Warning - there is a small part that hints at something that happened. If you're not sure about reading on, check the WHAM warning thread for an update.
Trusting Me, Trusting You 1 - Junction
September 28, 1994
~~ Wednesday ~~
There were fifteen minutes until the agreed meeting time.
Fifteen minutes for Daniel Scardino to gather his thoughts.
Although it wouldn't be completely surprising if she arrived early.
He'd never met her, but he knew her by reputation. Even in an organisation so secret that people had died rather than admit to its existence, it was hard for someone so brilliant to remain anonymous.
She wasn't yet thirty - but her string of accomplishments was long and impressive.
She was bold, intuitive, assertive, single-minded, uncompromising, and fearless.
In short, she was the consummate secret agent.
She had needed all of those qualities just to survive her previous assignment.
She should be dead.
The first indication that something had gone awry was the non-appearance of a communiqué scheduled at the halfway point of the twelve-week operation. They had waited and hoped - hamstrung by distance, the volatility of the situation, and the need to ensure that their enquiries did not increase the danger to their agents.
Then, a month later - when there had seemed no possible outcome other than a double tragedy - they'd received information that one of the agents was alive and had reached a US embassy.
Daniel shook his head in disbelief. She'd escaped. She'd survived. Unaided, she'd gotten herself to safety.
And - thanks to the protocol that families were not given any information until either the conclusion date for an operation had passed or a body had been recovered - her viability had been maintained.
She still had her life *and* she still had her career.
She'd been back in the States for a month now and was insisting that she was ready to return to work - hence their meeting.
It was precisely because of the standing of the woman that Daniel had doubts. The assignment he was going to offer her wasn't worthy of her abilities. She could do so much more.
But, for reasons she had chosen not to divulge, she had requested a Metropolis assignment. Perhaps she was tired of the constant travelling. Perhaps the recent events had subdued her compulsion to flirt with danger. Perhaps she no longer felt the need to test herself against the most evil and ruthless of people.
Whatever her reasons, she had been firm in her resolve that she wished to remain in Metropolis for an indefinite period.
Currently, there was only one such assignment available.
Daniel wasn't convinced she would take it. What possible motivation could there be for her to accept? It was nothing more than one of those embarrassing situations that happened in an organisation such as theirs. Someone had - in the uptight and borderline-neurotic world of secret government agencies - detected something he believed represented a threat. He had followed through, and now, with the passing of time, they were left with a situation that was impossible to undo but which had been all but forgotten by everyone except those directly involved.
That morning, Daniel had spoken to Anstruther - who had been the assistant to the higher-up who had authorised this mission nearly a decade ago. Anstruther hadn't liked it then, and he wanted nothing to do with it now.
He'd been unusually candid in his condemnation of Trask as a man who took delight in the less savoury - although sometimes unavoidable - aspects of their job.
But none of that mattered now.
Two nights ago, Trask had stepped between two parked cars and onto a busy city street. He'd been hit by an oncoming bus and had died at the scene. There would be an investigation - that was standard procedure following the death of an agent - but from what Daniel had heard, it was a straightforward case of a lack of concentration leading to a disastrous outcome.
Daniel's intercom buzzed, and his PA informed him that Lois Lane had arrived.
He stood from his chair and opened his office door to greet her.
She was beautiful.
And strikingly feminine.
He shook her hand, said all the right words, and inwardly concluded that looking so petite and delicate was probably an advantage she had learned to exploit.
She sat in the chair, folded one impeccably shaped leg over the other, and faced him with a polite, aloof expression. Daniel became aware of how long the silence had stretched, and he smiled, hoping to ease into their discussion. She was the sort of woman who captured your attention and didn't let go easily. His knowledge of her achievements only intensified her allure.
She didn't return his smile. "Do you have an assignment for me, Mr Scardino?"
"Please," he said. "Call me 'Daniel'."
She nodded, but her face remained impassive. It was easy to see how she could be so effective in what she did. She *looked* like a soft, gentle, easy-target woman that most men in this business would believe didn't represent any sort of challenge to them.
Her list of successful missions suggested they were rarely any sort of challenge to her.
"I have an assignment," Daniel began. "But I have reservations about offering it to you."
"Do you think it is beyond my abilities?" she asked coolly.
"No," he quickly assured her. "Far from it. In fact, I believe it would be a waste of your talents. But there is nothing else available that would accommodate your request to be stationed in Metropolis for a lengthy period of time."
Daniel paused, giving her the opportunity should she choose to reveal the reasons behind her request - a request that she had to know would stall her career.
She said nothing, so he continued.
"Some time ago, one of our agents, Jason Trask, believed that Earth was under threat from an alien invasion."
Her expression didn't flicker with even a hint of reaction.
"His investigation was extensive - some would say extreme - and he eventually succeeded in capturing the alien."
"*Is* the prisoner an alien?" she asked. "Or merely someone different enough to arouse prejudice?"
"I have never seen the prisoner," Daniel admitted. "He's locked away, and no one goes there other than Trask and his assistants."
The perfect arches of her eyebrows lifted. "It is possible that we have an *alien* being, but no one is interested?"
"There was interest when Trask first started spouting his theories, but over time, many in authority have dismissed it as Trask's overactive imagination."
"How did he get authorisation for the capture?"
"Trask's convictions were unshakeable. He could be a very persuasive person. And fear of the unknown is a great motivator."
She eyed him steadily, as if she'd discerned that there was more to the story.
"There was an incident early in Trask's career," Daniel admitted. "He was given an assignment that was beyond his capabilities and skills, and the results were ... unfortunate. For him."
"So, because of that, those in authority kowtowed to his whims?"
"That's probably a reasonably accurate assessment," Daniel admitted.
"How do we know that the person locked away isn't a human being who somehow managed to provoke Trask's bigotry?"
"You don't believe in alien life?"
"What I believe is irrelevant."
Daniel gestured to a tattered and bulging folder that lay on his desk. "According to Trask's notes, the prisoner displayed characteristics that cannot be considered human."
"Such as?"
"He's phenomenally strong. He can levitate. He can see through walls. He can move faster than the eye can follow."
"Did anyone else witness these things? The levitation, for instance?"
"No other witnesses are mentioned. Trask noted the incidents during the early days of the incarceration. They aren't mentioned in later notes."
"So either Trask believed they were no longer worth noting, or the phenomena stopped?"
Daniel nodded and then continued. "The prisoner is impervious to bullets. According to an early entry in Trask's log, the alien attacked Trask, and Trask's men shot him. The bullets merely ricocheted off him."
"Was he wearing a vest?"
"No. He was naked at the time."
There was no evident reaction to this information. "Anything else?" Ms Lane asked.
"Trask writes of the prisoner as if he's more beast than human. He's feral, dirty, animalistic, uncommunicative, and unintelligent."
"Has he been studied? Have we tried to learn from him?"
"Trask believed there was nothing to learn from such an unevolved barbarian ... that he has no aptitude other than a fundamental instinct for destruction."
"But surely, if he *has* come from another planet, he must know of, or have access to, technology in advance of ours."
"Trask was unsuccessful in obtaining anything useful from the alien."
"We haven't even tried to study him ... to study his physiology?" Ms Lane asked. She'd leant forward a few degrees, as if something had sparked her interest. "To see if he can communicate, albeit in another language? To test his abilities? To discover how he can be bullet-proof? We haven't tried to work *with* him?"
"Trask's only objective was to ensure that the captive didn't use his frightening strength and extraordinary speed to attack the Earth and its people."
"So, on the one hand we believe he is smart enough to defeat six billion humans, and on the other, we believe he has nothing we could learn from him?"
Daniel felt the sting of her question - as he was sure was her intention. "Trask believed that he is the infiltrator - the first of many."
His answer sounded weak, and they both knew it. "Surely *someone* was interested enough to bypass Trask and find some answers?"
"Only a handful of people are aware of this operation," Daniel said. "It was added to my portfolio two years ago when O'Brien retired. From the little I've managed to establish, it seems that every research proposal was quashed by Trask's belief that the alien is an ignorant and dangerous savage."
"How long since he was captured?"
Scardino swallowed uncomfortably. "Seven years," he said.
For the first time, the woman's response was spontaneous and unbridled. "*Seven* years?" she exclaimed. "He's been in custody for *seven* years?"
Scardino took refuge in the notes, not wanting her to detect his frustration that a predicament of someone else's making had been dumped onto him, meaning he now had to try to justify it to the very cool - and very beautiful - Ms Lois Lane. "It's become one of those problems that plague this agency. No one knows exactly what to do now. No one really cares. Only Trask was totally convinced that he posed a threat, but the alien has killed two men, so he can never be released."
"He has killed?" she asked evenly.
"Yes, twice. Both were assistants who went into his cell without protection."
"What sort of protection?"
Daniel picked up the notebook and flitted through it. "There's a substance that Trask refers to as 'Achilles'. Trask believed that it came from the alien's home planet." He looked up from the book. "This is the log that Trask kept since the capture in 1987. The loose papers in the folder are Trask's speculation and theories post-capture. There are three boxes of research notes from before then - detailing how Trask concluded that there was an alien on Earth and how he tracked him down. If you're interested, I can get them to you."
She nodded tersely. "What are the logistics of his imprisonment?"
"There are three assistants - Moyne, Longford, and Shadbolt. They work nine-hour shifts around the clock, with the overlapping hours used to do anything requiring two people. The remaining time, they guard his cell."
"Do they actually enter his cell?"
"Yes - to take him food and other necessities. After the first death, Trask made a rule that no one was to enter the cell without the alien substance."
"Achilles?" Ms Lane questioned, and Daniel thought he detected a hint of possible amusement in her lovely brown eyes. "How does it offer protection?"
"It has a debilitating effect on the alien - it reduces his strength and nullifies his other abilities. The men carry it with them when they enter his cell - and that ensures their safety."
"What would be my role?"
"You would oversee the operation. Your primary responsibility would be to ensure that the alien remains in captivity. The three assistants would be directly answerable to you. Also, you would be expected to cover a shift should they be unavailable for any reason." Scardino closed the notebook and returned it to the folder. "You would have complete control over the alien - if you wanted to make an attempt at communication, that would be your call."
"But, really, all I have to do is keep him in his cell?"
"Yes." Daniel winced internally at her tone. As he'd thought, this was way below her level of competence. Perhaps now was the time to emphasise the hazards of the mission. "Although I should warn you that the alien is not to be taken lightly. I have seen the photos of the men he mauled to death. They provide conclusive evidence to support Trask's belief that, without the Achilles substance, the alien would revert to a frenzied killer."
"But with the Achilles, it's safe?"
"I wouldn't advise entering the cell at all - even with the Achilles."
"Sounds like a cushy job."
She wasn't going to take it. She was probably offended that he had even offered it to her. "If he were to escape, the ramifications could be horrific," Daniel said. "It is imperative that we avoid the scenario of a deranged and powerful killer bent on revenge."
"Why has Trask left the assignment?"
"He died two days ago."
She paled, but tried to make it less conspicuous by pushing her hair behind her ear. "Did the prisoner kill him?"
"No. Trask walked onto a road - and was hit by a bus."
That information brought no reaction. "When do I start?"
"You're going to accept the assignment?" Daniel asked, trying not to sound dumbfounded.
She nodded. "I need to be in Metropolis for personal reasons for the foreseeable future. If this is the only assignment that allows me to stay here, I'll take it. Where is the prisoner kept?"
"There's a disused warehouse on Bessolo Boulevard. Behind the warehouse is a small compound."
Ms Lane stood and held out her hand for the file. "Thank you, Mr Scardino."
"I don't need to tell you that everything in this file is highly confidential - that even the suggestion of alien life on Earth would create a public panic."
"And the suggestion that we have imprisoned an innocent man without trial for seven years would create a media frenzy," she said dryly.
"Unfortunately ... yes."
She took the folder and walked from the room.
Daniel sighed. She was far too good to be babysitting a monster.
||_||
~~ Sunday ~~
Lois lurched, her breath ripping from her lungs in short stabs, and her heart pummelling a tattoo against her sternum.
She stood from the couch and slowly scanned her apartment, needing to assure herself that she was here.
Not there.
Since she had returned to the States, it had been happening a lot.
She would suddenly awaken - not from sleep, but from an almost trance-like state where the horrors lurked on the edges of her consciousness.
Then would come the moment when they would burst through her fragile barriers and swamp her with paralysing fear.
Lois took one pace forward and then another.
She put her hands on her hips and swivelled slowly, stretching her neck and back muscles.
She ran her hands through her hair, knowing she would mess it, but not caring.
Her breathing had almost returned to normal. Her heartbeat would follow. Eventually.
She needed something to occupy her mind.
It was too early for bed. Although time wasn't the deciding factor in determining when her day ended - exhaustion was.
Without sufficient levels of exhaustion, sleep would turn away like a rejected suitor.
And she would lie awake ... vulnerable and unprotected against the ferocious attack of her memories.
She needed something to do.
The offerings on the television were too inane.
Books required a level of concentration she no longer possessed.
Friends ... she grunted bitterly. Friends were a luxury not afforded to people in her job.
And anyway ... she didn't want to think about friends.
Because that would lead to thoughts of her best friend ... and those memories were tightly locked away, chained and bound in the furthest, darkest compartment of her mind.
Lois snatched the tattered folder from her counter and sank into her couch.
She forced herself to open it.
It held many loose sheets of paper - all covered with small intense handwriting. It looked like someone had hastily scooped up the haphazard contents of a desk drawer and bundled them into the folder.
There was also a thick notebook - labelled 'Log - August 1987 -> '.
She put the folder and sheets on the couch, trying to ignore that her paltry dregs of interest were draining away like a dam with broken banks. Clearly, this whole subject had enthralled Trask and driven him to devote his time, energy, and thoughts to the oppression of the captured individual.
Lois had no such interest.
For the first time in her career, this was merely a job - a way to pay the bills while she gave some attention to what her mother had termed 'her long-neglected family responsibilities'.
She had hoped for a desk job - preferably a position requiring minimal contact with people and little in terms of commitment or emotional involvement.
A position where she could try to recover. Gain some perspective. Decide whether her overwhelming lethargy was a passing phase or whether she really had lost all desire for the challenge of the job.
If she were honest, she'd lost all desire for life.
She was bone-weary.
Drained.
Dry.
Callous.
She opened the cover of the notebook.
The first page contained a list of the significant events since the alien - if indeed he were an alien - had been captured.
Lois ran her finger down the page.
'Deller killed - November 2, 1988.'
And ten or so lines further down ...
'Bortolotto killed - February 15, 1992.'
Lois flicked through the log to November 1988.
November 2, 1988
He killed today.
Deller and Moyne entered the cell, and the animal attacked Deller. Despite the valiant efforts of Moyne, the kill was swiftly and expertly accomplished.
Deller had become lax in obeying the rules - fatally so. He entered the cell with Moyne, but only Moyne was armed with the Achilles rod.
The monster saw his chance and took it.
A picture formed in Lois's head - a graphic picture of a victim's lifeless body being mauled in a fury of manic hatred.
She strangled the image until it finally faded away. She took a calming breath and flicked further into the notebook until she found the entry dated February 15, 1992.
He killed again.
Moyne and Bortolotto entered the cell to take him food. As they placed the food on the floor, he sprang on them from behind, killing Bortolotto instantly. Moyne ran for his life - and watched, horrified and helpless, as the beast mauled the broken body of his prey.
I will take revenge for the deaths of two fellow humans. I will be untiring in pursuing justice. The animal must suffer and die for what he has done.
Revulsion swirled through Lois's stomach and pushed bitter tendrils into her throat. She swallowed them down. She couldn't let them win ... couldn't let the evil and destruction and hatred and violence overpower her.
She must be aloof. Distant. Unaffected. Detached.
She wouldn't let them win.
She opened at a random page near the front of Trask's log and continued reading.
December 22, 1987
The ceiling, walls and viewing window of the cell were lined with lead today. Now, I can observe him, but he cannot observe me - or anything beyond the four walls of his prison.
He is trapped.
The savage brute continues to be openly hostile and opportunistic when looking for means to harm humans. Our attempts to interact are met with surly and rebellious rejection. I have ordered that no one is to enter his cage alone or without the protection afforded by the Achilles rods.
He continues to fight us and clearly seeks a way to escape and resume his mission to conquer Earth. Means of control include limiting his food and water and withholding all mental stimulation.
Regular discipline sessions are deemed necessary.
His body might appear to be invulnerable, but I am confident that his spirit can be broken.
Lois turned a few more pages.
March 1, 1988
Today, I strengthened my position over the enemy. We exposed him to the Achilles for a full twelve hours overnight, leaving him weak and defenceless this morning. The surgery was performed by Moyne and Shadbolt.
January 13, 1989
The slow tide of victory continues to turn my way. The beast no longer attempts to interact with the assistants when they enter his cage. At the sound of the door opening, he turns towards the far wall and cowers like a frightened kitten.
He hasn't given up his daily physical exercise, and consequently, his body remains in sound condition despite the ignominy of his life.
I will not rest until his spirit is broken and his body is beaten to a pulp. The safety of the human race depends on the emphatic defeat of this alien invader.
December 6, 1991
The battle to overcome the threat to our planet continues. The brute is a despicable beast - his ability to survive such squalor confirms that he is nothing more than a dirty, contemptible animal. He doesn't deserve to live.
His body is haggard, and death is slowly advancing. His stamina and will to dominate are frightening, but justice will prevail, and our planet will be saved from this alien aggressor.
Although he hasn't shown even a spark of resistance in many months, I have ordered the resumption of discipline sessions. This battle against evil has consumed almost ten years of my life, but it is a worthy fight, and victory is both necessary and much-anticipated.
September 19, 1994
Victory draws ever closer.
Through a planned and precise program of mental and physical disintegration, the monster has been reduced to little more than a shell. His heart still beats, but surely that cannot continue for much longer.
His resistance is broken. His death is near.
I am confident I have won.
Lois shut the notebook.
Actually, you didn't win, she thought. You're dead, and the one you worked so fervently to overpower is still alive.
Why was that?
How could any individual still be alive after seven years of the sort of treatment documented by Trask?
Had Trask *tried* to kill him and failed?
Or had Trask relished his position of absolute power so much that he'd deliberately prolonged the assignment?
She'd heard of Trask before. His name was whispered among agents occasionally - he was considered a loose cannon whose scant achievements had been embellished enough that, when spoken of in high places, they had impressed those who made the decisions. On the ground though, there were few who wanted to work with him.
Flicking through the papers, Lois found one with a floor plan that probably represented the area that was to be her domain until her future became clearer.
It contained three rooms. One half of the floor plan was designated as the 'cell'. It was rectangular in shape with the only irregularity being a stub of wall that jutted into the room a few feet from the only door. There was no external window - only one into the 'viewing room', which was on the mezzanine level and doubled as her office.
Under the office was a small room labelled the 'staffroom'. The door of the cell opened into this room, and Lois surmised that it was probably here that her three assistants passed the time as they guarded the alien.
She tossed the sheet of paper onto the coffee table and moved to her fridge. She took the chocolate fudge ice cream from the freezer and plucked a spoon from the drawer.
Tomorrow, she started her new assignment.
She wasn't looking forward to it.
She wasn't dreading it.
It was just something that needed to be done.
She would ensure that the prisoner did not escape - that definitely would not look good on her record. But beyond that, she had no interest in him, or his predicament, or discovering exactly what he'd done to cause such loathing in Trask.
||_||
~~ Monday ~~
The next morning, Scardino met Lois on Bessolo Boulevard and took her behind the warehouse to the much smaller structure squeezed into the alcove created by towering buildings. Scardino unlocked the door, and they proceeded past a small flight of stairs and into a room where her three assistants awaited her.
Scardino made the introductions, and Lois nodded, instinctively assessing each man in seconds. Shadbolt was cool. His grip was limp when they shook hands. She figured he objected to having a woman as his boss. The fact she was half his age just made it worse.
Longford was apathetic - he wanted to put in his time, collect his pay cheque, and be left alone.
Moyne smiled. Welcomed her. Offered to help her with information - or anything else she needed in order to acclimatise to her new position. Offered to take her into the cell now - or any time she wished.
She didn't trust him.
Not for one moment.
And he smelled of stale cigarette smoke.
Once the introductions were done with, Scardino gave her a bunch of four keys, and made a hasty departure for another appointment. Lois climbed the stairs and unlocked the room that would be her office. She stepped in, turned on the light, and surveyed her new workplace. The top half of the far wall was one-way glass - giving her an unrestricted view into the cell.
To the right was a padlocked closet that ran the length of the side wall; to the left were three rows of shelves, positioned about head height. Above the shelves was a long, narrow window - the only avenue for enticing natural light into the room.
It was covered by a thick, black curtain.
Lois put her bag on the floor, dragged the chair backwards, and clambered onto it. She pushed back the curtain, and a cloud of dust drifted into the air.
She dropped lightly to the floor and looked around the room. The desk, the shelves - even the trashcan - had the appearance of having not been touched since Trask had walked out for the final time. He hadn't been a particularly tidy man. Three cups - all with dark coffee stains around the rim - stood like guards amidst the clutter of papers that covered the desk.
Although someone - probably Scardino - had come to get the folder.
The office had the same heavy miasma as a funeral home.
Or perhaps that was just her.
With a long, slowly released breath, Lois lifted her head and looked forward. She could see the far wall of the cell, but not the occupant.
Wishing this didn't feel so much like gawking at a carnival freak show, she stepped forward.
The room was starkly bare.
Nothing.
No bed. No table. No books. No blankets.
Behind the shoulder-height stump of wall was a tiny area that she guessed housed the toilet.
But there was *nothing* else.
Lois's hand covered her mouth, and her eyes were drawn to the prisoner.
He was walking towards her along the side wall of his enclosure with purposeful steps. Was that what he did to fill empty hours? Walk to nowhere?
Regardless of his state of mind seven years ago, it was entirely possible that, by now, his imprisonment had damaged it beyond repair.
And that was without Trask's other *efforts* to break the spirit of his captive. The 'discipline sessions'? What did they entail?
The prisoner wore nothing but a pair of ragged, ill-fitting shorts.
His hair was long and reached down his back in a matted mess. His beard was straggly and hung from his face like a dark shag carpet.
His body was gaunt. His bones protruded from under skin that almost seemed translucent.
He reached the corner and turned. Lois gasped at the sight of his back. A large, oval-shaped blotch covered the area from between his shoulder blades to level with the bottom of his rib cage.
It was red and angry-looking. Lois wasn't sure if it were a burn or a graze, but she was sure that he hadn't done it to himself. If he had been driven to self-harm - and she'd seen that sort of behaviour in people who had endured far less than he had - his wounds would be on his legs, forearms, or perhaps his stomach.
His cell was empty. He had no means to inflict such wounds on himself.
He reached the back wall and turned again. Lois leant forward. On closer inspection, she could see that his body was covered in welts, gashes, and other signs of physical abuse.
She sank heavily into the chair, closed her eyes, and groped for some perspective.
She had witnessed torture before.
She had seen the results.
But this ...
There was something appallingly perverse in what Trask had done here.
She needed to observe dispassionately. Lois rubbed her eyes, hooked her hair behind her ear, and forced herself to look again.
He was very tall. His posture was straight and his shoulders broad. That, and the lack of grey in his hair, gave him an illusory impression of youthfulness. He was probably over fifty - but, in different circumstances, he could have appeared to be a decade younger.
His hair hung limply over his forehead, and his beard covered his cheeks and jaw, making it difficult to distinguish individual facial features.
She hadn't known what to expect. Trask hadn't included physical description in his notes. The prisoner *looked* surprisingly human. Uncivilised and unkempt ... but still human.
Once, her natural inclination would have been to leap in - to go down into the cell just to see how he reacted to her presence. Would he identify her as being a new person? Could he differentiate between human faces?
Would he be aggressive? Indifferent? Cautious?
Once, she would have burned with curiosity and been unable to rest until she had ferreted out the answers to a myriad of questions.
Not now, though.
Was that good thing? Was that what her mother would have called 'common sense'? Or 'maturity'?
Or had age and despair and disillusionment and cynicism crept upon her years before their time?
Lois didn't know.
She probably *should* care, but she didn't have the energy.
She probably *should* have accepted their offer of counselling.
She probably *shouldn't* have pulled off such a convincing act of wellness during the compulsory session with the shrink.
Should she go into the cell now? The prisoner was awake.
She decided against it.
That was another change.
The young, carefree version of Lois Lane hadn't thought too much about risk ... not until after the event, anyway. But now ... she certainly didn't want to end her life and her career on the floor of a cell at the hands of an alien. Possible alien.
So, for now, she would observe - from the distance and safe sterility of her office.
