ax_main | Billy R and Goodnight, Backstory

The incredibly fucked-up story of Goody and Billy's training at Facility #4. This takes place over the course of about two and a half months, and ends roughly a week before they arrive at Xavier's. Please read with caution: contains violence and super shitty manipulation tactics.

PART 1

The training ground today was dazzling, depthless white. Obstacles at ground-level and higher. Lots of cover.

It was far more elaborate than Yol-Tul had expected. Trips outside of his cell were for having blood drawn, for exercise, or for letting other mutants test their combat skills on him. Running simulations was a relative rarity, and this one was different, somehow. For one thing, he seemed to be the only one there. Even the guards had retreated, leaving him with very simple instructions.

"Kill everyone."

Then there were shapes moving among the white. He took cover, just as the first gunshot rang out.

"Goodnight," Goody whispered as the hologram with a fresh, bleeding hole in its head hit its knees, then disappeared into nothing. It was a stupid little game he played to keep himself entertained. He'd tried playing games with his captors, but a failed scenario meant the needle, which meant 24 hours of straight vomit--or if he was real lucky, spewing from both ends. Easier just to pretend this was the wild west and he was Steve McQueen.

Not that he could forget the needle. Wherever it was, it was aimed right at him now, and his mutant senses were in hyperdrive thanks to the danger. He could smell the heated-up computers behind the walls. He could hear them whirring and clicking, trying to keep up with him. He could see--

One of the holograms ducked for cover in a wild, graceful way. Goody pushed then pulled his lever--they'd given him a semi to start with but he'd made up some excuse about how he preferred the manual action to get in the zone, and Lord knew he was fast enough--settling a bullet in the chamber. He moved up slowly, wondering what the hell they were springing on him now.

And then he heard it. The hologram was... breathing.

A blue woman with bright eyes and red hair leapt out at him. Goody lined up his shot and squeezed his trigger gently. Her forehead exploded bloodlessly, and she went down before fizzling out into nothingness. Goody didn't reload. "Who's there?"

Yol-Tul didn't answer. He wasn't stupid enough to give away his position sooner than he had to, especially not to someone with the high ground. But this was interesting nonetheless. He'd thought he was alone here, just "killing" holograms, not up against another person. Or was he? Was this actually a more sophisticated hologram? Did that change the perimeters of the exercise?

No, he decided. He'd have to kill all the targets he came across. Assuming the sniper didn't first. Then kill the sniper.

Easy.

Something moved out of the corner of his eye. As quick as thought and without any motion on his part, a silver blade formed level with his chest, then flew away from his body, skewering the blond that had been just barely outside of his blind spot. Yol-Tul didn't pause to watch the body fall, but sprinted to the next patch of cover, sending knives flying after any twitch of movement that caught his eye.

The holograms gave away the other honest-to-god person's position. Goody reloaded and picked off three of them, click-click-boom, moving forward. Sometimes they put him up in a nest with a break action or a bolt action, sometimes they put him on the ground, just up high, like this. He liked to move when they did. But not usually this fast, this much. Not with a rifle, anyhow.

Today he was too curious not to get around that corner.

The blank, bright white of the terrain was disorienting; there weren't even blood stains to mark where he'd already been. Yol-Tul ducked behind a wall, heartbeat speeding despite himself. The fact that he couldn't put his finger on what was off about all this was bothersome. Directives were usually very straight-forward. Fight someone. Be still. Kneel. Run the course. Ambiguity was outside of the norm.

The doctors and guards hated that.

Someone was coming. And their steps were too uneven, too start-stop to be a hologram.

Knives materialized in his hands, cold and weightless. Hopefully distracting. He might have an instant when the sniper was concentrating on the knives in his hands instead of expect the one that would be headed for his heart. Or he wouldn't, and Yol-Tul would die.

Two outcomes, neither very interesting.

Yol-Tul broke cover.

The boy was Asian, smelling of adrenaline and clinical soap. His breath was louder than a doctor’s, for example, but far too even for a guy who’d been shearing holograms right and left.

Goody lowered his gun all together and said, “Well I’ll be damned. Those are some fancy knives.”

Just the fact that the gun was pointing at the ground and not his head was surprising enough that Yol-Tol stopped in his tracks. Being spoken to was almost enough to make him lose the concentration that kept his knives solid in his hands. He had an opening. He could have manifested a blade and sent it right between the other boy's eyes with just a thought. But he only stared.

The setting dissolved into grey walls and mechanical platforms as their keepers strode into the room.

"You," one snapped, "down."

The knives vanished. Yol-Tol dropped obediently to his knees. The guard was rough in locking his inhibitor collar; the impact against his throat made him cough. He offered no resistance otherwise.

The boy's reaction stirred rebellion in Goody's soul--long-repressed, but it still reared its head now and then. Ah hell, if he was gonna get it, Goody might as well have some fun with it. He turned to his usual minder and said, as flippantly as he knew how: "Hey now, no need to get tetchy. We was just getting to know each other."

The woman gave him a glance, her expression severe, but giving away little. "You both failed in your objective," was all she said. But there was no sting of the needle to come with the verdict this time. She turned and headed for the door. "Take them back to their cells."

-----------------------

The new price of failure was made more explicit an hour later, when the door to Goodnight's cell opened and the Asian boy, a bloody-faced mess, was pushed in with enough force to hit the far wall. He managed to stay on his feet, for all the good it did; the accompanying guard knocked them out from under him a moment later and kept him down with a boot on his chest, despite the boy's lack of defiance.

Goody's handler stepped in behind them.

"That was a pathetic showing, Robicheaux," she said sternly. "But that's no news to you, so I won't bother listing out your failures. You're obviously in need of fresh motivation, so here it is." She nodded back toward the prone boy. "Every time you fail, the consequences will fall on his head. And I promise you, they'll leave more of a mark than an injection would." Her gaze snapped back to Goodnight. "There's a lot we can do to a body without killing it. Is that understood?"

Goodnight's jaw tightened. He forced himself to nod, for the sake of the bloody boy. Hell, at least it meant they probably wouldn't want him to shoot the guy. The thought made bile rise in Goody's throat.

His handler snorted and turned on her heel, then was out the door. The other guard turned. Leaving the prone boy on his own.

When the door shut behind them, Goody headed for the boy, holding out one hand to help him. "You all right? Bunch of soulless sons-of-bitches. What'd they do to you?"

The stranger sat up, looking remarkably calm about the whole business. He pushed himself to his feet without reaching for Goodnight's hand, as if he hadn't realized what the gesture even meant.

"They beat me. Nothing's broken." He swiped at his bleeding nose, adding a fresh patch of scarlet to his already-stained white garb, identical to Goodnight's. He regarded Goody with an expression of open curiosity. "How did you get a name?"

"My mama gave it to me when I was born," Goody said, friendly expression going slightly confused. He belated realized he was still holding out his hand and let it drop to his side. "Didn't yours?"

"Who knows?" The boy shrugged. "They called me 'yon-tul' back at the first place." He seemed to catch Goody's confusion. "'Twelve.' My designation. But they don't use it here, and I never got a new one." He leaned back against the wall. "'Rho-bit-cho' seems like a long one anyway."

Jesus Christ. Either these fuckers had done so much to this kid's brain that he'd forgotten his own damn mother, or he came to them that way and they fucked him up even worse. Goody tamped down the flare of rage in him, though; no point making the guy feel bad about it. "Robicheaux is a family name, that's all. My own is Goodnight, but my friends call me Goody." He gestured to the bed, encouraging the kid to relocate. He looked like shit and could probably use a more comfortable spot. "Nice to meet you--but if you don't mind my saying, you don't look like a "twelve". You should just pick y'own name."

"Goodnight. OK." "Twelve" offered a brief smile that looked terribly out of practice, then obediently settled into a cross-legged sit on the bed.

Aside from being bloody, the kid was on the thin side, with shaggy, black hair that had an air of neglect to it. His bright, dark eyes did a quick look over the cell from this new vantage point, then seemed to decide all was well.

"I don't know any, except what they call each other here," he went on, along with an easy shrug. "We just had numbers back at the school. And I'd rather be 'Twelve' than use their names."

"There's plenty of names in this world," Goody assured him, making himself comfortable by sliding down a wall and propping up his legs, knees high, feet flat on the floor. "Long ones, short ones, pretty ones, macho ones. Rocco, Sebastian, Etienne, Lee, Johnny, Billy, Frederick--we'd call you Freddy. Ricky, Robin, Mark, Matt. Alex, Conner, Bobby, Stormy, Kieth... shit, I got tons to pick from. But take your time, pick one you like."

There was a full minute of silence between them, then, thoughtfully, "What kind of name is 'Billy'?"

Goody raised both eyebrows in surprise. He hadn't actually known if the kid would bite or not. There was something remarkably sad about it either way, but also something weirdly... hopeful? "A nickname, actually. Like 'Goody'. It's short for William, but nobody called 'William' goes by William. Bill, Billy, Will--Willy's a terrible one, no one uses that outside a joke."

"I like 'Billy' best. If you want to call me something, we could use that." Quiet for another few moments, with his nose still dripping onto his whites. "Thanks for not shooting me."

"Sure thing. And I like it. You look like a Billy," Goody decided. "You best grab a corner of that sheet and pinch your nose, mon ami."

"It'll stop in a minute." But Billy leaned forward and closed his thumb and forefinger over the tip of his nose, obviously familiar with how to handle a nosebleed. "Why didn't you shoot me, though? You knew they were going to make things worse for you if you failed."

"I'd rather take a shot of puke-potion and spend tomorrow on my knees than murder someone," Goodnight said with a bemused sort of smile. "They don't generally beat me up like they did you--they want me in working order for training. I'd rather they did, to be honest. Projectile vomiting is not my idea of a good time."

Again, that quicksilver flick of a smile. "They don't usually beat me either. Not for an example. It just happens during training. I'm a 'glass cannon.' No healing, no special durability."

"Same here," Goody said, returning the smile much longer and slower. Even through the blood and bruises, there was something charming about Billy's smile. Or Goody was just desperate for company. Or both. He couldn't find a fuck to give, just then, either way. "You sure are slick with those knives though. Where'd you learn all that?"

"School. Before I came here. And before the hospital." Billy carefully unclamped his fingers from his nose and gave an experimental sniff. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, more or less, so he settled back against the bed again. "There were a lot of mutants there, and we all trained hard. Drills and learning and weapons all day. It was exhausting and we all got hurt sometimes, but not like this."

"That don't sound like any school I ever been to," Goody pointed out. It was mind-boggling, and yet things were becoming clearer. The boy had an accent to his English, so he was definitely from wherever 'yol-tul' meant 'twelve'. "Sounds more like a boot camp. Where you from?"

"Korea. I know I speak Korean better than English, anyway. I couldn't say where the school was, though." Another easy shrug, as if commenting on peculiar weather. "We didn't go outside."

"Sounds like shit," Goodnight decided, still smiling slightly. "Sorry I don't know any Korean names. I know last names but that's all. Still, Billy's good.

"I'm from Vacherie, Louisiana, but even Americans don't know what that is. So I just say New Orleans."

"I wish I knew how you remembered these things," Billy sounded a little wistful, a lot curious. "Do you know how you ended up here?"

"Sounds like they been messing with your head a lot longer than with mine," Goody admitted. "I'm not entirely sure how long ago, maybe a year or... shit, maybe two? Someone found me hiding out in New Orleans. Asked me if my name was Goodnight Robicheaux--and the next thing I knew I woke up here.

"They didn't teach me how to shoot, though. I was already damn good at that."

"Who-?"

Billy's question was cut off by the door opening. One of the guards stepped in, gun at his side.

"You." He gestured at Billy. "Let's go."

The curiosity in Billy's eyes flickered out, and he rose to his feet without murmur or question. He was prodded out the door without another word, then it slammed shut again.

Goody was left staring belligerently at the door. He sent a belated, "Fuck you," after the guard, then let his head hit the wall behind him.

Obviously, this was some kinda new tactic, but Goody couldn't bring himself to care. He liked Billy. And it felt good to like something instead of being full of piss and vinegar all the time. So fuck it.

---------------

PART 2

Maybe it was that lingering spirit of rebellion that prompted the response, but when loaded into another simulation the following day, there was some deviltry in Goody that left him simply unable to perform on command. Oh, he took his shots, but aimed wide, clipped targets, went for targets only wearing blue, or any other petty criteria.

The simulation shut down the moment he spent his last shot, and the handlers strode into the room. Goody's chief tormentor looked more pissed with him than usual. "Backsliding is a poor idea, Robicheaux."

Goody's senses, in full hyperdrive since the beginning, told him as much. Somewhere, there was a needle aimed directly at him that'd have him on his knees in seconds.

He didn't give a shit. All he wanted now was to feel like he was in control of something, so he just smiled and said, "No backsliding here, boss. I hit every target I meant to."

Now she did smile, a tiny, brief thing that held all the warmth of a centipede poking its head out into the sun before retreating back into rot. "You can't say you weren't warned." The guards flanking her stepped forward and gripped Goodnight's arms, pinning them behind his back. "Just remember, you chose this."

The door opened again, and in walked Billy, collared and being pushed along by another guard. Billy's eyes flicked from their handler to Goody, then his gaze seemed to wander off, almost as if he were too bored to focus.

For a split second, Goody fantasized about raising his gun and taking out both his minder and the guard. Putting a perfectly aimed bullet right between their eyes, so they could see just how goddamn much he'd been "backsliding".

The thought scared him... just not as much as it usually did. He clenched his jaw. Even if he could get out of the hold--which he couldn't, he'd tried that back in the beginning, too--no bullets left anyhow. They never came in the room when he had ammo left.

"Billy," Goody said under his breath. He tried to shrug off his guard and take a step forward, but got yanked back. This couldn't be happening. Could not.

There wasn't any preamble. No explanation to Billy about what was about to happen. One moment, Billy was looking off to one side. The next, there was the impact of flesh on flesh, and he was on the floor, blood drooling from one side of his mouth. The guard pulled him back to his feet and hit him again, then again. Basic. Brutal. Just fists, boots, and the occasional grunt of exertion from the guard, or from Billy as the air was driven out of him.

"Bunch of fuckin' animals," Goody said, struggling again even though he knew it was useless. His guard pulled his hands up, so his arms were forced back and up, bending him over and straining his triceps painfully. "Stop!"

It didn't. Not until Billy was beyond resisting, though he'd never so much as cried out in protest. The guard dropped the bloody mess of Billy at Goodnight's feet.

"You named him," Goody's handler mused. "And then you decided to test me, when his well-being was on the line. A game, I suppose." She paused, letting the rasp of Billy's breath fill the silence. "You'd do well not to test me again, Robicheaux."

"You're a fuckin' savage," Goody replied, gaze fixed to Billy's prone form. He hadn't fought. Hadn't even protested. Just taken it. Jesus Christ. Goody had been able to hear every crack. Every crush. Every squish as they pummeled him. And Billy had just laid there. He smelled iron from blood and the particular scent of Billy's spit. He saw the light reflecting off his blood, the awkward angle of his leg.

"And you're slow to learn." The guards collected Billy and carried him out, leaving smears of his blood on the polished floor. And then the needle hit.

Goody dropped to his knees. As they were dragging him back to his cell, his stomach started cramping.

It was gonna be a long day.

---------------

A few days later, Billy looked fresh as a daisy. Goody watched in awe from his spot in a crow's nest above the training sim as Billy took on multiple holographic targets with the ease and grace of Bruce Fuckin' Lee in a well-choreographed film. (He would've thought of a famous Korean martial arts film actor, but he didn't know any, and not like anyone could hold a candle to Bruce Lee so fuck it.) The threat of the needle--and some other unnamed threat facing Billy, possibly from some potential effect of the holograms--kept Goody sharp as shit, so he could see the workings of muscle, hear the carefully regulated breath, smell the sweat.

Goody had a fancy-ass break action sniper rifle today in his perfect vantage point. He familiarized himself with Billy's patterns of movement, admired his work with the knives that sprung out of nowhere, and waited like a good boy until the buzzer went. That meant it was time for him to join in the action.

He leaned forward and sighted one of the holograms--that blue girl again. She was coming up behind Billy while he dealt with another hologram. Goody squeezed his trigger gently.

She hit her knees and dissolved. "You're welcome!" Goodnight shouted.

Billy glanced up at the sound of the gunshot, traced the sound of the hail back to Goodnight's vantage point. It took only an instant; Billy's opponents were closing in on him, and no matter how many knives he threw, they wouldn't stay down. He couldn't spare more time than that. But he smiled in that instant, quick as the flick of a knife, then he was trying to clear himself a path again.

Well, Billy might not remember who his people were or where he grew up, but he had miles of personality in there. "You got a wicked smile, my friend." And Goody liked it.

He sent the other bullet in his chamber flying past Billy's head and into the temple of another attacker. Reload. Immediately tagged two more.

If it bothered Billy to be in the middle of a hail of bullets on top of a dozen holograms trying to get knives into him, he wasn't showing it. He did what was necessary: kicked, punched, stabbed, and threw out blades, whatever he needed to clear himself another breath of space. He was doing well. He also knew he couldn't keep it up forever against tireless holograms. The last one fell, and another wave started. But it was easier somehow now as they fell into a rhythm: Billy held a target at bay for a heartbeat, giving Goodnight that moment of stillness he needed to line up his shot. The hologram would vanish, then it was on to the next.

After a while, it became almost too easy, with too much time to breathe, so Goody started going for trick shots. He bounced a bullet off a wall. He shot through two heads at once. He whooped once or twice when Billy pulled off some especially slick piece of murder ballet. Shit, this was almost fun... if not for Billy starting to flag a little here and there.

As usual, just when Goodnight ran out of ammo, the sim halted.

The doors opened. For once, Goody's handler wasn't looking at him as if she'd caught a whiff of something rotten. "Twenty three confirmed kills on twenty rounds of ammunition. Impressive."

Goody nodded as if tipping an invisible cap. "I felt inspired, what can I say." He kept a level gaze fixed to hers all the while. He had no power now. But he wanted her to know: if Billy looked good, then he'd be good. Message received.

"That's very encouraging to hear, Goodnight." She glanced toward the blank room where there had been an arena, where Billy was now kneeling to be collared.

"Would you like to spend some time with Billy?"

The shape of his given name in her mouth made the hairs on the back of Goody's neck stand up. Didn't help that the needle was still hovering--and that Billy was still under threat too. Goody narrowed his eyes. "What's the catch?"

"There isn't one," she said calmly. "This is your reciprocal reward for good behavior. Unless you would prefer not to."

"If he wants to," Goody said. It was a feeble attempt to force them to acknowledge that Billy was a person too. That he should have some agency.

There was no response to that but to have him taken back to the relative safety of his cell. But half an hour later came Billy, cleaned up but still collared, escorted and to be left in Goody's company.

"Hey." Up close, Billy looked a bit less fit than he had when he'd been playing the part of a lethal whirlwind; there were shadows under his eyes and the remains of bruises half-hidden by the shag of his hair. But he offered Goody one of his brief smiles as soon as the door had closed. "Thanks for not shooting me. Again." But there was a spark of something in his eyes, a sly, silent laugh.

"Thanks for linin' em up so I could knock em down." Goodnight, for his part, chuckled out loud and held out a hand to Billy.

Billy regarded the hand curiously for a moment, then reached out and took it, the question in his eyes coming out of hiding.

Goody grabbed it in a normal shake, then let go and went for the finger grab, then back into a handshake. Once that was done, his face sobered a little as he let their hands drop. "I'm sorry about last time. I'm used to my mouth getting me into trouble. Not other people. I'll work hard to keep it from happening again.

"I mean, you looked good out there today, but now I see you up close you look like shit."

"They told me it was your fault." Billy shrugged easily. "I don't think it matters. It's going to happen anyway. The guards or the training or the hospital. It's how things are here."

"I wasn't holding a gun to their head making them do it," Goody muttered. He gestured for Billy to take the bed again. "Thanks for coming to see me even though I got your ass kicked. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't."

"Blaming would be a waste of time," Billy pointed out. "Even if it was your fault. It's just how things happen." After a moment, he grabbed Goody's wrist and towed him toward the bed to sit, limping slightly as he moved. "I didn't get to ask last time. Who did teach you to shoot?" Simple as that, as if there hadn't been almost two weeks and a stretch of pure Hell between their last conversation and today.

Goody's eyebrows shot up in delighted surprise at the grab, and he followed along willingly. He pulled his legs up under him and set his back to the wall; plenty of room for both of them, after all. "That was mostly my daddy. He started teaching me when I was kneehigh to a grasshopper. I used to shoot competitively--won a bunch of awards and all that meaningless bullshit."

"Oh." Billy was quiet for a time. "You learned well, at least."

"Not saying I ain't proud of it," Goodnight said, giving Billy a friendly elbow. "Is it weird if I talk about--you know, before? My family and shit? I left them, so it's not like I'm dying to spill my guts."

"You can talk about whatever you like." Billy bounced in place, eager to hear more of... well, anything. "I don't have anything to talk about myself."

"Sure you do. You got your own mind--your reactions to the crazy shit I say." Goody's smile went crooked. "Anyhow, me and my daddy, we don't get along." Understatement of the fucking century. Just thinking about it made the entry wound scar on Goody's left arm ache. "I sometimes wonder if he found out if I was a mutant and sold me out to these fuckers." He lifted his unshaven, patchy chin in the direction of the nearest camera. "But I reckon I got found out in the hospital that one time. The sharpshooting was just a bonus to them."

"That doesn't have to do with your powers?" Billy propped his chin up on a fist. "What are they?"

Goody shook his head. "I mean, the powers help, but that's just because they make my senses sharp as hell when there's danger present. Like, I could sense that you were in real danger today, just like I was. And I could see that little smile of yours without the scope." He looked mighty pleased by this.

Billy laughed, a quick hiccup of sound. "I was glad to see you! And your gun. Those things weren't dying."

"I reckon that's the problem with holograms--or whatever they are." Goodnight chuckled, entertained somehow by Billy's laugh as much as anything else. They'd taken everything from this kid--no. No, they'd tried to take everything from this kid, but he really did have a lot left. What a fuckin hero Billy was, even if no one knew but Goody. "No point getting my hopes up we get to do that again instead of the boring shit they usually give me. But a man can dream."

"Might happen," Billy pointed out. "I guess they were happy with how you did if they let you see me. If they think I'm good motivation, maybe they'll work us together again. That wasn't bad. I didn't even get injured."

"Not on my watch," Goody said with a cocky grin that was mostly real. "Lesson learned, my friend."

Billy sobered up and went still. "I know you wouldn't. It's not just you, though. They run me through sims or have me fight other mutants sometimes."

Goody narrowed his eyes. "How many? How often?" Even one was bad enough, but Jesus...

Billy inched away. "Whenever they need me, I guess. There's at least one other mutant here I know isn't a hologram of some kind. He imitates other powers."

Goodnight blinked, wondering what he'd done to make the kid shy away. "Hey now, I ain't blaming you. Like you said, no point in all that. I'm just--it makes me mad to think of those sons of bitches pitting us against each other, is all.

"I think I know that guy. Blond kid? Sometimes they let me eat out there with some other kids, if I'm reaaaaal good." He rolled his eyes.

Billy relaxed a little at Goodnight's reassurance. "Yeah. Sounds like him. He's not as good with my knives as I am, but he had a lot more powers."

"That's interesting. Everyone always has one of those collars on out there so I never seen him do anyone else's mutation. Handy, though." Goody frowned. "Guess he can't copy your skills, if he doesn't have the moves. Because man, you got some moves."

"Ah. Thanks. Thank you." Billy glanced away, almost shy, but seemed to catch himself. "Some of it's training, from before. Some of it..." He shrugged. "You don't move, you get hit."

"Well, yeah, but it's no awkward dodge and roll stuff," Goody pointed out. He liked that nearly shy moment. He liked that it made Billy feel good to be complimented. The guy deserved to feel good.

And Goody he was being a little bit of a flirt, well... no harm, no foul. Just good, old fashioned charm, was all, to make his guest feel more comfortable and appreciated. "You ever see ballet? Or any kind of dance like that? That's what it's like. That's pretty bad ass."

"No." Billy shook his head. Again, that switchblade smile, bright and then gone. "But I can take your word that my fighting is 'bad ass'."

"You can," Goody said, letting his head lean back against the wall and smiling, looking very satisfied. "You get to do anything else in here? They ever give you books or TV? I had books when I got nabbed, but no motherfucker will tell me where they went."

Billy shrugged. "I get to exercise once a day if I'm not healing up. Or I can work out in my cell, some. Otherwise, it's training. But I get to talk with you now. That's a big change."

That was bleak. Of course, it was about the same as Goody's day, but it seemed somehow bleaker for Billy, since his slate had been wiped clean. He didn't even have old stories to keep him company, like Goody did. "Well, shit, I got lots of stories if you want some. Nothing much going on in here, but I got some whoppers from home, if you want entertainment."

Billy nodded, no hesitation. "Yes, sure. Whatever you want to talk about. It's all new to me."

"Well..." Goody went for the juiciest one he could think of. "I knew this girl, back home--her daddy was a wildlife cop. That's like, he'd catch people poaching, like illegally fishing or taking gators. He had these fake gator heads in they're garage, and they used to make this funny sound like a mating call..."

Five minutes later, Goody finished his winding tale by slapping his own thigh, laughing out loud, and saying, "It was a goddamn rat! Hooo boy! She just about yelled her head off!"

Billy hadn't laughed; there were definitely points it seemed where he hadn't quite followed. But. That smile was sticking around. And, at some point, the ground he'd ceded when something on Goody's face had made him so wary had been taken back.

"She doesn't sound like a smart girl," Billy finally ventured.

"Bless her heart, she's dumber than a box of hair." Goody was amused enough for both of them, anyhow. He reached out and patted Billy's knee, all ease and friendliness. "My daddy used to say some people was too pretty to be smart. There's a prime example."

That earned him a skeptical look. "That's wrong. You're smart."

"And pretty," Goody said with a smile that was entirely too smug of a sudden. It didn't seem like flirting, more like Billy thought he was just stating a fact; that somehow made it even better. "Well now, that is a valid point, mon ami--and thank you very much for noticing. Maybe people like you and me, we're just good looking enough to get away with being smart, still. Not too overpowering."

The door to the cell opened, admitting one of the guards.

"Time to go."

Billy didn't move, but his retreat was plain to see even so: the expression bled from his face, and that bored, slightly unfocused look slid over his eyes. He rose to his feet without a word and headed for the door, never looking back.

Goody had been getting used to not having many fucks to give, but the way Billy changed from the good humored boy who visited Goodnight's cell into the emotionless shell that got the shit kicked out of him whenever they needed a goddamn pinata... That was heartbreaking. It was a physical pressure in Goody's chest, a pain he'd almost forgotten he was capable of.

That had to be the angle. For some reason, they wanted Goody to care, that much was clear. But he was too fucked up to see past that. He said, "Good night," just as the door shut behind Billy's handler. And then he sat there staring blankly, thinking of other stories he could tell Billy next time, long past lights out.

---------------

PART 3

Goody always tried his hardest not to watch Billy when they trained together, but sometimes this dramatic bastard made it impossible. Just after Goodnight squeezed off a shot from across the "street"--not a real street, just a fake one in the training room, peopled with panicked holograms both "targets" and "non-targets"--Billy sunk his foot into one of the target's stomachs while simultaneously flinging a knife at another. It sprouted from the unfortunate hologram's forehead just as Goody's target hit its knees.

"Wooo!" Goody hollered as he pumped his shotgun to reload. No finesse in a shotgun, but when he was street level, it was always better. "That's what I'm talking about! That's the dance!"

Normally, Goody's praise at least drew one of those quick smiles from Billy, even in the middle of a fight.

Today, it got a knife launched his way. The silvery blade of psionic energy sliced into the hologram coming up behind Goodnight, and both weapon and target vanished a moment later.

"Watch your back, Goody," was the called reminder.

"Slick, too!" Goodnight laughed, but more quietly. It was more fun like this, him watching Billy's back, Billy watching his--they were tight now, like they'd been doing it forever. Still, Goddamn holograms; sometimes his crazy senses didn't differentiate between the danger from them and the ever-present needle.

Goodnight whirled and fired off two shots in rapid succession. The kick bucked into his shoulder nice and tight. The holograms went flying. "Goodnight!" He reloaded.

That got the reaction Goody had been hoping for with his previous antics: a short, breathless laugh from Billy as the last of their targets fell under his knives. "And sweet dreams."

The street faded away, leaving the familiar, barren grey of the training room. The doors slid open and the guards headed in. Billy knelt silently, subtly scanning the ranks for their handler. Lately, they'd been doing so well that spending time together after their simulations were done had become almost routine, and both of them looked forward to it.

Goodnight already knew the routine was off today. There was one shell left in his weapon. Someone had miscounted, turned the sim off too soon. Or else it was another test.

His senses were still in overdrive--the threat of the needle for him, brutality for Billy. He could get his shot off and take out Billy's handler before the guy got too close. If they didn't get that collar on Billy, then Billy could get them both out of here. Goody was sure.

Shit, though. What if one of the guards took the collar? What if they darted Goody instead of injecting him? That'd happened once. How was Billy going to get them out of here if Goody was puking all over himself and needed to be dragged? And the guards were clumped up--could Billy really do all that alone, caught off guard like this?

If it had been just Goodnight, he would've shot his handler in her smug face and damn the consequences.

But it wasn't just Goodnight anymore. And he hated how fucking grateful that made him about as much as he loved those moments he got with Billy.

Fuck. What the fuck was going on here? Who were these people and what the fuck did they want from him? From Billy? From the others? Who were they being trained to take out, and why?

All this rushing through his mind, Goody just kept his gaze on Billy. He heard his handler's familiar footsteps, smelled her shitty shampoo, and held out his gun. When she took it, he kept his grip firm for just a second. Just long enough to dare her. Then said, "Still one shell in it. Be careful," and let go.

Fuck.

"Thank you for the warning, Goodnight." She handed the gun off without bothering to check it. Of course she'd known. "You both did very well. Beyond your usual, in fact. I assume you'll be wanting to see Billy tonight?"

Goody gave the same answer he always did, this time through his teeth. "If he wants to see me."

As ever, the question received no acknowledgment. But Billy was delivered to his cell later, cleaned up and collared.

"Why do you keep asking?" Billy took his usual seat on the bed. "You know I always want to see you."

Goodnight flopped next to him. Some of the wind was out of his sails, but not all. He flexed his jaw... and his trigger hand. "Well, I'm sure they already know this, so I might as well say it: I ask because I want them to know you're a person. That you deserve to make choices for yourself, and that--even if it's in some stupid little way like that, I'll never stop acknowledging it."

Billy sighed. "Well, I choose you. Every time." He leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. "I didn't matter for anything until they wanted me to work with you. Asking won't make it better. So you don't need to."

Usually, Goody wished he could be more accepting of their situation, like Billy was. But not today, "You always mattered, just these miserable sons of bitches are inhuman." Then he sighed. "Don't get me wrong. I'm glad you'd choose me. I know you do. I hope you know I do. We're friends.

"But I need to remind them you're not fuckin' livestock. You and me both. I need to." The look Goody shot Billy was new--almost like something he'd do mid-combat, when he was worried or his senses confused him. Intense, dark. Pleading.

"All right, Goody." The words were murmured, just above a whisper."If you need to."

Goody looked away, trying to get a hold on himself. He was quiet for a few long seconds, then shook his head like he could shake off his mood. “Anyhow. Who knows how long we’ll have; I don’t wanna spend it being a miserable bastard.”

He wanted to tell Billy about the gun. About how it was all a test. About how he’d wished for just one second they could escape... and then it had been gone. He’d never tell Billy that he’d gladly have died for the opportunity to shoot that handler of his, if not for Billy. No matter what his damn mood was.

But none of that talk was possible. Not without getting close enough to hide his lips and whisper.

“Might be I’m just tired today. You looked good out there though. Dancing your dance.” Goody managed a weak smile.

"I should have been paying more attention," Billy countered. "You almost got hit. But," and there was that sly humor reserved only for time with Goody, "that one was fun. I'm not the only one who looks good. You were in your element too. Got the snipers, and no one on the ground came close to getting at us."

"I like it when I get to be on the ground with a shotgun--little bit dirtier but I get to work up close with you," Goody admitted, smile going lopsided as one side became more real. "And I kick ass at trap, so the snipers don't stand a chance.

"I liked that move where you kicked the one and knifed the other. That took some flexibility. Bet you got good rhythm too."

"You're talking about dancing again, aren't you?"

Goodnight was struck by an idea, a way to shake off this fog of hate hanging over him--at least for as long as he had Billy with him. He jumped up off the bed and held out a hand to Billy. "C'mere. I'll show you."

If the out-of-the blue offer was a puzzlement, it wasn't enough of one to dim Billy's curiosity or trust. He took Goody's hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. "OK. And now...?"

"Sorry, I only know how to lead--but that's better anyhow." Goody lifted one of Billy's hands and held it out, then put his hand at Billy's side, leaving a healthy foot or two between them. "Just settle your other hand on my shoulder, right there."

Billy arranged himself as instructed, most definitely curious by this point. "This doesn't look like a fighting stance. I'd have a hard time getting a solid grip on you."

"Well, I wouldn't have a hard time getting a solid grip on you," Goody patted Billy's waist, "but that's another story for another time. You want it nice and light. So a waltz is the easiest, and it goes like ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three, so you take your big step on the one and two little steps on the other." This time, Goodnight tugged Billy along as he moved. "ONE-two-three ONE-two-three, JUST-like-me..."

Billy followed along easily, though his attention stayed more on his feet than on Goody. He didn't miss a step when he finally looked back up, but his expression was one Goodnight had seen countless times before on other faces, the "Goody Robicheaux, you are so full of shit" look. But this version came with a dark-eyed smile, and a partner who seemed in no great hurry to get away. Even if he did think Goody was full of it.

Goody laughed at the expression, starting to actually relax a little, now he was doing something familiar. Granted, he hadn't been dancing with boys at cotillion, but he'd certainly wanted to. Once he was sure Billy had the basic step down, he started singing The Waltz of the Flowers from The Nutcracker. "Da-da-da-daaaa-da-da, da-da-da-da-daaa-da-da..." He tightened his grip on Billy, pulling him slightly nearer, now their feet weren't in danger of treading on each other.

"This has nothing to do with fighting," Billy pointed out. A pause. "You don't have to stop singing."

Smile turning just the slightest bit satisfied, Goody kept them moving around the spare room, for once grateful for the lack of furniture. To the same tune, he sang, "That's-where-I-thiiiink you're-wrong... We're-learning-to-move-to-gether..." and then he was at the trilly bit again so he just went with the random "da" sound to finish off the phrase.

That was the breaking point. Billy dissolved into smothered giggles and collapsed onto the bed as they made their rounds again.

Goodnight couldn't help himself, he laughed out loud too, watching with great satisfaction as Billy lost his mind. "There now, see! I was right!"

Billy looked up from his giggle fit. "This is good rhythm?" he asked, half skepticism, half too-wide, goofy grin.

Well that was just about the most delightful expression Goody had ever seen on another human being in his life. "Rhythm is being able to move with the beat of the music." Still chuckling, Goody started waltzing with an imaginary partner now, being a lot more showy about his footwork. "Making it graceful and elegant--and then putting your own stamp on it. That's like how you fight--with me or alone. It's pretty."

"So are you." Billy draped himself into a lazy loll, taking up most of the bed. "I guess that's why we're matched."

"The prettiest mutants in the prison, when it comes to kickin' ass and takin' names." Goody spun by the bed before collapsing next to Billy. It was an opportunity. And he took it. He put his lips close to Billy's ear while he pretended to be getting comfortable, and he whispered. "They left me a shot today. It was a test."

Billy's smile faded, but he said nothing to give Goody away. For all his easy acceptance of the horror that was his life, there'd never been any sign of the boy being dim. In a heartbeat, Goody could see him work it out, why Goody hadn't taken the shot. What... who had held him back.

"Yeah," Billy said softly. "You're kick ass, Goody. Thanks."

The door opened. Billy sat up; Goody could already see the signs of withdrawl in his eyes. But this was different. The guard was holding two metal trays, with the typical bland meals on them. There was another standing just behind him, weapon at the ready in case either of them tried anything.

"He's staying in here a while," was the explanation. "But they want you both fed."

Goody pushed himself up to sitting after shooting Billy a look he hoped communicated understanding. “Here’s a rare treat. Entre-vous, gentlemen. Let’s see what gourmet delicacies await us.”

He remained sitting as the guard set down the trays, then stood and, walking backwards so he could see Billy’s face as he said, “Sorry for my shitty mood, earlier. Things just got me thinking. It’s a dangerous habit.”

"S'okay..." Billy didn't look as if he were entirely back with Goody yet, but somewhere in between. "They said we did really well today. Maybe that's why I'm staying longer."

"Someone was certainly a very good boy," Goodnight said, irony dripping from every syllable. He grabbed the trays and returned to the bed, handing Billy's off. Another meaningful look. They both knew what'd bought them more time now, Goody figured. "Here now, let's drink to us. To learning how to dance." He settled and lifted his carton of milk.

---------------

When Goody saw the training room the next morning, it was... different. Long and skinny and bright white, no street scene or crows nests or anything. Just a white hallway with a high ceiling, like some kind of sci fi echo chamber. He had a lever action rifle, one of his favorites, and just two bullets in the chamber.

There was definitely danger present in that room, or just outside. The second he set foot in it and the door shut behind him, Goody's senses sharpened, like a camera that'd been blurry forever suddenly figured out how to focus. The smell of sweat and fear; the smell of metal and gunpowder. The sound of booted footsteps--and lighter ones beside.

Those lighter ones were Billy's. Goody's brow furrowed. Billy was the one in danger, now. Just Billy. What the fuck?

The guards entered. Billy's collar was off a moment later, but the guards didn't retreat. They just moved off-sides, as if giving Billy room to work.

Billy shared a momentary glance with Goodnight. He was no idiot. He knew there was something wrong as surely as Goodnight did. But he kept his stance loose. Ready for anything.

His handler's footfalls were coming up the hall behind him. Hers and three other guards. The door opened. Shut.

"It's time to complete your exercise, Goodnight." Her tone was brisk as ever, but Goodnight caught the satisfaction buried underneath the faux-professionalism. "Take down the last target."

Goody had to swallow vomit. Gaze fixed to Billy, he shook his head. He heard Billy’s heartbeat across the room. That forever calm, just slightly on edge. Ready.

“I don’t see a target,” Goody said.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Wouldn't this be a cleaner way to end it?"

Billy's heart, beating faster. There was a flash of silver across the room. Billy coming for Goody's handler, knife in-hand, storm clouds and lighting in his eyes.

He didn't get three steps before the guards were on him. Five too-fast heartbeats of blood and mayhem, and then the collar locked around his neck. The silver snuffed out. Billy's fury remained.

"Get away from him!" The breathless desperation of his words carried. "Mi-chin nyon! Come try for yourself if you want to kill me!"

For just a moment, Goody stared. He'd never, ever heard Billy raise his voice, let alone seen a look like that on his face--and Goody saw it all in full, sharpened detail. His handler's breathing got harder; Goodnight glanced at her and saw surprise. "It's okay, Billy," he said, voice cracking. He looked to his handler. "Just kill me. I'd rather die."

He didn't want to die. Not even a little, not after all this. But he'd prefer it to having to kill another person. Especially Billy.

"NO!" Billy was struggling so hard that Goodnight could hear the creak of tendons, the strain of muscle against itself. But he was one skinny kid against four grown men. As he'd said: no enhancements. "Goody...!"

The guards had a hold on Goodnight a moment later, stripping him of his gun. His handler produced another, a small, snub-nosed piece easily concealed under a jacket or coat. A .380 Beretta. The same gun that had put Goody in the hospital at his father's own hand.

With steel in her eyes, she strode forward, headed for Billy.

"What the fuck!" Goody tried to follow, but someone grabbed him. He fought, then two someone's grabbed him. "No! You goddamn savage, he's a fucking human be--"

She fired once, point-blank, a hollow thunderclap in the enclosed space that left Goody half-deafened. Billy spasmed in the hold of the guards, then went still and quiet. She glanced back at Goodnight. The words were lost to the ringing in his ears, but the shape of her lips was too familiar.

Get him out of here.

Goodnight fought and kicked and screamed, trying to claw his way to Billy, hollering his name. It took four guards to drag him out and throw him back in his cell.

And they didn't even inject him for his failure.