When Scott Met Annie

Chapter 3: Escape from Sinister Chateau

Scott wasn't entirely sure how long he had been there. He had no way to mark passage of time, not blind as he was, and not when he had no way to measure how long Sinister would stay in his mind for long periods of time. He did know that the psychic attacks were longer than they felt, and he did know that it had been about a day, at least, before it had started again, the icy hot fire in his mind picking apart his every regret, laying it bare in front of him so he couldn't escape the shame of it all.

The worst part was that Sinister didn't need to come up with lies to convince Scott that he didn't deserve to be anywhere but where he was. He only needed memories — untampered, unfiltered. All his mistakes. A lifetime of disappointing everyone that had trusted him.

Where will you go? Sinister asked, again and again — the same question Scott had been asking himself before this all began. Your team won't take you back. The world thinks you are a killer and a zealot — and you are.

This most recent visit had ended with Scott in that ruby quartz room, the one the Avengers had built just to contain him. This is where they'll put you, without a second thought. And you will die there.

No matter where he went, he was a wanted man. And recognizable as he was, he wasn't going to make it long before that caught up to him, and then what? A lifetime in a cell — a legacy of a leader fallen from grace.

And again and again, there was Sinister's offer to take the guilt and the shame and bury it. To give him a purpose again, a legacy to leave behind that was more than failure. It won't be glorious, and no one will thank you — but history will prove us right.

Scott was tired. He didn't know how long he'd been at this, stubbornly telling Sinister 'no.' He didn't know how much longer he could. His mind ached from so many attacks, the same way his body would have ached if it was a physical attack. It was sharp at first, and then it grew duller. Eventually, it would turn into a scar, but only if it was given time to heal — and Sinister never gave it the time.

He wasn't sleeping well, though he was physically and mentally exhausted. Everything that Sinister dredged up was still at the forefront of his mind, playing just before his eyes over and over again. He thought he had drifted off a few times here and there from sheer fatigue, but again, it was impossible to tell when he couldn't figure out how much time had passed.

It was during one of these moments of stolen sleep that the Marauders came, and Scott only realized that he had drifted off when he was rudely awakened, dragged to his now-freed feet, though he couldn't get his feet underneath him properly for how long they had been locked together. He didn't know how many Marauders there were — at least two, one on each arm. There might have been more. But he did know that he had hardly even managed to get his feet to catch up to the desperate commands of his brain to walk instead of being dragged before he was lifted off of them.

He didn't know what was happening or where they'd taken him, but he was entirely sure he wouldn't like it, so he jerked and bucked and twisted, his stiff, sore muscles screaming protests with every movement and reminding him just how long he'd been left in his cell to 'think' about Sinister's offer.

He got an elbow in the stomach of one of the Marauders and a knee in the other, and they dropped him. He couldn't catch himself with the way his arms were restrained, and he had no idea which way was up when he fell, so his head cracked against the floor when they dropped him — though the heavy restraint at eye level took most of the hit.

But more importantly, it jostled.

Scott gasped out as one of the Marauders kicked him in the chest and knocked the wind out of him, and he felt this time three sets of hands dragging him along, but all he could think was that he was sure there was space... just there... just at the bottom of whatever was keeping him blind.