See Part One for disclaimers and author's notes.
Chapter Five
-- More Bad Dreams --
"Dead." The word echoed in his head. With every bone jarring, breaking hit Shao Kahn landed on him, the word reverberated through him. In the end, he no longer felt the blows the emperor showered down on him. He no longer rose in defiance. He just went away.
Two of Shao Kahn's bully boys dragged the bleeding and broken carcass from the throne room. They took him through crooked corridors that stank of fear and pain until they came to a curtain- closed doorway. One swept the curtain aside. They entered and threw him sprawling onto the dank stone floor. They stood for a moment, watching his pain as he tried to crawl into himself or waiting for someone to speak, he never knew. They turned and walked out, silent in felt-soled boots.
He drew a shuddering breath. Pain lanced through his chest. Ribs, broken, piercing lungs that burned and gurgled with his blood. He lay there and shallowed his breathing. It took all his concentration to find a way not to inflict pain as he breathed.
A sound. A soft sighing of silken draperies. He fought the urge to lift his head, to try to open his bruised lids, to look, to hope. There was no hope. Shao Kahn had made that plain enough.
"Tsk. Tsk. Tsk." The voice was soft, cool, feminine, detached. "What have we here?" Cool hands touched him. The touch was firm, gentle. He cringed away from the all encompassing pain. Yet it didn't make it hurt any more.
He heard the movement of bare feet on stone, the swish of silk. She walked away and came back. A scent. Something -- sharp, pungent. He tried to jerk away, an irrational fear spurring his movement, but she held his head, gently, firmly. Pain faded, receded, became a distant thing, a memory, silence, darkness.
The woman regarded her "gift" quizzically. Delicate arched eyebrows of saffron yellow rose slightly as she looked him over. His once white garments, at least, she presumed they were once white, were dirtied with muck, blood and other things best left unnoticed if the man was to retain any semblence of dignity. He smelled. He was a battered, bruised and broken mess. Whether he was a wreck was to be seen.
She brushed a tendril of yellow hair back into the elaborate coiffure that adorned her head. It left her features bare, unshadowed. The planes of her bones were close to the surface. It was a strong face, beautiful in a nearly masculine manner. Her hands were long fingered, a fourth joint giving them an unhuman grace. They were strong. She lifted the unconscious man from the floor and placed him on a bed in an empty room. It was a plain bed. But it was better than the floor.
She checked his hurts. Ribs. Oh, yes. Several were broken, the ends grinding against each other as he breathed, splinters working their way into his lungs. She listened. Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle. Not the most pleasant of sounds. But not one she had not heard before. Left shoulder dislocated. Right ulna cracked. Collar bone, broken in two places. Spine, jarred, but whole. Hip bones, legs, whole. Right ankle swollen and discolored. She checked it gently. Damage. Ligaments torn, muscle as well. Face. Crushed meat. Lips cut and bloody, a couple of teeth loosened, occipital ridges strangely whole, Jaw, oh, yes, she could feel the breaks. The rest of his head seemed remarkably intact for someone the Emperor had used as a punching bag. Then again, it was odd this one was alive at all give the damage she had assessed already.
She walked into the outer room. She gestured absently. An attendent scurried in. The pale yellow eyes, almost golden, stared at the attendent for a long moment. The man shifted uneasily under her gaze. She glanced at the bloody mark on the floor and at the doorway of the room. One brow arched upward in query.
"Rayden," he responded in a voice like gravel falling into a pit.
"Rayden?"
"Thunder God. EarthRealm."
She turned her face toward the room. A godling. That explained a great deal. She waved him away and he went, swiftly. She busied herself at the table, a great oval of polished wood, streaks of gold showing through the deep reddish finish. Bottles, vials and cups moved of their own volition, or so it seemed. She finished what she wanted. She set aside a small lavender vial that shaded to deepest purple at the stopper. Two other vials she took into the room where Rayden lay.
She stripped away the rags of his former glory and applied the contents of the two vials to his skin, dribbling a very little of one into his mouth. He moaned as his bones shifted back into proper alignment, knitting together at appalling speed. She coaxed the ligaments and torn muscles back into form. He gasped as the shards of rib pulled out of his lungs and back into the proper aligment of the larger rib-bones. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. He choked. She turned his head to one side to allow the blood to drain out. His face hurt almost as much as when Shao Kahn was pounding on it. Finally, she pulled a light cover over him and let him sleep.
He awoke in shadowy light. He forced himself to move slowly, carefully. Nothing hurt. Well, nothing hurt with that sharp lancing pain he had come to know. He ached, distantly. He ran a hand over his face. It was smooth. He frowned. He looked at his hands, arms -- lifted the fabric shrouding him and realized that he had healed. He nearly cried out in denial. This was not him. There was no crash healing available to him here. This was OutWorld. He might as well be mortal here.
He sat up, moved off the bed. A stool stood near the wall. There were clothes. Black. A replica of what he had worn in white, before. He dressed and walked out into the next room. The woman there was startling to his eyes. Her hair was the color of saffron. Her eyes were golden. Her skin was albino white with faint golden veins running beneath it. Her torso and legs were covered in layers of silk, a riotous collection of color from black to white with a rainbow between. She should have looked like a moving mountain of fabric, yet he could see the curve of a generous hip, a high riding breast, the nipple tenting the fabric out beyond the curve. A flash of leg as she moved. Her feet were bare, he noted the extra joint in the toes as he did in her hands. She looked him over critically, nothing he could read in that face. She might have been cut from stone.
So might he. The bruising still lent faint tinges of unhealthy color to his face. His eyes were deep-set and dark, closed. "You wished me to wear these?" Monotone. Dead.
"They suit." She stared into his eyes. Could he be the key, or was he too broken to use? She set the small vial on the table, almost negligently. His eyes flickered to it and back to her. "It's poison. Very, very deadly poison. I can tell Shao Kahn you didn't survive."
"He'd believe you?"
Their eyes met. "No. But he wouldn't ask, either."
A frown flitted across his face. He stepped toward the table. He wondered if it would hurt. Could anything hurt as badly as the beating Shao Kahn had given him? Not the physcial blows, the soul hurt of the deaths of his -- protogees? Even now he shied away from the word that wanted to be acknowledged. They were mortals, doomed to cease to exist in a few short years, to become dust. He could never trust his -- his what? The pain of their loss threatened to overwhelm him. Friends. The Elder Gods help him, friends. He felt hot tears threaten to overflow his eyes. He blinked, turned away for a moment. The vial vanished. When he looked again, she was standing on his side of the table regarding him with a look he could only regard as hungry.
"It only works on those who want to die, no matter who, or what, they are. You do not want to die."
"I don't?"
"No. You don't."
There was such certainty in her that he was tempted to believe, to think, to -- hope. He slammed the door on the latter. There was no hope. Not for Kung Lao, not for Taja, not for Siro, not for EarthRealm. Her light laughter jarred him. His head jerked up, hot hatred in his dark eyes. His fists clenched at his sides. He did not know what this woman was. He had expended enough energy in losing battles against Shao Kahn. You will bow to me. He heard the hated voice echo over and over in his mind.
"So?"
Had she read his thoughts? "So, what?"
"So he wishes you to bow before him. What of it?"
"I will not," he ground out.
"Then you will return to me, again and again and again. And you will get no further."
He recoiled from the frigid chill in her voice. "So?"
"And you will watch as Realm after Realm falls before him, until the entire universe bows to Shao Kahn, as you will not." Her voice was silken venom, striking at his very core.
"What do you want?"
"The question is: What do you want, Thunder God? What do you really want?"
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
While Rayden dreamed of times and tortures past, Siro was working on making his suddenly not quite focussed vision work. He blinked and tried just breathing for a few moments. He cleared his head. He took a deep breath, winced a bit at the rib movement, and then nodded. "I'm all right."
Taja gave him a skeptical look. Lia grinned at them both for a moment, then concentrated on the problem at hand. "I work there. I can get in without a problem. The problem is, how to get the rest of you in."
"Hey. No problem. You go in, open a window, and we're in," Taja said with optimism. She looked from El's darkish eyes to Lia's blue and back. She shook her head. "No?"
"No," El confirmed.
"Yeah. In the first place, he's on a really, majorly protected floor. Wired glass, sensors on the frames, chain link on the outside, and his room doesn't have any windows."
El looked at her. "You think your man and theirs is the same?"
Lia met her gaze steadily. "Well, yeah. I mean, he shows up with no one looking for him. They show up. The crazy eye thing. It fits."
"It fits." She shifted that hard gaze to Siro and Taja. "Get dressed. We'll discuss this further."
Taja became only too aware of the wet towel around her and the heat of the very male body next to her. She didn't exactly yeep, but she did dash back into the bedroom to see if she could fathom the closures on the clothing El was lending her. She returned a few moments later in a silky tunic and pants. She'd tucked the flowing legs into the tops of her boots and looked very nice. Not as militant as usual, but very nice.
Lia, still the clinical psychologist to the bone, had noticed the rush of color as the redhead noted undress and proximity. So, she wasn't unaware of that magnificent, if momentarily damaged, body. Nor, from the flicker of warmth in his dark eyes, was he unaware of the equal magnificence of his companion. Now, why were the two of them ignoring each other? She licked her lips slightly and settled her glasses firmly in place. She knew she could not have ignored him if she'd been standing next to him in a damp towel. Of course, being ignored by him would not have been unexpected. It was part and parcel of her existence. Something to do with curly hair, snub noses and glasses, she thought.
El looked at the gathering and then out the windows. "It's too late to do anything tonight, anyway. I suggest we get something to eat, work out a plan and start on this in the morning."
Lia looked out at the gold, pink and vermillion streaked sky. "Oh, my. It is getting late, isn't it. I'd better go."
"No."
Lia looked stunned at the contradiction. "But -- but -," she stuttered, abruptly incoherent.
"You are a part of the planning committee." El's gaze shifted to take in the other two as well. She frowned slightly. "And you need a shirt."
Well didn't that beat all. Siro had colored slightly at El's forthright statement. Suddenly he seemed to want to look anywhere but at one of the three women in the room. When had it gotten so hot? The part of Siro's mind that always noticed women was sitting back admiring. From El's hard lines to Taja's slender curves to the positively wicked way Lia hid what she was under that unflattering stuff she wore, Siro's always-on-the- look-out male animal was in heaven. The part of his mind that was responsible, intelligent and aware of the fact that not all women were as interested in him as he was in them, was sharply lecturing the other part on his failings.
El put her long stride to good use getting into her bedroom and out again with a suitable shirt for Siro. If he was surprised she had a shirt that would fit him, he didn't reveal it by so much as a flicker of those eyes. She and Taja helped him into the shirt, Taja fascinated by the buttons down the front. El provided a wide belt so that the shirt became a tunic instead of being tucked in. It made the form fit trousers and boots just a little less conspicuous.
Lia was surprised at the restaurant El chose for them. Dark, lit by candles and torches, real candles and real torches, it was a favorite hang out of the more well to do and older Goth crowd. El, Siro and Taja looked right at home here. Lia felt like she stuck out like a sore thumb. A small sigh escaped her. Oh, well. It wasn't anything new. The menu ranged from homey to eclectic. She skipped the hummingbird tongues in sweet and sour sauce, as well as the peacock under glass. Somehow ...
They returned to the apartment, well fed and feeling a great deal more optimistic about their plans for tomorrow. El had pointed out that she was a policeman -- person -- and as such, might investigate a missing persons report fitting the man's description. Siro and Taja became her assistants. They were a team, a very, very dangerous team.
Siro settled back on the couch where he had spent the afternoon. He meant to stay awake and keep an eye on Taja. He was not greatly successful. Taja curled up in an overstuffed leather wing chair to keep an eye on Siro. Lia took the other wing chair so she could keep an eye on -- well, Siro and Taja, for as long as she managed to stay awake.
About midnight, El silently pulled blankets over Lia and Taja. Taja murmured something in her sleep and snuggled under the warmth. She checked Siro. His pulse was a little faster than she liked, but survivable. She retired to her room. She stripped off the customary leather and pulled on a soft silk shift the color of nothing in particular. She settled in the exact center of her bed, neatly pulling her feet under her. She cleared her mind and sought her center. Calm. Remote. Untouched. Her face was like chiseled stone. Her breathing slowed until it was almost imperceptable.
Now. Rayden. Where was Rayden?
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
"You're going to fight him?"
Every line of his body was taught with tension. Sooner or later, Shao Kahn would call for him and they would play out their last meeting. He was no match for Shao Kahn now. With no powers, with only his immortality and nothing to back it up, he was little more than a whipping boy for the Emperor. He knew it. Shao Kahn knew it. This yellow haired woman knew it.
"What else?" he responded tightly.
"Give him what he wants."
Rayden whirled to face her. He was beginning to hate that impassive face. As his body had come back, so had his iron determination. He tried to read that face. It was as imperturbable as it had been for the past two days. He could read nothing. "What do you mean?" By the Elder Gods, how often had Kung Lao asked him that? And Siro? And Taja? He was beginning to understand just how infuriating his own godly attitudes could be.
She blinked that lazy blink and cocked her head slightly to one side. "Give him what he wants."
He felt like he was missing something. No. He was certain he was missing something. But what? "What does he want?"
A small smile curved her lips, not quite reaching her eyes. "You will bow down before me," she intoned softly.
He frowned. That was what Shao Kahn had said. It was what his thugs had forced. It was the last thing Rayden wanted to do. Yet ...
The curtain across the doorway was pulled aside. The thugs were back. They grabbed his arms and took him out of the apartment, down the corridor and back to Shao Kahn's throne room. He stumbled at being quick-marched that way, but was on his feet when he entered the throne room. He managed to shake off the thugs before they could throw him to the ground. He stood, at the bottom of the stairs leading to Shao Kahn's throne and looked up into the mad, dark eyes of the Emperor.
Shao Kahn, lounging on his throne, surged to his feet, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword. He stalked down the stairway until he stood less than two feet from his newest slave. He bared his teeth in a travesty of a smile. His eyes glittered behind the skull half-mask that hid his face from his subjects and his enemies. He tugged at the hilt of the sword and froze.
Slowly. With dignity. Rayden lowered his eyes, his head, and bowed to Shao Kahn. It took an effort not to try to watch the Emperor's face as he did so. He felt exposed, the back of his neck such a tempting target for that sword. He held the bow. He heard the swift intake of breath that was Shao Kahn's reaction.
"So!" Shao Kahn's head tilted to one side as he regarded his captive warily. His hand was still on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw at a moment's notice. He stood sideways to Rayden, offering a less advantageous target should the fool decide to strike. The silence drew out to infinity.
"Look at me."
Slowly, Rayden straightened until he was again looking into the eyes of the Emperor. The cold spot in the pit of his stomach was developing cold wings and fluttering around making him feel very, very uncomfortable. He was aware of a small wave of relief as Shao Kahn released the hilt of his sword. He prayed it did not flicker through his eyes.
Shao Kahn smiled again. Rayden was playing games. Very well. It would lengthen the time the fool survived in OutWorld. In one smooth motion, he pulled back his arm and let fly with a backhanded fist that struck Rayden solidly. His head snapped to one side. He felt the bones break under the impact, the blood seep in to his mouth where his cheek and lips were cut by his teeth. He fought for control. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He brought his face back to where he could look at Shao Kahn. For a moment, a very short moment, he saw death in those glittering eyes. His death.
"Get him out of here!" Shao Kahn bellowed.
The thugs obeyed.
Shao Kahn took the steps back to his throne two at a time and threw himself onto the seat. The heat of anger shook him. How dare Rayden do this to him? How dare he? The Emperor threw back his head and howled his anger to the cosmos.
She looked at him as he walked back into her rooms under his own power. His eyes told her what his mouth could not. The smile was slow and reached her eyes this time. She waved the thugs out. Gently, she smoothed the healing oils into his face, easing the bones and flesh back into place, keeping the worst of the pain at bay. She set the vial on the table and turned to face him again.
"You are learning."
"Yes. He was -- angry."
"Yet you walked back on your own."
"Yes. Do you have a name?"
"You could not pronounce it."
"I could try."
"I am called Kanikitrhhhh\lehreckhta | delikraknep \el\."
He could hear subliminals and hypertones wrapped around the more normal human sounds. No, he could not duplicate the sounds. "Would you settle for Delikraknep?"
"Delikra."
"Delikra. I am delighted to have met you, Delikra."
"Are you?"
The question sent that cold winged thing fluttering around his spine again. She was as dangerous to him as Shao Kahn, and he knew it. His life teetered between the two of them. Why did he care? Something was urging him on, something needed him. And he was still god enough to respond to that call. He caught the flicker of black as he moved. She was right. It was appropriate. Not Thunder. Storm. A Storm such as OutWorld could not imagine.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The night orderly walking his rounds peered in the window of Room 4. Oh my. This would never do. The occupant, the patient, he corrected himself, had managed to dispose of his sheet and blanket in an untidy heap on the floor. He was pulling against his restraints to the point that there were smears of blood on the cuffs and the bedding. His hospital gown was soaked with sweat. The orderly frowned, unlocked the door and stepped in. He picked up the sheets and started to put the bed back together again.
My, but that was really quite a lot of blood. He looked more closely at the restraints. There was no padding. How odd. No, that would never do. Ray opened his eyes and tried to focus, to pull the world inside his head and the one out here into some coherent whole. Lightning flickered in his eyes and across his fingertips. But the orderly was already heading for the night charge nurse and missed the odd display.
He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. Something warm, scaled touched the outskirts of his awareness. He tried to concentrate, to focus. Something pricked the inside of his right elbow. He tried to shift, but he was being held. His world went fuzzy. The nurse swabbed the inside of his elbow with alcohol. She watched as the patient quieted. Then she looked at the saline drip attached to his other arm. No, he hadn't dislodged it, but someone had reset the feed. She increased it to the prescribed rate and nodded to the orderly who proceeded to restore order to the room.
"And clean him off. Get him a fresh gown."
"Yes, ma'am." The door closed. Hrmph. A fresh gown indeed. He'd seen her looking at the man's exposed flesh. No better than she should be, going back to her coffee and that romance book. Why did women waste their time on books when there were more than enough men to take care of their desires. He shook his head. Well, there was blood on the gown, so he had best change it now.
He wiped down the abrasions on wrist and ankle and wiped down the rest of the patient as well before loosely tying on another gown. He took a look at the chart outside as he locked the door. Odd. This patient was not catherized, yet he didn't seem to have been awake for bathroom privileges. Nor had he been fed since he entered the establishment. The orderly shrugged his shoulders. Not his business what they did to the loonies here.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Rayden's dreams were jumbled. Shao Kahn. Delikra. Pain. Shao Kahn's hands -- He jerked away from that memory. He was not going to explore Shao Kahn's alternate ideas about what his whipping boy ex-god should be willing to accept as his duties. Only Shao Kahn knew pleasure in OutWorld.
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