Designed Captivity
Feb. 1st, 2018 11:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madimpossibledreamerMain Points:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Iron Man Crossover (Self-Made Hero)
Summary: The Initiative gets around to actually doing evil things.
Word Count: 1900
Rating: Gen
Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Iron Man Crossover (Self-Made Hero)
Summary: The Initiative gets around to actually doing evil things.
Word Count: 1900
Rating: Gen
He should’ve known they’d only let him sleep for so long before they came and got him. They don’t even wait to wake him up. He just suddenly wakes from a nightmare about choking in water to see a guy looming above him. Every cell just wants to run, to fly, to leave, he can’t handle this, please—
He just freezes instead. Can’t move, is barely able to breathe. His mouth goes dry, his heartbeat skyrockets, and yes, this is just another panic attack, isn’t—
Anya. Anya’s probably already causing massive migraines for all of the Scoobies. He’s just got to keep it together. They hadn’t managed to find these people operating in Sunnydale after they’d been there for…however long, but they also hadn’t been actively tearing the town apart looking for one of their own.
That being said, he’s not going to just wait for the helicopter of rescue if he can help it. He already doesn’t like what’s happening, and he doesn’t need any more nightmares in his shared head.
His clothes are filthy. That’s not a problem if it’s, say, oil or grime from working in the workshop. He hasn’t been in his workshop in a while, though, and when he’s not there, when it’s not for a constructive purpose, it actually bothers him. Especially with the rest. He feels cold, although he realizes he can’t trust his own judgement of temperature, not when he’s probably already partially in shock.
He manages a small smile that’s much more like a grimace at the guy—Kevin? Nope. His brain’s still rattled. He’s gonna go with Captain Cornfed for now, because Captain Iowa just doesn’t have that alliteration, and he’d like to reserve judgement as to whether he’s suddenly landed in Brucie’s worst nightmare because if he goes with the worst scenario first he’ll be depriving himself of the only weapon he’s currently got.
He realizes that he doesn’t have the Exoskel on his wrist and feels suddenly completely and utterly naked. The clink of metal around his wrists, as the Captain looks apologetic, almost is reassuring, because while it’s not the same, that sudden weight is something.
Gentle hands catch his upper arm and guide him to standing, and he distantly analyzes that Buffy was completely right. Soldier Boy is definitely hunky. Xander’s no slouch himself, between the martial arts lessons and the metalsmithing and the patrolling, but it’s—almost—like comparing himself to the Icicle. No real contest. He’s not gonna get out of this by a well-placed elbow and a mad dash.
That’s not a good strategy, anyway, The Mechanic points out softly. Remember how Yinsen made us memorize how to get out? Nothing’s gained by running blindly. You have to get the information first, then act.
There’s things to learn just from how he’s treating us. We’re a civilian. He doesn’t agree with our treatment. But he’s a good little Army Man. The accompanying mental image of one of those little green soldiers is amusing. He doesn’t let it show on his face. His face which is scruffy. They haven’t shaved him. It’s the little things that make you feel human. He’s not going to question orders, but you might be able to get him to bend them. He’s been ordered not to talk to us. We’re not just a guest anymore. The napping bought us time, which is something.
He’s hurried through checkpoint after checkpoint. The cell block he was in looks old and filthy, like it’d been here for decades. It’s a shock when they reach a part where the area suddenly transitions to a so-called “futuristic” white.
The security systems haven’t changed throughout, though, young Tony pipes up. They probably took over an already existing bunker and repurposed it, including updating the security. We could probably hack it, especially considering the kind of security they’d have in the nineties, but we’d need to do it uninterrupted and I don’t think they’d let us do that. They probably have some sort of surveillance, though I’d guess it’s hidden behind one-way glass in the ceiling, and it’d be even more difficult to disable that without access to the main control system. Definitely hard to do without being noticed.
Leader Tony notes some sort of cells to the side, but he’s hurried past before he can pay too much attention to them and, say, catch a glimpse of what might be in them. Though the least he can say is don’t look now, but I think I smell a little whiff of one of those Project Rebirth discount kits.
He’s taken into what, surprisingly, is not an office, but a warehouse, with a railing and therefore multiple levels and everything. He gets a glimpse over the side and—
Those are autopsy tables. Autopsy tables. They’re cutting up living things as we speak, guys.
His breathing gets a little heavier.
Do I need to take over? First Tony asks immediately, the concern and compassion in his voice a deep contrast to the sterile, cold atmosphere of the place, and he focuses on returning to what outward composure he can get.
Thanks, but not yet. They expect me to be a genius kid. Any indication that that’s not what I am could get me killed. Just a confirmation on this, but with our eidetic memory, can we get a replay of that? Specifically, are they cutting up demons to find out how they work?
It’s a butcher shop, Leader Tony agrees a moment later, sounding angry.
Two guesses as to what they want, and the first one doesn’t count, Iron Maiden states as they come up to a woman in a lab coat and America Lite comes to a stop, pulling his arm harder than previously.
“I brought him, ma’am,” Soldier Boy reports, and she turns, and—
“I didn’t know that professors were going for Supervillain status now,” is the first words out of his mouth, and as Professor Walsh frowns, he realizes that was probably a dumb idea. There’s no taking it back, though.
“I knew you liked to fall asleep in class, Mr. Knight. I didn’t realize it was a medical condition.” Yeah, she’s ticked, but as far as he’s concerned that’s the natural state of her being. “Well, since you value your time so highly, let me get to the point. I didn’t realize you were an inventor. I want to know how your devices work.”
Toldja, she mutters, but it’s anything but pleased.
He leans forward a little and is instantly pulled back by the TA. He smiles as much as he possibly can in the circumstances. “Please don’t lie to me; it’s plebian and insulting. You know that. You’ve known that the instant I joined your class; hell, probably you checked up on every single person in Sunnydale when you moved your operation here. Something I’m starting to kick myself for not doing, myself.”
Note to selves, let’s have Star start that project ASAP when we get back home, he notes.
Can do, the Red Shirt notes, distracted. Fellow mind-neighbors, I’d like to point out that either we’re out in the desert—in which case, it’s not hot enough, and I highly doubt they’d spare the air conditioning for annoying guests who don’t play by the rules—or we’re underground. I think the latter’s more likely, but in either case, the wonderful Initiative Bunker is probably shielded, in which case, even if the lovely computerized lady can be persuaded to allow the use of the suit by another Scooby or pilots it herself remotely, our sensors might not be able to get through. At the collective frown, he mentally shrugs. Only so much polish you can put on a primitive ore, fellas and felladies.
She nods, something like respect appearing for a brief moment. Given how she is in class, though, disagreeing is probably going to raise her ire.
“So you probably got the public records. Phone and computer upgrades. Little things, but enough to make me rich. You didn’t find anything on the weapons because I never patented them. It’s easy to prevent corporate espionage against designs that no one knows exist.” And yes, he borrowed that little move from a very familiar source.
“And you didn’t sell them to the government?” she asks with a judging little eyebrow that tells him yes, in all probability, you’ve just met this universe’s version of General Ross. Because your life really is that messed up.
“Oh, don’t give me that,” he responds with an eye roll, because it’s really as tedious as talking to the Platypus. “I do that, someone gets their hands on designs or components and builds their own, next thing you know we’re in the middle of another arms race with the potential to blow up all we hold dear. I thought we learned our lesson in the cold war.”
She narrows her eyes at him, unable to argue with his logic, but unwilling to concede the point. Eventually she smiles like a viper and leans toward him. There’s more than a little of the Widow about her right now. “And you take me for an idiot, Mr. Knight. We have accounts of you using the device on your arm to fight demons. Humans aren’t on anywhere close to an even footing with them. This,” she clinks the bracer on the desk, watches the longing and dread snake through him in equal measure, knowing that she’s got the upper hand, “…could save thousands of lives from them. We’re working on placing ourselves between civilians and those who would prey upon them—everywhere that might occur.”
He looks her over, judging. “Homeland Security? Marines? Army? Please don’t say Marines or Air Force; I’d like to think that they wouldn’t cook up crazy schemes like this.”
She doesn’t answer, just gets more annoyed, but the way her mouth twitches just slightly when he says Army answers his question for him.
She better never play poker with me. Her ability to hide tells is abysmal, Leader Tony comments, amused.
He gestures. So much for underestimating me. I can’t resist showing off. It’s a fault of mine. Might as well go whole hog. What does that phrase mean, anyway? English is weird. “Sticking a bunch of demons in a crowded space? That’s an oil rig. That’s Jurassic Park. You might have a great safety track record but it only takes one fence going down to have a whole park running wild. Murphy always wins, eventually. Best we can do is delay his arrival a while.”
“You’ve watched too many movies, Mr. Knight.” She’s seething. Probably at his undermining her in front of a subordinate. “Either you show me how this is used—in a closed environment; I know better, no matter your judgement of my intelligence—or we’ll make you.”
How? he wonders. He takes just a little too long to answer.
Captain Cornfed is joined by another soldier. This one, judging from his mocking grip, doesn’t have any qualms about his orders. He’s almost lifted from the ground, and only gets the smallest of glimpses of the rooms they pass. More futuristic science ones, it looks like.
The answer turns out to be diabolically simple. Throw him into what looks like a constructed Thunderdome with his invention and a couple demons, and see if he’s willing to die to protect his intellectual property.
He just freezes instead. Can’t move, is barely able to breathe. His mouth goes dry, his heartbeat skyrockets, and yes, this is just another panic attack, isn’t—
Anya. Anya’s probably already causing massive migraines for all of the Scoobies. He’s just got to keep it together. They hadn’t managed to find these people operating in Sunnydale after they’d been there for…however long, but they also hadn’t been actively tearing the town apart looking for one of their own.
That being said, he’s not going to just wait for the helicopter of rescue if he can help it. He already doesn’t like what’s happening, and he doesn’t need any more nightmares in his shared head.
His clothes are filthy. That’s not a problem if it’s, say, oil or grime from working in the workshop. He hasn’t been in his workshop in a while, though, and when he’s not there, when it’s not for a constructive purpose, it actually bothers him. Especially with the rest. He feels cold, although he realizes he can’t trust his own judgement of temperature, not when he’s probably already partially in shock.
He manages a small smile that’s much more like a grimace at the guy—Kevin? Nope. His brain’s still rattled. He’s gonna go with Captain Cornfed for now, because Captain Iowa just doesn’t have that alliteration, and he’d like to reserve judgement as to whether he’s suddenly landed in Brucie’s worst nightmare because if he goes with the worst scenario first he’ll be depriving himself of the only weapon he’s currently got.
He realizes that he doesn’t have the Exoskel on his wrist and feels suddenly completely and utterly naked. The clink of metal around his wrists, as the Captain looks apologetic, almost is reassuring, because while it’s not the same, that sudden weight is something.
Gentle hands catch his upper arm and guide him to standing, and he distantly analyzes that Buffy was completely right. Soldier Boy is definitely hunky. Xander’s no slouch himself, between the martial arts lessons and the metalsmithing and the patrolling, but it’s—almost—like comparing himself to the Icicle. No real contest. He’s not gonna get out of this by a well-placed elbow and a mad dash.
That’s not a good strategy, anyway, The Mechanic points out softly. Remember how Yinsen made us memorize how to get out? Nothing’s gained by running blindly. You have to get the information first, then act.
There’s things to learn just from how he’s treating us. We’re a civilian. He doesn’t agree with our treatment. But he’s a good little Army Man. The accompanying mental image of one of those little green soldiers is amusing. He doesn’t let it show on his face. His face which is scruffy. They haven’t shaved him. It’s the little things that make you feel human. He’s not going to question orders, but you might be able to get him to bend them. He’s been ordered not to talk to us. We’re not just a guest anymore. The napping bought us time, which is something.
He’s hurried through checkpoint after checkpoint. The cell block he was in looks old and filthy, like it’d been here for decades. It’s a shock when they reach a part where the area suddenly transitions to a so-called “futuristic” white.
The security systems haven’t changed throughout, though, young Tony pipes up. They probably took over an already existing bunker and repurposed it, including updating the security. We could probably hack it, especially considering the kind of security they’d have in the nineties, but we’d need to do it uninterrupted and I don’t think they’d let us do that. They probably have some sort of surveillance, though I’d guess it’s hidden behind one-way glass in the ceiling, and it’d be even more difficult to disable that without access to the main control system. Definitely hard to do without being noticed.
Leader Tony notes some sort of cells to the side, but he’s hurried past before he can pay too much attention to them and, say, catch a glimpse of what might be in them. Though the least he can say is don’t look now, but I think I smell a little whiff of one of those Project Rebirth discount kits.
He’s taken into what, surprisingly, is not an office, but a warehouse, with a railing and therefore multiple levels and everything. He gets a glimpse over the side and—
Those are autopsy tables. Autopsy tables. They’re cutting up living things as we speak, guys.
His breathing gets a little heavier.
Do I need to take over? First Tony asks immediately, the concern and compassion in his voice a deep contrast to the sterile, cold atmosphere of the place, and he focuses on returning to what outward composure he can get.
Thanks, but not yet. They expect me to be a genius kid. Any indication that that’s not what I am could get me killed. Just a confirmation on this, but with our eidetic memory, can we get a replay of that? Specifically, are they cutting up demons to find out how they work?
It’s a butcher shop, Leader Tony agrees a moment later, sounding angry.
Two guesses as to what they want, and the first one doesn’t count, Iron Maiden states as they come up to a woman in a lab coat and America Lite comes to a stop, pulling his arm harder than previously.
“I brought him, ma’am,” Soldier Boy reports, and she turns, and—
“I didn’t know that professors were going for Supervillain status now,” is the first words out of his mouth, and as Professor Walsh frowns, he realizes that was probably a dumb idea. There’s no taking it back, though.
“I knew you liked to fall asleep in class, Mr. Knight. I didn’t realize it was a medical condition.” Yeah, she’s ticked, but as far as he’s concerned that’s the natural state of her being. “Well, since you value your time so highly, let me get to the point. I didn’t realize you were an inventor. I want to know how your devices work.”
Toldja, she mutters, but it’s anything but pleased.
He leans forward a little and is instantly pulled back by the TA. He smiles as much as he possibly can in the circumstances. “Please don’t lie to me; it’s plebian and insulting. You know that. You’ve known that the instant I joined your class; hell, probably you checked up on every single person in Sunnydale when you moved your operation here. Something I’m starting to kick myself for not doing, myself.”
Note to selves, let’s have Star start that project ASAP when we get back home, he notes.
Can do, the Red Shirt notes, distracted. Fellow mind-neighbors, I’d like to point out that either we’re out in the desert—in which case, it’s not hot enough, and I highly doubt they’d spare the air conditioning for annoying guests who don’t play by the rules—or we’re underground. I think the latter’s more likely, but in either case, the wonderful Initiative Bunker is probably shielded, in which case, even if the lovely computerized lady can be persuaded to allow the use of the suit by another Scooby or pilots it herself remotely, our sensors might not be able to get through. At the collective frown, he mentally shrugs. Only so much polish you can put on a primitive ore, fellas and felladies.
She nods, something like respect appearing for a brief moment. Given how she is in class, though, disagreeing is probably going to raise her ire.
“So you probably got the public records. Phone and computer upgrades. Little things, but enough to make me rich. You didn’t find anything on the weapons because I never patented them. It’s easy to prevent corporate espionage against designs that no one knows exist.” And yes, he borrowed that little move from a very familiar source.
“And you didn’t sell them to the government?” she asks with a judging little eyebrow that tells him yes, in all probability, you’ve just met this universe’s version of General Ross. Because your life really is that messed up.
“Oh, don’t give me that,” he responds with an eye roll, because it’s really as tedious as talking to the Platypus. “I do that, someone gets their hands on designs or components and builds their own, next thing you know we’re in the middle of another arms race with the potential to blow up all we hold dear. I thought we learned our lesson in the cold war.”
She narrows her eyes at him, unable to argue with his logic, but unwilling to concede the point. Eventually she smiles like a viper and leans toward him. There’s more than a little of the Widow about her right now. “And you take me for an idiot, Mr. Knight. We have accounts of you using the device on your arm to fight demons. Humans aren’t on anywhere close to an even footing with them. This,” she clinks the bracer on the desk, watches the longing and dread snake through him in equal measure, knowing that she’s got the upper hand, “…could save thousands of lives from them. We’re working on placing ourselves between civilians and those who would prey upon them—everywhere that might occur.”
He looks her over, judging. “Homeland Security? Marines? Army? Please don’t say Marines or Air Force; I’d like to think that they wouldn’t cook up crazy schemes like this.”
She doesn’t answer, just gets more annoyed, but the way her mouth twitches just slightly when he says Army answers his question for him.
She better never play poker with me. Her ability to hide tells is abysmal, Leader Tony comments, amused.
He gestures. So much for underestimating me. I can’t resist showing off. It’s a fault of mine. Might as well go whole hog. What does that phrase mean, anyway? English is weird. “Sticking a bunch of demons in a crowded space? That’s an oil rig. That’s Jurassic Park. You might have a great safety track record but it only takes one fence going down to have a whole park running wild. Murphy always wins, eventually. Best we can do is delay his arrival a while.”
“You’ve watched too many movies, Mr. Knight.” She’s seething. Probably at his undermining her in front of a subordinate. “Either you show me how this is used—in a closed environment; I know better, no matter your judgement of my intelligence—or we’ll make you.”
How? he wonders. He takes just a little too long to answer.
Captain Cornfed is joined by another soldier. This one, judging from his mocking grip, doesn’t have any qualms about his orders. He’s almost lifted from the ground, and only gets the smallest of glimpses of the rooms they pass. More futuristic science ones, it looks like.
The answer turns out to be diabolically simple. Throw him into what looks like a constructed Thunderdome with his invention and a couple demons, and see if he’s willing to die to protect his intellectual property.
