Remembrance "However, we don't just rely on our talents. The Agency trains its people in the use of a variety of weaponry as well."
Peters had just closed their latest TK training session, very pleased indeed, both with Devon's now near-perfect control and with his more relaxed attitude. John was due in a few minutes to conduct the TK to his second afternoon session.
Devon frowned.
"Why?"
Peters regarded him gravely.
"It's always wise to have a backup. There may be others like Ox around - can you imagine what would happen in a Syndicate, uh, 'bust' if you suddenly found your talent useless? They'd have no qualms about killing you - or taking you captive for their own uses, more likely. And you know what that would entail."
Devon shivered, then nodded. Peters smiled.
"So we train you to shoot. To incapacitate if possible, to kill if necessary. You'll also be trained in the use of other arms - and one of our talents can show you how to turn just about anything into a weapon."
The young psi considered this. He'd had to fight for most of his life, so might have a bit of an edge there. He jumped at the knock on the door: John stuck his head into the room, grinning.
"All ready?"
Peters nodded.
"All done here." He smiled at Devon. "Well, we're almost at the end of your initial training. You'll soon have to decide whether you want to join us or not."
The TK blinked; he'd completely forgotten he wasn't yet an Agency member. John chuckled.
*Glad you feel so at home!*
Devon grinned.
*Yeah - me too! Who do I see about signing up?*
The 'path sobered a little.
*Let's see how you do with the rest of your training - your non-talent training - first, OK? You might still decide you don't want to join the family…*
On the verge of insisting that that was fuckin' unlikely, Devon paused, head tilted. It would probably be wise to wait a little longer, to be absolutely sure.John ushered him down to one of the larger ranges, handing him a pair of ear-protectors and pausing before entering the range proper.
"You'll be training with our best marksman." He smirked. "I think you two have met…"
The noise of gunfire from inside the range stopped, and John opened the door. Inside, a young group of four women and three men were listening intently to… Devon frowned. He knew that back!
Stephan glanced over his shoulder and smiled - a cool, professional smile.
"Ah, John, Devon. Please, join us."
Lips parted in shock, Devon meekly followed John over to the group. Stephan was in the process of dismissing the others: as they left he turned to Devon, eyes twinkling. Devon scowled.
"You never fuckin' told me!"
"You never asked, mon cher. Bad 'abit, that. You should ask more questions."
Speechless, Devon could only follow the Frenchman over to the small but well equipped armoury, listening as he discussed with John which sort of gun he felt would be most appropriate for the young psi…Two hours later Devon's mind was still whirling - not least because of the completely different side of Stephan that was immediately apparent once he had a gun in his hand. Gone was the flippant, flamboyant, affectionate lover: in its place was a cold, hard killer.
Yes, killer. Stephan's accuracy was phenomenal, and while he was demonstrating the different weapons available John *told* Devon something of his history…
His mother had been part of a revolutionary underground in her native New Russia, his father the arms-dealer the group used regularly. Stephan himself was the result of a brief intense affair, at the end of which his father ended up dead, shot by the leader of a rival faction. Stephan had been trained in the handling of weapons from almost before he could walk, and killed his first target - a Mafia drug-baron - when he was seven. By the time he was fifteen he'd notched up another twenty-two hits, and took pride in dealing a quick clean death, disdaining the mutilation and torture others in the party preferred. At eighteen the 'authorities' had had enough of the activities of the various 'terrorist' groups and, with the help of the Chinese Revisionist Party's military arm, instituted a thorough 'cleansing' of the New Russia territories…
Stephan had been lucky to escape the massacre, smuggling himself first to France (where he found that his father's estates had been repossessed by the Republic) and thence to England - where he promptly presented himself to the Agency and asked for a job!
The sheer impudence of the young man had worked in his favour: after an intense period of interrogation, and deep and complete telepathic scans, he was welcomed into the Agency - and had been there ever since. Although he was primarily a weaponry expert and general trainer in the use of firearms, he did occasionally lend his marksmanship skills to missions: no-one could pick off a sniper faster or more efficiently than Stephan working in tandem with a 'path or locator.
It had been a while before the young man had relaxed enough to explore the more personal, emotional side of his character, though…
"Not bad, Devon. You will need more practise - a lot more - but you 'ave a good eye. Whether you also 'ave the stomach to kill… well, we will 'ave to work on that… That will do, for today."
Devon swallowed dryly, lowered the laser-sighted Luger, flicked on the safety, and rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension in his arms and hands. Stephan laid both hands on his shoulders, switching off the killer and reverting to the lover as he kneaded at tight, aching muscle.
"Ah, mon petit - we will 'ave to do something about that, oui?" He glanced at John. "We are finished for today. 'as Devon to go anywhere else?"
John shook his head.
"No, we're done. He's all yours!"
Stephan grinned and hustled the young psi back to his rooms…Devon lay on his back, Stephan straddling his hips, deeply impaled and teasing the TK's nipples - but Devon was distracted, uneasy, finding it difficult to get the image of his bedmate as an assassin out of his head. Stephan eyed him, then sighed and leaned forward to brush his lips in a light kiss.
"I am still me, chéri. I would not 'arm you, 'arm anyone 'ere. That part of me is down there," he jerked his head sideways and down, towards the floor, "not 'ere. 'ere, I am yours."
Devon bit his lip.
"Yeah, I know. It's just - a bit of fuckin' eye-opener. Wish you'd said something."
Stephan grimaced.
"Maybe I should 'ave. I did not think of it." He sighed and inclined his head. "I am sorry. Would you like to stop?"
Devon considered it, gazing at the Frenchman's slightly anxious expression. Stephan was gorgeous when making love: his eyes gleamed, and little strands of his usually immaculate hair straggled over his forehead. And he was so affectionate and playful…
The TK grinned, rocking his hips, making his partner gasp.
"Nah. I can live with it. Just remind me never to annoy you!"It had been a long day. Devon had spent some of it with Cloud, helping shift some heavy machinery and vehicle parts around, part of it in the dojo, being introduced to the various forms of martial arts the Agency provided for its members, and part of it in the nursery, amusing the children under Ox's watchful, loving eye. (He'd argued the uselessness of nursery duty, but John insisted he needed to spend a little time there, in order to complete his understanding of what the Agency was about.) He'd eaten a very enjoyable early dinner with Greg and the 'path's lover-partner Emilio - Cloud was, to his annoyance, spending time with James - and was now pacing in his room, thinking furiously.
He had a problem, and he was close to giving up. He'd asked Cloud, and Misty, and Cloud's friend Ella, and several other females, but none of them could help him decide what to buy for Janet as a thank you present.
Finally he thought of Lenore.
Patti picked up his *Switchboard* command, giving him detailed instructions how to get to the infirmary. Patti had meant to warn him that Lenore probably wouldn't want to be disturbed right now, but an *emergency* call distracted her.
And Devon found the right door and walked straight in…And stopped dead. The figure curled up on the infirmary bed in the hugely baggy tracksuit was…
Beautiful. And terrified… Of him…
He dropped to his knees, hands held out before him, palms uppermost. That action probably saved him - this time - from Razor living up to her name with a short, very sharp and extremely painful 'pathic slash to his mind.
Lenore had risen to her feet.
"Devon, for fuck's sake! Ever heard of knocking?"
The TK ignored her, staring at the cat-woman. He smiled tentatively.
"Uh, hello…"
Angel stared at him, unconsciously reaching for Razor's hand as Devon frowned and leaned forwards.
"We've met, haven't we?"
Lenore gaped. What the…? "You've met her before?"
"Yeah, I'm sure… give me a minute…"
Unthinkingly he rose to his feet and took a step forwards - only to drop to his knees once more, doubled over in agony, hands clenched to the sides of his head.
Angel tugged frantically on Razor's hand.
*No! No, don't hurt… him…*
The 'path blinked and halted her mental assault as Lenore hastened to the groaning TK. One hand under his arm, she helped him to his feet. Shaking, his body swaying unsteadily, he glared at her and growled through gritted teeth,
"Can't you keep her on a fuckin' leash?"
Razor ignored the comment and fixed the young psi with an icy glare.
"What did you mean, you've met her?"
"That we've fuckin' met, what'd you think I meant! It was…" he frowned and rubbed at his forehead - fuck but the bitch had given him a headache… "three years ago… I'd just arrived in London…" He stared at Angel, the blood draining from his face, his eyes huge and pained. "The clinic…"
Razor and Holly both winced as grief *poured* from the little psi. Devon pulled away from Lenore, his eyes still on the frightened, bewildered cat-girl, shakily whispered, "I'm sorry…" and fled the room.
"Get after him!" Holly barked at Lenore as Razor took the trembling Angel into her arms. The flatscan turned and raced after the psi, catching up with him as he stumbled and nearly fell. Doors were opening the length of the corridor, worried and confused 'paths and empaths peering out to see what the hell was going on…
Greg later told Lenore that Devon had *broadcast* such raw emotion that the more sensitive 'paths were left with headaches for hours. Greg himself had had to drop what he was doing and get to Devon as quickly as possible, before he *hurt* himself - or someone else…
"Devon! Wait! It's only me…"
He was shaking so hard she thought he'd fall, head bowed, his hair covering his face. She frowned and touched his shoulder, worried when he jerked sharply out of her reach.
"Devon?"
Before she could stop him he'd pulled back and punched the wall with all his strength, the blow breaking bones in his hand.
"Devon!" Horrified, she caught his wrist and pulled him around to face her, other hand gripping his upper arm. "What the fuck do you think you're doing!?"
He slowly raised his face to hers: there were tears streaming down his face.
"Devon? Come on, you have to tell me what's wrong…"
He dropped to his knees, sobbing silently, and she knelt with him, gently cradling his bleeding, broken hand in one of hers, the other stroking his hair.
"Shall I call a 'path? Shall we go somewhere private?"
He shook his head.
"No…" His rough voice shook. "Just…"
He took a deep, shuddering breath and raised his face to hers, pain and fear and guilt and shame clear in his eyes. She frowned.
"Tell me."
He swiped the uninjured hand over his eyes and sank down to sit with his legs curled awkwardly under him, and Lenore sat in front of him, partly shielding him from the curious eyes of passing flatscans.
"She was another one, at the holding pen…"
As Devon told her, haltingly, about his introduction to the metropolis, she felt herself growing colder and colder.
He'd been caring for himself since he was ten, a scrawny, streetwise kid, tough, a fighter. Far too pretty for his own good. He'd sheltered in an old building, due for demolition, for a couple of weeks, but winter was drawing close...
The woman had been a kind, gentle, motherly type, not pushy. She'd given the pretty, skinny little waif with the big, frightened eyes a little money to start with, then progressed to taking him for a burger, gradually building up a friendship - finding out all about him, he realised later, bitterly. Then she'd told him about this shelter, where they looked after homeless kids with no families. He was cold, winter was near, and, wary as he was, he'd grown to trust her. She took him to this big old building…
A lot of what happened next was just a hazy blur. There were other kids there, and young adults… They were all shoved and locked into rooms that resembled prison cells, without even a screen for the toilet… he remembered a tall brown-haired man with cold grey eyes who took great delight in whispering to each of them what was going to happen to them.
Devon's eyes were wide and unblinking, his voice a rough monotone.
"He told me I was… they were going to make me into an animal. A fox. Some rich bastard wanted a fox for a plaything, for a pet. They were going to take away my voice, and my thumbs, and give me claws, and a fox's ears and a tail, and fur. I was going to be kept in a cage. I'd be fed when my master said so, and used as my master wanted… I'd have to do everything he said, or he'd punish me. All I was good for was fucking and sucking. He'd fuck me every day, and let his friends fuck me, and I'd have to suck them whenever they wanted. And I'd want it, they'd make sure I wanted it, that my body wanted it whether I did or not…"
Lenore glanced up as Greg, his eyes wide and worried, arrived, hovering behind Devon. The flatscan shook her head slightly and gently stroked the TK's hair. Devon was rocking back and forth, the tears still flooding his eyes.
"Someone else came, a medic of some kind. He had the bastard hold me still while he gave me some sort of injection… I couldn't move properly, everything went cold and foggy… the medic went away… the bastard pulled my clothes off… he had… things… in his bag…"
Lenore was subliminally aware of Greg wincing, his face paling, as he *read* just what sorts of 'things' had been used on and in Devon over the next hour. She cupped his wet face with her hands.
"It's OK, honey. You're safe. You don't need to think about it any more…"
He stared at her, face anguished.
"You don't understand! I got away. I don't remember how - I think I maybe bit him or… or maybe I used my talent without realising it… I got away. But she," his head jerked back towards Angel's suite, "she was in the cell opposite me. She didn't get away." His eyes closed, his voice a hoarse whisper. "I left her there. I got myself out and left the others there." He covered his eyes with his hands. "That was going to happen to me…"
Greg knelt behind him, wrapping long arms tenderly around the distraught psi.
"Sweetheart, you were fifteen. You'd been drugged, and tortured, and worse was about to happen to you. You couldn't have helped them. It was a miracle you managed to escape yourself."
Devon was sobbing quietly - and Lenore suddenly realised it was the first time anyone had known him cry. She carefully pulled the swollen broken hand away from his face, holding it gingerly, and gazed intently into his brimming eyes.
"Devon - can you remember where this happened."
*For god's sake, Lenore!*
*Trust me on this Greg. He'll get over it a lot faster if he can do something about it.*
The TK gazed at her, face bewildered.
"Where…? I… I don't know…"
"Do you think you could remember, with a 'path's help?"
"I don't know…"
"Do you want to try?"
He managed a glare, wincing as he automatically tried to fist the broken hand.
"Course I fucking do!"
She nodded.
"Then let's get that hand fixed, and see what Greg can do, shall we?"Lenore spoke quietly to Greg while Jean - one of the flatscan medics on the staff - tutted and clucked over the state of Devon's hand (three broken fingers and couple of compound metacarpal fractures). The field Agent was puzzled and not a little concerned.
"Why didn't you pick that up when you deep-scanned?"
Greg looked worried.
"It wasn't there."
Lenore blinked.
"You mean he made it up?"
"Oh no." Greg was grim. "It happened alright. But… How can I explain?" he frowned to himself, then inclined his head. "Have you ever hunted everywhere for something, only to find it in the most unexpected place? The very last place you'd think of looking?"
Lenore grimaced.
"Yeah."
"That's what happened here. I was deep-scanning, looking for the deeply buried memories and motivations. This memory had been - misfiled. It was on the top level of his mind, in the underwear drawer, if you like, instead of being down in the dungeons with the repressed horrors where it belongs."
Lenore nodded, understanding about as well as any non-'path ever could.
"D'you think there might be more?"
"Possibly. I'm just going to have to do a complete scan." He shook his head. "It might be useful if Cloudie was there as well, for an anchor."
Lenore eyed him: his expression was sombre. He sighed.
"Even with the target having full knowledge of what's going to happen, it'll still feel like the mental equivalent of multiple rape. He's going to feel… violated. Having someone he's… easy with, friends with… someone important to cling to is vital."
Lenore nodded and rose to her feet.
"Set it up, Greg. Get Pamela to authorise it. I have to get back to Razor."
The 'path nodded and took her hand.
"Thanks for being with him. While I was on my way, I mean."
She grinned.
"All part of the job."Greg carried Devon back to his suite - the TK had objected, woozily, but the medication that would force his body to heal his hand in three or four days was already drawing on his resources. He could barely stand, let alone walk.
Once there the 'path laid him down on the bed and sat beside him, stroking his hair back from his face.
"Do you want me to stay with you?"
"Nah…"
"Someone should be here…"
"*Call* Stephan."
Well, the flamboyant Frenchman wouldn't be his first choice of nursemaid, but the flatscan was extremely fond of Devon. (Along with most of the rest of the Agency, Greg thought wryly to himself…) Stephan arrived a couple of minutes later, just after Devon had fallen asleep, hugging Greg enthusiastically - if quietly - and gazing down at the young TK affectionately.
"'ow was 'e 'urt?"
Greg took a few minutes to *explain* what had happened, to Stephan's growing shock and outrage.
"Our Devon? A pet? Merde…"
He began to pace agitatedly. Greg caught his arm.
"Might be better not to let him know you know. The memory… well, it was painful for him. And tomorrow I may have to make him relive it all over again."
Stephan winced.
"Aiii… OK. I will be very careful in what I say."
"Thank you." The 'path glanced at his chronometer. "I have to get back. *Shout* if there's anything you need…"Pamela agreed that the complete scan would be best done as soon as possible - while Devon was vulnerable, under the effects of the medication and hence more *open* than usual to outside *influences*. Could Greg make the time tomorrow morning?
Greg certainly could. Cloudie could also take time off…
Cloudie bit her lip and eyed Greg.
"Is this really necessary?"
Devon was shivering in anticipation, his skin even paler than normal, curled into a ball in the bed. Greg stroked his hair gently, then nodded at the woman.
"We have to, Cloudie. You know we do."
She sighed.
"Yeah - I know. But I remember what my own was like…" she stroked the TK's cold cheek. "I hate to think of him going through the same thing."
"I'll be as gentle as I can, I promise."
Devon's voice shook.
"Stop talking as though I'm not fuckin' here."
Greg slipped into the bed to cuddle into the young psi's back.
"Sorry sweetheart."
The TK swallowed hard.
"S'OK… can we just fucking get this over with?"
"Of course." The 'path glanced at Cloudie. "Are you ready?"
Cloudie nodded, pulling off the last of her clothing and sliding under the quilt, wrapping her arms around Devon, holding him close and pressing a kiss to his forehead.
"I'm here, sweetie. I won't let you go."An hour later Cloudie held the sobbing, shaking young psi in her arms, her own eyes brimming. It had been brutal: Greg had been forced to dredge up every memory, every violation, every beating and have Devon relive his own life, every last part of his life, in fast sharp detail. The 'path was pale and shaken, arms trembling where he wrapped them around Devon and held Cloudie's shoulders.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm so sorry."
Even Devon's *voice* sounded pale and wounded.
*… not… not your f… fault…*
*Can I do anything to help?*
*…c… can you close them off? The things you've woken?*
Greg closed his eyes despairingly, shaking his head.
*I can't, sweetheart. I can help you deal with them, if you want, but I can't kill them.*
Devon took a trembling breath.
*No… I'll cope… Just… Please, would you go away? Just for a while?*
Greg grimaced - that wasn't an unusual reaction, and he understood it perfectly, but somehow it still hurt… He kissed Devon's hair.
*Of course, sweetheart. I won't be far away if you want me.*
The exhausted TK nodded, then glanced over his shoulder, trying hard to smile through the tears streaming down his face.
*It's… I know it's not you, not your fault… It's just too close right now…*
The 'path swallowed the lump in his throat, pathetically grateful for Devon's thoughtfulness, and eased himself out of the bed. Cloudie caught his hand as he dragged on his jeans.
"Thanks, Greg."
The 'path smiled tiredly.
"Just *shout* if you need anything, OK?"
She nodded, and as he left the suite he saw her rocking Devon in her arms, murmuring gently to the young psi - the sight poignantly reminiscent of a mother soothing a nightmaring child…
By the gods, there were times he hated his talent…
© 2003 March 14th Joules Taylor
Darkside