Dum Spiro Spero

[Surya]

This is my first fanfic attempt and I think it may already be somewhat dated. I haven't seen Season 9 and have tried to avoid spoilers with little success (I have no willpower whatsoever!). I do know that Lucas has undergone a major transition in Season 9. This however is based on the first episode of Season 7. Lucas has been a very inspiring character to work with simply because it always seems as if there's more going on than he ever lets on. If you do get a chance, please read it and let me know your thoughts - and corrections, of course!

Dum Spiro Spero

He sniffed, tasting the warm copper of blood at the back of his throat. He wondered about the taste of copper as he lay on his back on the hard stone floor, his eyes travelling over the network of pipes that criss-crossed the ceiling as if it were a maze heading toward a resolution. Wasn’t iron the dominant metal in blood? He remembered that guy with the pointed ears in that old science fiction show whose blood was copper based – and his blood was green.

Metal conducted electricity, he thought to himself, his mind flitting from one association to another, landing on each lightly before moving on, as it attempted to create coherence out of chaos. Electricity was the key. It powered the humming white fluorescent light above him that flickered and crackled to life every fifteen minutes, dragging him from oblivion, before plunging him into the cool, welcoming darkness. His dreams of her were in the fifteen minute bursts.

He had had an even closer intimacy with electricity. It was there in the crocodile clips that gripped his skin, leaving tiny ridged burns when they were removed. They extended through thick black and red insulated cables, their copper leads attached to an electrical outlet. Inert until the twist of a switch and then the electricity eagerly coursed through him, arching his body.

Water, he thought as he licked dry lips, tasting salt. Water conducted electricity. But it also took on an elemental life of its own. His element was air and this was what he most feared – the smothering darkness of the sack and the inevitability of his immersion in water – drowning and suffocating. They took him to the brink time and time again. When it was finally removed, he emerged gasping and blinking. It felt like the renewal of birth.

With a click the fluorescent light went off – the electricity now still, waiting. He closed his eyes, drifting on a sea of blackness. Elisabeta appeared out of the dark and he leaned into her embrace, surrendering himself to the fifteen minutes of freedom.

Thoughts of Vyeta made those early days bearable, even as they broke him. He soon lost track of time – days become months which became years. Time only had meaning based on its physical effects on him – months of bitter cold followed by sweltering heat, the days of dread when he was interrogated, those few hours when Katchimov spoke with him when he felt almost human.

Like the others with whom he interacted on those occasions when they let him out of solitary confinement, he became a man of extremes – rendered almost brutish in his struggle to survive amidst the violence and deprivation yet, simultaneously given to endless hours of introspection when he had only his thoughts and memories for company.

He existed almost apart from himself. He had long since taken his true self and locked it away in a box hidden in the deepest recesses of his being. Like the legends he had assumed over the years, Lucas North now would become just one such persona. He feared never finding the box again, vaguely drawing on a half-remembered conversation he had had with Tom Quinn a lifetime ago. But cutting off this part of himself, hiding away his true essence would be his salvation. They couldn’t touch him but they did mark him and, like everything here, it was in blood – and tattoo ink.

One day stood out. He had waited almost eagerly for Katchimov, for those weekly talks that reminded him of the man he was. When the Russian appeared he held a manilla envelope, shaking its contents over the steel table. It was the only colour in the grey room and Lucas watched, transfixed – Vyeta smiling, looking up at a blonde-haired man, her hand clasped in his, tenderly touching the side of his face, kissing him. Each photograph a body blow. He looked up at the Russian, his voice hoarse, “What is this?”

There was almost compassion in the other man’s eyes. “These were taken last week, Lucas. Your divorce went through. She’s met someone else.”

Lucas searched Katchimov’s face desperately looking for the sign of falsehood that had to be there. But the relationship between a prisoner and his interrogator was an intimate one. Try as he had to guard his every emotion, Arkady Katchimov knew him and Lucas too had learned to read his interrogator. Now he spoke the truth and the truth was devastating. The box that was Lucas North fell down an endless abyss.

Later, he huddled in the corner of the cell, the cold concrete hard against his body. His hope was gone but a new emotion flickered into life. Someday it would mature into vengeance leading him down the path to betrayal but for now it was the voice of anguish and despair. He whispered in a language rendered strange with disuse, “Harry, why have you forsaken me?”

***

He groaned in pain, consciousness returned to him slowly in increments like a dripping tap. His body hurt from the awkward position in which he lay, each bump jarring him and increasing his discomfort. He felt claustrophobic, the material over his head almost smothering him. With an effort of will he stifled a momentary fit of panic, listening to his breathing harsh in his ears. Arkady had said that they were finally taking him home but, after all this time, he found that almost impossible to believe, ruthlessly suppressing the faintest flicker of hope because he knew he could not survive the disappointment if it were not true. Of course he had no sense of time but he knew that he must have been in the boot of the car for a while, judging from the strain in his muscles and limbs. Perhaps this was the end, the last journey ending mercifully with a bullet to the brain.

He thought of the path his life had taken. His father had wanted him to lead a life of quiet contemplation but he craved the adrenaline, the danger that made him so aware of the fragility of life. Still, the old man would have been impressed with his work ethic. Do you know how much overtime I’ve racked up over the past eight years, Dad? He swallowed the unexpected bubble of laughter before it erupted in hysteria. All gone now – his parents, Elisaveta, almost a decade of his life. So much irretrievably lost.

The car turned, slowing, and he stiffened, holding his breath, as the vehicle came to a halt. He heard car doors open and footsteps come to the back and then cold flooded in, cutting him to the bone in his thin clothing. Hands grabbed him pulling him out, roughly supporting him as he stumbled weakly to his feet. His body protested as the circulation returned to his cramped limbs, Katchimov’s voice in his ear, “I shall miss our talks, Lucas.” Then he was pushed into the back seat and the car was in motion again. He could sense Arkady sitting next to him but the man was silent. The road became rough and the car stopped again. He was aware of the door opening before he was ungently pulled out. Then the hood was pulled off and he stood blinking, his eyes watering in the glare of the headlights.

As his sight adjusted he felt his stomach fall away. He stumbled, almost falling and felt them grab him until he steadied. A hand propelled him roughly and he automatically began shuffling forward, shivering in the cold air until he stood face to face with the man he didn’t dare hope he would see again. He was looking older now, stockier, his hair thinner, worry lines at the corner of his eyes that had not been there before. Lucas felt the corners of his mouth lift slightly in a smile, “Hello, Harry.”

***

He sat in the corner of the back seat of the Land Rover resting his head against the cold glass of the window. He was exhausted and everything had the air of unreality. He watched the buildings flashing past, their lights making garish patterns on the faces of the car’s occupants – the driver, Harry and a young agent that, according to Harry’s terse introduction was Ben Kaplan. Lucas couldn’t remember being as young as that. Now, he felt unaccountably old and weary. The idea of beginning an entire life, of starting anew, terrified him. He had made London his home for most of his adult life. It had held the promise of a life less ordinary, a challenge to his father’s plans for him. But now it was an alien city. He remembered the lyrics of an old song – he was a stranger in a strange land. He had summoned a smile in response to Harry – yes, he joked, he had agreed to spy for the Russians. Harry’s uncertain grin in reply told him that the head of Section D was concerned about just such a possibility.

He had requested the only thing that seemed to symbolize home – fish and chips. Now he held what seemed an impossibly large portion which he knew he could never finish. He ate slowly, his senses savouring the experience – the sharp smell of vinegar, the grainy feeling of the salt on his fingers, the paper saturated with oil and the taste which recalled myriad images – seaside holidays, late nights at the pub, lazy Sunday afternoons.

The lights were bright in the foyer of Thames House. He looked around as Harry signed them in, watching as a blonde man approached. Harry’s introduction was brusque, “Adam Carter, Lucas North.” They shook hands. Carter looked like the epitome of the public schoolboy – tall, blonde, clean-cut, his clothes worn with a careless elegance. He grinned as Lucas offered him a chip and Lucas, surprised, instantly recognised a kindred spirit.

The Grid was the same, yet different – the quiet hum of the computers, the hurried efficiency of the staff, the intensity on all those faces who were strangers to him. He felt a little lost, more than a little overwhelmed. Then he saw an old friend. His smile was genuine as he hugged Malcolm, a pained wryness coming to his expression as he watched the older man struggle to contain his reaction to his appearance, his disbelief that it had been eight years since they had last seen each other. It had passed so quickly for them, for him each moment had been an eternity.

He was talking to Ben when he noticed a qualitative change in the air. The sense of urgency appeared heightened. Harry had gathered his minions around him in the conference room and their faces were serious. The reason became apparent all too soon. A young British soldier held hostage by terrorists, one of whom looked all of eighteen years old. The world had changed so much in eight years.

A new sense of purpose entered him as he stood there, forgotten in the maelstrom. He felt the adrenalin begin to course through his veins. Adam understood, his smile sympathetic. He could clean up, look the part. He stood in front of the sink in the men’s room. It was the only time he had been on his own since the exchange. For the first time he looked at his reflection, seeing himself as others saw him. Now he understood Malcolm’s expression. He was pale and thin, his ribs sticking out painfully. The tattoos covered his torso were the physical remnants of his incarceration. But it was his eyes that truly made him draw breath – they looked haunted and old, a reminder of everything he had seen and experienced. The water against his skin felt cool. He sensed rather than saw Harry enter. He was half expecting it, knowing the head of Section D would come to talk him out of it. He swung to face the older man, studying his expression – equal parts pain and guilt – as Harry took in his appearance. Lucas felt a small sense of satisfaction – let Harry feel and understand a fraction of what he had been through. He would not be allowed to forget him now that they were face to face, now that he could see the price that Lucas had paid to defend the realm.

It was clear though that Harry wanted him out of the way for now in some safe-house with mismatched furniture, its atmosphere saturated with fear and the lost dreams of past residents. The mere idea was suffocating. Being on the Grid, playing some kind of part in this, it was his only chance to recapture the man he was. The last thing he wanted was to sit in some room, staring at the stained carpet, alone with his thoughts – he had done that often enough. And, if the truth be known, he was terrified. For so long now his entire life had been under the control of others who decided when he ate, slept, exercised. They had held the power of life and death over him. Now, the idea of being responsible for himself evoked fear. He was an anachronism in a world that had moved on without him, desperate for direction, “Just tell me what you want me to do, Harry, and I will go and do it.”

Perhaps there was some part of Harry that understood him. His distrust was evident but his grudging approval was all Lucas needed right now. He was ready for this – physically fitter than he’d ever been and focused. He watched intently as they called up the information on the terrorist cell leader, Munzir Hatem. For a minute he was perplexed when Adam told him he would need a coat, then couldn’t suppress the broad smile that spread across his face when he realised that he was about to accompany Adam to Hatem’s residence.

The drive through the darkness was largely accomplished in silence. Lucas had almost forgotten the feeling but it returned now with a vengeance – dry mouth, the fluttering in the pit of his stomach, the dampness of his palms. His body welcomed the sensations. He glanced at Adam, “Thank you.” There was much he left unsaid, all of it to do with trust and allowing him to prove himself once again.

Adam gave him a brief grin in return, “No worries.”

Adam parked a block away. The affluent neighbourhood was dark and silent at this time of night. They made it into the grounds with little difficulty, staying on the grass to avoid the noise of footsteps on the gravel. They bypassed the very expensive security system, entering the house easily. In the bedroom, Adam began rummaging through the bedside table. He crouched on the other side of the bed, freezing in place as Hatem’s wife turned in her sleep. His heart thudded so loudly he was almost surprised that Adam could not hear it. He located the mobile and tossed it to Adam – the two of them moving in concert. Five minutes later, Adam had copied the SIM card and they were now sitting in the grey Lexus. As Adam drove back to Thames House, dawn came slowly – a faint blush of pink in the east turning the dark horizon to grey. Lucas watched, mesmerised as black gave way to grey to blue, tinged with the salmon, pale yellow, the orange of the rising sun. Shades – they inhabited a world of shades.

Back on the Grid he found an unoccupied chair and closed his eyes briefly as Malcolm deciphered the SIM. But the memories were waiting in the dark space behind his eyelids and he woke quickly. A plan of action was put into place. Ben was tasked with tailing the terrorist cell leader, Firefly. They needed to intercept his communication with the kidnappers and track it to their location. As he and Adam left the Grid, he caught another flash of concern – or was it distrust – from Harry. But that would wait.

They waited in the car, following Ben’s progress. Adam seemed proud of his young protégé. Then he glanced at Lucas, an unusually sombre note in his voice, “This job – what we do – it can be your damnation and salvation at the very same time.” His eyes were cloudy with the memory of his own past. “And sometimes it’s even worse when you bring someone in. They’re young, idealistic with visions of adventure and danger, much like those young men who died at Ypres and the Somme. ‘Dulce et decorum est…’ and all that. And then you watch the light go out in them until finally something horrendous happens and you can do nothing to protect them.” He turned to Lucas, “The past few years have been difficult.” Lucas nodded non-commitally, his expression guarded. Adam’s smile resurfaced. “But you being here changes that.” He quirked a querying eyebrow at Adam. “Well, you made it back, didn’t you?”

Firefly’s call was intercepted and traced and they were given the location. The house was more than likely to be booby-trapped but there was little time for back-up. Adam flashed him what was becoming a familiar reckless grin, “Let’s give it a go – see how it crinkles out.” Lucas smiled in response – Adam Carter was clearly in his element and, if Lucas was honest with himself, some part of him was awakening too. A flash of inspiration came to him as they exited the car in front of the nondescript house. He called the terrorists, his voice spitting out the harsh Russian consonants. He could hear the panic in their voices, feel their uncertainty as if it were a tangible thing. He moved into position.

He heard one of the men approaching, his breathing ragged as he ran. Lucas stepped out of his hiding place, the heel of his hand connecting with the terrorist’s face. The man dropped like a stone and Lucas felt a savage sense of satisfaction. He may have been damaged, yes, but he was not broken. Adam had tackled the other man.

The young soldier was in shock but Lucas imagined him returning home to his wife and baby, pain slicing into his own chest at the bitter-sweet image. But the urgency soon overrode everything else. CO19 took over and they left. Adam drove like a man possessed. Lucas could feel the tension coming off him in almost palpable waves. They reached the war memorial and Lucas went in, his gaze flitting from one person to another, looking for the one that didn’t fit. It didn’t take long – her poppy falling to the ground, ignored, a symbol of the atrocity she was about to commit. He called it in and was instructed to get the bomb’s disarming code. He followed closely, grabbing her and lifting her off her feet. They struggled and he felt the sharp pain of her teeth sinking into his flesh. Then the foam on her lips told him that he was too late. He breathed heavily, noticing the slim blonde woman who had reached him.

“Ros Meyers.”

“Lucas North,” he replied.

He heard the explosion and they turned to watch the thick, black smoke rise into the early morning sky. He held the mobile to his ear. “Adam Carter is dead.” He wished he could take it back almost as soon as he had said it when he saw the devastation in her eyes. He had only known Adam for a few hours but had already come to respect and even like him. These people had worked with him for years – he was their colleague and friend. Still, some part of Lucas was dispassionate watching Ros as if from a distance, alienated, disconnected.

[Quill]

This is very, very good. Characterization is spot on. Your writing is very fluid.

[Belle]

Waw, Surya, this is written beautifully, you really captured the intense pain and devestation in Lucas' soul and his struggle to be 'someone ' again! Hope there is more to come!

[HellsBells]

Well done, can't believe this is your first fanfic. Loved the chapters based in the Russian prison.

[Lukyan Lyubof]

You sure this is your first fic? This is brilliant, the writing is fluid and the feelings jump right of the page. Hoping you have more for us tucked up your sleeve

[LINDA]

Well done Surya.
I think you sould write series 10,you have Lucas's character so right.Maybe we could all pretend we have been dreaming through s9.Please write some more.I am still in shock after the last episode and its been two weeks.

[Surya]

Thank you, everyone, for the encouraging words. I had been sitting with this story for more than two months because I was too nervous to let anyone read it. So, again, thank you for the support.