He's -My- Hero


dema_icon.gif lynette_icon.gif

Scene Title He's -My- Hero
Synopsis Lynette gets a visit from her favorite captor (no joke!) and they discuss things like… loyalty and death and Madams…
Date August 09, 2010

Project Icarus Facilities

Lynette's days in captivity have gotten remarkably worse since her attempted escape. Often, she's sedated and off god knows where. And when she's awake… it's with new scars and no idea what's happening to her.

She misses her mysterious voice behind the glass.

At the moment, she lays on a cold slab on metal, unconscious. And grateful for it. Because between Gregor and light out, she'll take lights out every time. But there is a dream. Much like every other night in this place, it's a nightmare. Not her nightmare, which makes it a little more bearable…

Her fists pound against a pane of glass in a third story window of a brick apartment building. For all it's sturdy construction, fire licks up the walls on the outside as well as the inside. And it seems out intrepid heroine is stuck behind a window that won't budge. There are emergency crews around, but none seem to notice her there. Thick, black smoke hangs heavy in the room making it hard to breathe. But other than that and the woman, the room is empty.

Dema does not like tending to Dr. Gregor's patients. He is a medic, an orderly, a healer of sorts, even at the darkest points in his career. Since leaving the bratva he has not taken any lives, he has not caused harm without explicit orders, and he has generally been told to keep up the health of those under the care of his great, deliberate hands. Dr. Gregor's patients often require no healing, only disposal. Those that are to be healed, are to be healed so that they can once again be brought to death's brink. Doing Gregor's work is grim business, business that weighs heavy on an already laden soul.

But he has not forgotten Lynette, and when he sees her chart come up in his rotation, he does not tarry. He moves swiftly to the room where she is held. He can feel the touch of her dream even before he sees her - his senses have improved with practice. Not wishing to wake her to this unpleasant world, he enters the room in retained darkness, moving to her side and looking down at her, one hand set against the edge of the slab. Eyes work with a medic's steadiness of investigation. Checking status. Ensuring health. Updating his mental record, and matching it with his chart.

Well, she's not on the verge of death. It's just debatable if that's necessarily a good thing or not in this company. She does twitch there on the table, the dream tugging at her it seems.

And perhaps tugging at him, too, as the fires start to creep further into Lynette's room, causing her to press against the glass as if she might be able to fade through it.

She can't.

The touch of fingertips against her arm. Blue eyes closing. And then…

Up out of the flame-licked darkness of the street beyond and below rises a ladder, old timey and wooden, like in a 'moving picture' or a cartoon. It finds the lip of Lynette's window, and presses against it as a considerable weight finds its rungs. With haste, a great, helmeted figure bounds up along the brick wall and up to Lynette's window. Broad shoulders, a stern face, deep set blue eyes… some details Lynette can see through the sense of dreams, identifying marks of the man of stone, her guardian in the woods. He has an ax slung over one shoulder. He motions to Lynette with a hand.

Stand back!

That familiarity makes her pause a moment and blink. And then… a small smile starts on her ash-stained face. She does move out of the way, trying to make sure she's out of the line of fire without… being in the actual fire.

CRASH! The axe smashes through the window. blowing glass inwards and clearing the path for the fireman to step through the shattered frame and into the burning building. In dreams, physics and proper fight fighter training take a back seat to the logic of drama, the force of the cinematic that structures the unconscious after years and years of exposure to stories, to images. Lit from behind by red-orange flames, he is a silhouetted figure of salvation. He extends his hand to her, waiting for Lynette to take it. The urgency of the fire is suspended by the drama of the moment, the blaze becoming caught in tableaux.

There's just a moment where Lynette looks at him. Appreciating the moment, perhaps. But a moan from the building makes her step forward and take his hand, her grip weak, but it's there.

"Are you really here? Or am I dreaming you? Actually, wait, don't answer that." Because she doesn't want to know if it isn't the answer she wants to hear.

No answer from the man, because he was told not to answer. Her dream visitor is nothing if not dutiful. He takes her hand, draws her in, and then lifts her into both his arms, ax disappearing as it becomes irrelevant to the dream. He steps out to the edge of the window, grown larger as escape becomes the thrust of this dream instead of entrapment. The ladder is gone, replaced by the great billowing shape of a catching canvas, again like in an old film.

"You are ready," Dema says, and it is not a question. He leaps. They plummet together, down, towards safety.

Lynette's arms thread around his neck as he picks her up, and she can't really help but smile as she looks up at him, "This is incredibly indulgent of my subconscious, you know." She hangs on tighter when he leaps out of the window, her eyes squeezing shut to wait for the impact. But, there really isn't one. At least, not a painful one. And when room is made for them to crawl out of that canvas, Lynette does so and then tries to brush some off that soot and ash off her skin and hair and clothes. This is less than successful. But, as she does so, the hubbub of the fire and the sirens and people shouting seems to fade into the distance, although the scene is still there.

"Fire haunts you," Dema states, removing his helmet and brushing a hand through his close-cropped hair. His deep set eyes regard Lynette with thoughtful consideration, now that the danger has passed. "Beasts or buildings, your mind burns. Do you know why this is?" He holds his helmet under his arm, his other hand hanging at his side. There is something maybe a touch wary in his expression.

That observation and the question that follows get a sigh from Lynette and she looks over at him for a long moment, her hands on her hips. And for that moment, it's like she isn't going to answer. "It's the smell," she finally says, expression growing a bit detached. "Still trying to study me for them?" Her arms fold over her chest and she regards him for a moment… not so much wary as… wounded, perhaps.

Dema shakes his head. "No," he replies, though he does not go on to say what he is doing, here, in her dream. "You can tell me. About the smell. Or show me, while we are here. I will pull out our time. I think you need company, yes?"

Relaxing that posture, Lynette runs a hand through hair that's far too short for her liking, but she gives Dema a nod. "When I was first learning, I used to spark… almost all the time. My father moved us out to a ranch in the middle of nowhere… I suppose so nothing like what's happening now could happen." Coming over to his side, she hooks her arm through his to start walking them away from the fire. "I used to ruin just about everything I touched. I can't tell you how many times I set the sheet or the curtains or my clothes or the carpets on fire by accident. I suppose… the smell, it reminds me of my mistakes."

Dema glances down as his arm is taken, a frown creasing his brows. "I have a lady love," he states, the sense of guilt he feels unmistakable in his voice, "I want to be a friend to you. And… you are very beautiful, your kiss was a gift, but no more, you see? A friend, if poor, since I do not know I can help you but in dreams." He dips his head. "Dreams… they do not know restraint, yes? You kiss any girl, any man. But I walk in dreams, knowing. So my dreams I am not free, because I am free, you see?"

It seems those words are enough for Lynette to disengage her arm from his, and even flashes him an apologetic smile. "I didn't know that. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." Instead, her hands slide into the back pockets of her jeans and her smile evens out, "Would that we all had men as loyal as you are. If it helps, I didn't mean that kiss before… you know… romantically. Not that it hasn't crossed my mind, but-" She adds the last with a crooked smile. Friendly. "Don't sweat it about the dreams. It's nice just to have a familiar face that isn't trying to kill me. It may not seem like a lot, but it is."

"I know, your act was kind for my kindness. I do not think you some kind of woman like that," Dema says, quick to make sure his high opinion of Lynette is very clear, "I only wished you to know because I do not want you to think I am kind because of reasons like this." A little vague, not quick to use any forward language at all, his English running in circles a bit. "The Madame… she is gone. This is why I am here, doing Gregor's work. It is not like her. I think she would maybe try and keep you if she knew, but I am not sure. She is not a good person. She only speaks like one." The Madame? Who?

"You're… very sweet," Lynette says, her head tilting as she looks up at him. "I wasn't expecting to find sweet here. I just… think you should know that I appreciate the kindnesses you've been able to show me." She looks away there, blinking away some tears as the sky around them grows darker, the shadows deeper, the mood creepier.

Clearing her throat, Lynette looks back again, expression more controlled. "Who's the Madame? She's gone? Is that the doctor we were with before?"

Dema dips his head, her compliment stinging as much as anything else. To be told he's sweet by a captive, upon whom he experiments… to act as if it was some special thing to treat someone at your mercy well. It makes him feel, in the end, like the Madame herself. The Madame. He nods, "Dr. Sheridan," he says, divulging her name without real concern - his loyalty to that woman is frayed, "I worked with her before. With Refrain. I call her this. It is… a joke?" he sounds unsure of this. Maybe there's a word in Russian that better expressed the nuance of what he means. Maybe it's an inadequate translation.

"I think I follow you," Lynette says with a crooked smile. But, as those shadows start to hold eyes following them and boogymen lurking around corners… her expression falls again. "He's going to kill me, isn't he?" She tries very hard to stay stoic there, some half formed notion that death should be handled with dignity. "Can you get a message out to someone? Do they let you leave?"

"I do not wish to upset you," Dema says, grimly, "But he kills many," 'many has that strange Russian cadence, a quickness to it, "he is an evil mad. The Madame… just weak, I think. Though maybe they are the same. You… you are very strong. I think you are good, too, but maybe that is a deception, eh?" He cracks… a smile? Astonishing! Trying to be cheerful. But… he's been asked something. "I maybe can do this, yes?"

Lynette nods her head at his confirmation, taking a moment to breathe before she responds. "Don't worry… I already knew. Or, well. I guessed." She looks over at him, eyes glistening, but she's not crying. Yet. "I… try to be good," she says, a little smile echoing his. "Ah… I have a friend… if you could send a note to a P.O. Box for me… just something… that tells him I was thinking about him before the end? And ask him… not to tell my father how I really died. A car crash or something." Okay, so there might be a tear.

"Write it, place it under your food tray. I will take the shift, take the note, unseen," Dema says, the smoothness with which he formulates the plan makes it seem like he's thought about this before. Maybe done it before. "I will do this for you, Lynette. You should not have to fear. You can conquer it, you know. I will keep you company, even when you cannot wake. I can do this, if you wish."

Stopping in her walk, Lynette turns to him, her brow furrowed. "Oh, I don't know. I played my hand and it didn't turn out so well. But. There's always hope, humanity's great self delusion. It's perfect for times like these. So," she says, taking in a breath, "I won't give up and lay down. But mostly this is because I can't bear the thought of going out without a fight. If I get the chance. Getting this note out for me… it means everything at a time like this. And so does your company. Is it alright if I hug you?"

Dema actually considers Lynette's question very carefully, his thought process visibly methodical. "As a friend," he says, as if it needs to be declared formally, "yes. It is okay." He sounds almost a little nervous, like he's still a little uncertain, but not unpleasantly so. Not with sign of real guilt.

Lynette lifts a hand to hold over her heart. "I promise, as a friend." It's funny how she seems to find his uncertainty endearing, a little smile creeping into her expression as she steps in to give him a hug. And she does keep it friendly, and brief, but it is rather warm. It's only when she's stepped back from him that she gets a playfully crooked smile and adds, "I'll keep my fantasizing about you to dreams you're not in." With a wink that may give the impression that she's kidding, the electrokinetic turns to start walking again, a bit of a bounce in her step as she whistles a bit to herself. Staring death in the face does weird things to people.

This little comment Dema is utterly unprepared for. Unable to think of a reply more eloquent than, "Спасибо…" which means thank you, for all you non-Cyrillic readers. "I can… give you a deep sleep. Or I can stay for a little bit longer. I have other duties but… I think I can stretch out our time here a little. I will try, if you would like."

His reply seems to amuse, at least, as Lynette chuckles a little, but his offer makes her turn back around. "Well… don't get yourself in any trouble," she says, genuine concern there in both voice and expression, "a deep sleep would be wonderful anyway. At least, one he isn't putting me in."

"Close your eyes," Dema says, taking his helmet in both hands, the road a swath of darkness within backlit darkeness lining it. The closing of her eyes won't do much… though what happens when you close your eyes in a dream? Do you keep seeing? Do you dream something else? "I will give you a good rest."

It may not be for anything but show, but Lynette closes her eyes anyway. Her hand hangs onto him, though, and there's a sense that she actually trusts him. Which is strange considering all the aforementioned experimenting, but there it is.

That contact with him becomes, after a moment, all Lynette feels. And then even that feels hazy. Like someone else is touching him and she's just getting the knowledge second hand. It is strange, very strange, to fall asleep in a dream. It's clearer, it feels like rising backwards through water. It feels warm and all encompassing. It feels…

Dema's eyes open and his hand draws back from Lynette's arm. He watches the steady fall of her sleeping breath, making sure he's done it right, then takes his chart, turning. Leaving her to sleep the sleep of the just.


Now, I don't want you to cry, darling, but I don't have a lot of time to get this out. So forgive the bluntness. I'm fairly certain I'm going to die soon. I wanted you to know that I've been thinking about you and I miss you desperately. And that you've been a wonderful friend, love. And, friend, I have something I need you to do. You know where the key to my safe deposit box is. Take what's there and send it to my father. Oh, and darling… if you ever find out how I died… don't tell my father. Tell him something mundane. Something quick.

I love you quite dearly,

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