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ajremixTitle: Dark Realms of Time
Fandom: DC TV
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2299
Characters: Mick, the Hunters, the Pilgrim
Warnings: violence, torture, self-harm, self-loathing- it's not a happy fic in the slightest
Summary: Mick's conditioning into Chronos was a long and painful process.
The first thing that pierced the fiery haze surrounding Mick's mind was pain. It faded quickly to the fire consuming him but would come back, intermittently. He couldn't keep track of time, his thoughts not lucid enough to even figure out where he was. Just pain and nothing. Pain and nothing.
Then he heard the word, "Again."
Then pain. Then nothing.
~*~*~*~
He had a memory of being on a table and people looking down at him. It wasn't the first thing Mick remembered seeing but it was very likely the first one he could recall with any clarity. At some point he remembered being in a room by himself, not having the space to do more than lay on something that was probably a bed. He remembered hearing screams. Sometimes he remembered screaming himself.
~*~*~*~
There were four other people with him. There were considerably more people around but only four others that were like him- dressed in loose clothing, all in gray, their heads shaved and eyes haunted. The other people watched them like they were taking notes, like they were something between prison guards and scientists.
There were two men and two women. Only Mick and one of the women kept their heads down and mouths shut. The other three couldn't seem to grasp that concept. He heard one of them being dragged away, thrashing and cursing as they passed his cell. Mick kept his eyes firmly on his tray of tasteless food.
The only thing that ran through his mind was survival.
~*~*~*~
They were being conditioned. Mick had been through those kinds of things before and he was smart enough to recognize when it was happening to him. Without having any ideas for escape or anyone he trusted, he went along with it. He knew how to compartmentalize, using pain and routine and momentum as an insulator. Kept the core of himself protected from what was being done to him.
His fellow prisoners didn't seem as interested in self-preservation. The one woman, the other one Mick had pegged as a survivor, embraced the conditioning. She willingly turned herself into a beautiful weapon, obedient to orders because she knew it would lead her to violence. She wanted power. Not the all-encompassing kind- the kind the 'Masters', as they called themselves, held over the five of them -but the immediate kind. The kind that came with taking someone's life in whatever means was most satisfying.
Some days it was so much like looking in a mirror that Mick couldn't bring himself to look at her.
The other three didn't have the kind of adaptability Mick or the woman did. They fought. Rebelled. They had too much pride in them to simply do as they were told. They were often dragged off and when they returned they fought a little less every time. Mick had tried to speak to one of them once, tried to goad him into starting a fight just to see what would happen. Anger flashed through the man's eyes and his lips curled in a snarl before something seemed to flip off inside of him. Like a switch. After a moment of silence, he flatly dismissed Mick's bait and went away.
After that Mick kept the shield on his thoughts a little tighter.
~*~*~*~
The physical training wasn't so bad. Even the pain was bearable, even when the Masters put him in situations designed for him to fail. Occasionally designed to kill him. Hell, near death died wasn't the worst given he knew he'd be reconstructed. He didn't remember the first time he lost a limb but was man enough to admit it was probably terrifying but the tingling, not-quite-right sensation he got from parts of his body being restored was familiar now.
So no. The physical part wasn't so bad. Mick had always been good at physical things. It was the mental parts that shook him. They dug into his brain with drugs and bits of wire, asked him questions, made him speak until they knew all his weaknesses and fears. And then they forced him to face them time after time.
He watched as familiar faces were murdered gruesomely in front of him, then they made him kill them himself. It probably wasn't real but it felt real- blood on his skin, bones snapping in his hand, the sound of flesh and muscles splitting. They shoved him out into cold until his lungs were coated in ice. They forbade him any kind of fire, wouldn't let him feel the burn.
The first time Mick lost control, lost himself to the fire in his brain, he nearly killed a Master before they knocked him out. And then they pushed him until it happened again. They forced him to the brink, over and over, and every time he caved they stripped him to bone and nerves. Every time he let the fire wash through him they peeled back his skin and flash froze his blood. Every time he felt his mind slipping away, every time 'Len' passed through his lips, desperate to have him come back and guide him, save him, keep him sane, they flooded his mind with memories 'he left you he betrayed you he never came back' and told him 'we are here we saved you you serve us' until he came back as in iteration they deemed acceptable.
~*~*~*~
One of the men tore his own eye out. He kept tearing it out every time the Masters restored it so they decided to replace it with mechanical whatsits and leave it alone. He sat near Mick sometimes, neither bothering to speak. His hand was shaking as they ate and Mick pretended not to notice.
"Do you know why we're here?" The man asked, voice reedy and small and so very lost.
"To do what needs to be done," Mick replied. To kill those who wouldn't kill you.
His shaking grew, like he was on the verge of falling apart. "But why? Why us?"
"Because we don't matter. None of us have ever mattered to anyone." Mick stood up and while the food they were given was designed for nutritional purposes and not for taste, it was starting to taste like bile on his tongue. He tossed the remainder of his meal in the receptacle as people came to drag the shaking man away.
~*~*~*~
He still couldn't do it. Of all the faces they ordered him to kill, Mick still couldn't bring himself to kill Len. He could some times, when Len was too far away to see his expression, as collateral when killing someone else or simply tossing him over the edge of something and not bothering to see what he hit. But when it came down to it, up close and with his hand clamped on Len's throat, he couldn't do it. He'd beat Len within an inch of his life, have the point of a knife poised to dig into soft flesh but Mick always hesitated. Everything in his chest would twist and his hands would loosen. Wild urges bubbled in his throat, the words 'I'm sorry' or 'You always leave me' or 'I loved you' threatening to spill out but every time he faltered the Masters were quick to give him pain. Make him cry out and fall over and hide that ache in his heart under the burn in his muscles.
They dragged him away. Mick started screaming.
~*~*~*~
One of the women- the one who was slowly turning less human -gave herself scars. Like the man with one eye, she gave herself scars until the Masters stopped taking them away. At first they were rough, jagged, made with nails and teeth for all Mick knew. Then, when she realized they wouldn't be taken from her, she started carving them with a blade. They looked vaguely like animals and every time the healing skin split during training she'd smile at the blood and suck it into her mouth.
Mick touched his own scars. His. The original ones. If they were taken away from him, he wondered if he'd be able to burn them back before the Masters stopped him.
~*~*~*~
Every once in a while he'd fight one of the others. The Masters never let the matches go on for too long, Mick supposed it was more to test their skills than anything else. Whenever they were all pitted against each other at once, the man with one eye and the woman with scars would often team up against the others. If Mick had beaten the third man in a fight recently- the only who matched him in raw physicality -he'd team up with the other two. Mick always went down hard when that happened.
None of them stood a chance against the last woman. One-on-one or four-on-one, she was too fast, too smart, to lethal for them to stop. She took so much joy in their failed attempts she'd let the fight drag out. She was the clear favorite of the Masters and when they started implanting her with time manipulation gadgets, she got even more ruthless.
~*~*~*~
He killed Len. Slammed his head into the ground until the back of his skull cracked open. Immediately Mick bent over and vomited on the ground. He started screaming and crying, tried to rip his own hand off because it was covered in Lenny's blood. The Masters couldn't even drag him off for reconditioning he was so hysterical. They sedated him and threw him in his room and waited.
He dragged himself to the corner where the shadows were thickest, curling into a ball. "I'm sorry," he told his bloody hand. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't want to kill you. I never did. Why'd you let me go. Why couldn't you just kill me?"
Then, when the sedatives began to wane and he spent so long wallowing in his sorrow it turned to self-loathing, Mick began to growl, "It's your own damn fault. It's always your fault. Because you're a fucking idiot. He doesn't need you. He never needed you. No one does. Because you'd rather run than take responsibility. Because you never try to stop yourself. You're pathetic. A waste. You can't do anything without someone holding your hand. No wonder no one can stand you. No wonder you're stuck in this hellhole. No one cares. No one will ever care about you."
In his head he saw fire calling out to him and he heard voices crying out his name. The fire was stronger. The fire was always stronger. A small, lost part of him yearned for his partner. The rest curdled with disgust.
"Coward."
~*~*~*~
Mick had known what was going on the moment he could think clearly again. He'd known the five of them were being honed as weapons but that didn't mean he liked it. He'd been used by others before, been written off as some mindless attack dog that only knew how to take orders. He used that to his advantage. People didn't pay attention to what they said around empty-headed fools, no one thought to protect themselves against their own tools.
He reminded himself- stay patient, the time will come. He would make his plans, gather his means and when the time came, he'd jump ship. Wouldn't be the first time and, so long as people saw him as an expendable weapon, it wouldn't be the last.
~*~*~*~
He passed every test, beat every criminal-gladiator they faced him with, killed every person they made up to look like someone in his past, faced all the tortures they inflicted on him without blinking an eye. Multiple times. They gave him armor and weapons. They gave him a ship and taught him how to pilot it, how to fix it, taught him the ins and outs of navigating time. He'd been promised vengeance for his services but he'd only give them his services for vengeance. Beyond that he had no loyalties to the Masters.
Not his fault if they took a career criminal at face value.
He suited up, tested the weight and balance of his new gear. They gave him nothing that made fire, still distrusting about his ability to control his temptations. He shoved the disappointment deep down- he'd have plenty of opportunities to make his own fire -and began the last stretch of his training.
~*~*~*~
The very last was a demonstration of their abilities for the Master of the Masters. Grandmaster. Whoever, Mick hadn't really been paying attention. He just knew once he proved himself enough in the actual field, he'd be let loose on the people that put him in this position to begin with.
The demonstration had been flawless, the five of them had been brutal and efficient. The Grandmaster ordered them lined up for an inspection and they stood, silent and still before him. The man had slick back hair and a bushy beard. Mick studied him from behind his helmet, there was something familiar about him. Something that made dread curl in his belly. But he tempered it down like he did all his other emotions. All he cared about was getting the vengeance he deserved.
The Grandmaster moved away, stepping in the harsh spotlight in the middle of the floor, the other Masters flanking him in an arc. He faced the five, hands outspread and Mick had to wonder how he always got caught up with the dramatic types. The Grandmaster called out, his voice echoing in the chamber, "Pertcha, Herne, Woden- the Drivers of the Wild Hunt. Chronos- the Relentless Marcher. Pilgrim- the Ender of Journeys." The smile was too wide, full of too many teeth and promised nothing but timeless destruction. "I believe you are ready for duty."
Fandom: DC TV
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2299
Characters: Mick, the Hunters, the Pilgrim
Warnings: violence, torture, self-harm, self-loathing- it's not a happy fic in the slightest
Summary: Mick's conditioning into Chronos was a long and painful process.
The first thing that pierced the fiery haze surrounding Mick's mind was pain. It faded quickly to the fire consuming him but would come back, intermittently. He couldn't keep track of time, his thoughts not lucid enough to even figure out where he was. Just pain and nothing. Pain and nothing.
Then he heard the word, "Again."
Then pain. Then nothing.
~*~*~*~
He had a memory of being on a table and people looking down at him. It wasn't the first thing Mick remembered seeing but it was very likely the first one he could recall with any clarity. At some point he remembered being in a room by himself, not having the space to do more than lay on something that was probably a bed. He remembered hearing screams. Sometimes he remembered screaming himself.
~*~*~*~
There were four other people with him. There were considerably more people around but only four others that were like him- dressed in loose clothing, all in gray, their heads shaved and eyes haunted. The other people watched them like they were taking notes, like they were something between prison guards and scientists.
There were two men and two women. Only Mick and one of the women kept their heads down and mouths shut. The other three couldn't seem to grasp that concept. He heard one of them being dragged away, thrashing and cursing as they passed his cell. Mick kept his eyes firmly on his tray of tasteless food.
The only thing that ran through his mind was survival.
~*~*~*~
They were being conditioned. Mick had been through those kinds of things before and he was smart enough to recognize when it was happening to him. Without having any ideas for escape or anyone he trusted, he went along with it. He knew how to compartmentalize, using pain and routine and momentum as an insulator. Kept the core of himself protected from what was being done to him.
His fellow prisoners didn't seem as interested in self-preservation. The one woman, the other one Mick had pegged as a survivor, embraced the conditioning. She willingly turned herself into a beautiful weapon, obedient to orders because she knew it would lead her to violence. She wanted power. Not the all-encompassing kind- the kind the 'Masters', as they called themselves, held over the five of them -but the immediate kind. The kind that came with taking someone's life in whatever means was most satisfying.
Some days it was so much like looking in a mirror that Mick couldn't bring himself to look at her.
The other three didn't have the kind of adaptability Mick or the woman did. They fought. Rebelled. They had too much pride in them to simply do as they were told. They were often dragged off and when they returned they fought a little less every time. Mick had tried to speak to one of them once, tried to goad him into starting a fight just to see what would happen. Anger flashed through the man's eyes and his lips curled in a snarl before something seemed to flip off inside of him. Like a switch. After a moment of silence, he flatly dismissed Mick's bait and went away.
After that Mick kept the shield on his thoughts a little tighter.
~*~*~*~
The physical training wasn't so bad. Even the pain was bearable, even when the Masters put him in situations designed for him to fail. Occasionally designed to kill him. Hell, near death died wasn't the worst given he knew he'd be reconstructed. He didn't remember the first time he lost a limb but was man enough to admit it was probably terrifying but the tingling, not-quite-right sensation he got from parts of his body being restored was familiar now.
So no. The physical part wasn't so bad. Mick had always been good at physical things. It was the mental parts that shook him. They dug into his brain with drugs and bits of wire, asked him questions, made him speak until they knew all his weaknesses and fears. And then they forced him to face them time after time.
He watched as familiar faces were murdered gruesomely in front of him, then they made him kill them himself. It probably wasn't real but it felt real- blood on his skin, bones snapping in his hand, the sound of flesh and muscles splitting. They shoved him out into cold until his lungs were coated in ice. They forbade him any kind of fire, wouldn't let him feel the burn.
The first time Mick lost control, lost himself to the fire in his brain, he nearly killed a Master before they knocked him out. And then they pushed him until it happened again. They forced him to the brink, over and over, and every time he caved they stripped him to bone and nerves. Every time he let the fire wash through him they peeled back his skin and flash froze his blood. Every time he felt his mind slipping away, every time 'Len' passed through his lips, desperate to have him come back and guide him, save him, keep him sane, they flooded his mind with memories 'he left you he betrayed you he never came back' and told him 'we are here we saved you you serve us' until he came back as in iteration they deemed acceptable.
~*~*~*~
One of the men tore his own eye out. He kept tearing it out every time the Masters restored it so they decided to replace it with mechanical whatsits and leave it alone. He sat near Mick sometimes, neither bothering to speak. His hand was shaking as they ate and Mick pretended not to notice.
"Do you know why we're here?" The man asked, voice reedy and small and so very lost.
"To do what needs to be done," Mick replied. To kill those who wouldn't kill you.
His shaking grew, like he was on the verge of falling apart. "But why? Why us?"
"Because we don't matter. None of us have ever mattered to anyone." Mick stood up and while the food they were given was designed for nutritional purposes and not for taste, it was starting to taste like bile on his tongue. He tossed the remainder of his meal in the receptacle as people came to drag the shaking man away.
~*~*~*~
He still couldn't do it. Of all the faces they ordered him to kill, Mick still couldn't bring himself to kill Len. He could some times, when Len was too far away to see his expression, as collateral when killing someone else or simply tossing him over the edge of something and not bothering to see what he hit. But when it came down to it, up close and with his hand clamped on Len's throat, he couldn't do it. He'd beat Len within an inch of his life, have the point of a knife poised to dig into soft flesh but Mick always hesitated. Everything in his chest would twist and his hands would loosen. Wild urges bubbled in his throat, the words 'I'm sorry' or 'You always leave me' or 'I loved you' threatening to spill out but every time he faltered the Masters were quick to give him pain. Make him cry out and fall over and hide that ache in his heart under the burn in his muscles.
They dragged him away. Mick started screaming.
~*~*~*~
One of the women- the one who was slowly turning less human -gave herself scars. Like the man with one eye, she gave herself scars until the Masters stopped taking them away. At first they were rough, jagged, made with nails and teeth for all Mick knew. Then, when she realized they wouldn't be taken from her, she started carving them with a blade. They looked vaguely like animals and every time the healing skin split during training she'd smile at the blood and suck it into her mouth.
Mick touched his own scars. His. The original ones. If they were taken away from him, he wondered if he'd be able to burn them back before the Masters stopped him.
~*~*~*~
Every once in a while he'd fight one of the others. The Masters never let the matches go on for too long, Mick supposed it was more to test their skills than anything else. Whenever they were all pitted against each other at once, the man with one eye and the woman with scars would often team up against the others. If Mick had beaten the third man in a fight recently- the only who matched him in raw physicality -he'd team up with the other two. Mick always went down hard when that happened.
None of them stood a chance against the last woman. One-on-one or four-on-one, she was too fast, too smart, to lethal for them to stop. She took so much joy in their failed attempts she'd let the fight drag out. She was the clear favorite of the Masters and when they started implanting her with time manipulation gadgets, she got even more ruthless.
~*~*~*~
He killed Len. Slammed his head into the ground until the back of his skull cracked open. Immediately Mick bent over and vomited on the ground. He started screaming and crying, tried to rip his own hand off because it was covered in Lenny's blood. The Masters couldn't even drag him off for reconditioning he was so hysterical. They sedated him and threw him in his room and waited.
He dragged himself to the corner where the shadows were thickest, curling into a ball. "I'm sorry," he told his bloody hand. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't want to kill you. I never did. Why'd you let me go. Why couldn't you just kill me?"
Then, when the sedatives began to wane and he spent so long wallowing in his sorrow it turned to self-loathing, Mick began to growl, "It's your own damn fault. It's always your fault. Because you're a fucking idiot. He doesn't need you. He never needed you. No one does. Because you'd rather run than take responsibility. Because you never try to stop yourself. You're pathetic. A waste. You can't do anything without someone holding your hand. No wonder no one can stand you. No wonder you're stuck in this hellhole. No one cares. No one will ever care about you."
In his head he saw fire calling out to him and he heard voices crying out his name. The fire was stronger. The fire was always stronger. A small, lost part of him yearned for his partner. The rest curdled with disgust.
"Coward."
~*~*~*~
Mick had known what was going on the moment he could think clearly again. He'd known the five of them were being honed as weapons but that didn't mean he liked it. He'd been used by others before, been written off as some mindless attack dog that only knew how to take orders. He used that to his advantage. People didn't pay attention to what they said around empty-headed fools, no one thought to protect themselves against their own tools.
He reminded himself- stay patient, the time will come. He would make his plans, gather his means and when the time came, he'd jump ship. Wouldn't be the first time and, so long as people saw him as an expendable weapon, it wouldn't be the last.
~*~*~*~
He passed every test, beat every criminal-gladiator they faced him with, killed every person they made up to look like someone in his past, faced all the tortures they inflicted on him without blinking an eye. Multiple times. They gave him armor and weapons. They gave him a ship and taught him how to pilot it, how to fix it, taught him the ins and outs of navigating time. He'd been promised vengeance for his services but he'd only give them his services for vengeance. Beyond that he had no loyalties to the Masters.
Not his fault if they took a career criminal at face value.
He suited up, tested the weight and balance of his new gear. They gave him nothing that made fire, still distrusting about his ability to control his temptations. He shoved the disappointment deep down- he'd have plenty of opportunities to make his own fire -and began the last stretch of his training.
~*~*~*~
The very last was a demonstration of their abilities for the Master of the Masters. Grandmaster. Whoever, Mick hadn't really been paying attention. He just knew once he proved himself enough in the actual field, he'd be let loose on the people that put him in this position to begin with.
The demonstration had been flawless, the five of them had been brutal and efficient. The Grandmaster ordered them lined up for an inspection and they stood, silent and still before him. The man had slick back hair and a bushy beard. Mick studied him from behind his helmet, there was something familiar about him. Something that made dread curl in his belly. But he tempered it down like he did all his other emotions. All he cared about was getting the vengeance he deserved.
The Grandmaster moved away, stepping in the harsh spotlight in the middle of the floor, the other Masters flanking him in an arc. He faced the five, hands outspread and Mick had to wonder how he always got caught up with the dramatic types. The Grandmaster called out, his voice echoing in the chamber, "Pertcha, Herne, Woden- the Drivers of the Wild Hunt. Chronos- the Relentless Marcher. Pilgrim- the Ender of Journeys." The smile was too wide, full of too many teeth and promised nothing but timeless destruction. "I believe you are ready for duty."
