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Chapter Text

Dylan had dodged out of the way of a fist, as a chair careened past his back and crashing into the far wall. The bar had erupted out of control and Dylan did his best to defend himself and to pull his punches. He hadn't instigated this fight and was doing damage control. The sound of gunfire broke out, putting a stop to most of the rambunctiousness that had broken out. One of them had gotten one last punch in and the sound of glass being shattered filled the renewed silence.

"That's enough or I'm closing my tavern early." The barkeep yelled. He came around from behind the counter, unsurprisingly pointing the muzzle of his gun in Telemachus' direction. "You. I'm kicking you out."

Rhade had bared his teeth, about to growl at the lanky barkeep. Dylan started to take a step forward to get in between them, before Rhade escalated things. Damn Nietzschean was going to get himself shot over nothing. The barkeep placed a finger on the trigger, not about to back down. "Get out!"

Rhade's eyes swiveled. Dylan knew his friend was checking out all the weaknesses he could exploit and was assessing his options. They both knew Rhade could take the gun from him and really do some carnage. Even drunk, the Nietzschean could kill most of them in the tavern, though he'd still get shot at least once at that range. But some sense finally reaching him and his shoulders sagged. He grabbed the nearest bottle of booze from one of the tables that didn't get knocked over in the ensuing fight and then turned to leave.

"Lousy drunk." He'd mumbled after Rhade barged out of the front doors.

Dylan slowly backed away from the drunkard he'd been fighting with, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand to check for blood after the few lucky hits he'd gotten in. It had only been sweat and then he left the joint to chase down his friend. He hadn't gone far, and he found Rhade in one of the back alley's two buildings over from the bar.

"Rhade." He called after him a few times. "Telemachus." His full name had gotten him to stop moving away and Dylan caught up with him. He was out of breath from the fight and running down the stubborn Nietzschean, so he didn't respond right away and when he did, he couldn't quite keep the exasperation from his tone. "What the hell was that in there?"

"What?"

Dylan felt the anger, he couldn't help it sometimes when it came to Rhade. He looked exactly like Gaheris and there were times where he would do or say something that was so Gaheris that all his old baggage from Gaheris' betrayal would resurface. "What?! I'm talking about in there. You started that brawl and threw the first punch all because that one guy had made a pass at you."

Of course Dylan was all about boundaries and respected his crews lines, but he'd never seen Rhade react so badly to one male checking him out, winking and offering to order him a drink. Telemachus wasn't homophobic, at least that he knew. Gaheris had had five wives and three male consorts, and Telemachus was the genetic reincarnation of Gaheris. It wasn't a topic they freely discussed but surely Telemachus had the same predilections. Plus he was Nietzschean, they were bred for perfection, bred to be noticed and fawned over. Even if he only liked women, his behavior had seemed so out of character. Normally, he'd play along and get a free drink or he'd politely decline or ignore the proposition.

"There was no reason to escalate things back there. People got hurt. People could have died."

Rhade rolled his eyes at the dramatics, the worst guy probably had a cracked rib, nothing more. Popping the top of the bottle, he started swigging at the liquid, enjoying the warm fizz going down his throat to help numb him to everything around him. He didn't want to feel or remember, but he had to drink twice as much to even get to that point.

"Rhade, you're not even listening to me, are you?" Dylan moved up behind him as he was swallowing down large quantities of the alcohol. This wasn't Rhade. He'd spent over a year getting to know Telemachus and studying his character and it just didn't seem plausible that a couple months in Seefra had changed Rhade so drastically. Something was really wrong and he knew one of the things. He grabbed at Rhade's wrist in order to pry the bottle out of his hand and smash it to the ground. "I think you've had-"

He was abruptly cut off when he was flipped over his friends shoulder. He hit the ground, his back landing on something big and bulky as it sent a jolt of pain through his body. He did groan out, barely having enough time to hear Rhade's angry snarl. His hands flailed above him, grasping onto Rhade's hand and arm, avoiding those three bone blades from sinking into his neck. When he swallowed, he could feel the slight prick of the end of his middle blade against his throat. His arms shook to keep Rhade from pressing down. And he yelled out, "What is wrong with you? What's going on?"

Blinking, Rhade had seemingly come back to himself, being brought back from wherever he'd just been to. Enough to stand back up from his kneeling position and move away from Dylan. But the swirling anger and bewilderment was still present all over his features. Rhade shook his head, getting away from Dylan's all seeing eyes to glare down at the shattered bottle on the ground. He really could have gone for another swig. He needed another one. 

"Nothing." He snapped, belatedly realizing that Dylan wasn't about to leave him alone without some kind of answer. He could have kicked himself for that pat answer though, because Dylan wasn't going to be satisfied with that either. "You haven't been here long enough, Dylan. You don't know what this place is like."

"Then enlighten me." Dylan challenged. He had thought he was getting a handle on Telemachus and could read him as well as he could the rest of his crew, but he couldn't understand this. When Rhade turned to leave with nothing but unanswered questions, Dylan grabbed at his shoulder to pull him back around. Only a shiver went through Rhade and he sucked air in through his clenched teeth. The anger over Rhade's unnecessary violence and his silence morphed into genuine concern. "This isn't just about being stuck on this backwater world, is it?"

"Dylan. L-Leave it." Rhade was almost pleading.

"This isn't even about the destruction of Arkology and losing Louisa..." Dylan's inflection was softer, his hand now gently caressing Rhade's shoulder, coaxing him. "Talk to me Telemachus. Maybe I can help."

Rhade held back his tears, his back going rigid as he spoke one word, "Stark."

Dylan knew he hadn't meant Constanza Stark; that had been before the fall. That was Gaheris, but it was the first person Dylan had imagined. "Constantine...The Patriarch."

It wasn't a question. Dylan remembered that mission; it was one of the last ones they had before they ended up in Seefra. And he remembered Rhade had been filthy and exhausted. Those devices on his and Seamus' heads had kept them from getting sleep. But he seemed fine. Suddenly, Dylan felt guilty for not following up with Rhade over the events. Seamus had vaguely hinted at the fact that Rhade had gone through hell down there but was skittish and illusive when he questioned his engineer further about Rhade. And Rhade looked and acted normally the next time Dylan had seen him. Plus the threat of the Worldship had been looming and it was just one of those things that slipped from his mind. He was afraid to ask now. Now that he was faced with Rhade and how affected he still was by it.

"What happened? What...What did he do to you?"

Rhade scoffed, "It doesn't matter. This is a waste of time."

"It does matter. You wouldn't be trying to drink yourself into a coma, otherwise."

"I-" Rhade hesitated and it dawned on Dylan that Rhade was trying to keep himself back; either from crying or going off in a rage. "I don't remember most of it. Those gadgets kept us awake and your brain can play tricks on you when you're sleep deprived. And...I think those toxins they had me swimming in might have affected my memory." His bottom lip quivered then. "But Dylan, what-what has come back to me..."

He trailed off, his eyes growing darker as his mind took him back. And all he could see before him were flashes of that place. The hate filled eyes, and that cocky grin of his, knowing he'd won. Hearing his own screams as he was shocked and hit repetitively. But the worst thing, the one flash of memory he wanted to erase was the lingering feel of fingers tracing along his spine, the scent of the Patriarch heavy in the air, and his voice at his back. He was silent for too long and Dylan got into his face, taking both of his shoulder's into his hands.

"Whatever has happened and whatever he's done to you, I can help you. Let me help you."

Rhade broke the connection, shutting off what little vulnerability he'd allowed Dylan to see, dismissing him and doing what he could to get away from him. "No one can help me."

Dylan watched him go, feeling the first stirrings of hopelessness that everyone else there seemed to have. And some part of him wished Stark was still alive so that he could make him suffer as much as he'd done to Rhade. As surly and closed off as Rhade was now, Dylan was not about to give up on his weapons officer or his friend. He'd find a way to help him.

Chapter Text

As he watched Rhade walk away, stiff and unsteady before he turned a corner and disappeared, Dylan couldn't explain what he was feeling. It wasn't quite regret, but it sure felt like it. Some small part of him wanted to chase after him and try all over again. To reassure his friend that he was there for him, would always be there for him. That he'd be a better friend, better then he was in the last face off they recently had with the Magog Worldship. They didn't have doom looming over them now. He could help him.

But he'd done what he could for the moment. He'd regret it more if he chased after Rhade. If he chased after him, then Rhade would shut down completely and never trust him again. He'd never open up again about whatever wound was still harming him. It might not be a scar that could be physically seen, but it was just as detrimental. He saw it now, and from where he stood in the center of the alley all alone, it felt like he could do nothing but let him bleed out from the emotional baggage. All of Rhade's recent behavior was self sabotaging, and Dylan understood it now; even if he wasn't sure exactly what happened.

Glaring down at the bottle he'd smashed on the ground, he felt his mind start to roll through the what ifs. If only he had killed Stark back when he had the chance, then Rhade never would have ran into him, he would have never even met him. But they'd been at an impasse, and he'd been conflicted over his past feelings for Stark, or rather who he claimed to be. If he hadn't let his nostalgia over who he use to be, maybe he would have reacted differently, maybe the outcome would have been different.

All these maybes. And not one of them helped him with his current problem. None of them could erase what was done. And as much as Rhade lost himself in a bottle, the alcohol would never erase it either. Nothing could erase it. That was the whole point. He needed to heal, but Rhade wasn't letting himself. He wasn't even letting himself face it. Dylan supposed he could try and force Rhade to face his inner turmoil, but he feared if he did it would cost him the rest of what little friendship was still between them.

Sighing, Dylan crunched at part of the glass with his boot. He didn't know what to do. The man was so stubborn, and every scenario he was running through his head seemed as disastrous as the previous idea. And he couldn't see their friendship surviving. He didn't even have anyone in the Seefra system either that he could turn to and ask for help. He tried to imagine what Rommie would say to him in this situation, however giving Rhade space and time might just damage him as much as forcing him to face whatever that sycophant did to him.

"Oh Telemachus." He softly sighed to himself. "What did Stark do to you?" He could take a guess, he'd been a soldier for most of his life. He'd been apart of and had seen his fair share of atrocities. But he didn't like letting his imagination take him places. He needed to know what was going on, he needed facts laid out before him so he could come up with a plan. And it'd be better all around if he heard it directly from Rhade. Though, in some small capacity, he didn't want to know what his friend had endured and what he had ignored for so long.

Finally, he tore his eyes away from the darkened dirt from the spilt liquor, and walked in the opposite direction. He needed a new plan before confronting Rhade again. Maybe, and this was a big maybe, Rhade would come around on his own; now that he knew he'd support him. Otherwise, he'd just have to keep trying to talk to him and get him to open up. After they both cooled off. He didn't want to do anything he'd regret. He was beginning to realize why this place sucked the spirit out of everyone.

He really hated this place.

Stumbling inside his dwelling, Rhade shut, locked and then rested heavily against his front door. The inside of his small place was dark, despite the sun not having set outside yet. He flicked his head, failing to fling away the memories encroaching in his head space. Nothing concrete was coming across his mind, they were still just flashes of Stark's face, his teeth, his smell. Feelings were accompanying the flashes, all of which made him sick to his stomach. He could remember the taste of blood in his mouth.

Rhade pushed off from the door, now on the hunt for any back up booze he might have in his apartment. He had to have some. There was no way he'd gone through all of his spare alcohol already. Not a chance. And with every step he took he could feel the haunting shadow of the past bearing down on him. It was utterly ridiculous, and equally terrifying to feel Stark's breath at his neck. He knew it wasn't real, Stark was dead. He watched Stark get disemboweled by Magog. But his body shivered in reaction, to breath that didn't exist.

It was all in his head. Which wasn't comforting in the least. It only made him wonder if he was losing his damn mind.

He'd be fine just as soon as he could locate some beer. It all went away while he drank. Everything was quiet and numb, and he didn't have to worry about anything. He could sit down and just enjoy the moment of peace while he was buzzed. And a moment was all he had left. Searching the cabinets felt like hours with his past weighing him down. But he did find a tall glass bottle filled with clear liquid. He paused for two seconds, before deciding to just chug the entire bottle and he slammed the lid of it on the edge of the counter.

The grip around the neck of the bottle increased, hearing the crack of one of their batons in the air, and his back twinged in sympathetic response. His nano-immune system was no doubt trying to sift through the false sleep deprived tricks of his mind from the real memories of torture and abuse he endured. But he didn't want to relive it. He couldn't face anymore of it. He'd already spent too much time beating himself up over what he had no control over. He was weak, getting captured and tortured. Weak for dwelling on it. Weak for not being able to move on.

"Go away." He muttered under his breath, to no one and nothing in particular.

Swinging his head back, he brought the bottle to his lips, taking long swigs, and letting the burn warm the inside of his chest. Focusing solely on that had helped him to block everything else out. He pulled back after chugging half the bottle of alcohol, as a derisive laugh bubbled out of him. It was all he could do to keep himself from crying. However, even through the humorless, and hysterical chuckles escaping him, his bottom lip was still quivering and there was a glistening sheen across his eyes. He rubbed his thumb and index fingers over his eyes, unable to let the tears out even while he was by himself in the dark.

Damnit. Damn him. Stupid Captain Dylan Hunt. Screw him. Screw his perfect ideals, his perfect world. This was all his fault anyway. All his fault for obeying orders and coming after him that first time, which landed him a spot on the Andromeda and front row seats to the destruction of everything. All his fault for trying to worm past his defenses and get him to try and open up and talk about it.

If he'd just been a good little soldier and followed the Commonwealth laws, he'd have been locked up and sent to prison for his failure over losing Tyr. Didn't matter if he deserved it, or if he was just being used as a pawn in something much larger. He'd have never been aboard the Andromeda in the first place. Would never have experienced half the things he did, never would have been in the Patriarch's clutches. Never would have been tortured. And never would have seen yet another loved one die in his arms and feel their last breath leave their bodies. He'd have died in some Commonwealth prison as the magog ravaged and consumed each planet. And in some ways he wondered if that would have been better.

Once he finished the rest of the bottle he threw it at the cabinets he'd just been searching, smashing the bottle in a rage. He needed more. He'd never get a wink of quiet and untroubled sleep if he didn't completely abolish and bury the loosened memories and all the feelings that were connected to them. His shoulders hunched in a rigid fashion and he stalked through the remainder of his place, on the hunt for any other hidden bottles he may have stowed away.

Chapter Text

"Nietzschean." The word was filthy, and insulting coming out of Stark's mouth.

His bare hand grasping at his chin was just as unwanted and wrong as the mans words and Rhade thrashed his head aside, away from that touch. Stark simply smirked. A smirk that morphed and taunted him. There was a device on his forehead, pumping him full of chemicals and currents to keep him wide awake, and his body ached. He stood there shirtless, doing his best to glare down the bald general, until one of his knees gave way from a smash to the back of them. He fell forward, groaning out.

The heat of the scrubber suddenly swarmed around him, not even questioning how he got there. But he was held in that tiny claustrophobic room, with the lighting dimmed to almost pitch blackness. Though with his stronger eyesight, he'd still be able to make out the shadows and imprints of the grate in front of the hatch leading back out into the main room of the Templar's outpost. He couldn't breathe, as the toxins and poisons seeped into his skin and clogged his nostrils.

He was inhaling small puffs, getting more of the noxious stuff into his system then the little bit of air that was circulated into the room. His head was hung low, and even in that enclosed space, it didn't block out the words of Stark, his wry chuckling. The feel of his coarse hands on his flesh. He tried to pull away, ramming right into the interior of the wall. The slick feel of the grime running down the inner wall, was more wanted and more of a relief then the idea of Stark cramming himself in behind him.

Get out. Get off. Get away from me!

Rhade tried to yell and shout, but his throat was swollen and inflamed. His tongue felt too fat to fit inside his mouth and he couldn't make a sound. His body was sore, his extremities tingling, and the very tips of his fingers and toes had gone numb. It was like liquid tar flooding up his throat and stinging the back of it. No words. And his muscles were failing him, as he struggled to get a grip at the soppy wet wall in front of him. The poison had seeped into every pore, making him suffocate with the feeling of his limbs sagging and lagging behind.

Pain was spreading out and he was teetering the edge of his personal limits. Though he suspected that was partly why the Patriarch was doing all of this, to test just how much pain his body could be put through before it was too much for his superior genes. The asshole had to have an idea already, he killed Nietzschean's for a living. But if he wasn't doing it to find out how long he could last, then he was doing it for fun, and Rhade had a harder time swallowing that one. He'd grown up on the legends of Dylan, Stark, Sarah and his own ancestor.

A dry and scratchy scream tore out of his throat, and he opened his eyes to see himself on the floor of the outpost. Out of the scrubber. Everything was twisted and wrong, as he yelled and panted through the hits to his backside. His back and the backs of his thighs were on fire, when he flashed around and the feel of the electrical current was buzzing through him. His mouth was open, as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. He was painfully hissing, and out in front of his spasming body was Constantine Stark.

There were three, now four of them standing in front of him. His hands were on his knees as they bent down towards him. Of in the dark, there was only the one, behind him, he couldn't see him, only feel him. But in the light, he was everywhere. He couldn't escape those cruel eyes. The lopsided grin. The room was spinning and Rhade felt sick to his stomach. Light and dark flickered around him and there was this shrill ringing noise surrounding the area. Growing louder and louder. It was the sound of his own screaming.

Rhade was reeling, flailing back and forth, until he shot up in bed. His forearm was ramming forwards. His bone blades had shredded through a top part of the sheets constricting around his body. He had awoken with a jolt, panicked out of fear of being held down and helpless again, but he wasn't screaming or yelling. Just panting in alarm. Rhade knew he was safe in his room on Seefra, but the nightmare still lingered, the scents, sights and pain was an echo of something he was still affected by, and he couldn't help but to wildly look around for an intruder.

He was ready and rearing for a fight. And just like he suspected, no one was there. He growled, flinging the pillow across the way. One little incident had brought everything back to the surface, and now he couldn't be rid of it. He'd thought he effectively buried it weeks ago. "Why won't you leave me alone?" He mumbled, with his hand rubbing across his forehead.

This wasn't working. He needed something more or something stronger if he was going to silence his demons.

Dylan awoke slowly, rubbing at the corners of his eyes and letting out a yawn. He grimaced as he sat up and felt a bone crack in the middle of his back. Since arriving on Seefra, he'd been using Flavin's humble home as his own. It wasn't home; nothing but the Andromeda would ever feel like home, but he still needed a place to crash during the night and Flavin was no longer using it. Seefra wasn't the best planet to risk sleeping out in the open, and besides, he didn't think his body would be able to handle laying on the ground all night long. Not anymore.

It was aching from the stiff cot as it was. Four years being pampered with the finest beds on board the Andromeda had really done a number on him. It'd made him softer. He could remember a time when he and Gaheris would sleep in the worst places, out in the open during missions, without feeling it in his bones. Rhade. Thinking of Gaheris had reminded him of everything that had happened a few days before and he groaned in frustration. He'd thought about it for the rest of the evening and slept on it, he'd given the Nietzschean his space, and still he was nowhere closer to coming up with a way to help his friend then he was when he first let him walk away.

As he got ready to leave, his mind went right back to the problem at hand. He'd push if he had to, push Rhade until the Nietzschean hated him if it meant he could get to the crux of the problem and start the healing process. Of course he didn't want to lose him as his friend, but the alternative could be worse. Not that Rhade would do anything rash or stupid. It wasn't really in the nature of the Nietzschean. There were only certain endeavors where they'd risk their lives for. Then again, drinking into a preferred oblivion seemed counterproductive to the Nietzschean lifestyle too.

Now under the impression that it might be possible that Rhade could do something self-destructive and stupid, as he ran from the torment of the past, Dylan started to shrug on his brown jacket a little more rapidly and then he was stumbling out into the dusty, dry air of Seefra. Locking up, he gazed back and forth, wondering where he might find the brunette. He did have a couple places he would hang out in, having bonded with the riffraff and taking the odd job or two. He had to out of necessity, for survival. Dylan didn't begrudge him that, though he may have disagreed.

His first stop was down into the seedier part of the main port, not that there was a seedier part, it was all pretty poverty stricken and the entire city was just full of addicts and people down on their luck. Hopelessness filled every recess of Seefra it seemed. He could see the emptiness in their eyes. He did see one guy, dressed slightly better then the rest of the masses, and from his vantage point it looked like he was hiring some people. Probably to work in the mines or bodyguards. Whatever it was for, it was illegal and dangerous.

Jobs that Rhade took in a heartbeat. He was designed to survive harsher environments and the pay was well worth it. Only as his blue eyes searched the faces around them, none of them turned out to be Rhade. Dylan abruptly turned around and headed back to visit the bizarre, wondering if Rhade was out there buying supplies, or more booze. That sounded right, as much as it pained him to see his friend turn to the glass. He was nothing more then an alcoholic hired gun now, and Dylan loathed it. Some days he wanted to beat him senseless and other days he wanted to reach out to him and try and understand what he was going through.

Today was one of those days. He'd made some progress the other day, he'd seen Rhade open up just a tiny bit. He could see the pain hidden in plain sight, before he locked it all away again. And he felt more optimistic by the time he reached the outdoor stalls. Dylan perused, almost feeling obligated to take in the sights and politely look at all the objects being sold, before declining to buy them. But he was just filling the time, while he scanned the crowd every few minutes in the hopes of catching a glimpse of those jagged bone blades at his wrists, the shoulder length black hair, or his solid mass.

He wasn't hard to spot. And as often as he did pick his head up, Rhade was nowhere to be found there either. Dylan really didn't want to head back to Rhade's place to find he'd hurt himself, and every fiber of his being was telling him that Telemachus would never do such a thing. So he was putting it off for as long as possible. The worry though, that was growing ever more in the background, and Dylan had to wonder if his friend had tried to get back into the tavern he'd just been kicked out of and was in trouble there, instead.

It was a fleeting idea. Dylan really didn't buy that Rhade had gone back there. The barkeep had made it clear that he'd shoot him the next time he saw him. But if the Oasis bar was a bust, then Dylan knew he'd be making his way to the hovel Rhade slept at. He wasn't that far away from the bar, and on the outside, nothing appeared amiss. He couldn't hear any gun shots or sounds of a fight inside. So either Rhade had been forgiven and let back in and he was behaving himself, or Rhade wasn't there.

He was about to get his answer, and he opened the front doors, making his way inside. He didn't get two steps in, before the barkeep was yelling at him.

"No. No. Get out."

"What?" Dylan hadn't done anything, however, he was seeing him pulling out his gun, incase he didn't go willingly.

"You drunk friend raided my establishment last night after I closed, and stole most of my supply of alcohol. You are not welcome here, and I expect you to pay me back for everything he took. Or next time I'm shooting him on sight."

Oh hell. Crap. Telemachus. Dylan frowned, but did raise a hand up and backed away. "Okay. Okay, I'm leaving."

He needed to get to Rhade, before he lost him completely, and Dylan left the bar, and started running in the direction of the one place he'd been avoiding all morning. He'd known Rhade had done something stupid, and he'd been reluctant to face it.

Chapter Text

"Rhade." Dylan tried a little louder, as he continued to bang on the door. He gave a half smile to any onlookers walking by. He'd been pounding on the door for the better part of five minutes and there had been no response on the other side. His worry for his friend was already tipped over his limit. With another glance around, though he doubted any authorities would get involved if he broke the damn door down. But he was still civilized, and a little paranoid. Content that no one there cared, he used his shoulder as a battling ram and starting bashing it against the solid bulk.

The door wasn't budging, at all. All that Dylan was accomplishing was to send a throb of pain across his own upper body. Leave it to the Nietzschean to pay top dollar for one of the only places in the dirt poor town that was secure. Patting his pockets down, he searched for something he could pick the lock with, but he came up empty. Guess he was just going to have to do things the old fashioned way. Taking a few moments to find what he needed, he grabbed at a hefty rock and threw it through one of the windows on the side. The glass shattered inwards, littering the floor of Rhade's home. And even that wasn't enough to stir the man.

Something was really wrong.

Dylan crawled through the window, he was mindful of the shards still sticking up in the frame, but still rushed through. Everything was dim inside the room, the only light filtering in through the window he had just shattered. The carpet felt off and he realized he was standing on a sheet. And that was when he realized the rest of the windows were blocked off by sheets or boarded up by wooden planks. Rhade had blocked the outside world off and he didn't like the implications of that.

He slowly made his way through the big area, identifying it as the Living room. Squinting, he saw the darker outline of a back room and assuming it was Rhade's bedroom, he begun to head off in that direction. He'd never actually been inside Rhade's home, and before he even reached the room, he stepped on something hard and bulky and his foot twisted out and he fell down to the floor. It was too hard to be a body, but Dylan still frantically reached around, touching at what he tripped over to confirm it wasn't the Nietzschean sprawled on the floor.

It was glass. Dylan picked it up, examining it at a closer angle, and discovered it was an empty bottle of liquor. In fact there was a procession of empty bottles leading from where he was all the way into the door and disappeared into the darkness. "Damnit." Dylan was distraught and disappointed. And now completely upset.

Avoiding as many as the littered bottles as he could, he pulled aside the curtain being used as a door, and stepped into the room. It was in fact Rhade's bedroom, and it was significantly darker then the rest of his residence. It took a few seconds for Dylan's eyes to adjust, but he spotted more bottles leading up to the edge of Rhade's bed. And on top of it, the Nietzschean's form was on top of the bed, on top of the covers. He was on his side, completely motionless; enough to freak him out.

"Rhade. Telemachus. Wake up!" 

Dylan kicked through the rest of the bottles, rushing to the bedside of his friend. He gathered him up in his arms his palms hitting at his cheeks. He was shaking him and rubbing his fingers through his hair and down his arms. Dylan was doing anything he could think of to stir the big man awake. He hadn't even felt for a pulse or checked if he was breathing, since that line of thinking wasn't a possibility. He wouldn't or couldn't fathom those two options. Rhade had to be okay, was going to be okay, but he was unresponsive.

"No." Dylan moaned out softly, his own voice strange to his own ears. "No, no. Telemachus, don't you dare."

He jostled him, bringing him over to the edge of the bed, which was a bit of a feat at his age, considering how heavy Telemachus was, and he all but struck Rhade with his force lance, to get him back. And finally it worked. The body in his arms shook, one of Rhade's eyes peeked open, before a wave of intense nausea forced it closed again, another shudder wrecked his body and he was flinging himself over the side without warning and wretched onto the floor. Dylan had jumped out of the way, half expecting that reaction, though ill-prepared for how violent it sounded.

Dylan was momentarily stunned, unsure what to do. He couldn't exactly rub at the sweat that no doubt dotted the man's forehead. He was aware just touching him would not be a good idea. Finally, he snapped out of his stupor, and he staggered away from the bed, did a quick cursory glance of the main area and found a rag. He could hear the retching from the backroom, and when he returned Rhade was heaving, gasping for breath, but he did stop heaving after a couple more minutes. Rhade lurched away when Dylan approached once more, with a rag outstretched.

"Take it. It's just a cloth, Rhade."

The Nietzschean was stone still, presumably glaring down the rag, but he did grab at it. Even in the dim lighting, Dylan could see the way Rhade jerked away with the cloth, after their fingers barely touched. He wiped at his mouth, never keeping his eyes off of Dylan. As if he viewed Dylan as a threat. Dylan was a little put off by the stare. He couldn't actually see his dark eyes on him, but he felt them.

"What are you doing here, Dylan?" Rhade asked after too long of a silence.

Long enough that his voice had spooked Dylan. But his alarm had died off at Rhade's question and he got suddenly angry. "What am I doing here? What the hell are you doing?! Are you trying to kill yourself?"

Rhade scoffed, though wouldn't answer his question. "Just leave, Dylan."

"No." Dylan snapped. "Telemachus, I found you. You were unresponsive! Something is wrong. Something has been wrong for a while now. Why won't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me back then?!"

"Because it was the end of the Universe. With the Magog ship just weeks away, what did it matter!? It doesn't...doesn't matter." Rhade finally yelled out. Whatever was going on in his head, he hadn't meant to have that outburst, but it was out in the open now and he couldn't take it back. He did draw up to the furthest side of the bed, his only means of defense in such a vulnerable space. Even with his knees up to his chest, appearing as some lost child, Rhade still growled out, trying to intimidate Dylan away.

"It mattered to me back then." Dylan hesitantly stated, just as reluctant to move forward as he was to back away. "It still matters to me now." When Rhade's form lurched from his place on the bed when he leaned back into him, Dylan's heart sank in his chest. The first time could have just been a fluke, being startled while fighting his inner demons. A second time that he shied away from touch was a pattern, a tell. And Dylan didn't like what it was telling him. "Did he...He did, didn't he?" Dylan really didn't need to ask.

Rhade's body started to quiver periodically from tremors, but it was so dark that Dylan almost missed it. But once he caught sight of it, he knew exactly what Stark had done to him. As unbelievable as it was. This definitely was not the Stark of the past. The Stark he knew, while she was ruthless, Dylan couldn't imagine she'd ever be capable of doing something as reprehensible as rape. She'd been cheating death, extracting her essence into new bodies through the centuries until nothing human remained. This Stark, the one that hurt his friend, was dead now. Though that came as little solace to Rhade who was still suffering.

"He tortured you, not just to ensure Harper's cooperation, but out of some sick revenge." Dylan hazard a guess.

There was a curt nod from Rhade, and when he realized Dylan wasn't quite finished, Rhade let out a weak, "Dylan."

That hadn't stopped Dylan from giving voice to the one thing Rhade didn't want. The one thing that consumed the Nietzschean, when he let it, when he was sober.

"It went further then the torture, didn't it Rhade? There was an inappropriate violation."

Rhade wasn't appreciative of the diplomatic way Dylan phrased it, but would have hated it more if the man had been blunt with him. This also didn't stop the tears from stinging in his eyes and as much as he willed them to go away, they began to flow freely down his cheeks. "Dylan."

This time, it wasn't a warning off. It was desperation. He didn't hesitate that time to encroach on Rhade's space. He was still fearful Rhade would jerk away, or lash out, but that was not a tone of voice he could ignore. He joined Rhade on the bed, and Rhade went rigid in his arms, but accepted the hug. Dylan was the only one keeping him from the edge. And he could have sworn he still saw Stark out of the corner of his eye, just beyond Dylan's shoulder, waiting. Just waiting to get his hands back on him.

Holding on to Dylan's shoulder even tighter, as if that would protect him, and he did feel an answering squeeze. Dylan's hands were stroking at his back and behind his head. He plead softly. "Dylan, I need to forget."

They both knew what Rhade meant, and Dylan shook his head, clutching as tightly to him and Rhade was doing to him. "No Telemachus. You need help, and I'm not going anywhere. Let me in this time, Rhade. Let me help you."