I don't even know what to call this
A snippet of something that could, theoretically, fit into Red Haven canon, shortly after Rayne is captured and turned into Agent 417.
I had a plan, Angilo thought, as the blows rained down on him. Go to Mars, find the resistance, tell them what happened to Derek, help him somehow. Not a very detailed plan, but it was the best he had.
He had forgotten, somehow, that there wasn’t a martian alive who didn’t know his face. People had turned away from him, close-mouthed and scared. Until he found some people who weren’t scared.
A heavy boot crunched into his side. Yeah. Great plan.
*
Angilo hates this planet. After they beat him, the thugs threw him in the back of a rover for - four? Five hours? And dumped him somewhere in this freezing, barren wilderness.
His mouth is utterly parched and he’s starting to have dizzy spells, which is not a good sign. Every time he shivers his ribs ache, and he can’t feel the tips of his fingers.
Rocky red scrubland extends endlessly around him, frigid winds practically sand-blasting him with finely ground dust. He stumbles on. He isn’t going to reach anywhere, and can’t expect a welcome even if he could, but - Rayne. Never surrender. All that shit.
He’s so cold.
“Hello, David Angilo.”
There -
He -
Angilo must be more dehydrated than he thought, not to have noticed him before. There’s a man, dusty and brown, with typical martian features and an almost beatific expression on his face.
“I can’t even express what a pleasure it is, to meet you like this.”
Okay, so random desert man is crazy. Still, he looks pretty alive.
“Please,” Angilo rasps, “I need water.”
The man’s grin multiplies, beaming at him. He spreads his arms wide, revealing all the bottles he very much isn’t carrying.
“I have none to give,” he says, almost cackling. “But truly, David - may I call you David? Allowing you to die slowly and wretchedly from the elements, not sure whether dehydration or hypothermia will get you first - It’s been a dear fantasy of mine for almost as long as I’ve know you.”
You don’t know me, he wants to protest, but crazy man, for whatever sadistic reasons of his own, is granting him the opportunity to speak, and he isn’t going to waste it.
“Please,” he whispers, “It’s about Rayne. He’s been -” Angilo breaks off coughing, his mouth and throat coated with iron-heavy sand, when suddenly the wind dies down, and he can breath easier. The man stares at him intently. “He’s been captured and, and brainwashed. I swear to God. I’m just trying to find someone who can help him.
“Help me,” he begs. The man tilts his head, eyes narrowing.
“You should know,” he murmurs, low and cold, “That there is no level on which I do not hate you.” And before Angilo can even process that, the man is pulling off his warm, thick coat and wrapping it around Angilo’s shoulders.
And - Jesus H. Christ on a saucer, his arms are bare.
“Don’t you need this?” Angilo asks, because at least he has sleeves. The man just shakes his head.
“Tell me everything,” he orders.
By the time Angilo is done speaking, he can hear a faint chorus of heavy footfalls he doesn’t quite recognize, before two shaggy double-humped camels emerge from around a rise of rock.
The man whistles, and both camels sidle up to them, legs folding as they sink to the ground. He pets each camel gently on the neck, then grabs Angilo roughly under his armpit, hoisting him with ice-cold hands onto the nearer animal’s back.
Angilo wriggles a little, but it seems simple enough, and oh, the camel is warm. He leans into it, burying his numb hands in the thick fur, while desert man hoists himself easily onto the other, then makes a high, yipping sound. The camels stand with a horrible series of back-and-forth, seesaw lurchings. Camels, Angilo decides sickly, have far too many joints.
“Did Rayne do this?” he asks, and wow, yeah, he really needs water because he is not thinking straight.
The man snorts, almost a laugh.
“That cityboy? Not a chance,” he answers fondly. “Hold on tight.”
And then he urges the camels into motion.
It feels nothing like riding a horse. The extra joints make for a rolling, almost hypnotic gait, and Angilo lets his body collapse into it, eyelids weighted down by his own exhaustion and mesmerized by the desert scrolling by.
~*~
He wakes up in a cool but tolerable basement, an IV hydropack strapped to his arm, and an iron cuff with a spring-loaded poison needle gripping his ankle.
“Where am I?” he asks, and wow, could he be more clichéd? A fierce, otherwise unremarkable looking woman looks up from a datascreen.
“That’s not for prisoners to know. Now. I hear you have information about the fate of Derek Rayne.”
“There was - there was a guy - I told him - where’s the guy that brought me in?”
She looks at him, her face crinkling a little in confusion, and, is it pity?
“You’re very lucky to be alive. I don’t even know why a wild bactrian let you near it, but you were alone when it dumped you - close by. Hallucinations are nowhere near the worst that could happen to you in that desert.”
“Yeah,” Angilo mutters, rubbing his face and remembering the man’s hungry expression, discussing the ways Angilo might die. “I know.”
But.
“How do you know I know about Rayne?”
“So you do know. Start talking.”
“But -”
“Anonymous tip. Now talk.”
Angilo does.
I had a plan, Angilo thought, as the blows rained down on him. Go to Mars, find the resistance, tell them what happened to Derek, help him somehow. Not a very detailed plan, but it was the best he had.
He had forgotten, somehow, that there wasn’t a martian alive who didn’t know his face. People had turned away from him, close-mouthed and scared. Until he found some people who weren’t scared.
A heavy boot crunched into his side. Yeah. Great plan.
*
Angilo hates this planet. After they beat him, the thugs threw him in the back of a rover for - four? Five hours? And dumped him somewhere in this freezing, barren wilderness.
His mouth is utterly parched and he’s starting to have dizzy spells, which is not a good sign. Every time he shivers his ribs ache, and he can’t feel the tips of his fingers.
Rocky red scrubland extends endlessly around him, frigid winds practically sand-blasting him with finely ground dust. He stumbles on. He isn’t going to reach anywhere, and can’t expect a welcome even if he could, but - Rayne. Never surrender. All that shit.
He’s so cold.
“Hello, David Angilo.”
There -
He -
Angilo must be more dehydrated than he thought, not to have noticed him before. There’s a man, dusty and brown, with typical martian features and an almost beatific expression on his face.
“I can’t even express what a pleasure it is, to meet you like this.”
Okay, so random desert man is crazy. Still, he looks pretty alive.
“Please,” Angilo rasps, “I need water.”
The man’s grin multiplies, beaming at him. He spreads his arms wide, revealing all the bottles he very much isn’t carrying.
“I have none to give,” he says, almost cackling. “But truly, David - may I call you David? Allowing you to die slowly and wretchedly from the elements, not sure whether dehydration or hypothermia will get you first - It’s been a dear fantasy of mine for almost as long as I’ve know you.”
You don’t know me, he wants to protest, but crazy man, for whatever sadistic reasons of his own, is granting him the opportunity to speak, and he isn’t going to waste it.
“Please,” he whispers, “It’s about Rayne. He’s been -” Angilo breaks off coughing, his mouth and throat coated with iron-heavy sand, when suddenly the wind dies down, and he can breath easier. The man stares at him intently. “He’s been captured and, and brainwashed. I swear to God. I’m just trying to find someone who can help him.
“Help me,” he begs. The man tilts his head, eyes narrowing.
“You should know,” he murmurs, low and cold, “That there is no level on which I do not hate you.” And before Angilo can even process that, the man is pulling off his warm, thick coat and wrapping it around Angilo’s shoulders.
And - Jesus H. Christ on a saucer, his arms are bare.
“Don’t you need this?” Angilo asks, because at least he has sleeves. The man just shakes his head.
“Tell me everything,” he orders.
By the time Angilo is done speaking, he can hear a faint chorus of heavy footfalls he doesn’t quite recognize, before two shaggy double-humped camels emerge from around a rise of rock.
The man whistles, and both camels sidle up to them, legs folding as they sink to the ground. He pets each camel gently on the neck, then grabs Angilo roughly under his armpit, hoisting him with ice-cold hands onto the nearer animal’s back.
Angilo wriggles a little, but it seems simple enough, and oh, the camel is warm. He leans into it, burying his numb hands in the thick fur, while desert man hoists himself easily onto the other, then makes a high, yipping sound. The camels stand with a horrible series of back-and-forth, seesaw lurchings. Camels, Angilo decides sickly, have far too many joints.
“Did Rayne do this?” he asks, and wow, yeah, he really needs water because he is not thinking straight.
The man snorts, almost a laugh.
“That cityboy? Not a chance,” he answers fondly. “Hold on tight.”
And then he urges the camels into motion.
It feels nothing like riding a horse. The extra joints make for a rolling, almost hypnotic gait, and Angilo lets his body collapse into it, eyelids weighted down by his own exhaustion and mesmerized by the desert scrolling by.
~*~
He wakes up in a cool but tolerable basement, an IV hydropack strapped to his arm, and an iron cuff with a spring-loaded poison needle gripping his ankle.
“Where am I?” he asks, and wow, could he be more clichéd? A fierce, otherwise unremarkable looking woman looks up from a datascreen.
“That’s not for prisoners to know. Now. I hear you have information about the fate of Derek Rayne.”
“There was - there was a guy - I told him - where’s the guy that brought me in?”
She looks at him, her face crinkling a little in confusion, and, is it pity?
“You’re very lucky to be alive. I don’t even know why a wild bactrian let you near it, but you were alone when it dumped you - close by. Hallucinations are nowhere near the worst that could happen to you in that desert.”
“Yeah,” Angilo mutters, rubbing his face and remembering the man’s hungry expression, discussing the ways Angilo might die. “I know.”
But.
“How do you know I know about Rayne?”
“So you do know. Start talking.”
“But -”
“Anonymous tip. Now talk.”
Angilo does.