You can outrun the devil if you try.

[Chirakis 1]

You can outrun the devil if you try.
Ethan Neufeld and Chirakis Kirel

Kirel watched the runabout fade in the distance.  Its pilot, Major Harold Butts, was in reality Commander Ethan Neufeld, SI-6.  Yes, he worked within the same organization as Commander Cayne, but that one would not recognize the other was normal in their line of work.  SI-6 operatives seldom worked in teams, and they take great care to mask their true identities. 

She last saw him on Aegis when it was a Jovian class space station.  He was sitting in the lower deck lounge with his head buried in a newspaper.  Their eyes met once as she passed, but neither one greeted the other.  How did she recognize him?  She would not jeopardize his cover to reveal that.  How did they come to know each other?  ‘Tis a long story, and best left alone.

She knew him by many names.  He wore many disguises and spoke many languages. Such was the life in SI-6: a long string of covert, clandestine, and black operations.  Those operations were a part of her life once, but SI-5’s main focus was watching, gathering information, and passing the information on.  Did she ever overstep her bounds?  Of course.  Did they ever call her on it?  Once or twice, but only as a reminder.

When the runabout mysteriously vanished, Kirel chuckled inwardly.  Were it up to her, V’Mal would be taken apart slowly, piece by piece, and kept alive as long as possible.  But torture serves no purpose.  No desperately needed information would come from it.  And she was not tasked with V’Mal’s demise; Neufeld would have that honor.  He could be consolingly tender, but he could also be a terrifyingly brutal interrogator.  His time with V’Mal would definitely be the latter, and Kirel had no desire to witness it.

 *   *   *   *   *

V’Mal woke in a stupor, scarcely able to comprehend the searing that crept up his arm. He heard a whistle and then a hand stung the side of his face. 

“No time for sleep, V’Mal. We have a lot to talk about.” 

The Vulcan blinked, head wobbling as he struggled to focus in the foggy vice that gripped his brain. Moments ago, he remembered thinking the merciful end was near. Somewhere beneath layers of Vulcan discipline, he felt dread join a swelling stream of confusion. He still lived, bound to the same rigid metal chair from the first day, excruciatingly stiff and stinking.

The scenery hadn’t changed much after he passed out—aside from the catheter securely taped to the crook of his elbow. He blearily watched condensation from the fluid-filled bag next to his head drip on the floor, wondering what cocktail could possibly create such a fire in his veins. That it contained a slightly chilled mixture of dextrose and saline—just enough to rouse him—was immaterial. The result was the same. 

He looked up at the sound of water sloshing and instinctively clicked his mouth as he watched the man he knew as “Harry” selfishly empty another bottle of water. A dozen glittering bottles of water filled every corner of the compartment, but he hadn’t tasted a single drop in several days. How his burning, sticky tongue thirsted for just a splash, and the nauseated knot of his stomach twisted for a crumb of food. The man hadn’t given him a single second of reprieve from the suppression field. He lifted dry eyes to the overhead of bright, unremitting lights craving mercy, but pressed his lips tightly, determined that his body would surrender first.

“Hmm,” Harry hummed nonchalantly, unfazed. “Still shy?”

V’Mal winced as the man raked the second chair across the uncovered decking and planted in front of him within arm’s length. Harry strummed a D-minor on a decidedly human instrument, letting the chord hang in a way that snagged even V’Mal’s attention. Harry had deprived him of the basic food, water, sleep, decency, and space. This was a new invasion on the vestiges of his inner peace, and V’Mal felt a pang when he realized he had given the man the exact reaction he wanted.

“I can hear what you’re thinking,” Harry began strumming again, staring pointedly at him. “All your doubts and fears. And if you look in my eyes, in time you’ll find the reason I’m here. 

“And in time all things shall pass away. In time, you may come back someday—” a dramatic pause; then, “To live once more or die once more. But in time, your time will be no more.” Harry let the chords hang once more, the hint of an infuriating expression on his face. 

V’Mal clamped his eyes shut, wrestling to settle a starved body and mind on the cold curiosity of the man who used his talents in this way. But he found the thought too difficult to hold.

“You know your days are numbered. Count ‘em one by one—like notches in the handle of an outlaw’s gun. You can outrun the devil if you try. But you’ll never outrun the hands of time. 

“In time, there’ll surely come a day. In time, all things shall pass away. In time, you may come back, some say. Live once more or die once more. But in time, your time will be no more.”

Fear wedged in V’Mal’s mind on the final refrain: from the look in the man’s eyes he began to believe it was true. 

“I can hear what you’re thinking…”
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Collie, Mark. “In Time.” The Punisher: The Album