[In which canon is deviated from - contains spoilers for Thunderbolts #121]
When they all start screaming, at first he thinks it's the telepaths' fault. It's a reasonable assumption.
It isn't until later that he finds out that it was, yes, but they didn't mean to do it. One of them had tried to look in a part of Director Osborn's mind that they shouldn't have -- which wouldn't have resulted in much, except for the fact that thanks to his time in the Nexus, 'things in Osborn's mind that you shouldn't look at' is a category containing a vast amount of knowledge and memory related to various Lovecraftian beings and secrets beyond all time and space.
The telepathic feedback, pain and terror and terrible, mad knowing, is enough to drop even Samson to his knees, as Robbie looks on in terrified, telepathically immune bewilderment.
Then he starts running toward the holding cells.
---
He passes people on the way -- guards, prisoners, Songbird -- but they're all either dead or unconscious. Until he's almost there, and he sees a figure in tattered green and purple picking its way through the rubble.
He tries to be stealthy, skidding to a halt and ducking behind a downed wall (how hasn't the mountain collapsed yet, with this much structural damage?), but the Director turns toward him, anyway.
"Robbie -- Penance," he corrects himself, sounding as tired as he looks. "Come out here, boy. That's an order."
Robbie obeys, eyeing Osborn cautiously as he approaches, bracing for an attack. The report he'd gotten from Tom, earlier, would have been enough to put him on edge about the Director, even without the more immediate evidence of his breakdown, the tattered costume he still half-wears. At least the mask isn't on.
"Where were you going?"
"Holding cells, sir. To --"
"To neutralise the telepaths. I hope."
"Y-yes, sir. You figured out that they..."
The man laughs, completely joyless, and gestures down at himself. "What do you think?" Robbie is reminded of a rumour he heard, once -- Director Osborn's vicious hatred of psychics, and the reasons why. He doesn't answer, and Osborn sighs. "Come on, m'boy. This needs to be dealt with, before they can regroup and finish what they've started."
---
There's someone there, when they arrive at the cell block the four newest captures had been placed in. (Whose idea had it been to place them together? Probably theirs.) Someone they both know, a lean, bald man in a thin blue hospital robe. Norman straightens, as he sees him, and moves to put Robbie behind him.
"Bullseye."
"Boss! Mr. Chatty!" The man turns and waves enthusiastically, clutching three long, sharp scalpels. "Looks like I'm saving your asses yet again."
"Correction," Norman says with no small amount of distaste, "we're saving the base's... collective asses."
"What, you and laughing boy?"
"All three of us. But --" a smile, "Penance first, I think. Yes. Robbie?"
No. But his feet don't listen, and he follows Norman through the doorway.
One of them is already dead, a scalpel sticking out of her forehead, and the other three only seem to see him through a haze, some part of them shattered into dust, burned away through staring too long into the sun. And he could almost feel grief, but... how many people have been killed because of these four? How many more would they kill if they had the chance?
He looks to Osborn. This is what you're asking of me?
"You knew it would come to this," the man says gently, not needing telepathy to see right through him. "You know it's the only way to finish this. And you know it's what they deserve." And Robbie knows he's right.
They both watch him as he steps in front of the cell, Bullseye blessedly silent for once. Two murderers, two pairs of cold blue eyes. And one pair of glassy green, reflecting the blue sparks that jump so easily to his fingertips.
He can see the awareness of what's happening begin to dawn -- his eyes beginning to focus again, the disbelief creeping onto the man's face -- and he imagines he can hear what the man is thinking. What Samson, what Rich, what everyone who knew him in that old life would think, if they could see him now. Not you, too. Not little Robbie Baldwin. Not Speedball.
"Not Speedball," he mutters so softly none of the other men have a chance of making it out. "Penance." There's a crackling sound, the smell of ozone and burning meat --
---
They sit together, afterward, waiting for the cleanup crews from outside to arrive. Norman starts rummaging in his little purple purse, and Robbie almost puts a fist in his face -- until pulls out a cigarette case, and lights up with a crackle of sparks from his glove.
"Hey, chief. You gonna share?"
Norman glances over at Bullseye, and with as little motion as possible tilts the case to show him -- empty. The assassin makes a scornful sound. "Doesn't it figure. A guy saves the whole base, he's a bona-fide hero, and you don't even have a nail for 'im."
Robbie reaches into his pocket, searching... and pulls out the cigarette Njoki had given him a couple weeks ago. Bent in half a dozen places, missing half its tobacco -- but still a cigarette. (Better than money, in some of the places he's been. Even if you don't smoke, you hold onto them.) Silently, he leans over and offers it to Bullseye, who laughs unpleasantly.
"Maybe you ain't so bad, kid." He looks to Osborn, still in his half-tattered costume, expectantly. The man sighs and holds up a gloved finger, suddenly sparkling with white-hot iron filings.
"Not to say I wouldn't still put this through your eye if I thought I could get away with it."
"And here I thought I was special," Robbie says flatly, tiredly. This time, both men make sounds of amusement, and Robbie finds himself distantly wishing he'd eaten enough today to justify throwing up.
---
In the end, there are two cover stories. One that gets told to the outside world, Director Osborn reciting it over and over on the telephone.
And one that gets told to everyone else on base.
It isn't until later that he finds out that it was, yes, but they didn't mean to do it. One of them had tried to look in a part of Director Osborn's mind that they shouldn't have -- which wouldn't have resulted in much, except for the fact that thanks to his time in the Nexus, 'things in Osborn's mind that you shouldn't look at' is a category containing a vast amount of knowledge and memory related to various Lovecraftian beings and secrets beyond all time and space.
The telepathic feedback, pain and terror and terrible, mad knowing, is enough to drop even Samson to his knees, as Robbie looks on in terrified, telepathically immune bewilderment.
Then he starts running toward the holding cells.
---
He passes people on the way -- guards, prisoners, Songbird -- but they're all either dead or unconscious. Until he's almost there, and he sees a figure in tattered green and purple picking its way through the rubble.
He tries to be stealthy, skidding to a halt and ducking behind a downed wall (how hasn't the mountain collapsed yet, with this much structural damage?), but the Director turns toward him, anyway.
"Robbie -- Penance," he corrects himself, sounding as tired as he looks. "Come out here, boy. That's an order."
Robbie obeys, eyeing Osborn cautiously as he approaches, bracing for an attack. The report he'd gotten from Tom, earlier, would have been enough to put him on edge about the Director, even without the more immediate evidence of his breakdown, the tattered costume he still half-wears. At least the mask isn't on.
"Where were you going?"
"Holding cells, sir. To --"
"To neutralise the telepaths. I hope."
"Y-yes, sir. You figured out that they..."
The man laughs, completely joyless, and gestures down at himself. "What do you think?" Robbie is reminded of a rumour he heard, once -- Director Osborn's vicious hatred of psychics, and the reasons why. He doesn't answer, and Osborn sighs. "Come on, m'boy. This needs to be dealt with, before they can regroup and finish what they've started."
---
There's someone there, when they arrive at the cell block the four newest captures had been placed in. (Whose idea had it been to place them together? Probably theirs.) Someone they both know, a lean, bald man in a thin blue hospital robe. Norman straightens, as he sees him, and moves to put Robbie behind him.
"Bullseye."
"Boss! Mr. Chatty!" The man turns and waves enthusiastically, clutching three long, sharp scalpels. "Looks like I'm saving your asses yet again."
"Correction," Norman says with no small amount of distaste, "we're saving the base's... collective asses."
"What, you and laughing boy?"
"All three of us. But --" a smile, "Penance first, I think. Yes. Robbie?"
No. But his feet don't listen, and he follows Norman through the doorway.
One of them is already dead, a scalpel sticking out of her forehead, and the other three only seem to see him through a haze, some part of them shattered into dust, burned away through staring too long into the sun. And he could almost feel grief, but... how many people have been killed because of these four? How many more would they kill if they had the chance?
He looks to Osborn. This is what you're asking of me?
"You knew it would come to this," the man says gently, not needing telepathy to see right through him. "You know it's the only way to finish this. And you know it's what they deserve." And Robbie knows he's right.
They both watch him as he steps in front of the cell, Bullseye blessedly silent for once. Two murderers, two pairs of cold blue eyes. And one pair of glassy green, reflecting the blue sparks that jump so easily to his fingertips.
He can see the awareness of what's happening begin to dawn -- his eyes beginning to focus again, the disbelief creeping onto the man's face -- and he imagines he can hear what the man is thinking. What Samson, what Rich, what everyone who knew him in that old life would think, if they could see him now. Not you, too. Not little Robbie Baldwin. Not Speedball.
"Not Speedball," he mutters so softly none of the other men have a chance of making it out. "Penance." There's a crackling sound, the smell of ozone and burning meat --
---
They sit together, afterward, waiting for the cleanup crews from outside to arrive. Norman starts rummaging in his little purple purse, and Robbie almost puts a fist in his face -- until pulls out a cigarette case, and lights up with a crackle of sparks from his glove.
"Hey, chief. You gonna share?"
Norman glances over at Bullseye, and with as little motion as possible tilts the case to show him -- empty. The assassin makes a scornful sound. "Doesn't it figure. A guy saves the whole base, he's a bona-fide hero, and you don't even have a nail for 'im."
Robbie reaches into his pocket, searching... and pulls out the cigarette Njoki had given him a couple weeks ago. Bent in half a dozen places, missing half its tobacco -- but still a cigarette. (Better than money, in some of the places he's been. Even if you don't smoke, you hold onto them.) Silently, he leans over and offers it to Bullseye, who laughs unpleasantly.
"Maybe you ain't so bad, kid." He looks to Osborn, still in his half-tattered costume, expectantly. The man sighs and holds up a gloved finger, suddenly sparkling with white-hot iron filings.
"Not to say I wouldn't still put this through your eye if I thought I could get away with it."
"And here I thought I was special," Robbie says flatly, tiredly. This time, both men make sounds of amusement, and Robbie finds himself distantly wishing he'd eaten enough today to justify throwing up.
---
In the end, there are two cover stories. One that gets told to the outside world, Director Osborn reciting it over and over on the telephone.
And one that gets told to everyone else on base.