The usual disclaimers apply: still don't own Nsync and this is purely a work of fiction . . . blah blah blah.
Just in case the italics don't show up, anything in between *. . .* is italicized.
Please send feedback! I'm going on for my MFA in creative writing at grad school and would LOVE comments about this! So if you're out there, please, *please* take a moment. Luna1119@collegeclub.com or at the forum wonderful Maplebeanie set up for me. Thanks Maplebeanie! :)
CODENAME: LANCÆLOT
by silverluna
Chapter Thirteen
He desperately tried to keep his thoughts clear, organized. He tried to keep them in a single file line, not letting any cut as they reached him. But this thoughts became distracted, as if something shiny or pretty had flown by. They all began to rush at him at once. It was all he could do to keep his head from splitting open.
*Those figures, where did they go? The hallway's so narrow—were they ghosts? Did they really touch me? What's that? They were fierce; they weren't like that—her. . . . That—what is that? They wanted to hurt me—I'm all alone oh God I'm so alone—She was trying to . . . warn—*
Light slashed across his line of vision. He let out a straggled cry.
~*~
She shined the flashlight in the doll's crude eyes. She put her gnarled fingers on the doll's head and squeezed.
~*~
Pressure and pain suddenly invaded his head. . . . He lost his balance and toppled. The hotel carpet did nothing to break his fall. He landed on his back, touching his forehead and grimacing in pain. The hallway, at first glance, was empty.
It wasn't a hallway at all.
Something was melting from the shadows. Two figures. One had a flashlight. It was too dark o see their faces. Anyway, the light shined in his eyes, made him squint and cringe and try to block it out.
"No," he moaned in a soft voice.
"It's starting to work," one of the figures said.
"He said it would work instantly," the other retorted.
"Maybe the kid's will is strong. Remember the first time? Benton came back empty handed." As the first one spoke, he pointed to JC's prone body.
JC was unable to register thoughts. It was as if he were very tired, and could only manage a semi-level of consciousness. Names, situations—he couldn't even try to place or file them.
"Can he hear us?" the second figure asked, peering down at JC's face.
The first one scrutinized the prone young man. "Nah," he said in a moment. "I think he's going out of consciousness. Besides, Benton's gonna be here soon, and there's no failure second time around."
"So if he hears—"
"It won't make a difference." He paused. "You know this is the second time around for the Little Flower casefile, don't you?"
"Really? I didn't know."
"They thought *she'd* be most apt to handle it."
The second man let a vicious smile creep over his lips. "It makes sense," he finally commented.
~*~
At the French Quarter, she was cackling. "*This* time too," she said to no one, because no one was there, "I will have my pay. My revenge thick and slick with blood—but this time, my pay." She let go of the doll, and grinned nearly toothlessly at it. "You, my boy." She ran the stolen strand of hair through her fingers. "You, my boy."
~*~
He shouldn't miss it. It was only one piece—he lost strands of hair all the time. It was natural. But this one strand—he could feel pain in the root from which it had been torn. The hole seeped into his skull, letting tiny drops of blood come up. Sweat came out of his pores rapidly, his heart thudding in his ears.
*What am I still doing here?* his inner self screamed in his cranium. *Run! For God's sake, run! Get up!*
JC's senses swarmed and he fought to keep them whole. He pushed himself up to his elbows and backed up from the figures, all the while frightened and shaking. His nerves split his skin and the nerve ends screamed with fury. He ignored the tripped out pain and somehow made it to his feet. His run was terrorized by sets of footsteps. His mouth hung open like a dog's and drool collected at the corners of his mouth. He was running straight towards the tunnel of fear, where fear itself sat, reigned— it completely engulfed him and in that place there was no sound and he could find no words. Words were becoming something he didn't know the definition of. His vision was reduced to register only colors and panic— he could see panic like an earthquake, red, shaking the room, and then vision was stripped away. The room tilted.
~*~
Lance struggled to loosen the ropes around his wrists as Little Flower circled his chair, taunting him. "You have no idea," she said, slipping her black hair over her shoulders. "No idea no idea no idea no idea at all."
Lance fixed her in a gaze of annoyance. *Damn them. Damn Alexander. Damn Little Flower*. But at least he'd gotten something to work with, though it was slight. It had come in between breathing, in those moments when emotions were high but also trying to cool. He had witnessed Alexander's anger; his arm still throbbed from being twisted, as did his face from being slammed into the wall. Though both demonstrations of violence had hurt viciously, Lance felt as if he'd somehow been strengthened—or at least, enlightened.
Alexander had violence in his heart, anger in his eyes which he most often masked. But Lance had seen the mask slip. Alexander had a weakness, a loop hole. He wasn't a bloodless statue as his physical appearance led to believe. There was human flesh beneath that cool exterior. Emotion. And *blood* . His weakness was—
Little Flower circled Lance slowly, a hawk with eyes on her prize. Here she was, alone with him again. Lance still knew she was dangerous, that she delighted in watching him suffer. He was unprepared for her torture, whenever it came. There was no facade he could play up. She always stripped it down, going deeper than his skin—she went down into his veins, deeper, she went into the far reaches of his mind, the spider web complexities—well, her influence did anyway. He was a prisoner, he was trapped within his own mind.
"You have the key, Lancælot," Little Flower was saying, her voice rich in the silent room.
*Key?* He never liked it when she spoke in this cryptic manner, as if he already knew everything—that he was just hiding it from her for some reason.
She got close to his face, her red lips a half inch from his cheek. "You make this too hard on yourself, Lancælot. You should just tell me when I ask you what I want to know."
Lance snapped his head at her semi-playful tone. She was speaking to him as if he were a child who had hid something like car keys that she needed so she could go to work. It wasn't a threatening tone, not yet. Now that he wasn't gagged, he wished he had something to say to her; Alexander had taken most of his strength.
She frowned at his continued silence. "You can talk to me or you can talk to the drugs, Lancælot. What will it be?"
Lance licked his lips. "What's the difference?" he replied finally.
Little Flower tapped his chin with her fist. Lance gritted his teeth and pulled away. "Come on, Lancælot, you know you want to tell me."
His bonds held. He scowled. "What do you really want me for? I could play your game, lie to you— but I don't know the rules." His voice had been wrung dry of emotion. He forced it to be dull, he forced his eyes not to stare at her.
Little Flower stared at him, her dark eyes shining. Her red mouth smirked into a jagged grin. A wicked peel of laughter escaped her. "Oh, Lancælot," she drawled, her voice soft and strong, "I see what you want." She tore his shirt open. Lance's mouth dropped open in surprise. She took the opportunity to put her tongue in his mouth. Lance's eyes widened and he tried to get her to stop. As she kissed him, she ran her nails down his exposed skin. Lance kicked his bound feet at her. She grunted and pulled away. "I know you like that!" she cried, sneering. "Just like what you're girlfriend gives—"
"You're *not* my girlfriend," Lance growled slowly, feeling violated. He got a sudden image of Melissa and his heart began to ache.
Little Flower noticed the dreamy look on his face and slapped him. "You will only talk to me!" she shouted, picking up the syringe.
"How long do you think you can keep this up?" Lance gasped, picking up his head. They shared a cold moment. "I mean, you want me to live, don't you?"
Little Flower scowled, letting the syringe slip from her fingers. She put the water bottle to his lips. After that, she fed him, and while his mouth was busy with pieces of dried sandwich, she began taunting him. The first few things he could ignore, until she started mentioning words that he'd said while he was asleep. He knew they were his own words by the tingle he felt traveling up his spine. "What?" he tried to ask, his mouth full of sandwich, his voice shaky.
"That's right, someone you know." She sneered. "Or at least, someone you used to know."
As soon as he swallowed the sip of water, she gripped his throat. "You—hurt—them," Lance gasped.
"Hurt them?" she cried, releasing him, "hurt them?" She giggled, reaching for the syringe again. Her black eyes shone. "How can you hurt what's already dead?"
Lance felt the needle plunge into his bicep. His vision swam. Before his eyelids shut, his retina had blackened.
~*~
The room tilted and his vision blurred for an unnumbered amount of time. Silvery stars glittered behind his eye sockets, blue-black dark skitting up to his watering eyes. They were forced to close. His muscles weakened and his body slid to the floor. He couldn't make them move, he just couldn't. It was as if he were trying to waken from an intoxicating sleep, but his exhausted body still craved the phantom sleep.
"What? What?" he tried to speak, but his tongue moved dry and uncoordinated around his parted lips. His intelligible thoughts slid like marbles down a slope, falling into a void. Something stretched and opened in his mind and the longer he peered internally at it, the more he felt he was going to be sick.
Red, burning pain shot up his esophagus into the back of his throat. Tears flowed as if he'd been maced. The vomit came, projectile and reminscinent of Black Death. It was lucky he had initially fallen on his side.
"No, no," he muttered, consciously wiping his mouth. "I—" *have to get out of here,* he thought desperately. There was a foul taste in his mouth. *What did they do . . . .* he wondered, fearful. *What did they give me—* JC tried to get to his knees, but his muscles were trembling. More side effects. *Ugh.*
He looked around, fighting the blinding dark. White, blurry forms moving startled him. Fear prickled over his entire body. "No, no," he muttered, his lips numb. He squinted and tried to make out the blurs. One was moving toward him. Sudden adrenaline forced JC abruptly to his feet. Unconsciously, he knew this would be the last chance to run. The form in front of him almost came into focus. But no. It was almost like a ghost in tattered sheets. JC was frightened; he tried to look for an exit sign. The ghost-like form was getting closer.
The man of the form, the man JC couldn't see, gave a twisted grin, fully enjoying his control over the confused younger man.
Helplessly, JC backed away. "Who are u?" he demanded, his voice trembling.
The form shuddered, defying sight. "But you know me," it insisted.
JC stared dumbly at the blur. A shiver traveled up his shine.
"You know me, *Mr. Chasez*," the form repeated, approaching him.
JC froze. *That voice—* JC backed up until he was against a wall. "You," he whispered, fear further blinding him. He was aware that these things, whatever they were, wanted to hurt him . . . kidnap him. . . . The thought terrified him, struck a cord deep in the well of his mind.
The form closed in. "Silence now," the form whispered, reaching up to put a huge hand over JC's mouth.
JC dodged. He felt hands grab him, his arms, his torso, his legs. He yelled as he was dragged to the floor. "Hey! You can't, you can't!" He struggled against the unseen hands gripping him.
The initial form whispered, "Don't try to fight it. You are with us now." It paused, and dug through a pocket in its jacket. JC kicked, but was held down. The form dropped something to the ground. One of the phantom hands snatched it up. "Gag him," the form instructed.
"No!" JC cried in absolute fear. This was not happening. It just couldn't be. . . . "HELP!" he screamed. The room jutted out and slanted, resembling a checkerboard. Black and white. A white room, the walls padded. . . .
The hands closed down over his throat. "No," he whimpered. The form bent over JC, shoving him flat on his back. It rammed JC's head against the unforgiving wooden floor. JC saw stars.
"Don't fight this now. We've found you, and you can't leave here without us."
"Lemme go," JC hissed, not even knowing if his words were real.
"Not without us," the form repeated.
Dark began to envelop further as the room tilted. JC about slid to the right. He felt dizzy. He perceived something coming close to his face. He tried to turn his head but the small motion was even too sudden. He felt something slip into his mouth. It was thick and had an awful taste to it. He felt it tighten against the corners of his mouth, securely in place. His hands sat idly in front of him. Slowly he moved his head back to peer at the ceiling. Ominously it was shrouded by the things that had attacked him. He tried to cry out, but both the gag and his new found semi-conscious state prevented it. *No, I have to get away,* JC thought idly. It didn't seem real. His standards of reality had never defined anything like this.
The initial form blocked his vision of the ceiling. JC felt his wrists being roughly brought together. There was no fight left for struggling. Somewhere deep inside, he understood that he was in serious trouble, but the pretty stars were taking to him. They were screaming, whispering, "Stay with me! Stay with me!"
He let his eyelids droop.
"He's out," the initial form said. It stooped down and grasped JC. "She'll be proud."
"He fought it a pretty long time," one of the other forms remarked. A second nodded.
"Mr. Chasez has no sense of destiny," the first replied. "Not yet."
It didn't take long to clean the mess, make it look as if the room had gone untouched for years. The bound and gagged JC was wrapped in a blanket, obscured from sight. The men who took him were dressed entirely in black and took care to look out for security cameras, hotel workers, guests, and police. JC was smuggled out completely unnoticed. One second he was there, and the next, he wasn't.
~*~
Why was he here? He couldn't remember the reason. It was dark, and he had become mad-crazed by it. It was never light in his room. Even when the sun beamed down, thick gray curtains bound his window mute. He'd asked over and over again—imploring to the women in the plain white dresses.
"Please," his voice rasped hoarsely, "please let me see the light—"He sounded so old then.
How long *had* it been? Day and night blurred until he didn't know if he was awake or asleep. He vaguely recalled the fleeting happiness— yes, it *had* been vivid, passionate. There had been— no, he couldn't say the word. His tongue dry and dumb in his mouth. ". . ., . . ." He wanted so much to say it, he wanted so much to remember exactly how it was. . . . But that was completely gone now. All of it.
This was the only place he had left to belong to. "Win—dow," he croaked, trying to point one hour or day or minute when one of the women in white danced in. She had a blurry face, a tired voice. She came to his bed side, pulled the covers further up, straightened them, fluffed the pillow behind his head. "Please," he gurgled.
She shook her head. "You know what the doctor has said. You know—"
But he didn't. He didn't understand why it was suddenly night or day or why he just could not see the light. He was wriggling and screaming like a caged animal, saliva collecting at the corners of his mouth. "No, no!"
Two men dressed in sterile white had rushed in, restraining him. "No! No!" His eyes, his eyes—that sharp, definite color—bulged and a sick memory choked him. He gagged, drool slipping down his chin. The doctor had been summoned, chloroform brought. Once unconscious, he had been restrained with straps connected to the bed.
He didn't know how long it was. Or, for that matter, how long he had been out, slid down in between two places, trapped. He could not escape either one. When he came back to his body he bound himself helplessly restrained.
Outside the door, two of the women chattered quietly. "Such a shame," one said, pitying.
The second one nodded in agreement. "Yes."
"His chart pronounced him as a gentlemen, quite well off."
The second woman sighed. "He was to have such a fortune—"
Their voices faded as a hulking man rounded the corner. Discreetly, one turned and went to check on another patient in a room down the hall. The nurse that spoke to the huge man, one with unremarkable facial features, had no idea that with this man came danger.
~*~
He awoke to someone jabbing him. His eyes, blackened, split into wild green. He protested, waking restrained. He remembered where he was. A slender figure with cruel black eyes stared back at him. She was grinning. Her fingers were curved around a knife which she was poking into his leg. He looked down and his pants were open where they had been cut. There was blood trickling out of the wound.
Her red lips began moving before he could fully under that she was speaking. "You were the first, but since you won't crack, maybe *he* will."
Lance drew a breath sharply. He'd heard the last part. "What—what do you mean?"
Little Flower grinned. Lance figured that some people should just never smile because it was more frightening then their usual expression. "Don't you mean *who*, Lancælot?"
The fear on his face almost made her burst out laughing. She didn't give him too long to ponder it though. The syringe had been ready, waiting for his awakening.
Lance felt the pinprick followed by ice shooting up his veins. His limbs chilled and he fell heavily into the cold, waiting for it to pull him under. He waited to feel nothing but it was not to be.