#altno.7

His eyes almost missed them, two figures crouched just out of reach of the waves, and the small collection of water containers placed a few metres behind them, but as soon as they crossed his line of sight he was hurrying faster, the pain in his chest for lack of oxygen fading somewhere in the background.

“Dee!” he yelled, waving as Dee stood and turned around at the call of his name, but Roman didn't allow himself to slow down yet.

Remus has turned around now, too, offering an energetic wave and a cry of, “Hey, feeling thirsty?!”, but Roman didn't have the time to engage with his brother. There was an emergency at hand.

“What's the matter?” asked Dee as Roman approached, but Roman simply paused to grab his hand and then proceed to pull him back towards the camp, too out of breath to spare any for talking.

“Hold on, Roman!” Dee exclaimed, but he began to jog after Roman all the same, clearly sensing the urgency. “What happened?”

“Logan collapsed,” he managed to blurt between heaving breaths. “Need you. Virge and Pat went.”

Dee nodded, and turned back to Remus, who had been jogging along beside them, uncharacteristically quiet. “Remus, please bring back as much of the water you can carry and then set up somewhere for Logan to rest back at camp. The water might be important in helping Logan.”

Remus opened his mouth to respond, but one stern look from Dee and he was jogging back to where the water stash was, and piling them into his arms. Roman understood that his brother only wanted to help, but all the same he was thankful he had someone like Dee around to take charge when it was required.

He only hoped Logan would be okay when they got there.

And so Stephen closed his eyes and forced himself to relax, to appear as if he were meditating (or had given up, but he wasn't sure if other Stephen Stranges around the multiverse were the sorts not to give up, either, and had shown their stubbornness to these occultists). Whatever the case, he wanted to appear docile and nonthreatening to the two sorcerers watching him as he did his damnedest to work around the seal.

Once he cracked through the seal, he would have a chance to attempt his "something of a plan". This plan involved using the connection the Cloak had with its chosen sorcerer; for inexplicable reasons, the Cloak was able to find him across great distances when on the same physical plane, so long as nothing was muting his magical signature. They never fully tested out the distance, but he was fairly certain it was over one hundred miles on the same physical plane.

He also had never tested the connection properly across dimensions, but he knew the innate magic of his reality like the back of his hand; he just hoped that his bond with the Cloak made finding his reality across the multiverse all the more quicker. From there, he'd speak with the first master he found about his situation and, more importantly, the threat against Earth.

His plan would have been a good deal simpler without the seal, so it was rather unfortunate they thought of it. It would take time to figure it out, and even more time to slip past it without alerting the other two sorcerers. He wasn't sure how much time he had.

Despite his racing thoughts, he kept within a calm, meditative position, almost appearing as if he had drifted off, and he slowly unraveled the logic behind the seal to slip past it.

———— 

He found a possible solution. Unfortunately, said possible solution was going to exert a lot of energy and he could show nothing. While he could feel the sorcerers guarding him grow more complacent the longer he remained still, he was sure that would change the moment anything remotely different happened.

Stephen carefully gathered the energy about him with the barest twitches of his fingers, the very little he was able to move in his fetters; he didn't hear anything from the two watching him, so he continued to gather at the same pace. It was slow, achingly slow, but he would only have one chance at this, he was certain.

The long minutes passed on until he felt he had enough energy to break the seal and come through to his astral form. All he had to do was push himself out without making any physical movements. He took in a silent, deep breath, and then pushed himself through the seal and below, under the floor to the level beneath him.

There was a floor beneath him. And it landed him in a storage closet. Thank the Vishanti for small mercies.

The effort to break the seal left him panting even in his astral form, but there was no time to waste; he needed to find his Earth and he needed to do so now. Stephen closed his eyes and reached out to the same dimensional energy he drew from for his own powers, searching for that signature he so well knew, looking for anything in particular that stood out within the millions of lines of energy that made up the multiverse.

After some time, he saw one of the lines pulsing softly in its light in ways the others did not. He immediately reached out to it and— 

—universes rushed past him as he travelled well beyond the speed of sound, the speed of light, too quickly for his mind to even contemplate as worlds both great and terrible blurred in colors he could not begin to distinguish— 

—until his astral form abruptly stopped in the same warehouse he was just in however long ago it was. He took a moment to catch his breath, unable to really do much except be as the rest of the world caught up to him. He shut his eyes until the dizziness abated a bit, then opened them again to look around.

Laura and the kids weren't there anymore. But crawling around the warehouse were several men and women in suits— they definitely looked like S.H.I.E.L.D.— and one of them was talking to a very stoic-faced Wong. And Wong abruptly looked in his direction, eyes slightly narrowing. Without a word he prepared a shield, and the agent beside him immediately drew out a gun. Stephen wrinkled his nose in distaste.

Suddenly a streak of red came from around the corner from behind Wong, and oh, the Cloak was still here, too. It clearly recognized his presence before Wong did, considering how it was circling his form in a way that reminded him of an overly excited puppy.

At the Cloak's reaction, Wong slowly lowered his hands, and his stoic expression wavered as something cautiously hopeful took over. "Stephen?" he called.

Right, time to make an appearance. It took a good deal more energy than he was used to needing, but he managed to break through the astral plane and show himself to the physical world. It was exhausting.

Wong quickly crossed the distance, a frown across his features. "You idiot," he said in greeting.

"Nice to see you, too," he breathed. Wong's frown deepened at his clear exhaustion. "I don't know how long I can keep this up— I slipped through the seal but the distance is something else."

"Where are you?"

" 'nother dimension. They made runes— here." He carefully sketched the runes he saw them perform before they had left Earth, and Wong quickly followed his gestures to copy it as an illusion made with his own magic.

Wong frowned at his own handiwork. "I recognize these runes, but not the spell. Hamir may have a better understanding."

"You'll need everyone," Stephen pressed on. "Maybe backup from the Avengers. There's at least two dozen, maybe more. I couldn't scout it out. And they want to destroy our Earth."

"Of course they do," Wong replied dryly.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. will get torn apart," he said, glancing at the agent.

"The woman, that doctor, called 911 before I got here," Wong said, and Stephen could tell, despite his unflappable delivery, that Wong was not very happy with having to deal with the government agents. "What do they want with you?"

Stephen made a face. "Sacrifice me to some fictional eldritch horror. Apparently one of my counterparts in the multiverse supposedly pissed it off." He could feel a tug upon his astral form, beckoning him back to his body. He grimaced and fought against it.

Wong actually frowned. "What did they call it?"

"Uh—" He grimaced as it tugged harder. "Shuma-Gorath."

Stephen really, really didn't like the fact that Wong actually blanched at the name. He didn't like that at all.

"We'll need backup," Wong said in reply. 

"I— I can't be here much longer. It's too much for my body," he said, grimacing against another tug.

"We'll get there as fast as we can, Stephen."

"I can't fight directly against them— get them first. Stop them." And at the next tug, he let go of his connection to Earth.

The flight back to his body was near instantaneous, and Stephen's eyes flew open as he inhaled sharply through his nostrils. He was back in his physical form.

He sent a surreptitious look towards the guards; one of them was now staring directly at him. He straightened in his restraints and shot him an equally cold look, letting his eyes say what he was prevented from saying aloud. The other sorcerer sneered at him in return.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, hurrying to his side. 

“I was struck over the head.”

“With what?” She gestures further into the morgue, and William follows her, gratefully sitting down in a chair in the doctor’s office space. 

“I don’t know. Something made of metal.”

“Well, I’m glad that you came to me,” Dr. Grace says. “Too often, people think that a head injury isn’t even worth noticing.”

William does not understand how anyone could fail to notice such a painful injury. He rather wishes he was capable of this himself.

“Where on the head were you struck?”

He does not remember. The only thing he recalls is that a man had hit him. He does not know how it had happened. 

“I…can’t seem to remember.”

“A bit of memory loss is quite common in cases like this,” Dr. Grace says. This is reassuring, a bit. Still, he is not accustomed to being unable to remember things. He does not like it.

Dr. Grace feels for an injury, her fingers carefully threading into his hair. It does not take long for her to discover the place where the metallic object had struck him. 

“There’s a bit of blood on your head, near the hairline. The wound has stopped bleeding now, though, no need to worry.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t felt any blood. It makes sense that it would be there, he supposes. 

“Now, when he hit you, did you fall unconscious?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been hearing any strange noises?”

He recalls the noise in his head when he’d first attempted to sit up. “Yes.”

“Have you experienced any strange visions?”

The black spots come to mind. “Yes.”

Dr. Grace nods. “All quite common. Have you been vomiting?”

“No.” 

“Have you felt at all nauseous?”

“Yes.”

Another nod. “It is my professional opinion, Detective, that you most definitely have a concussion.”

“What is the recommended treatment?”

“Rest, first of all. I’m afraid you may need to take a few days away from work. You should lie down as much as possible, and keep your extremities warm.”

He can do these things. Even the thought of missing work does not seem so terrible in the face of recovery. 

His head throbs insistently, as though to prove this point. 

“Can anything be done for the headache?”

“I can give you an injection of strychnine or camphor. This ought to lessen the symptoms, but I’m afraid only rest can truly eliminate them.”

Even a lessening of the pain sounds quite good. He gives his consent for an injection and watches attentively as Dr. Grace slides the needle into his arm. 

The drug starts working almost immediately. The pain in his head dulls and fades, though, just as Dr. Grace had explained, it is still very much there. This is still quite the improvement, and he relaxes, very slightly. 

“I can administer more medication in a few hours, should you need it,” Dr. Grace says. “I’ll stop by after work, if that is agreeable to you.”

“It is. Thank you, Dr. Grace.” 

“You’re welcome. Feel better, Detective Murdoch.”

He makes his way to the door and nods to her before he exits. His head does not spin as it had before, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

With that, William steps outside into the sun and sets a course for home. 

Being in a fistfight, though, was one experience he’d never had. He’d been in plenty of scuffles, sure, but he’d never experienced a full beat-down. 

Until now. 

Punch after punch rained down on him, and, unfortunately, there wasn’t much he could do to stop it - he’d been caught completely off guard, and now that he was aware of what was happening, wasn’t able to keep up. 

Thud. There was one to his shoulder. Thump. Another to his stomach. He bent over slightly at that one, which his assailant took immediate advantage of, sending a sharp uppercut to the underside of Malcolm’s jaw. 

His head snapped up and backwards, and the distinctive sound of teeth smacking each other echoed through his skull. He saw stars for a second, felt his tongue burn where he’d bitten down on it. That one had really hurt...

Another punch to his stomach. He avoided doubling over this time, absorbing the punch as best as he could instead. The next punch was aimed at his nose, and he managed to raise a hand to block it, lashing out with a punch of his own. 

His punch didn’t do much, but it gave him some confidence that there was at least a chance he’d make it out of this without being carried off on a stretcher. 

He’d no sooner thought that than a vicious hook punch slammed into the left side of his face, and he spun away from it, ears ringing. He took a step, stumbled, and a final blow was delivered directly to the center of his face. He thought he heard something make a truly alarming snapping sound, but whatever the noise might’ve been was overshadowed by the sudden explosion of blinding white pain that came with it. 

He collapsed to the ground, powerless to stick out an arm to break his fall. His body hit the ground in his second explosion of pain in ten seconds. God, that hurt, he thought, struggling to keep his thoughts coherent. His ears were ringing and his vision was blurring, and he knew he didn’t have much consciousness left. So much for not being carried away from here on a stretcher. 

Through his ringing ears, Malcolm heard the fading footsteps of his attacker, evidently having been satisfied with the beating he’d delivered. Malcolm didn’t much care that he was getting away. All that mattered was that he was, which meant that Malcolm was safe from further harm, which was all the encouragement it took for him to pass out. 

--

He woke up in his own bed. Huh, he thought to himself, lifting his arms experimentally and discovering he wasn’t tied up. Figured I’d be in the hospital. 

A clatter from the kitchen interrupted any further thinking he might have done on the matter. Malcolm quickly sat up in bed, intending to get up. That plan was cut short when a wave of dizziness washed over him. He braced himself against the mattress, closing his eyes and waiting for it to pass. 

A minute or two later, when his head cleared, Malcolm opened his eyes. And nearly screamed, until he realized what was happening. People were in his loft. But not just any people.

“How you feeling, kid?” Gil asked from his left side, reaching out a hand and gripping Malcolm’s shoulder comfortingly. 

“You had us worried for a second there, Bright,” Dani chimed in from beside him.

“Sorry for scaring you,” Edrisa added from the foot of the bed. 

“Your kitchen is really sad, man,” JT said, from beside Gil. “Couldn’t even make a sandwich.”

“He’s right, Malcolm,” his mother agreed. “What do you eat?”

“Leave him alone, Mom,” Ainsley said. “He was just beaten unconscious.”

There was a brief uncomfortable silence at this, but Malcolm broke it.

“What are you all doing here?” he asked. Not that he wasn’t happy about it. All the people he cared about, here in his house, apparently having been waiting around for him to wake up...it made him feel warm inside, a welcome sensation to distract from the pain of what he was pretty sure was a couple of bruised ribs. 

“To echo Ainsley,” Edrisa said, “you were kinda not doing so well.”

“What were we gonna do?” Dani added, “Leave you here by yourself?”

Dani’s mention of being at his house reminded Malcolm of the question he’d had when he’d first woken up. “Shouldn’t I be in the hospital? I was beaten unconscious.”

“You denied that accusation. Repeatedly,” Gil said. “You insisted you were fine.”

“Of course, you weren’t,” his mother asserted.

“The paramedics said you didn’t have a concussion. They let us take you home, as long as someone agreed to stay with you,” Dani explained.

Malcolm sat in silence for a moment, processing all of that information. He remembered, dimly, being attacked. He did not remember insisting he was fine, nor did he remember any paramedics. 

“It’s a miracle you didn’t have a concussion,” Gil said, voicing Malcolm’s exact thoughts. 

“You do have three bruised ribs, several facial lacerations, and an impressive shiner,” Edrisa pointed out. 

“Lovely,” Malcolm said, not caring to imagine what he must have looked like. But there was something else at the front of his mind - 

“Wait, only one of you needed to stay.”

Every single person in the room stared at him. 

“What?”

JT stepped forward. “You really think we would all just leave you here?”

“Which one of us would have stayed?” Dani asked. 

“You think I’d leave you here alone with Mom?” Ainsley suggested.

“Well, I would hardly leave you here with just a coworker,” his mother countered.

“No way was I missing out,” Edrisa said firmly.

“We’re all here for you Malcolm,” Gil concluded. “Always.”

Malcolm smiled, feeling himself go slightly teary-eyed but not minding it too much. “Thanks,” he managed to say.

“Anything, man.”

“Of course.”

“Always.”

“You’d do the same for us.”

“That’s what family does.”

The focus of the stadium was a yellow field of hard-packed dirt. There was a podium, two equally spaced tables in front of it, a double row of seats off to the side, and an ominous scaffold big enough for one standing behind the tables. The tables and double rows of chairs were filled with soldiers, and a large Bulledin stood at the podium. At one table sat Buddy, alone. At the other sat Colonel Mason Riggs, a triumphant expression on his face.

The Bulledin shuffled some papers, and then pulled one page out of the stack. They read it silently for a moment, before addressing the assembly in a booming voice.

"Corporal Charles Buddell, you stand here today accused of high treason. You were ordered to go to the Gavilon Peribus and execute Krebin Mnev; instead, you saved his life. You are charged with high treason; with disobeying a direct order; with sabotaging military operations; with misusing military equipment."

The Bulledin paused for a moment. Nothing broke the silence.

"How do you plead?"

Buddy stood up from his table, and did not look towards where the crew was standing.

"I plead guilty on all charges."

Addams' heart leapt into her throat. No, no that wasn't right! They had all decided, together, that Mnev needed to live! She wanted to scream and cry out about the unfairness of it all, but her words caught in her throat. Not a single sound could pass her lips, and none of the others said anything either. The wind was loud in the silence that stretched, until the Bulledin spoke again.

"Very well. The record will show that you, Charles Buddell, have pleaded guilty on all charges, and have offered no defense. The tribunal will render judgement."

Colonel Riggs stood up from his table, mouth twisted in a smirk Addams itched to slap off his face.

"For the crimes of high treason, disobeying orders, sabotaging military operations, and misusing military equipment, there can be only once sentence."

He turned and pointed to the scaffold behind him.

"Death."

The word fell like a stone into the still air; even the flags had stopped snapping and now hung limply from their poles. The Bulledin made a mark on the paper in front of them, before addressing the stadium again.

"Charles Buddell, you are hereby sentenced to hang from the neck until dead. The sentence will be carried out immediately."

Two MPs with black bands on their helmets appeared from nowhere, and grabbed Buddy by the shoulders. Addams strained every muscle she had, but was frozen in place. She tried to scream, but her voice couldn't break the silence. She couldn't even turn to the others, demand they go down and help Buddy, stop this kangaroo court nonsense.

Instead, she could only watch helpless as Buddy was frog-marched towards the scaffold. He held his head high, and didn't look around. When they offered him a hood, he shook his head and didn't flinch when they put the rope around his neck. One of the MPs with the black band reached over and grabbed a lever, and-

Addams finally found her voice as she jolted upright in bed.

"NO!" she screamed, the sound echoing off the bulkheads around her.

The person in the bed next to her flailed and fell on the ground with a thump even as Addams panted, trying to calm her racing heart. There was some shuffling, and she flinched when the bedside lamp turned on.

Johnny's tired face was lit from below by the lamp for a moment, before he hopped back onto bed with a grunt and scooched over to her. There was nothing but kindness in his eyes as she wrapped herself around his bare chest and sobbed.

"Buddy?" he asked quietly, one arm a firm presence on her back and his other hand lightly beginning to card through her hair. She nodded against his chest, throat tight with the leftover dream, and he blew out a long breath.

"Yeah," he said thickly "me too."

"W-why he'd have to go?" She asked tremulously, her voice hitching. Johnny always gave the same answer, but she couldn't not ask.

"Because," Johnny cleared his throat as his voice caught. "Because he thought it was the right thing to do. Because if he didn't, he wouldn't be our Buddy."

"We could have saved him, broken him ou-out, made him a real pirate." Her tears had slowed down, but her breath still hitched and came in fits and starts.