Chapter Text
Alice Freedman/ Mouse Protector
Apr 25th, 2011
I'm so fucked.
I have though I have been fucked in the past. But now? I am so fucked.
I shift my head as much as I can in the heavy medical straps restraining me to the gurney. Searching for what has to be the eighth time for any vulnerability in my overturned bedroom that I could take advantage of to escape. Unsurprisingly, once again there are no conveniently placed items to MacGyver my way out, ignoring the fact I can't actually move.
I'm alone in a trashed room with me, myself and the bitch casually leaning on my desk. Acting like she didn't walk in through my front door, break my sword and all my shit before holding me down for the spiders to tie me up like a present awaiting the world's shittiest preteen.
I'm mid way through suppressing the very strong desire to start insulting Siberian when she rapidly falls out of my priority. The bedroom door opens to the other side of me, I can barely turn my head in time to see Jack Slash enter the room, stepping over the broken pieces of my favorite sword, my baby. Following behind him is some hot topic teenager, he seems to take joy in making her struggle to lug around my current arch-nemesis' battered body. He motions for her to set the barely breathing Ravager on to the empty table next to mine. She lands with a wet thud.
Jacky Boy's shit eating grin is entirely audible as me talks, "I hoped we did not need to make this clear to people anymore, Ravager. We do not take orders or hits, or jobs. Do we look like errand boys?"
Ravager doesn't answer. Her slow wheezing breaths start to peter out as he finishes his charismaless declaration. Her mangled, caved in face no longer drawing in life giving breath. Jack Slash glances over my body towards the monochrome figure. "Siberian, keep watching them so I can grab Bonesaw. She would be so upset to have half of our newest nominee go braindead."
I'm so fucked.
He exits the impromptu entirely non-sterile organ trafficking station that my bedroom has been repurposed into. His dainty little post twink death hands still squeaky clean as he makes everyone else do the dirty work. I am left back alone with the Siberian.
God what was I taught to do in hostage situations again? Stay calm, speak softly and clearly, observe what's around you, some other stuff, oh! Connect with your captors! Not about the situation obviously, mundane things like hobbies, family, and other things everyone has. Something about making yourself more human to the captor. Yeah let me just start talking about my interests with The Siberian. Like a sane person would. Shit.
Eh fuck it. Again I jerk in my bonds to turn to Siberian, she finally looks up from her nails, returning my gaze with those piercing inhuman yellow eyes. Preditorily locked onto me like I'm a piece of meat. I don't allow myself to be afraid of her. I'm going to be used by Bonesaw in one of her art pieces, a 'nominee'. Nothing Siberian could do could be worse. I need to get out of here, I just need a moment, an opportunity, just one.
“You like jazz?” I fumble out, eyebrow raised. The Siberian blinks. She tilts her head as if she's amused at the notion of casual conversation.
“I think I'd like jazz if I gave it a shot. It's freeform, just a bunch of people making noise, I think. You seem like the kind of person to listen to jazz given the whole naturalism thing you got going on, you know?” My right hand tries to gesture to her Siberian bush without me actually looking below the neck. I don't think she notices seeing as my hands are, in fact, strapped to my side.
“I don't really listen to it. I should have the time, being a independent hero without any major real money problems, but I haven't sat down to just listen to music." I jump topics, "Hey do you like rats? Cute as hell. I should tell you, I really want to own rats. I can't, I'm moving too much to be a stable owner for them. Always fighting, always finding some cape drama to stick my hands into.” I try and fail to shrug my shoulders, forgetting that I am still restrained.
“Free as a mouse the day I turned eighteen. With no other fellow doo gooders slowing me down, I doubled up on my butt kicking crusade. Really living my best life besides the jazz and rat thing. And friendships. Not much time for friends.” This is around the time I would normally do a tactical kickflip to deflect. When my therapist lets me bring props that is. "Damn this is a lot of moping huh?"
But oversharing is good, right? Creating an emotional connection and all that. Doesn't reverse stockholm syndrome exist? I mean she doesn't look too bored, I got this. I so got this.
“I think we're quite alike you and I." Every bit of rational mind fights myself to not do a silly accent, "Not to get into your beeswax, but it's so weird that you follow Jack’s every word, Stripey. You look like you value freedom, but dude, not once have I seen you act independently. 'Break all her shit' 'Punch the nice mouse lady' 'Stand here and don't do anything'." I mock.
"Don't you want more to life than following another man's whims? Personally I would have uh... oh. Oh shit...” Siberian very quickly lost her amusement, and I just kept hammering it in and doubling down. Shit, I fucked up. I fucked up so bad.
Silent footsteps approach my bound form. Her hand raises above me, deliberately slow in a way I know is done to instill terror. An invulnerable fingernail hovering over my right eye. Short labored breaths escape my grit teeth.
Fuck up after fuck up. I always get into trouble because I never no when to shut the fuck up. How could I possibly think that talking is what could have gotten me out of this. 'Oh yes Miss Siberian, would you be so kind to let me go?' Fucking. Idiot.
Her mouth parts, she inhales like her lungs held no air. The Siberian speaks, each word a slow whisper, "You don't need both." I must be the only person alive outside of the Nine to have heard her voice. I'm about to have an eye plucked, and all I can think is that her voice doesn't fit her.
I jerk back as much as I can when Siberian starts to bring her finger down. A knifes edge draws closer and closer, but her nail never reaches my eye.
She hesitates, twitches. The muscles in her face flutter, yellow eyes squeeze shut. Her finger curls away from me. Siberian's hand writhes as she struggles with herself.
A sickly building pressure behind my eyes and then Darkness. My brain feels sore as I reopen my eyes. The memory of a nonsensical helical pattern burned into my vision, quickly slips between my fingers, gone leaving not even a memory.
I have been around as Mouse Protector long enough, and seen enough monsters to know what being near a trigger event feels like. A moment of unconsciousness, not even long enough to fall.
For a brief moment I consider the possibility, but it's not mine. Even with the striking similarities to the fourth or so worst day of my life, I was freaking out, but not capital F Freaking the Fuck out. The door was unlocked. Heh hah ahah! I'm strapped down, about to probably get a few parts of me eaten as a nice snack between 'surgery', but my little monkey brain is a-ok because the door is unlocked! My brain is so stupid, Imma kick her shit in.
The obvious answer is Ravager. Did she trigger again, like Ms. Tall Lady Narwhal?
Ravager’s chest is still, she is dead. Stop looking.
Try as I might, I can't mange to wiggle out of this. I can only struggle in my bonds. Not strong enough to break them, not flexible enough to unbind my hands from their duct tape mitts. All my marks destroyed by the monster in the room with me. A royally fucked situation. I need to act before she regains composure, a window of opportunity has opened and is rapidly closing.
I shift my weight as much as I can to one side of the operating table before rocking myself back, I need to fall over. I can cut my bonds with the broken blade of my sidesword, pull down the bed upturned against the wall, mark an officially MP branded eraser that's in the third left pocket of my cheese utility belt and throw it out my unlocked window! I'll escape and get to do a bunch of stuff I've been putting off! I'll finally apologize to Hanna, I’ll take up Dragon’s offer for drinks, I’ll finally go on that roadtrip, I’ll stop being such a piece of shit-
A black and white striped hand grips the side of the operating table, stabilizing it. With clumsy movements the hand fails to drag its owner up. A sob escapes a voice box not used in decades for anything but cruel words to dying men. What could have been attempts at speech are tried and discarded, eventually almost stumbling into actual words.
“O-oh. Oh g- god oh god. I'm sorry I'm sorry, oh god I'm-” The words dissolve into devastated sobs interrupted with wretched gagging.
I struggle against my head strap to look down off the side of the table. I see bawling sky blue eyes that do not belong on Siberian’s face staring back, dribbles of red vomit on her lips. A pathetic sight of a broken person.
Siberian sobs out apology after apology, “I'm s- sorry.”