Chapter Text
Pac is faint in Mike's brain, and for once it is a blessing. He hangs onto that fact, onto the fact he can tell his soulmate is safe - safe and not nearby - and bares his teeth at his enemy. It's been weeks now, if not months, pinned to the wall, tortured and starved and unable to move. The muscles in his arms are past strained, hands long number and still up there.
His glasses are shattered on the floor and, for some reason, it makes him even angrier than the rest.
One Cucurucho sits in the corner, a desk dragged into the cell in a mockery of professionalism. It has a tablet and stylus at the ready to take notes, eyes fixed on it.
And then the aliens. Two Sectoids are held on leashes by a Federation Guard, ready to be unleashed at any moment.
And then the Hunter, the Federation's pet sniper, something once human, twisted and corrupted and changed. Faster, sharper, with eyes that see further and hands too steady and psionics the likes of which not even the Order have seen before.
The Hunter, the Assassin, the Warlock, the Federation's three perfect soldiers. Human DNA spliced with alien, then turned out from their laboratories to destroy the world.
He holds a pistol under Mike's chin, pressing up and into the soft flesh there. Still Mike hisses and snarls and refuses to give in. His body is littered with scars and injuries from the weeks torture, his nails broken or gone, his teeth bloody, his skin torn.
Still he does not give in.
"You will tell me," the Hunter demands. "Where are the eggs? We know your people stole them, boy..."
"I don't have a clue what you're talking about," Mike snarls back, trying to push forward and only catching himself on the gun.
He isn't even lying. There's some few surviving chickens who live at the Sanctuary - Philza's mentioned them before, and sometimes they get a delivery for the canteen - but he slipped last week and mentioned that. Whatever eggs the Federation want, it's not them. And he can't imagine a couple of hens would be worth this effort.
"Of course you do," the Hunter continues. "How could you not? Hasn't your little friend let something slip to you? We all know about him. We all know you two do the..." his tongue flicks across his lick, and for a horrifying moment Mike remembers the Cell of years ago "research."
How dare he, how fucking dare he bring Pac into this. Of course they know about him - about them - but how dare he.
"Haven't done research in years," Mike just about manages to gather some spit, aiming it at the Hunter's eye. He misses, but does hit the deathly-blue tongue. "Neither's he. Tubbo and Aypierre took over R&D years ago. You know this. You tortured him, too, if I remember."
Cucurucho's blank eyes are watching them now, the tablet placed down and hands folded atop the desk.
"Are you sure about that?" the Hunter's fingers move over the trigger.
"We're not so stupid as to let field agents know the details of R&D," Mike lies through his teeth. Like you could ever keep him and Pac from the labs. "Moron."
"Then I guess we have no use for you."
The Hunter's finger twitches. Mike fucking dares him to try.
He definitely went to pull the trigger, but freezes just before it fires.
"Wait."
The robotoic, familiar voice of Cucurucho says. The creature - fuck knows if its an alien, a robot, or some lab-grown abomination - slowly stands.
Slowly walks over.
Keeps its hands clasped before it.
Nothing else in the room even dares breathe.
"I will take over this investigation," Cucurucho says, completely bland.
The Hunter lowers the gun.
The Federation Guard and both sectoids drop dead.
Cucurucho's eyes glow purple, and it reaches one set of claws to Mike's cheek.
He throws every secret he can from his mind, throws it all back at Pac, along their stretched and distant bond. He hides the core of himself there, too, everything he should be or could be or wants to be, every core memory and everything he loves and everything he hates, hiding in the security of his soulmate as a creature of the Federation tries to break into his skull.
Even so distant, even so far apart, Pac manages to grab onto him, to throw a shield around them.
Keep himself safe.
Keep the information safe.
Keep everything that Mike is safe.
He can feel Pac's panicked questions, now he's forced himself into their bond, and their terror merges into one. He can't hear the words, merged but stretched too thin for that, but he can feel how worried Pac is. And, of course, Mike's still linked to himself - he can also still feel his brain bleed information as Cucurucho rips through it, reading not just his mind but his very soul. Steals everything there - or rather copies it - from schematics of old weapons to the identities of the prominent Order members to Mike's memories from before the war. What's left behind is shredded, parts of Mike less fundemental but still him torn into ribbons and left ruined on the floor. If it can even heal - if those parts of him can ever be salvaged - he does not know.
His soul is ripped apart, and Mike screams and screams and screams, his throat and his soul both rippling in agony.
Claws scrape along Pac's shield. The essence of Pac's being holds the essence of Mike's being closer, entwining them and the truly dangerous information together for as long as he can, keeps the shield up as long as he can. They'll be safe, they'll get through this, just so long as Pac can hold the shield.
It's agony, agony, agony, to feel something tear through Mike's very soul. But he's also closer to Pac than he has been in - in months, he reads from Pac, closer than he's been in months - and he drinks the comfort he can from his soulmate.
Even like this, even expending so much energy to twine over continents, Mike still cannot feel Pac's words, cannot even say where he is - it's one of the memories Cucurucho tore apart.
Mike tires the faster, torture and mind fuckery taking their toll, but even Pac is flagging long before Cucurucho pulls away.
Somehow, somehow, Pac finds the strength to keep them safe even then, shield shattering seconds after the claw pulls away from Mike's cheek. Mike's never been more proud - or more terrified - in his life.
All at once he is aware of everything that remains of himself. Instinctively he starts trying to repair the damage, the last dregs of his strength trying to heal him, while Pac continues to cling. Neither of them want to let go - they've been alone for so long, they never want to be alone again.
"Useless," Cucurucho deems him.
Relief he didn't let anything slip floods Mike, even as Pac grows in terror. The grip they have on each other is slipping, slipping, slipping...
Cucurucho returns to its desk.
The Hunter raises the pistol again.
Mike readies himself to die, but Pac refuses to let him go.
It's not a gunshot that comes; the pistol slams into the side of Mike's head.
The force is too much; Mike's head cracks to the side, and he feels something break.
Everything goes black.
When the world comes back, there are hands on him - he doesn't get it, doesn't understand, but Pac is once again distant - reaches to cling to him as soon as the black fades - so Mike doesn't care. He doesn't have the energy to reach along the bond for Pac, but he knows how to fight and fight and keeps on fighting.
His skin is torn and he tears skin in turn and he doesn't know what is happening, but the hands are not human hands and the claws are distinctly monstrous claws so he fights and he fights and he keeps on fighting.
He sees but does not understand, touches but does not feel, listens but cannot hear, so he keeps on fighting.
A rifle butt cracks across the back of his skull.
This time he can hear Pac's scream as light turns black once more.