for what remained of his meal. "At least I can eat in peace," he grumbled. He found the apple and brought it to his mouth, prying as much of the fruit he could off the core and sucking juice from the rest. It was as his anger wore out, and he found himself contemplating the apple seeds as if they could be of use to him, that it hit him hard.

He's never going to let me go.

He'd known that since the beginning, of course. He'd looked at the photos of the bodies, their skulls cracked open and skin crawling with maggots. He'd seen the unflinching malice in Ruben Victoriano's pale eyes the first time they'd met. But lying there in the half dark, a fucking milk carton his last hope for survival, the reality of his fate crushed in from all sides and he couldn't breathe.

I'm going to die down here.

Sebastian covered his eyes, but that didn't help; he was crying, sobbing into his palms as all manner of regrets, profound and petty, flashed through his head at once. He cried out, all but howling in fear and grief as if he were already a ghost, his eyes and throat aflame with the effort. He was going to die. He was going to be destroyed, and the beast would escape. He was going to vanish from the earth having accomplished nothing.

Sebastian Castellanos was already dead.

***

For the next three days, a routine formed.

There was no telling time in the basement, but every few hours Ruben would descend and start his tape recorder. He'd position his home made device and stab needles into Sebastian's gray matter, experimenting with different levels of charge, different positions. Most times, he would administer his drugs. He'd poke and prod and squeeze and strike, inciting whatever reactions he could from his subject. Sebastian held back when he could, but he always talked eventually. He told Ruben all about the different injuries he'd suffered as a kid, the illnesses and humiliations. He told him things he'd never told anyone, and caught himself feeling thankful to the man when he didn't again reach for the scar on his back.

And when each session was finished, and pain from the serum receded into its second phase, Sebastian had some peace. His skin rippled with false pleasure and he closed his eyes, imagining himself underwater with those little nibbling fish. He curled his toes and sighed as Ruben traced blossoming shapes into his skin. When he had been particularly complacent for his keeper, he was even given a few things to eat while the drug was still in his system. With his sense of taste heightened by the homemade brew, the sweet tang of an orange was almost orgasmic.

When the food was gone, Ruben told him to lie down, so he did, sleeping until the next round.

After however many similar events, something changed. Ruben was positioning his device when the bells overhead began to ring in alarm. With a deep sigh of irritation, Ruben wheeled it out of range again and headed for the door.

It had happened several times during Sebastian's captivity, enough that he'd given up hope of salvation waiting out in the driveway, but when Ruben opened the door, for the first time someone was on the other side. Sebastian's heart pounded into his ears as fiercely as when he'd first become a prisoner, and he didn't dare even breathe.

"There you are," said an older man's voice. "I've been looking for you."

Sebastian had gotten so used to the unconcerned rumbling of Ruben's voice that he could tell instantly he was surprised and wary with his visitor. "How did you get in here?"

"I've been getting used to your traps," said the man. "I hope they weren't meant for me."

"Let's go into the parlor."

Sebastian jolted. "Hey!" he shouted, smacking his palms against the table as loudly as he could. Some part of him doubted it would ever be enough, but after lying dormant the last several days, his animal's instinct finally kicked in, and he fought as loud and as hard as he could. "Hey, help me! Help me, I'm a police officer! For God's sake!"

"You've got someone down there?" said the man, aghast. "Don't tell me it's that missing cop."

"Into the parlor, doctor."

"Hey, wait!" Sebastian continued to holler as the door creaked shut. "You fucking asshole, help me! I'm a fucking cop, you...you...." The door was closed, and Sebastian beat his fists against the table in frustration. "Fuck! You piece of shit!"

He went back to prying at the cable around his neck, but with no greater success than any other time he'd tried. Nearly twenty minutes later, Ruben returned, but something was wrong. His eyes were dull and distracted, and he hesitated at his desk and by the machine, as if he had no idea what he was supposed to do next. He approached the table, leaning heavily against it as he got his bearings.

"Who the hell was that?" Sebastian demanded, trying to hide his bitter disappointment. "Some serial killer groupie of yours?"

Ruben didn't answer. He was staring into the distance, unfocused and swaying on his feet. Then he collapsed.

Sebastian grabbed for him, managing to snag the collar of his shirt before he could drop below the table. With his neckline still tight he couldn't move far, but he pulled Ruben forward far enough that he could get both hands on him. He's totally unconscious, he thought as he strained what little strength he had to pull Ruben onto the table. He's shaking. Is he having a seizure? He hooked his fingers around Ruben's belt, and with enough of the smaller man's weight draped across the table, he was able to keep him mostly in place. What the fuck is going on?

It seemed like the opportunity he'd been waiting for. Ruben was completely out, shivering and even drooling on Sebastian's stomach. He was helpless. It wouldn't have taken much more effort to get his arm around Ruben's neck and choke the life out of him for real. He might have been able to break it, if he could just channel all the rage he'd been holding onto deep down for so many days of torment. He came close, but then he looked down toward his feet.

I still can't get this fucking cable off my neck, Sebastian reminded himself with a growl. And with that there, I can't even begin to get my feet out. Nothing's changed. He ground his teeth, hating himself for not abandoning his last thoughts of survival and just ending the sick fucker now that he had the chance. If he dies, I'm just back to die now or die later. There's nothing I can do.

So he adjusted his grip and waited, wishing he had the courage to kill himself.

It was almost an hour later that Ruben finally stirred. Just as Sebastian had witnessed before but didn't understand, he coughed and sputtered, dragging himself jerkily back to consciousness. Sebastian kept him steady, even then contemplating dragging Ruben's throat down between his teeth. But then Ruben straightened up, and he stared down at Sebastian with a look of surprise that, for a moment, almost made him look vulnerable.

"What happened?" he asked.

Sebastian helped him get fully back on his own feet. "You passed out," he said, watching Ruben carefully. "I think you had a seizure."

Ruben backed away, rubbing his head. He was still unsteady and he had to sit down at his desk. It took him several minutes before he was totally composed. "You didn't kill me," he said, mystified.

"I'm not an idiot," Sebastian replied. "That'd be as good as killing myself."

"Yes...it would have." Ruben breathed in and out, and when he was finally able to stand without wobbling, he left.

"Typical," Sebastian muttered. "Could have at least said thank you." But the only a few minutes later Ruben was back with a plate, and on it, two pieces of bread, some cheese, and an open can of tuna. He even loosened the leash so Sebastian could sit up to eat.

"How long was I unconscious?" Ruben asked.

"An hour, I think." Sebastian spooned the tuna onto the bread with his fingers and crumbled the block of cheese enough to mix in. "You know, I think not killing you is worth more than a sandwich."

"Then we don't have much time left," Ruben muttered, and he began moving about the lab, finishing his usual preparations. "Enough for one last experiment...."

Sebastian choked on a mouthful of tuna and needed a moment to get it down. "What?"

"I prepared something special for you today," said Ruben.

Sebastian craned his neck to try to see what he was up to, but it still caught him by surprise when a syringe jabbed into his neck. Despite being used to the sensation, he flinched and winced, and he took a deep breath in preparation of the burning lava. "What do you mean, 'last'?"

"I had hoped to take my time with you." Ruben turned his tape recorder on and moved the contraption closer. "But the woman's body was discovered, so they're coming for me. They think I'm a 'liability.'"

Sebastian stopped eating. He was trying to make sense out of the nonsense that was coming out of Ruben's mouth when he realized that the drug Ruben had administered wasn't the same as before; rather than pain oozing through his tangled veins, it was warm, silky pleasure gliding down his skin. He wasn't used to it coming first, and it filled him with dread for what kind of pain might follow it instead. "What...." His vision swam out of focus and he braced both hands to the table. "What are you...?"

Ruben put his hand on Sebastian's shoulder, the touch of the bandages feeling like heated velvet. He urged Sebastian's back to the table, and for the first time, Sebastian didn't go tight when he was strapped into the headpiece and needles scraped past the wall of his skull.

"Relax," Ruben said as he started the machine. "And tell me what you're feeling."

The jolt went through him, and a whole new set of histories opened up for Sebastian. Any inkling of the horror that was happening to him quickly fled when he opened his mouth, and the press of his own tongue against the roof of his mouth brought to life a dozen memories of deep kisses. He shivered, licking his lips as had become a favorite of his during his highest points, and was astounded by how sweet and nostalgic he tasted. He even bit himself, remembering a daring young girl in the tenth grade that liked to play rough. It raised a quiet murmur from the bottom of his lungs.

"Serum has been altered," Ruben reported to his tape recorder. "Derivative RI-4B. Subject is having a positive response to the stimulation."

"What...." Sebastian groaned; even his own voice rumbling through his vocal cords felt good, and he all but purred. "What did you...do to me?"

"I was never interested in these kinds of reactions until now," said Ruben. He rubbed his knuckles against Sebastian's stubbled cheek; Sebastian turned involuntarily into the touch. "Such a pointless exercise. What is there to be learned from this?" He drew his fingertip down the line of Sebastian's jaw and then swirled his chin; Sebastian tipped his head in welcome and hated himself for it. "But over the past few days, it has made for an effective method of keeping the subject docile, even cooperative. Perhaps I ought to have experimented sooner."

Two fingertips pressed to Sebastian's lips, and unthinkingly he kissed them. He flicked his tongue over the scarred ridges that took the place of fingerprints and tried to draw them into his mouth. His mind was alight with memories of his best days, soft mouths on his in the backs of cars, knobby fingers begging to be licked. When Ruben pushed in, Sebastian wet the bandages with his tongue and sucked, remembering the first time he'd had a dick in his mouth. Charred hands were nothing like shy Charles Walker, apologizing for every inch he eased down Sebastian's throat, but he could pretend. He'd become pretty good at pretending lately.

"Tell me what you see," Ruben said, drawing his hand back to instead rub back and forth across Sebastian's chest. "What do you remember?"

Sebastian moaned, arching into the massage. "I'm thinking of...everyone I've fucked," he couldn't help but admit. "It feels like...they're all here." He writhed against the table as he fingered his own lips, licking and nibbling happily. He even tried to laugh. "They're all trying to fuck me."

"You enjoy that, do you?" Ruben asked, though there was scorn beneath his voice that didn't seem like him. "Fucking?"

"Yes." Sebastian stretched one hand down, scratching at the indent between hip and thigh. He had to fight himself not to go lower, though it might have already been too late; he was swiftly growing hard, and watching Ruben's eyes dart toward his erection made him sick. "Yes, I...please don't do this."

Ruben frowned at him. His hand crept lower, too, kneading into the muscle below his belly button. "Who was the last person who touched you like this?" he asked.

The memory carved itself into his flesh as if with hot pokers, and Sebastian grimaced at his cock twitching, eager to relieve it. "It was...Luke," he said, and immediately he regretted it, as if he had sacrificed the poor man to Satan. "To wish me luck...coming out here...."

"A man," Ruben said thoughtfully. He reached lower, the crook of his palm coming to rest just barely against the root of Sebastian's cock. "I doubt your father would have approved of that."

"Jesus, fuck," Sebastian whined, and when he reached down to try and pull Ruben's hand away, his hand was snatched up and squeezed. It felt so good it might as well have already been his cock in five blistering fingers, and his thoughts of resistance paled further. "Don't fucking talk about my dad right now, you fucking...."

"This Luke, then." Ruben lifted Sebastian's hand up. "What did he do to you?"

"He...." Sebastian was distracted when he felt Ruben's lips against the tips of his fingers. He lifted his eyes, and told himself furiously that it was only the drugs making him think that there was something enticing about the red lips peeking out from under rolls of gauze. He gulped. "He gave me a...he sucked my dick."

"Is that what you're thinking about now?" Ruben asked.

I am now, you son of a— The rest of Sebastian's thoughts scattered when Ruben's hand closed around his cock, squeezing oh so slowly. The tension stretched up his entire body and left him quivering with an arousal he hadn't thought was possible. At first he did think of that excellent morning in the locker room, Luke's clever mouth working his shaft like a pro, made even better with the excitement he'd bundled up for his countryside adventure. He'd had such high hopes for justice and fame when he set out. But when Ruben the Devil began rubbing his head with his thumb, dead skin scraping morbid pleasure across his slit, even those memories couldn't keep up. His voice caught and keened, thick with rapture as he thrust as best he could into the too-tight grip. Ruben didn't even stroke with any normal rhythm—just squeezed and fondled, forcing Sebastian to try and generate the momentum himself. And he did; he couldn't help it. He shoved his dick back and forth, gripping the table with his free hand for leverage.

"Pathetic," Ruben muttered, but even Sebastian could hear the huskiness to his voice that hadn't been there before. "Look at you, rutting like an animal." He kept Sebastian's other hand closer, breath steaming tantalizingly over his knuckles. "Next time your lover touches you, I hope you think of this."

He took just the tips of Sebastian's fingers into his mouth. His tongue swept along the nails and Sebastian moaned, eyes locked on the sight. Those red lips and pale, piercing eyes burned themselves into his retina—the needles scrawled it into his brain. He would never be free. He was already dead.

And then Ruben let go. All at once he was moving swiftly again, retracting the needles and freeing Sebastian from the machine. Sebastian groaned with complaint and grabbed up his cock for himself, pumping it furiously to just finish it, before Ruben killed him, just one last decent climax to die with. But then the collar went lax, and he realized that Ruben was taking the cable off his neck entirely. He was unbuckling the ankle straps.

"Wh...." Sebastian pulled his legs in and cried when his knees bent for the first time in days with a sore crack. "The fuck are you...."

"They're here," said Ruben, and it was until then that Sebastian heard the bells clanging overhead. He pulled the IV from his arm, but the pain was more than masked by flutters of pleasure, so Sebastian didn't even think to protest as a length of gauze was wrapped tightly over the puncture.

"Drink this."

He shoved a canteen into Sebastian's hands and then helped him upright. Sebastian drank around great gulps of air, and still hadn't pasted his wits back together by the time Ruben was fitting his arms into a jacket—his police uniform. It reeked of blood.

"You're not," Sebastian babbled, still hard and spinning with confusion. "You're...I'm leaving?"

"You're leaving," said Ruben, and he yanked the chest tube out of the suction machine, closing it off with a cap. He tucked the end into Sebastian's sleeve and zipped the jacket up. "There's a tunnel that will take you under the driveway. When you get to the end, go left. Someone will find you."

"What?" Sebastian stared at him in utter disbelief. "You're letting me go?"

Ruben stopped, and he took Sebastian's head in both hands. "Look at me," he demanded, and Sebastian did, held captive by his viper's eyes. "This isn't mercy. I'm only letting you go because I'm not through with you yet."

He hauled Sebastian off the table. It was a short fall but Sebastian's bones rattled as he tried to get them to hold him. Everything spun, blurring madly, but Ruben tugged Sebastian's arm over his shoulder and dragged him to the far end of the room that he had never properly seen. A small doorway was nestled between shelves of equipment, and once it was open, Ruben shoved him through.

Sebastian stumbled, digging his fingernails into the earthen wall of a pitch black tunnel. His feet were numb and his knees quaking, and for the first several feet he had to crawl. Is this real? His cock bounced against his thighs as he pawed his way toward possible freedom. Am I even still alive?

He turned back, fearful that Ruben was a step behind with some new torture waiting for him, but he hadn't moved from the tunnel entrance. Sebastian was granted one last look of his silhouette against the yellow light of the lab, and then the door slammed shut, leaving him in total black.

Go. Sebastian forced his legs to hold him and clawed himself upright. Go, and don't stop. He ran, the tube jostling in his chest, eyes burning. Fucking go!

He ran for what felt like the entire duration of his capture. He bloodied his toes on the uneven ground and fell several times, catching himself awkwardly against his elbows and knees. At one point he thought that he had turned around and was speeding headlong back into the hellish laboratory, but he never stopped moving. By the time he crashed into a ladder at the tunnel's end, he would have done anything to have light in his eyes again. He climbed until his knuckles rammed into a wooden hatch, and he lifted it, clambering out of the hole and into the bushes along a country road.

It was full night, and the air was moist and cold. Sebastian drew deeper into his jacket as he turned left and took off running down the side of the road. The grass was soft with rain against his aching feet, and the stars overhead twinkled in celebration for him. A euphoria came over him unlike anything he'd hoped for as the knowledge of his escape flooded through him. He was free. He was alive.

Sebastian's legs couldn't take him much further, and he crumpled in the ditch, leaning into the bank as he gasped and sobbed for every breath he could take. As he pressed his cheeks into the ferns, breathing in the glorious earthen soil, a tingle spread through him. The leaves tickling his skin felt like the fingers of welcoming friends, and his pain blazed with affirmation. He was still fucking high and had every cause for joy.

And despite his body threatening to come apart at its seams, he grabbed up his cock again. He pumped with his dirtied, bloodied fist, made mad with the thought that if only he could finish, he could expel the rest of the devil's poison in him and be truly free. So he stroked and squeezed, relishing the waves and the lightning one more time, until a hard, stuttering orgasm broke free from him. He shoved his face into the dirt as he moaned and sobbed, shaking, the last shreds of reason gone from his mind. He didn't even know who he was. All that mattered was that he was out, he was alone, he had survived.

The sun was starting to rise when someone found him. A young farm hand in a pickup truck spotted him at the side of the road, and with the sheriff notified by radio, he scooped Sebastian up and buckled him into the passenger seat. Sebastian, only half conscious, watched the trees blur past on the way into town. He still expected to wake up on the table.

It wasn't until he was in the clinic that everything finally started to sink in. He was bathed and clothed, laid out in a bed of soft linen, his wounds tended. They took X-rays to check on his chest and head and flushed him with plenty of fluids to get the drugs out of his system. He was resting comfortably, bandaged nearly head to toe but eased by prescription painkillers, when Connelly came to see him.

"I told you so," said Sebastian, but then he fell apart, and Connelly held his hand tightly as he cried himself sick.

An hour later, when Sheriff Rooly joined them, he got the news.

"I'm sorry, Castellanos," the sheriff said, his hat in his hands. "But he's gone."

Sebastian was mostly numb by then, but he could still feel Connelly's hand around his, and that helped keep him sane. "What?"

"Ruben Victoriano is gone," said the sheriff with a shake of his head. "The entire house is up in flames—our boys are still out there trying to get it under control." Every word made less sense than the last. "There were fresh vehicle tracks in the driveway, but we weren't able to track them out on the road. But we've got everything blocked off. We'll find him."

"No you won't," Sebastian muttered. He leaned back into the pillows, trying not to think about white eyes and red lips. "You won't."

"He's young," Connelly tried to reassure him. "Small, weak. He's got no money and nowhere to go. And he really, really sticks out. We'll catch him, Cas."

"No you won't," Sebastian said again, and he closed his eyes. He could feel the noose around his neck. "I will."

***

***

When Connelly got the call on the radio that there was an incident occurring at Beacon Mental Hospital, Sebastian didn't think much of it.

The place had a reputation, after all. People had suspected foul play among the doctors for years, without anything concrete to back up the rumors. But with officers on the scene and a full response in effect, maybe now was the time to finally crack that mystery. It was a good opportunity, even for a veteran detective already promoted to sergeant.

He and his partner, Joseph, entered the hospital together. There were dead bodies strewn all over the lobby and the place reeked of blood. He hadn't seen anything like it in a while. But it wasn't until they were in the security room, and Sebastian's eyes were drawn to the footage on the monitor, that he began to feel any real prickle of ill ease. A ghost was sweeping down Beacon's corridors, slaughtering anyone he encountered. Sebastian leaned forward, drawn in by the impossible imagery, his heart thundering. The thing was coming closer. He could feel it sinking right into him.

It was a man in a white robe, obscured by hood and camera angle. As he dispatched the last of the officers come to oppose him, he lifted his head, granting Sebastian a full view of his face—of the palest eyes he had ever seen, and burn scars stretched across chiseled features.

"No," said Sebastian, his thoughts dissolving into static as he leaned back. "No—"

Ruvik stared into the camera and smiled.