Summary: It's the end of the world (again), and Skullmaster has the upper hand. Rated PG-13. It is helpful to have a working knowledge of both the series finale, as well as the episode, "Blood of the Dragon". Possible warnings/triggers for (light) descriptions of torture.

Armageddon Again

Blood. He can smell it in the small bowl that Skullmaster holds, bony fingers spidering around it as it sits in his palm. It's a particularly pungent aroma, the difference, perhaps, between dragon and human blood, and it turns his stomach. He flinches and Skullmaster smiles, enjoying his obvious discomfort.

He recognizes the trilithon stone that he's chained to as the same one where Virgil died. It's a cruel reminder, and he's certain it was intentional. Thin chains tug his wrists up and apart, enough that he almost has to stand on his tiptoes to accommodate them. He squirms. Skullmaster chuckles.

"Conserve your energy for the sacrifice, Capbearer. You won't escape this time."

"Wanna bet?" Max mumbles. He's not stupid, of course: Skullmaster has both him and his Cap, which, for whatever reason, has been allowed to remain on his head. He knows Virgil and Norman are still out there somewhere, making their best last-ditch effort to set things right. It's not anybody's fault that the odds are so firmly stacked against them. Still, for as many adventures as they've lived through together, the Mighty One can't help but think the cosmic balance is just too far skewed this time.

'I wish I'd had time to say goodbye,' he thinks, and then he gasps when his head is wrenched upwards. Skullmaster cups his face with one clawed hand, forcing Max to meet his gaze. "Worried, Mighty One? You should be."

Somehow, he manages to juggle his hold on Max's chin and his grip on the bowl of dragon's blood with the same hand; with the other, he dips a finger into the bowl. Instinctively, Max struggles, but Skullmaster is far too strong. With precision, he begins tracing a complicated rune onto the boy's forehead. The blood dries quickly. "Excellent," Skullmaster rasps, eyes gleaming. His unceasing scrutiny feels like a battle of wits, and Max braces himself and stares back. In spite of such dire circumstances, he still has some dignity.

The ridge of the bowl presses against his cheek. He can hear the remaining blood sloshing around. Skullmaster's grip on his chin tightens, and his heart flutters in fear. "You resisted the dragon's blood once," his arch-nemesis muses. Max twists, sensing what is coming, but it does no good. The bowl is in front of his lips now. He clamps his mouth shut.

Skullmaster is not fazed. "Drink," he orders triumphantly, and suddenly, Max's mouth is being forcibly parted by the pressure on his jaw. He gags at the first drop of blood on his tongue, but his neck is arched too far back to avoid imbibing more. Skullmaster's monstrous hand plugs his nose and mouth before he can find a way to spit it up or distribute the mouthful without digesting it. He glares daggers down at the struggling hero. "Swallow it," he barks. Eyes watering, and full of self-loathing, Max concedes.

Skullmaster steps away, satisfied that the Capbearer has ingested the blood. Immediately, the boy sags in his bonds, waiting for the inevitable beginnings of transformation into a lizard person, one of dragon blood's human side-effects. He stares down at his feet, expecting them to outgrow his sneakers in their hideous metamorphosis. When nothing happens after several minutes, he hears Skullmaster suck in an enraged breath. "Impossible," he hisses.

Mentally, Max pats himself on the back. According to Virgil, only one who "accepts evil willingly" can be controlled by dragon's blood. Score one for freewill. "Sorry to disappoint you," he retorts. "But, you know, I AM the Mighty One."

As if on cue, the sky begins to darken. Sunset. Suddenly, the drawing on his forehead begins to burn. The boy moans in surprise and pain. Mockingly, Skullmaster pats him on the head, pressing the Cap down, and now Max understands that it, too, is part of the ritual. "Yes," Skullmaster smirks, "you most certainly are."

The pain worsens. He's pretty sure the rune is on fire, though his eyes are squeezed shut, so it's difficult to tell. This is it, the Mighty One tells himself. 'Goodbye, everybody: Mom. Norman. Virgil.' A particularly excruciating bolt of pain causes him to cry out. 'Felix. Bea. Norman. Virgil.'

Wait. "V-Virgil," he mumbles around the pain. He forces his eyes open, and that's when he realizes his mental images of the ancient fowl and his Guardian have been replaced with his actual mentor and Guardian, in the flesh, both running towards him with a furiosity that he's never seen before. He hears Skullmaster growl. "You lose, Skully," he bites out weakly, and then Norman is upon them.