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Chapter Text

PETER ENTERS THE STORY IN CHAPTER 3

I felt as if I could explode. My nerves were alight with a panic I had never experienced before. How does one even get in a situation like this? Every Time I thought back to the events of that morning, my mind went foggy and disbelief took hold.

I'd been homeless for six months prior to what I labeled 'the incident." Homelessness was an unbelievably difficult pill to swallow at first, but I was a nightmare. I always had been. I accepted, I adapted, and then I began the journey to overcome the situation that had been forced upon me. And yet, that 'pill' was still stuck in my throat, no matter how forcibly I tried to swallow. I didn't want to live like this. I didn't want to be judged by those more fortunate than me, or worse, pitied. I missed showering frequently, I missed my bed, I missed the comfort of my room back at home.

However, I knew my leaving was for the best. After my dad died, my home began catching fire. It was a slow boil at first, a tenable scorching of the wooden and concrete bones the house was built upon. During that stage, my mom would come home late every once in a while, drunk. I'd find her the next morning passed out on the couch, surrounded by cigarette stubs and empty liquor bottles. I told myself she was simply mourning my father; but even back then, I doubted it. They had never been close. They never fought, but they also never loved one another, at least not from what I could tell. They lived completely separate lives, with me being the only link that tied them together. I think my father resented me for that. I didn't mind, I never liked him all that much, either.

After the slow boil came the fire, which slowly began eating away at the walls, covering them in ugly, black scorch marks that would permanently mar my childhood home. That was when mom brought home Wyatt, a beast of a man with the social skills, maturity, and intelligence of a twelve-year-old boy. Mom spun it as a new opportunity for me to have a father figure in my life, one that was "hopefully better than your father," she would say. And, like a fool, I accepted him.

When Wyatt's name crossed my mind, I forced myself to stop fixating on all that had gone wrong in the past year. I had more urgent things to worry about, the most pressing of which being the pair of boots I heard shuffling around outside.

The police were undoubtedly searching for me, equipped with guns and loud voices and questions I had no idea how to answer.

Another difficult part of being homeless was the competition. We all needed the triad that fueled human life; food, water, and shelter. At its core, homelessness was survival of the fittest, and I'd be damned if that wasn't me. And so I began stashing, rationing, and stealing whatever I deemed necessary. I'd been camping out in an old, abandoned apartment complex since I first ran away. The mattress I slept on had odd stains and broken springs, and the complex itself was in the deepest, darkest bowels of disrepair. But it was enough. The roof over my head (which was slightly broken and tended to leak) was the best I could ask for, and I counted it as a blessing.

That made people jealous, apparently. And by 'people,' I mean the three men who had awoken me from my sleep that morning. At first, I tried fighting them off. During the ensuing struggle, between punches, kicks, bite marks, and screaming, a knife was brought to my throat. Gone was my initiative to fight. They had then spent the next hour taunting me, ransacking my place, and keeping me quiet with the occasional slap.

I don't remember what happened after the leader of the group began lacing the knife across my throat, drawing blood and biting pain. All I knew at that moment was an intense fear, a pinprick of white in the back of my head, and an electrical surge that coursed through my veins like a lightning strike.

When I came to, I was standing over the bodies of the three men. Each body was battered and broken, with limbs jutting out at unnatural angles. They were dead, and I feared I would join them. My heart was beating too fast, my mind was running at speed I couldn't possibly maintain, and I was plagued by raw, all-consuming exhaustion that threatened to knock me off my feet. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think straight.

And then I ran. Now, here I was, squatting in a sparsely occupied parking garage with nothing but the clothes on my back and the panic settling in my gut. The boots echoed up the stairwell, looming over me and only worsening my anxiety. Then, the single pair of boots turned into ten pairs.

A soft susurrus of voices escaped from the doorway, still distant. Then, for a moment, all went silent. I had never been so afraid. What do I do now? I scanned the garage for a place to run, but I was utterly cornered. The stairway was the only exit.

My body felt fever-ridden. I was sweating, and my legs were far too weak to hold me up. If I weren't filled with an intense fear of getting caught, I would've hit the ground by now. I forced my weakened body towards a green Ford truck and tugged at the passenger side door. When I discovered it was locked, my stomach dropped.

New desperation began pooling through me, and I yanked the handle with growing vigor. I couldn't go to jail. I couldn't explain what had happened and I COULDN'T go to jail. Anger presented itself in the form of tears in my eyes. I never cried, and yet here I was.

My life was a shit show. It always had been, and I knew it always would be. No matter how optimistic I tried to be. Usually, I could cope just fine, but at that moment, all my pent-up frustration was too much to bear.

The next car I found was a white Honda, and in a laughable turn of fate, the door was unlocked. I chuckled bitterly to myself and dove into the back seat. I locked the doors and leaned over the passenger seat to reach the glove compartment. In there, I found a half-opened pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a bunch of documents.

Before I got to search any further, the door to the stairwell burst open. My heart exploded in my chest, and I immediately ducked down in the back seat. The thunderous sounds of boots emerged all around me as flashlights glinted off every surface. I held my breath and clasped a hand over my mouth, too afraid to do anything but sit there and wait.

The voices grew louder as the police grew nearer. They shouted to one another, and then the sound of shattering glass drew my attention away from them. The green Ford's windshield was utterly destroyed as four men in dark green uniforms began searching it.

These people aren't police.

My heart thundered with a fresh, unencumbered wave of dread. I realized each guard was armed to the teeth, muscular, and far too tall. I couldn't fool myself into thinking I could take them. And so I began searching for another way out.

The stairway was unblocked, and only ten yards away. Perhaps I could make a run for it. What, and get shot? I cursed under my breath. What other option did I have? I owed it to myself not to just wait here like a sitting duck, resigned to the will of the soldiers around me.

And so I took a deep breath and readied myself.

When one of the men began stalking toward the car, the reality of my situation began turning my blood to ice. I almost didn't move from my spot when he reached the car. Almost. At just the right moment, I flung the car door open as hard as I could. The man let out a satisfying groan as he stumbled back, disoriented. I reached for his belt and grabbed the gun holstered on his left side.

The gun was surprisingly heavy in my hand. I could have stood there longer, utterly fixated on the small yet ponderous pistol in my hand, but instead, I made a mad dash for the stairwell. I heard yelling behind me, and then chaos ensued. All the flashlights in the room pointed in my direction, and yet I didn't stop.

When I reached the stairwell, I almost screamed in relief. As my shoes slapped against the concrete stairs, I endeavored to cock the pistol. I'd never held a gun before, let alone shot one. I felt entirely out of sorts with the hefty firearm in my hands.

Just as I reached the bottom floor of the garage, I felt a sharp sting in my neck. My panic reached new depths as I jerked away from whatever it was that had penetrated my skin. When I tried to keep running, my knees gave way. I gasped in surprise as I fell to the floor.

A pair of black shoes invaded my field of vision. They were polished to perfection, without a blemish or a scuff mark, a stark contrast to the soldiers' boots I could hear descending the staircase evermore.

When my vision began swirling, I realized what had happened. The motherfucker had drugged me. The man staring down at me was not like the others. He looked older; maybe in his 60s with neat white hair, not a single strand out of place. He was clean, polished, and perhaps more terrifying than the others. Not because he was outwardly frightening, but because he was smiling at me.

"It's alright, child," His eyes were brimming with sympathy as if he hadn't just stuck me with a fucking needle. "It will be easier this way."

Every impulse in my head told me to scream, bite, kick, and struggle my way away from him. but I discovered that my tongue was too heavy, and my body was flooded with a tiring warmth that I had no way of fighting.

Everything suddenly felt slow and syrupy, and my eyes began closing. Panic filled me all the more.

And then I felt nothing at all as I fell into cushiony darkness.

Chapter Text

For a while, there was nothing. I wasn't sure how long I had been out, but it was long enough for my limbs to feel numb and my head to pound with tiredness that was almost tangible. My consciousness was strained, coming and going in waves.

Finally, after what felt like hours, there was a slow, steady swelling of light just ahead of my eyelids. It was with great effort that I finally managed to open my eyes, and even then, I couldn't see. At least not for long. An abundance of sheer, white light invaded my every thought, and then my eyes clamped shut again.

Motherfucker.

I waited for a few moments, and then I resumed the remarkably laborious task of opening my eyes. I allowed the harsh, white light to flood my vision, and when I could comfortably observe my surroundings, I was dumbfounded all the more.

Wherever I was, it was medical. Equipment of all kinds surrounded me, neatly arranged, unused, and completely lacking in any identifying details. Where the hell was I? It looked like something out of purgatory. Colorless and muted with its white walls, white floors, and white lights, utterly devoid of warmth. I sat on a bed with the same colorless sheets. Beside me was a singular chair, and ahead of me was a counter.

I appeared to be in some sort of hospital. But how had I gotten here? What happened to me? My panic began festering when I realized I couldn't remember anything. My age, my name, my favorite color, they all came up blank.

I closed my eyes and clasped my shaking hands into fists, burrowing deep inside my head for a memory that could answer any of my ever-increasing questions. However, I discovered there was nothing but a shadow in the back of my mind, eluding to whatever had been.

Before I had any more time to wallow in my panic, a metal door I hadn't noticed opened at my right, and in stormed a man I didn't recognize. He wore a crisp, freshly ironed suit. His stark white hair was combed to perfection, and when he sat in the chair beside my bed, I marveled at the sharp, practiced way in which he moved.

"Sixteen," He said with a soft smile, "Lovely to meet you."

I stared at him blankly.

"How did I get here?"

"Skipping the pleasantries then, hm?" The man chuckled warmly, "You had an accident. Don't you remember?"

My breath was caught in my throat. Perhaps it was the grogginess from my sleep, but it took me a few moments to process his question. And even then, I didn't answer for a long while. I tried to force myself to remember; to delve deeper into the shadow which haunted my subconscious, but just like before, I had no answers. "No," My voice was a whisper, "No, I don't remember anything."

Something like a smile formed on his face. An unsettling beat of silence passed, and then he said, "You experienced a seizure, I'm afraid. Your insufficient memory is likely a result of damage to your hippocampus." He tapped a spot on my head, "In your temporal lobe. But don't worry, you're in good hands."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, "Will it come back? My memory?"

The man frowned, sympathy practically dripping from his tongue as he spoke, "There's no way to be sure, but I wouldn't hold my breath. The brain is a uniquely delicate organ and even the smallest injury can prove detrimental."

I choked on all the questions that swelled up my throat. My composure-- or at least what was left of it-- began cracking. I didn't want to cry in front of him. I didn't want to cry at all. Yet I was caught in a riptide that pulled me further and further from land. Before I knew it, I was alone in the cruel, opulent sea, surrounded by water on all sides. I had nothing but my legs, fruitlessly kicking, desperate to keep my head from slipping underneath the surface.

I was going to drown.

"You're panicking." The doctor said. "Calm down."

I could hardly hear him. I could hardly hear anything as the waves closed over my head and the sea swallowed me whole. My breaths were labored and erratic. No amount of air was enough. "What's my name?" My voice was all wrong; breathy and high-pitched. Dear God, what was my name?

The doctor didn't reply for a few seconds. His eyes bore into mine with an intensity I couldn't possibly understand. "Your name is Sixteen," He stated calmly.

I waited in silence, hoping the name would strike a familiar chord in my mind. When it didn't, I frowned. "Like the number?" I tried to force myself to be calm, but my voice betrayed me. Panic filled each and every syllable.

"Yes, like the number."

"What's your name?"

"The patients here call me Papa," He explained as he moved to grab my hand. I couldn't help but flinch away from the contact. "Would you like to know why that is? It's because I treat each patient as I would my own child, and I've proven to be something of a parental figure." He squeezed my hand and offered me another smile, "You can trust me. I know things may be confusing right now, but my number one priority is making things comfortable and easy for you. I want to create an environment where you can flourish."

"Parental figure?" I felt foolish as soon as the question left my lips. There were odd holes in my mind; ones that clearly weren't supposed to be there. I didn't know the meanings behind some of the words he used; some of the more simple ones. Yet, I knew that wasn't right because I could understand the more difficult words. Anger fluttered around in my gut. Maybe it was helplessness. Why did I feel like a stranger in my own mind?

"A parental figure, a 'Papa,' is someone who looks after you, keeps you safe, and always has your best interests at heart," He gave my hand a gentle squeeze, "I want to be that for you throughout your time here. Would you like that?"

My gut instinct told me not to trust him.

"Uh... sure," I breathed, "How long will I be here?"

His demeanor changed almost as soon as the words left my mouth. The smile ran screaming from his face, replaced with a cold, impersonal stare. "This is not your typical hospital, Sixteen." A shiver ran down my spine. "You will stay here until I deem you ready to leave."

I pushed off the bed, raising myself so I towered over him while he sat in his chair. "What do you mean 'I'll stay here?' I'm not a criminal, you can't just keep me here."

He didn't reply. Instead, he just stared at me, completely stoic. Each passing moment made me feel smaller and smaller, as if I was a misbehaving child. Despair and confusion intermingled, producing a bottomless hole in my stomach that I had been freefalling from since I woke up. With a sigh, I took a step back from him, trying my best to ignore the tense atmosphere that had suddenly been thrust upon the room. "I'm sorry," I conceded, "I didn't mean to raise my voice."

Why am I apologizing?

Without warning, the doctor--Papa-- raised himself from his chair. Now it was he who loomed over me, expressionless and cold. Panic created a ball in my throat. "You're in danger, Sixteen. Grave danger. Do you know why that is?"

I stared at him blankly.

"Do you remember killing three men?" He asked. My eyes went wide as I took another step back. I wasn't a murderer. "I didn't think you would. You're powerful, daughter. More powerful than you could possibly imagine. And that power gave you the ability to brutalize three different people. Left unchecked, your powers will overwhelm you."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and defensively spat, "I'm not a murderer. I don't have 'powers.' You have the wrong person."

"Denial is the first stage, Sixteen. Best we get through it quickly, hm? You're a danger to yourself and to those around you. That is why you can't leave. That is why we have to teach you to regulate your abilities... To make sure nothing like this ever happens again," He spoke with genuine conviction, I almost believed him.

Almost.

The following night was spent tossing and turning on a stiff, scratchy mattress. When 'Papa' told me I was being relocated, I was hoping I'd end up somewhere a little less bleak. What I came to realize, however, was that the entire facility had the same dreary, placid atmosphere. The hallways blurred together to formulate an expansive, boundless labyrinth made of white tile and harsh lighting

My bedroom was no different.

Tucked beneath a blanket that felt more like a napkin, I was free to dissect all that had happened since I arrived. A million questions ran through my head, and I was helpless to answer any of them. Who had I killed? Should I feel guilty? How can I feel guilty if I don't remember? Were there people looking for me? Did I have family looking for me?

I yearned for something I didn't remember. I wanted my real parental figures to be here. The man who wanted me to call him Papa had been nothing but honest and adoring, but I didn't entirely trust him. Whenever he spoke to me, he was armed with a perverse type of kindness that he dangled in front of me. And whenever I got close enough to touch it, he yanked it away, continuing the exhausting, foolish game we'd been playing since day one. I didn't trust him, and I certainly didn't trust the story he'd told me.

Me? Powerful? What a joke.

Chapter Text

Three days went by, each one more confusing than the last. I never got a full night of sleep, and today was no different. I had spent the night pacing around my room, blinking off for no more than one hour before waking up and doing it all over again. I didn't even realize it was morning until my bedroom door was pushed open and light flooded in from the hallway. With aching limbs and heavy-lidded eyes, I sat up. "Hello?" My scratchy voice called. Papa walked in with his typical suit and perfectly styled hair.

He offered me a soft smile, "How did you sleep, Sixteen?"

Awful. Get me a new mattress.

"I slept fine," I replied, "What time is it?"

"I thought you had a clock in your room," He tilted his head, "I suppose the orderlies removed it. We can never be sure how a new patient will react to... the transition from the outside world, so sometimes objects that could be used as weapons are removed." A strained silence ensued.

"It is 9:30 am," Papa continued with a clearing of his throat, "Before lessons begin, I wanted to give you a tour of the unit. How does that sound to you?"

I didn't answer his question and instead offered my own, "Lessons?"

"I've been a little lax on the rules, as you've just arrived," He began, "But manners are incredibly important around here. Ignoring my question and failing to return my greeting signify bad manners, indeed."

I narrowed my eyes. I had every right to ask questions.

I wasn't a child. Papa said I was eighteen years old, 'practically an adult.' So why was he scolding me as if I were 6? I didn't want to appear indignant, but my face gave me away. I would have to work on that.

Papa waited, hands neatly folded in front of him. My cheeks flushed, and I squirmed under his unrelenting glare. "I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"Lovely," His smile didn't reach his eyes, "Let's go now, hm?" With that, he left. Not given another choice, I followed. We chattered lightheartedly as we toured the dismal, colorless hallways. The 'tour' was less of a tour and more of a lesson about where I could and could not go.

I counted 25 rooms overall. I could go in 3 without supervision. My bedroom, the nurses' office, and the bathroom. My head was spinning.

"You'll like the last room," Papa exclaimed as we walked towards a set of two doors, "It's a favorite among your siblings, referred to as 'The Rainbow Room.' Every day, you'll get two hours of free time to enjoy everything it has to offer."

"Sounds good," I replied mindlessly. If I could, I would give him the silent treatment for the rest of my time here. However, the last time I tried to ignore him, he gave me a lecture. How many lectures had I endured so far? They seemed innumerable.

Papa pushed the door open. My breath caught.

'The Rainbow Room' was, perhaps, the most dreary of all. Colorwise, it had much more to offer than the other rooms. A rainbow ran along the wall, spanning the length of the room. It posed a glaring contrast to everything else I'd seen here so far, and though the color should've been welcome in such a bland place, I found it so, so unsettling. The rest of the building was at least honest; obvious in its bleached mediocrity. There was no illusion, no attempt to shield anyone from the fact that it was a prison.

'The Rainbow Room' was not honest. No, it was a soulless husk attempting to placate the needs of children. The color did not distract me from the glaring truth; I was stuck here. And perhaps it was just the lighting, but even the rainbow seemed dull as if the facility was sucking the life out of it.
If that was the worst thing The Rainbow Room had to offer, perhaps I wouldn't have been as appalled.

But, as per my new usual, things were not that simple. The first thing I noticed wasn't too concerning. They all wore hospital gowns, like me. The second thing made my stomach drop. Each child had their hair freshly buzzed off.

My list of realizations seemed to grow more troubling as it went on.

They all had tattoos on their wrists. I couldn't quite make out what they read, but the left arm of each child was marked with black ink. I timidly glanced down at my own wrist, and almost screamed in relief when I saw my skin was unmarred.

The last thing had to be the worst. The last thing had to be impossible. Perhaps I had gone insane. I didn't know much anymore, but I did know that children should not have been able to move objects with their minds. Two of them sat around a game board, staring intently at a bunch of little wooden figures in front of them. Every few moments, one of them would strain, and the pieces would lift off the board and relocate to another spot.

Everywhere I looked, the laws of physics were being broken. A boy moved a marble through a little wooden maze without lifting a finger. On the other side of the room, a girl stood before a toy car that drove, seemingly on its own, as she rotated her neck.

If I had hit rock bottom yesterday, then the ground below me had just opened back up and swallowed me whole.

I took a step back, the words, "What the fuck?" ghosting over my lips.

It took all of my willpower not to turn heel and sprint in the other direction. What kind of sick science experiment was this? I tried to blink away my reality, but the displays in front of me remained the same. Why was I here? I could not move objects with my mind. In fact, I couldn't even remember things with my mind. I couldn't do basic things, how was I expected to do extraordinary things?

How had I gotten into this situation? I cursed myself for not remembering, I cursed Papa for not telling me, I cursed just about everyone and everything around me. His hand in mine felt like fire scorching my palm and burning off my skin. A grim, sobering realization took precedence in my mind, breaking through all the panic and confusion.

I had to leave.

"I can see that you're frightened," Papa murmured by my side. When I looked at him, his typical endearing smile didn't feel so comforting. It was nothing but a pretense, a sliver of kindness meant to make me forget that he put me here. That I would likely remain for a long, long time. Helpless desperation made my knees weak and my mouth dry.

"Frightened?" I had to hold back a furiously bitter laugh. My hands shook by my sides. I had been played. I had been tricked into compliance and, like a fool, I allowed myself to be manipulated.

And just when I was going to lash out, I paused.

Two could play his game.

I could lie, I could manipulate, I could play. And so I would. If I wanted to leave this place, I would have to lower Papa's guard. I would have to pretend all was well and his manipulations had worked. I was docile, I was eager. I would be the perfect 'daughter' he expected me to be. And so I plastered a small, nervous smile on my face and said, "Yes, I'm a little frightened. When you said I had power I wasn't expecting it to be like..." I glanced at all the children in The Rainbow Room, "This."

He tilted his head as if he were looking at a frightened puppy, "There's no need to fear. You trust me, don't you?" I nodded, barely withholding a scowl. "Good. I know this may seem a little... overstimulating... but you are no different from the children in front of you. You just haven't learned how to regulate your powers when you tap into them. Soon, you'll be able to do everything you see in front of you. How does that sound?"

I smiled, "Lovely, Papa."

He smiled, "Now, it's 9:50. I had hoped our tour would go by quickly so you would get the chance to meet some of the people here." He continued into the room, and all eyes immediately turned to him. I followed behind him, nervously twiddling with my fingers under the watchful gazes of the children that now surrounded us.

"It's not quite time for lessons yet, children," Papa began, his voice reverberating around the room, "I wanted to introduce you to your newest sibling, Sixteen." He motioned to me. Warily, I waved at all the pairs of eyes, careful to prevent my anxiousness from spilling onto my face. I suppose they weren't all children. In fact, some of them seemed to be approaching my age. Maybe older.

"Now, I expect you to treat her with all the respect and kindness that you would show someone who has been here their whole life," Papa beamed as he surveyed the room, perfectly playing the role of 'proud father.' The children practically fell over themselves to obey him.

"That is all. You may continue your free time before lessons begin," And just like that, all eyes turned away from us, and the sounds of toys clattering and quiet conversation resumed.

Papa looked down at me, "That wasn't too bad, was it?"

"Not at all," I replied.

"Now, follow me," Papa grabbed my hand and began walking me to the back corner of the room. As we walked, I got a better view of all that surrounded me. I marveled at the children. Some appeared to be no more than four and yet they still managed to dangle objects in front of them without so much as a finger. I still couldn't quite believe it.

"There's someone I want you to meet," He said. I nodded and focused my gaze on my feet. I could feel the children's eyes burning into me as I walked. I had hoped their interest in me would be short-lived, but I suppose newcomers weren't common for these people. I wondered if, perhaps, they knew I was a fraud. Knew I had no recollection of ever having any powers. What would Papa do to me once he realized I didn't possess them?

We stopped in front of a pair of polished, black work shoes. Papa let go of my hand and I saw him motioning toward the man in front of me. "This is Peter. He's an orderly."

I finally moved my gaze from the floor. My eyes traveled up the length of white pants, then a white dress shirt. Like Papa, the man's clothes were pristine and without a blemish, utterly perfect. No wrinkles, no fraying cuffs. And just like Papa, I hated it. I hated how this place stripped every ounce of personality and warmth off of anyone who passed through its doors.

The first thing I noticed about his face were his eyes. They were a bright, striking blue, catching me off guard. I thought I'd seen virtually everything the facility had to offer. Bleached walls, superficial conversation, blindingly white lights. But the way his cheekbones cut through his skin like the world's most lovely knife made me rethinking my previous conclusions. Perhaps this place possessed a modicum of beauty.

But he was just like the rest, and his pretty eyes did not change the fact that he aided in the imprisonment of children. He was as much a gatekeeper as Papa.

"Orderly?" I turned to Papa, breaking eye contact with said 'orderly.' I wasn't familiar with the word, and I couldn't help but be embarrassed. Peter and I were likely around the same age, and yet here I was, clueless about a word that every child around me probably knew.

"An orderly is someone who attends to your needs," Papa explained. I didn't miss the condescension in his voice, "Peter typically aids in lessons, looks after the patients, and assesses how everyone is progressing. He happens to be a favorite among the other children."

I nodded.

"Until lessons begin, Peter is going to accompany you. He'll help you make introductions, familiarize yourself with the equipment in this room, and answer any questions you have," He smiled warmly and faced Peter. There was silence, and a look passed between the two of them. Papa's face was deadpan. When he spoke to me, he was always careful to mask his features with a kind smile or warm eyes. The way he looked at Peter was entirely different. It was entirely truthful. He didn't bother to charm him as he did me. His eyes said what his mouth didn't. And if I was correct in my analysis, he was giving Peter something that resembled a warning. "Isn't that right, Peter?"

"Of course," Peter replied, facing me, "I'd be delighted."

"Good, I'll be back in a few minutes," Papa grabbed one of my hands in his, "Good luck. Oh, and don't be nervous. You'll find the children very welcoming, you have nothing to worry about." With a final squeeze of my hand, he turned and made his way to the exit, leaving me alone with Peter.

Without speaking a word to him, I began walking around the room. I hoped he wouldn't follow me. That he'd allow me one moment to myself, one I desperately needed. But, of course, what Papa says goes and the universe would never allow anything to go my way-- Peter's light footsteps followed in my wake.

I don't need a babysitter. The words repeated in my head over and over as I silently peered around the room. There were still eyes on us, but less than before, which I supposed was a blessing. I didn't really want to speak to anyone at that moment. I did, however, make a mental note to acquaint myself with the children eventually. Like me, they weren't willing participants in the madness.

I made my way towards a table in the far right corner of the room. Not because I was interested in what it had to offer, but because it was empty. I didn't even hear Peter's footsteps following me. I grinned to myself as I settled into one of the wooden chairs surrounding the table.

Ahead of me was a plastic blue contraption that stood vertically with an opening at the top. Surrounding it were little blue and yellow chips. Tentatively, I picked one up and rolled it between my fingers. It then occurred to me that this was the first thing I had done on my own since I arrived here.

I sat in peaceful silence and allowed myself one moment to be content.

I knew the days ahead would be chock-full of tribulations, and perhaps things weren't going to work out for me. Would I be killed if they realized I didn't have powers? This place didn't seem particularly... welcoming... to anything from the outside world. My thoughts traveled back to my parents, who remained a silhouette in the back of my head. I hoped they weren't looking for me.

My peace was disturbed by Peter, who took a seat across from me. I was not so quick to hide the scowl on my face. I allowed my anger to get the better of me, "I don't need a babysitter." My words were sharp and cold, and I regretted them as soon as they exited my lips. Not because I felt bad for Peter, but because I had told myself to be well-behaved.

He didn't seem taken aback by my lashing out. In fact, he seemed as though he expected it. His face remained stoic as he silently analyzed mine. After a tentative silence, Peter tilted his head, "I suppose it's a good thing I'm not a babysitter then, hm?"

I took a deep, steadying breath and tried to mask the animosity in my voice, "I know you're just following Papa's orders, but I don't need any help walking around the room. I'm not five years old. I can manage perfectly fine on my own."

"I don't doubt it, Sixteen," He replied.

"Great. I'm happy we agree on something," My eyes met his with a distasteful glare, "That means you can leave now."

"Just because I can leave doesn't mean and I'm going to. You may as well indulge me. What's upsetting you?" His smile afterward almost seemed genuine.

At that moment, I probably would have preferred Papa's company to Peter's. I had gathered that Peter was not so easily analyzed, though our interaction had only just begun. I had no doubt that he would report everything I said today back to Papa. And so I bit my tongue and did what I was best at; I lied.

"Nothing's upsetting me," I conceded, "I'm sorry for being short with you. I'm just nervous."

He regarded my response with cool indifference. A few beats of silence went by, and then his eyebrows quirked up, "Is that so?"

"Yes. It's so," I leaned against the back of my chair, careful to put as much distance between the two of us as possible. The words were colder than I intended. Holding back my frustration with... everything... proved to be an increasingly difficult task.

"Why don't you tell me what's making you so nervous, hm?" His stare was unrelenting. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

"I think I'll pass," I pulled the reins of the conversation in a different direction. "I'm undergoing the same tests as the other kids, correct?" I motioned around the room.

"Yes, you are," He replied lightly, "Why do you ask? I presume Papa has filled you in by now." I watched as he absently reached forward and grabbed a yellow chip. Even the way he moved was pristine. Sharp, practiced, quick. It was as if he spent time beforehand deciding how he would move his arm. It was almost robotic.

I averted my gaze to the chip in my own hand, a frown finding its way to my face, "A little, I suppose," I tried appealing to his sympathetic side, "I'm still pretty confused."

"About what in particular? Perhaps I could help," He offered.

When I looked back at him, he was smiling. It came as no surprise. His method of manipulation was similar to Papa's. Peter was simply much better at it. He looked, acted, and spoke like someone I could trust. And that's why I trusted him least of all.

I know you're going to tell Papa everything. I know you're trying to make me trust you.

I wanted to say it right then and there. To let him know that I was no fool, and his faulty smile wouldn't change anything. But I was wiser than that, and so I posed a question and played along, "Why isn't my hair shaved? Why don't I have a tattoo?"

He faltered for a moment. If I wasn't staring so intently, perhaps I would have considered his wince a trick of the light. To my dismay, the small crack in his perfect demeanor was quickly patched up as the chip in his hand fell back onto the table and he straightened his posture. His response was short and vague, lacking in any discernable emotion, "You haven't been processed, yet."

"Processed?" I repeated beneath my breath.

Truthfully, it was a miracle he even heard it. "Come now, don't look so frightened," he sat up straight in his chair. His expression was soft when he said, "It's a glorified haircut. Nothing more."

"I don't want a haircut."

He watched me for a few moments, silent. His lips twitched into a frown before he opened his mouth to speak, but I interrupted him.

"When will I be processed?" I asked. A new, more intense wave of fear swelled up my throat. I brushed a hand through my hair and wondered how much longer I would have that ability.

It's just hair.

I tried not to panic, I tried to keep my breathing steady. Because it wasn't just hair. It was all that was remaining of my identity, and it was the only thing that separated me from the others. I didn't want to become a faceless cog in Papa's perverse science experiment. Oh, god, and the tattoo.

"Tomorrow, I should think." I hardly even registered Peter's response.

Something built up behind my eyes, something so tangible it was as if I could reach out and touch it. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. Tomorrow, I would be labeled. Tomorrow, I would lose what was left of my identity. Tomorrow, they were going to mark my skin and cut off my hair and reduce me to nothing. Dread wrapped around my throat like a collar.

If only it would kill me.

The lights above us flickered.

Chapter Text

I sat in front of three bricks. Stacked neatly on top of one another, they resembled a pyramid. The room was utterly silent, despite the fact that there were nearly two dozen people in it. Papa stood at the other end of the metal table, jotting down notes on a clipboard.

Every patient had their eyes on me. I could feel each pair boring into the back of my head. My hair stood on edge as I squirmed in my chair, fruitlessly attempting to get away from their white-hot glares. It was as if they were breathing down my neck.

"You may begin," Papa spoke, finally breaking the eternal silence.

The child before me had pushed the top brick off of the pyramid and onto the table with little to no effort. He had to be a quarter of my age. The patient before him, Two, had pushed all three of the bricks entirely off the table without lifting a finger. I watched eight different children sit in the chair I now sat in, and each one of them managed to at least move the bricks. Some strained, some bled, some only nudged the bricks, but each one succeeded in some capacity.

And now here I sat, achingly still.

I hadn't even gotten instructions. A new orderly had just sat me down, placed some wires on my head, and walked away. I was frozen, fully occupied by the eyes pushing into my skull and the embarrassment that slowly crept into my veins. I'm not like them. I'm not powerful.

I glared at the bricks like the others did, praying that anything would happen. Anything to spare me the humiliation that had already begun taking precedence in my mind. The silence stretched on for what felt like years, and the bricks remained still. I waited for Papa to tell me to stop, to say I could go join the others, but he never did.

The room was silent.

And then it wasn't.

A snicker sounded from one of the kids. I whipped my head around to face Number 4 and glared at her through narrowed eyes.

"Focus, Sixteen," Papa urged.

The ball in my throat grew as I turned towards the bricks once again.

It went on like that for a while longer. I sat, desperately trying to accomplish the task at hand, and failed time and time again. I didn't even know where to start. The bricks never so much as shuddered. There were a few more mocking noises from the other patients, but I forced myself not to respond. I wouldn't have to deal with it much longer, anyways.

I was going to escape tonight. That thought and that thought alone prevented me from breaking down right there for all to see. I abandoned my attempts to move the bricks and instead focused on that. My anger recoiled as I approached something that resembled contentedness. I burrowed deep in my mind, seeking refuge from reality. Perhaps I could wish it all away.

Papa, and everyone else keeping me here, did not deserve my hopelessness nor my tears, and so they would not receive them.

Truth be told, I didn't really have a plan. All I knew was that an orderly paced the halls every night. I'd cause a commotion, draw him into my room, knock him out, and then wing it from there. It sounded simple in my head, though I knew it was going to be anything but. The alternative to escaping was much darker, so I forced myself into a naive state of optimism.

I would not allow Papa to bleed ink into my skin.

Not under any circumstance.

I would die before letting it happen.

"Sixteen, you may return to your spot," Papa's voice derailed my thoughts, and so I stood from my chair and returned to the patients, silent as a mouse. Though the snickering continued, I was not bothered. I was going to leave here tonight one way or another. Whether that would be escape or death, I didn't care. I would be content so long as I left.

I smiled softly at Number Four, relishing in the scowl she sent in my direction.

Truthfully, I felt bad for her.

There was a clock in my room. When I asked Papa to install one, I had entirely expected him to laugh in my face. When he didn't, and instead promised to have one in my room by week's end, I thought he was lying.

Yet, when I arrived in my room that night, I was met with bright red LEDs that belonged to a digital clock. I had nearly collapsed right there on the spot. I don't know why the clock made me so emotional, but I had barely managed to hold in my tears as the orderly bade me goodnight and closed my bedroom door.

Through my short, awful stay here, I had forgotten that I was a teenage girl. That I was just barely an adult, with no memories of my own and no concrete identity or morals to cling onto. I had been poked, prodded, lied to, manipulated. All in the span of four days. I was not equipped to deal with the emotions that came with it. I hadn't wept once.

But now I had my own clock.

And so the fury of a million oceans fell from my eyes, drenching the front of my nightgown and drowning out anything else. There was this raw pain in my chest. I didn't know where it came from or why it was there, but now that I was aware of it, I felt like it was spreading through my entire body. Fueled by confusion, paranoia, desperation, and helplessness. I almost didn't mind the syrupy, liquid warmth that crawled beneath my skin and infected my entire body.

I laughed a short, biting laugh as I stared at the clock in my empty room. "I'm losing my mind," I whispered to the darkness.

That all had happened nearly seven hours ago. Now, I was sprawled on my bed, languidly watching as the minutes ticked by. My eyelids grew heavier as time went on, and I began to worry that I was going to thwart my own escape attempt by dozing off.

I immediately perked up at the sound of boots echoing down the hall. The clock read 3:08 a.m. when I unplugged it from the wall. My room fell into complete darkness as the bright red numbers flickered off. I felt around for the cord, winding it up in my hand and taking the heftier part of the clock in my other.

I took a deep, steadying breath and visualized the hallways ahead, charting which turns I would take and which I would not. I didn't have time to come up with a better plan, and I could only hope that the universe would take pity on me.

And so it begins.

As the footsteps drew closer, I inhaled mightily and began coughing. As violently as I could, I wracked my throat and coughed against the door. I heard the footsteps slowing down on the other side of the metal, but I didn't stop. In fact, I began coughing louder and more aggressively than before, selling it with my very being.

"Are you alright in there?" The guard's deep, monotonous voice was muffled by my door as he called out to me.

I brought my voice down to a weak, wrecked whimper and strained to cry out, "Help." And then the coughing resumed, boisterous and ear-piercing. The guard acted quick, throwing open my door and running to the middle of the room. As light flooded through, he looked around wildly, searching for the source of the coughing.

I emerged from beside the door, and we made eye contact. He looked vexed, for a moment, and then his eyes fell to the clock in my hand. Without hesitation, I took the cord and swung it at him with as much force as I could manage. The clock hit him in the head, leaving him to cry out and stumble backward against my bed. I hit him again, harder. And this time, his body fell limp and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Crimson dripped onto the floor beneath him. The room was blanketed in silence, broken only by my panting breaths and my heart beating in my ears. When I stared at him, I felt as though I had left my body. I watched his blood stain the floor beneath him, the first and only blemish I had seen since my arrival. I was transfixed.

Something primal stirred within me.

I shook my head and peeled my eyes from the scene, turning to stare at the wall. I took exactly five breaths, none of which helped me regain my composure. The smell of pennies began wafting around the room, and I faced the man once again.

I crouched by his side, muttering "I'm sorry," as I began wrapping the cord around his wrists. The sound of his breathing brought me a modicum of comfort; at the very least, he wasn't dead. When his wrists were secured, I turned to my bed and pulled one of the pillows out of its case. I balled it up between my fists and forced it in his mouth.

Then, I reached for his belt, which produced a little metal thing, no bigger than the palm of my hand. I clicked the side, and a flame spouted from the top. I knew what fire was, of course, but I had no recollection of this little trinket. I pushed it underneath my mattress and continued to search his belt.

When I was convinced I had found everything I needed, I headed towards the door, newly equipped with a taser and a keycard. After one final look at the guard, I closed it. My palms were slick with sweat but I had never felt more alive. Adrenaline coursed through my veins like it never had before and I almost felt overwhelmed by it.

I stared at the hallways ahead. I hadn't seen them at night until then. They were bathed in shadows, lit only by the blue-tinted floodlights that ran the length of every wall. I took the hallway to my left, vaguely remembering two guards that had walked in that direction as they discussed 'clocking out.'

The hallways almost seemed demonic in the nighttime. Every few moments I would glance behind me, fully expecting to see a myriad of guards with their scowling faces and flashing tasers. Of course, though, there weren't any. My plan had gone even better than I hoped.

My heart thumped noisily in my chest as I navigated the bleached white labyrinth. I recounted every turn I took in the case that I would have to turn around and sprint back to my room. Though that likely wouldn't happen, as I would have chosen death over getting indoctrinated into Papa's depraved science experiment.

I wasn't sure how long I had been running around, but it was long enough for all the hallways to blend together into one expansive, inescapable maze. My adrenaline rush had quickly faded into intense anxiety, and I began to doubt the likeliness of ever leaving this place. Every hallway was undiscernible from the one before it. The air conditioning was boisterous and frigid, breathing down my neck no matter what turn I took.

My feet began to blister, and I collapsed against a wall, hoping to collect myself for a moment. The tile was freezing, and the familiar feeling of helplessness began taking precedence in my head.

Then red lights started flashing overhead.

"Are you fucking kidding?" I spat at the empty hallway ahead. Gone was my desire to rest, replaced by a new and more intense desire to get the fuck out of here before they caught me. I glanced down the two hallways to my side and opted for the right one.

My slippers padded quietly as I ran, the only indication as to where I was. I hoped the guards wouldn't hear it. After that thought, a cat and mouse game ensued. I turned one more corner and caught the eye of a guard. Just as I had expected, he brandished a taser. Shit. I turned heel and began sprinting as fast as I could down the hall, wracking my lungs and pushing my legs as hard as I could.

Panic pushed me farther than I thought possible.

I could hardly breathe, hardly think, hardly hear. The sound of the air conditioning seemed to grow in an alarming crescendo, freezing the blood in my veins. My entire body broke out in a cold sweat as I turned down hallway after hallway, never bothering to look behind me. Each time I ran by a light, it would flicker violently. The purgatory I now navigated was unrelenting. Not once did I come across a new door.

Finally, I spared a glance behind me. The hallway was barren, occupied only by the flush of flashing red lights. Just when I thought the universe had taken mercy on me, I bumped into someone.

I scrambled away from them as if I had been set on fire, brandishing my own taser and putting it between us. "Stay back!" I shouted to the dark figure ahead of me, "I'll use it, stay the fuck back!"

When the lights resumed their flashing, I managed to scarcely make out the face of the person ahead of me. Peter. His tall, lithe figure, clad in blaring white, stared down at me. He didn't try to run, didn't try to grab me, he just stared. A long silence stretched between us. The red lights surrounding us flickered on and off, violent, erratic, and unpredictable. I felt as though I could burst. My hands refused to remain steady. I couldn't peel my eyes from his, not even if I tried.

A few more moments passed by like that. My panicked, grief-ridden eyes stared into his. Peter's face was calm, impassive; the picture of composure as if he weren't staring into the eyes of an escapee he was meant to be capturing. My breath caught in my throat when he took a step closer to me. I mirrored the movement and stepped backward, a wave of fresh terror washing over me. Then, his mask slipped. Emotion-- raw, agonizing emotion-- pooled in his gaze.

He didn't try to move after that. He simply stared at me, bathed in red light, the second most vibrant thing I had seen here. When he spoke, his voice was thick with a feeling I couldn't begin to describe, "Oh, Sixteen," He rasped. I didn't have the words to reply. I could hardly think through the fear that wrapped around my bones and seeped into my brain, so intense it was almost tangible.

And then he stepped aside.

I watched him nervously, putting as much distance between us as I could while I passed by him. Perhaps this was a trap. Why would he let me go? Why, when he could so easily--

There was no point in sitting there and dissecting his actions, I reprimanded myself. All I could do was take them as a blessing and haul ass before he changed his mind.

I met his eyes once more before I turned the corner. The soft, gentle smile he offered me was the most genuine thing I had ever seen. It held an intensity I couldn't put into words. My breaths were the only thing that broke the all-encompassing silence, lingering between us like all the words left unsaid, and all my questions left unasked. The air conditioning had turned off.

And then I turned down the hallway without a second thought, more than happy at the growing distance between us.

Chapter Text

I woke up to a faint buzzing sound. My skin was slick with sweat, and I could feel a terrible headache coming on. Exhaustion rippled through me. My limbs felt like dead weight, and I was helpless to control them. I wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep.

Then I felt a sting on my arm.

I hissed, and my eyes shot open. I didn't know where I was or how I had gotten there. I could hardly see through my sleep-wracked eyes. Everything was blurry, coming in and out of focus too fast for me to comprehend. I had to pause and close my eyes. My strength had completely abandoned me. The warm, alluring pull of sleep yanked at my subconscious, and I wished for nothing more than to give into it.

But I couldn't, because-- motherfucker-- it felt like someone was jabbing my arm with burning hot nails. I winced against the pain and tried my hardest to ignore it. After a few more seconds of trying to fall back asleep, I gave up.

With the little energy I had left, I opened my eyes again. My vision remained far too bleary for me to see anything decipherable. When I moved my hand to rub my eyes, I was met with resistance. I froze.

I tried again, but my wrists were stuck steadfastly in their place.

I blinked furiously, clearing my eyes well enough to make out my surroundings. The room I sat in was almost entirely empty, aside from a small table to my left and whatever chair I was perched upon. Dark, dingy metal walls met a metal ceiling, making the room feel more like a cage than the former.

I felt another sharp, aching pinch on my wrist.

My gaze snapped to a man who knelt by my side, one I hadn't noticed in my sleepy haze. I blinked once again, slower this time. Every move I made seemed to buffer, as though I were processing them a long while after they occurred.

"You drugged me," My voice was thick with sleep and almost inaudible. Truth be told, I wasn't sure what being drugged felt like. But whatever daze I was in certainly wasn't due to sleeping.

"I didn't have much of a choice, Number Sixteen," Papa's firm, disapproving voice made my vision just a bit clearer and my mind just a bit sharper. I sat up in my seat, though it still took far too much of my energy. "Do you remember what you did?"

"What I... did?" My mind was spinning. Had I experienced some sort of seizure aftershock? Annoyance hit me like a speeding truck; I was growing rather weary of forgetting things. The pain in my wrist persisted.

When I mustered the gall to look down at whatever was ailing me, my breath caught in my throat. Papa wore a pair of black surgical gloves, which were gripped around a gun of sorts. Except instead of a hallow barrel, there was a needle at the end. A needle that pierced my flesh without mercy, producing harsh, black lines on my wrist in the shape of a '0' and a '1'.

Processed.

The word acted as a trigger, and suddenly hours' worth of neglected memories resurfaced. All at once, flashing before my eyes, unrelenting in their vividity. A digital clock, coated in red-- the smell of pennies. A man slumped against a bed, staining the perfectly white floor crimson. Slippers padding through an endless maze of white hallways. Lost, lost, lost. Flashing lights, adrenaline, each and every nerve feeling as though it had been set on fire. Peter. Peter staring at me, Peter walking towards me, Peter letting me go.

My energy had been restored.

I fought with newfound vigor, pulling at my restraints as hard as I possibly could, each and every limb shaking with the effort. My nostrils flared when I met Papa's eyes, my entire body burning with hatred as raw as the skin on my wrist. "Let me go!" My voice ricocheted off of the metal walls, each syllable dripping poison, "You can't do this, you can't make me another cog in your fucked up machine!"

"Quiet, Sixteen," Papa's voice was accompanied by an especially painful jab of the needle. I gasped, angling my body every which way in a desperate, fruitless attempt to escape the inky blackness that polluted my bloodstream. "This is for your own good. I had hoped that you weren't foolish enough to fight it, but I suppose we've both been disappointed, hm?"

"Stop it," my voice was quieter, sharper and every bit as biting as Papa's, "Stop pretending to care about me. Stop pretending to have my best interests at heart--."

"--I'm not pretending, Sixteen," His face was warped by the lighting, and he appeared almost demonic, "I have two options presented before me." His glare was withering. This man was a completely different person to the 'Papa' I had known only hours earlier. "Option one... kill you before you can hurt anyone else. Truthfully, it's the easier of the two."

My blood ran cold.

"Option two, help you hone your abilities. Prevent you from hurting anyone else, including yourself. Do you think I want you dead, Daughter?" He allowed the slightest bit of warmth to slip into his gaze. He squeezed my hand, desperate to appear endearing, desperate to establish a connection. But I wouldn't allow it. I didn't relent, not even for a second. He analyzed my unchanged features for a few moments, and then he sighed, "The guard that you bludgeoned-- do you remember him?" I remained silent. "He's dead. You killed him."

The light above us exploded.

My anger deserted me faster than I thought possible. Pure, untapped grief replaced it by a tenfold. All words died in my throat. Murderer, murderer, murderer. My brain seemed to forget everything else as it chanted without mercy, without pause. Each nerve in my body screamed for relief. I had never experienced an emotion so strong. The tears spilled from my eyes as if a floodgate had burst, drenching the entire world in a salty plague.

Papa acted as a lifeline, rubbing my arm and assuring me all would be well, I would just have to listen to him-- to trust him. And yet, I knew I could never do so, at least not entirely. Still, I nodded and agreed to every word he said.

That was his game.

Bringing me to the precipice of losing my mind, swallowed whole by grief, and then pulling me back. As if he wasn't the one who put me there. Who forced me into this impossible situation that I was helpless to navigate.

I hated him. I hated him with every bone in my aching, broken body. But I also loved him because I had no choice, and resistance would mean death. He only had so much patience. I was past the point of no return, my skin had already been marred, and though I swore I would have rather died than get to where I was now, I owed it to myself not to roll over and die.

And so I allowed him to console me with one thought on my mind.

I would comply with my actions, but never-- under any circumstance-- would I comply with my soul.

Two weeks passed. Two weeks of mind-numbing activities all under the guise of 'training.' Papa would visit me every morning at exactly eight a.m. I was not allowed to speak to anyone but him, not even the nurses or guards who attended to me. I was fed the same bland food in the same white rooms in the same scratchy hospital scrubs.

Papa said I was in solitary confinement, though it ended today. My training was meant to strengthen my 'abilities,' but I seemed to be making absolutely no progress. I hadn't seen the people deemed my 'siblings' since the day of my failed escape, and I remained just as powerless as before.

The only development was the air conditioning.

Or, I suppose it would be my reaction to the air conditioning. It grew louder every morning. I almost thought they were turning it up just to spite me. The unrelenting, deafening billow of air from the cursed machines drove me mad. I hoped that it would eventually fade to white noise, and yet it just came back stronger and more ear-piercing each time.

Even walking down the halls en route to The Rainbow Room, the air conditioners persisted, constantly breathing down my neck in an awful crescendo. Papa held my hand, his mouth forming words that were drowned out by the incessantness of the machines.

"Sixteen?" Papa's voice finally broke my trance. His warm eyes bore into mine when I faced him, "You're distracted. Are you nervous to see your siblings again?"

"A little," The lie came to my lips as easily as breathing came to my lungs, "I suppose it's because I'm not familiar with any of them... That will change soon, though."

"Indeed, it will," He agreed. Once we reached the door to The Rainbow Room, Papa paused. "Training starts in exactly fifteen minutes. Feel free to speak to any of the orderlies if you need assistance, alright? And, should you need to speak to me, have them escort you to my office. My door is always open to you."

I smiled, my words as sweet as honey when I replied, "Thank you, Papa."

The Rainbow Room remained unchanged, though I suppose I hadn't been expecting anything different. A few heads turned to face me when I entered, but they all sheepishly turned away after a few moments. Without Papa by my side, I suppose I wasn't as entrancing.

I was relieved when Papa didn't follow me, truth be told. I had no intention of speaking to anyone today, and I probably would have been forced to socialize if I was stuck beneath his watchful gaze. I took my modicum of freedom for all it was worth and made a beeline for the back of the room.

I stopped at the same wooden table I had chosen last time and took a seat. There was a different game this time. I opened a little cardboard box and produced a deck of cards. I shuffled through each one. I wasn't quite sure how to play the game, so I began sorting them in front of me in numerical order.

There were four different versions of each card. Each with a different symbol at the top. I stared, perplexed. Was one symbol worth more than another? What did the different colors mean? I frowned and bunched them all up into one stack.

The sound of the air conditioning began breaking through my concentration. I barely withheld a groan as my grip tightened around the cards. Who powered these things? The temperature was perfect in here, why were they always on? I gingerly massaged my temples, hoping to alleviate the growing headache the machines produced.

"Having a hard time?"

My eyes snapped up to meet Peter's blue ones. Two weeks had gone by. Two weeks spent turning over the events of my escape in my head, dissecting what had gone wrong, and wondering what happened after I left that hallway. I didn't remember how they had caught me, but I did remember what Peter had done. How he had stared at me like I was the only person in the world, and how that frightened me beyond explanation.

How he had let me go.

That was the occurrence that remained at the forefront of my mind after all these days. Though, I didn't particularly want an explanation. Papa's lap dog was more complex than I had originally thought, but that didn't change anything. No one here could be trusted, even if they contained an ounce of individuality.

"No, I'm fine," I replied stiffly.

"Is that so?" Apparently, Peter couldn't read social cues, as he took my response as an invitation to sit down. "What game are you attempting to play?" He never broke eye contact, even as he sat down. I narrowed my eyes.

"Cards."

"There are many different ways to play cards, Sixteen. Care to specify?" When he received no response, he smiled gently and took the deck from my hands. He shuffled the cards with nimble fingers, masterfully splaying them out before him. I watched him as he worked, analyzing each line on his face.

"Don't you have like... orderly shit to do?" I murmured, picking at my skin. "Teaching me how to play cards doesn't seem very productive."

His eyes briefly snapped to mine. The eye contact felt like ice cold water as it poured down my spine and gnawed at my skin. "I would argue that sitting here and staring at said cards isn't all that productive, either." His lips twitched into a frown, "And please try to watch your language."

"Or what?" I asked, "You'll tell on me?"

"Of course not," he replied. The cards snapped decisively against each other as they moved between Peter's fingers. "Your 'Papa' isn't fond of swearing. I'm only trying to keep you out of trouble, Sixteen."

I frowned, "He's ninety years old. He shouldn't be offended by the word 'shit.'"

"You're right, he shouldn't." Peter hummed, "But he is, so you may as well take my advice."

I opened my mouth to reply, but the words got caught in my throat. An unspoken weight lingered between the two of us, pressing down on our shoulders until I was certain we'd fold beneath the pressure. We both danced around the subject of my escape. He surely hadn't forgotten, and nor had I. The way he stared at me remained burned into my mind, and I doubt it would fade anytime soon.

"Do you have a question?" Peter's eyes snapped to mine. There was a silent urgency behind the words, and couldn't be sure whether it was because he wanted me to ask my question or because he wanted me to forget about that night all together.

"No, Peter, I don't," I replied, returning his stare with equal intensity, "Should I?"

"I suppose it would be better if you didn't," He rasped, eyes falling to the cards once again. I had to make a concerted effort not to reveal just how uncomfortable I was. For a fleeting second, I marveled at how perfectly he managed to conceal his emotions. How he was able to resemble Papa with the way he acted, the way he spoke, and the way he walked, yet be completely unlike him in every other respect.

I played with my fingers nervously as the silence stretched on. Peter's gaze left the cards and latched onto my wrist, now labeled '016'. His fingers froze-- hovering over the cards. Then his eyes returned to mine.

I stared back at him without saying a word, hiding my wrist beneath the table. His face flashed before my eyes, and it was once again bathed in flashing red lights. Oh, Sixteen, he had said.

Now, he said nothing.

Now, he could only stare.

I stood from the table, my eyes never leaving his. "Oh, Peter," I mocked, low enough so only he could hear.

Chapter Text

I think three more weeks passed. I couldn't be sure, as I had entirely lost track of time. My days blended together into one endless, bleached white fever dream. I still wasn't permitted a clock, considering all I'd done, but it was probably for the best. When I wasn't attending lessons, I was on my own. Even after all these days, I never quite managed to gather up the courage to speak to 'my siblings.'

But today was different.

Or so I chanted to myself all the way to The Rainbow Room. Over the past few weeks, I realized my siblings didn't like me. And it certainly didn't take a genius to know why. I was weak. Even among the younger children, my abilities were comparatively lackluster. Each day during our lessons, I'd be called to take a crack at whatever new activity we were attempting, and each day I would fail. Without exception. Not even a weak flashing of a light bulb or shudder of a brick.

Although Papa assured me that I did, indeed, have powers, my performance on the field did not signify. I had been pretty good at ignoring the embarrassment up to a certain point, but it proved more and more difficult with each passing day. Sitting in front of two dozen people and getting laughed at for days on end was bound to put a chip on anyone's shoulder. I once told myself I couldn't be bothered with the hierarchy that developed among the children, but things had changed.

I still didn't accept the life I was forced to live here. Not even a little. But it was better than being dead-- or so I told myself. I had my doubts about that, too. My experience within the lab could probably be summed up into one ominous question mark.

Peter stubbornly maintained his place among my biggest questions of all. No matter how long I wracked my sleepless brain night after night, I produced no answer. No explanation as to why he let me go, and why he avoided me for weeks afterward. Though, I suppose the avoidance wasn't all him. He made me feel unsettled. I didn't like how intently he would look at me, and I certainly didn't like how gently he treated me. I wasn't accustomed to anything bordering genuine, especially in the lab.

Not to mention I wanted to avoid any and all emotional associations while I was here. They would only make my eventual escape all the more difficult. I didn't want to be haunted by any 'what-ifs' should I actually manage to leave. The whole ordeal would be much easier if I only had myself to worry about.

Thus I avoided him each day as though he were the plague, and he did the same.

I pushed open the doors to The Rainbow Room, for once without the assistance of Papa. I padded a few steps forward and scanned the length of the room. Four sat in the back corner, alone. The sound of her annoying little snicker filled my ears, and I turned away.

Next, my eyes landed on a boy of relatively tall stature with light brown hair. I knew two things about him; His name was Two, and he'd been here a long time. He looked a little bit older than me, and I knew from our lessons that he was pretty gifted. Standing before a miniature wooden maze, his eyes darted every which way as he made two separate marbles move at once.

I started walking toward him before I could talk myself out of it, anxiously rubbing my sweaty palms against my gown. I came to a halt right in front of him. His eyes never left the maze. It was then that I began to wonder about the proper etiquette when it came to our powers. Was I allowed to speak to him while he was using them? Was it rude, like interrupting someone's conversation?

The quiet persisted for a few more seconds, and then the boy sighed lowly and looked up, "Can I help you?" Annoyance dripped from each syllable. I frowned.

"I wasn't trying to be rude," I explained as embarrassment reddened my skin, "I just saw you over here and I've been wanting to acquaint myself with some of the other patients, so I thought I would say hi."

He blinked.

"So, hi," I breathed.

He looked at me as though I were something stuck on the bottom of his shoe. Regret unfurled in my gut, and he remained quiet for far too long. Perhaps he just wasn't going to respond. When I got tired of his judgemental glare, I turned to leave.

"How long have you been here?" He asked suddenly. I was far more relieved than I would've liked to admit. Facing him once again, I smiled.

"A little over a month." I looked over Two's head for a fleeting second and locked eyes with Peter. He stood near the exit as he normally did, observing the children with the same placid look on his face. I wasn't sure how long he had been watching our exchange, but once he was caught, he didn't bother to look away. I offered him a smile.

Fucker.

"A month?" Two's voice pulled my attention back towards him. He surveyed me with a raised eyebrow, "And you still can't turn on a lightbulb?"

I pursed my lips, "Evidently not, Two. Does that upset you?"

I was surprised to see such pure resentment fill his eyes. I could understand his annoyance up to a point-- I'm sure it wasn't very entertaining to watch me do absolutely nothing for minutes on end during our lessons. I'd probably be annoyed with me, too. But the look he gave me was abysmal-- far worse than I deserved.

He took a step closer. Alarm bells began ringing in my head as unwanted fear curled up my spine. "What upsets me is how much time Papa has already wasted on you," His breath fanned my face. He was seething. "You're weak. And yet he still pays so much attention to you, why?"

"Back up," My voice was low, and I was surprised at how much effort it took to keep it from shaking.

"Answer my question," He leered.

"Not until you back up."

His scowl never faltered. A tense silence settled upon us-- neither wanted to be the first to step down. It occurred to me that Papa's reach went much deeper than I originally thought. These kids weren't putting up with him solely because they didn't have a choice, they were putting up with them because they loved him. Like starving dogs, they fought amongst each other for even the smallest fraction of his attention. And it had always been that way. The only person ever willing to treat them as something more than a test subject was Papa. What they failed to realize, however, was that the way Papa loved wasn't natural. He asked things of them no parent should. He poked and he prodded all in the name of science, and then he brainwashed them into believing they had to comply and cower beneath him to be lovable.

The look Two gave me was possessive, not angry.

Finally, I relented and staggered back. "I'm sorry," I whispered, though I doubt he heard it.

I was summoned to Papa's office after lessons. A guard accompanied me, though he wasn't much for conversation. We walked in utter silence, and my displeasure seemed to grow with every step we took. Talking always managed to distract me from the endless billowing of the air conditioner. Without it, my head ached and I grew rather irritable.

We took one final turn down the blaring white hallways and came across a wooden door. "This is it," The guard said. I stared at him unsurely; I'd never been to this part of the facility. Especially not on my own. His stony face never softened, and his tone remained firm, "Go on, then."

I exhaled wearily and walked past him. After rapping harshly on the door, Papa's voice called 'come in' and I continued into the office.

Immediately upon entering, it was clear the space was solely occupied by Papa. The office almost looked staged. Everything from the pens on his desk to the way the chairs were arranged screamed his name. As did the lack of pictures or gadgets or anything that so much as hinted towards a real person inhabiting the space. It was minimalistic, muted, and thoroughly lacking in any discernable personality.

White lights blared down at me as I entered. The air conditioner was louder. I gritted my teeth and shuffled further into the room.

"Take a seat, Sixteen," Papa didn't attempt to appear inviting, which meant I was in trouble, "We have much to discuss." I internally groaned as I collapsed into the chair in front of his desk. Papa sat on the other side, watching my every move through cautious, discerning eyes.

"Is something wrong?" I questioned. I wracked my brain for any recent decisions I've made that would land me here, underneath his scrutinizing glare, but came up blank. Perhaps this was related to my escape?

"Yes, I'm afraid there is," Something like disappointment burrowed itself in his tone, "You've been a patient at the lab for a little over a month, correct?" I nodded. "Although the transition was... rocky, I like to believe that you're somewhat adjusted to life here."

"Yes, Papa, I like to think so, too," I replied. My time here had made lying an incredibly effortless task. It came as naturally as breathing, especially around Papa. This time around, however, I wasn't lying. I had adjusted to life within the lab, whether I liked it or not. Part of me hated that. Hated how compliant I was when I should've been anything but. However, a bigger, more logical part of me knew I didn't have a choice, and it was best I bide the time until I can escape with as little conflict as possible.

"You're failing, Daughter," Papa's eyes were stone cold. I was taken aback by the declaration, and it was apparent on my face.

"You're weaker than your siblings, and I'm not the only one who has noticed. Haven't you heard them laughing at you during lessons?" He spoke so matter-of-factly. Warmth crept up my cheeks as embarrassment settled inside me. "You can not turn on a lightbulb, you can not locate an object, you can't even lift a paper clip into the air."

"Can you?" I asked hotly.

His glare never faltered. After a few silent moments, he opened up a drawer in his desk and shuffled around. He came back up with a paper clip, placing it directly in front of me. I looked down at the little piece of metal and then back up at him. His posture was straight as an arrow and his hands were neatly folded in front of him. Must he always be so immaculate?

"Prove me wrong, Sixteen."

I peered at him before reluctantly bringing my gaze down to the clip. My hands remained planted by my side as I silently panicked. I could not do this. I knew I couldn't, and yet I still tried. Just like I had been trying every day, without success. I took a deep, unsteady breath and focused. I felt the soft, electric thrum in my veins. It was omnipresent, running through my body like liquid fire. Yet, whenever I tried to hone it, it was as though someone had doused the feeling with water, rendering me utterly useless. I'd been told that the electricity in my veins was my revered 'abilities,' and yet I often wondered if I had just fabricated the feeling in my mind.

Because just like the days before, I failed.

The lamp on Papa's desk flashed as I snapped my head back up, spitefully declaring, "I can't do it. You know I can't do it."

He returned my anger with cool, collected indifference, "But you can, Daughter. All you need is the correct atmosphere and you could flourish just like your siblings." A twinge of empathy softened his features, "I believe in you, even though you may not believe in yourself. That is why I've developed something like a training course for you. Tailored just to your needs."

Concern shot through me.

"Just for experiment's sake, I am going to take you out of group training for the next few weeks," Papa explained, "When you display potential, it is always congruent with two separate scenarios. Scenario number one; you're under emotional duress. Although your abilities do seem much more persistent during such times, it is important to separate your abilities from your emotions. That is why the experiment is going to hinge on scenario number two; your solitude. Without fail, your powers are stronger when there are fewer people focusing on you."

"Does that mean I'll be training on my own from now on?" I tried to keep the giddiness out of my voice. I never liked group training. The feeling of all the eyes on me, searing holes through the back of my head and breathing down my neck made me want to put a gun in my mouth. I welcomed any opportunity to avoid it.

Papa's eyes sparkled warmly. He was likely pleased with my willingness to partake in his science experiment. "Not exactly, Number Sixteen... You will be training with Peter."

Chapter Text

I slept for a maximum of five hours every night.

No matter how much my body ached or my brain begged for relief, I never slept. It wasn't really a conscious choice I was making. Without a task to complete or a person to interact with, my unhindered mind would not allow me a moment of peace. It was as though, each night, I was being led on a leash, helpless to derail my train of thought.

When I did sleep, it was fitful, overloaded with odd dreams and unanswered questions.

I also hated being alone in my room. The air conditioner seemed as though it were screaming in my ear, unrelenting despite my every attempt to muffle it. Some nights I would be so wracked with tiredness and so maddened by the machine that I would curl my pillow around my face until I couldn't breathe. And then I'd sit there, anguished for air, until I eventually gave in and pulled the pillow from my face. I liked the control it gave me. At the very least, I was in charge of my airways.

They bent to my will even if no one else did.

Tonight was worse than the nights before. I didn't get a wink of sleep, despite my endless attempts. My mind felt as though it didn't fit inside my skull, swollen with questions, observations, dread, tiredness, and basically anything else that I got around to thinking about.

Training with Peter took precedence. All night, I combed over our previous interactions and how they would play into our training. Did Peter really allow me to escape, or was it simply an act of self-preservation? If someone were brandishing a taser at me, I would back off, too.

I dissected that interaction for an hour, before moving on to something else.

Whether he let me go out of the goodness of his heart or not, I didn't like him. He was too polished. There was something about him that just made me wildly uncomfortable. When he stared at me, I sometimes believed he was diving into my brain and swimming among my thoughts. And his eyes certainly did him no favors. A blue so vivid I felt as though I were drowning beneath them.

Training would be a nightmare, without a doubt. We would sit together for hours on end while he disapprovingly watched me achieve absolutely nothing. I think I dreaded that most of all. If I could, I would never speak to him ever again. I'd choose group training over individual training with him, and that was saying a lot.

I sighed at the sound of an orderly making their way towards my door.

The Rainbow Room was buzzing with life when I finally left my room. Usually, the place was quiet aside from the occasional whispered conversation and the clatter of equipment. Today, though, the children talked amongst themselves with something that resembled excitement. Someone even waved at me as I entered. I was so taken aback by the notion that I just stared without returning the gesture and shuffled my way towards my table. What shocked me even further was when they fell in step with me all the way to my destination.

And then I sat.

And she sat, too.

"I'm Six," She greeted, then smiled. I noticed a small gap between her two front teeth. I blinked twice, never uttering a word. My mind was racing too fast for me to even think about formulating a response. Why was she here? Was this Two's doing? I'd seen them playing chess before, perhaps this was a setup? But why would Two set me up?

I was stunned at my own paranoia. Good lord, I'd been here a month and had somehow been reduced to a paranoid, anxiety-fueled mess. I had also completely forgotten about common courtesy, apparently, "Hi, I'm Sixteen."

"Oh, we match," She gushed, "Well, kind of." Another gap-toothed smile was sent my way. She was quite pretty. Her doe eyes brimmed with warmth, bearing the same dark brown as the dusting of freckles across her cheeks. The beginnings of curly black hair peeked out of her scalp. She seemed to be around my age.

"I've been meaning to introduce myself to you," She continued, absently picking at the skin on her arm, "But then you disappeared for a little while and I never got the chance." She frowned, "I should've said something earlier, though, it would've saved you from talking with Two."

"It wasn't that bad," I shrugged, "Does he usually throw tantrums like that?"

She grinned with amusement and then quickly checked behind her, "Yes, he does. But lower your voice, he's been known to pick fights." I raised an eyebrow. Why would Papa allow fighting between the test subjects?

"And no one's stopped him?" I asked, "Why hasn't an orderly stepped in?"

Something angry flashed in her eyes. It was there and gone in a second, and then she was smiling again, "Healthy competition is good. It makes us want to do better in lessons. Sometimes Two takes it a little too far, though."

It all clicked. Why Papa made us train together, why he encouraged competition. He wanted us to fight each other. He wanted to breed insecurity and jealousy by keeping us all in conjunction, forced to watch as other subjects failed or succeeded. Making us resent each other would push us closer to him and more susceptible to his influence. Dissecting life in the lab felt like peeling layers off of the world's most rotten onion, and each layer was darker and more decayed than the one before.

I watched longingly as the children filed out-- wishing for nothing more than to go with them as I counted down the moments until I would have to speak with Peter. I could feel him a few yards away, eyes boring into the back of my skull. Being the odd one out within the 'sibling' dynamic wasn't a remarkable occurrence, but it was somehow more humiliating to be separated from them. At the very least, I could disappear into the sea of people after I failed my training. But with Peter, I would be forced to linger on my failures. I'd have to listen to him analyze and judge while knowing full well that had no hope of doing any better.

And, of course, I still wasn't free of my sibling's judgment. I saw their gnawing gazes as I lingered behind, full of verdicts and uninformed opinions. Exceptionally, Six offered me a wave as she left. I did not know the girl, nor did I trust her, but I decided she was my favorite. At the very least, she was cordial and entertaining to speak to. I hadn't lied once during our conversation-- a new record of mine, I should think.

"Are you ready to go?" Peter's voice penetrated through my thoughts. I didn't face him at first, instead allowing myself one more moment of peace before I began with what I was certain would be a humiliating day. I heard his footsteps beginning towards me and barely withheld a sigh.

When he was beside me, I mumbled a 'yes' and followed him out the door.

He led us down a few different hallways. I never said a word, led astray by all the thoughts circling around in my head.

"Are you nervous for our training, Sixteen?" Peter asked, gazing at me with ponderous eyes.

That's one way to phrase it. 'Nervous' was an understatement. Nervous was what I would have been, were it not for the added paranoia, overthinking, and exhaustion I exhibited at present. My bones felt tired-- was that possible? If I hadn't been paying for my sleepless nights before, I certainly was now.

"No, I'm thrilled," My sarcastic reply came as no surprise to him. Something like amusement tugged at his face.

We came to a halt outside of a metal door. He held it open and gestured for me to go inside. I took a few steps into the room and was thoroughly disappointed. If nothing else, I had hoped for a new breed of training. A slight deviance from the same, mundane activities I endured during group practice.

Instead, I got a barren metal room with nothing but a metal table and metal chairs to occupy the space. And a lamp, in the center of said table. "Lovely," I whispered before making my way toward my seat. It was stiff and cold beneath my skin. How welcoming.

Peter sat across from me, arms neatly folded ahead of him. He took a deep breath and motioned towards the lamp, "I want you to turn it on. Do you think you could do that for me?" I nodded.

He smiled endearingly, "Then go ahead."

My narrowed eyes lingered on his as I slowly reached forward and flipped on the lamp. He regarded my purposely naive response with a smile, before leaning forward and flipping the lamp off once again. "You know what I meant, Number Sixteen."

I sighed defeatedly and redirected my gaze to the lamp. With another deep breath, I began reaching for the concentrated strike of lightning that resided in my veins. It was like an aura surrounding me, something only I could see. And then I tried pushing it beyond myself, out into the real world as though it were material and not just a feeling. My muscles tensed with the effort, and the feeling strained against my skin, desperate to run free. But just like all the times before, it couldn't.

The lamp didn't so much as flash.

I gave an annoyed huff and sat back in my chair. Peter didn't reveal his reaction to my failure. Whether he was disappointed, unsurprised, angry, or unimpressed, his face remained impassive against the emotion. That only angered me all the more.

"Remember to focus on the coming and going of electricity within the lamp. Your mind will act as a buffer, all you must do is create a medium for the electricity to pass through," His voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Peter genuinely believed I was capable of doing what he asked, which only dissuaded me further. Though I told myself I didn't need his approval, I knew deep down that I didn't want to disappoint him. I'd disappointed so many people already, and adding him to that list would be unbearable.

So I braced myself once more and focused my attention back on the lamp. The pulse of electricity emerged stronger than before. I focused on it as though my life depended on my success, desperately urging it to the surface. Instead of doing as I instructed and turning on the lamp, my focus decided to go somewhere else.

The air conditioning.

The sound it produced was more deafening than usual. I wouldn't be surprised if I discovered crimson streaming from my ears. A headache rose to the surface, so debilitating in its intensity that I would have preferred to smash my brains across the table than endure it for one more moment.

I gasped in pain as I finally broke my focus.

"Sixteen?" Peter's voice echoed with worry as his eyes bore into mine, "What happened?" He didn't get a reply. I shook my head and gingerly massaged my temples, bracing against the retreating headache.

Without warning, he reached forward. A soft, calloused hand pressed against my forehead as disarming blue eyes stared into mine. "You're burning up," He frowned deeply, "I could bring you to the nurse if you'd like. Training can wait."

"I don't want to go to the nurse, I want to go home." My voice was soft, barely audible. His hand left my forehead. "I don't have abilities. No matter how hard I try, nothing happens. I don't know why I'm here, but Papa must have made a mistake." Rabid desperation filled my voice, "You have to tell him. You have to tell him he made a mistake."

As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to sink into the floor beneath me and disappear. Something I had realized early on about the lab was that nothing within it was real. Papa's love wasn't real, the pleasant disposition of my siblings wasn't real, and the kind words and compassionate gestures of others were never, ever real.

But what I told Peter was real. So real, I felt as though my body had turned to glass, and his fingerprints had smudged the deepest parts of my mind. Laid bare before him, I was stricken to my very bones.

I recalled his face, drowned in red on the day of my escape. How a hurt so raw and palpable overtook each and every peak and valley scattered across his face.

Instead of pain, he now pooled with understanding.

"He didn’t make a mistake, Number Sixteen. Do you seriously believe your Papa would have gone through the trouble of bringing you here if you weren’t gifted?" Peter's stare was unrelenting. Something raw and honest and desperate filled his gaze. His face never shifted, but his agonizing, insufferable blue eyes said all I needed to know. "He did not make a mistake. Understand?"

I was silent.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, Peter." My heart thumped wildly in my chest, "I understand."

Another lie.

Chapter Text

Another day passed without sleep. My own mind had turned against me. My body ached with a tiredness that lingered in every limb and polluted every thought. Free time before lessons passed in a haze of struggling to keep my eyes open and holding my hands over my ears to block out the air conditioning.

It never, ever worked.

Yesterday's training had depleted what little energy I had left. I didn't know how I would get through training today. Perhaps Peter would understand and allow us to skip lessons today? Oh, but probably not. They'd been cut short yesterday, he wouldn't allow that again.

I didn't even realize that the others had filed out of the room until there was a tap on my shoulder. When I faced Peter, his hands were folded in front of him, back straight as an arrow. I briefly wondered if Peter ever got tired. I figured the answer was no, since he was a robot.

If he noticed the growing bags under my eyes, he didn't show it. I suppose I wouldn't call them bags anymore-- they were industrial-sized storage containers. With his typical pleasant smile, he asked, "Are you ready for our lessons today?"

"Mhm," I replied dismissively, rising from my seat on unsteady knees. I followed him down a few hallways, thoroughly convinced I would fall to the ground at any moment. I welcomed the thought. At the very least, I'd be able to lie down.

"Today's training is going to be a little bit different," Peter announced with a sidelong glance, "Have you ever heard of sensory deprivation?" I shook my head. It sounded like a torture tactic. "I didn't think so. It's a relatively new technique, your Papa's been developing it for some time now."

"Sounds ominous," I muttered.

"I suppose it does, doesn't it?" His eyes glittered with amusement, "I assure you, it's anything but. Now, focus is incredibly important if you want to use your abilities. Sensory deprivation helps maintain that focus by protecting you against any outside distractions."

"So I'll be blindfolded?" I asked warily, "Can we just go back to the lamp room?"

"Don't be frightened, Number Sixteen. You'll do beautifully," He assured me. Peter's faith in me was staggering. I couldn't understand why, considering I'd done nothing to earn it. Then again, I suppose it was his job to have faith in me. He didn't really have a choice.

"I can't turn on a lamp, Peter. This sounds much more advanced than turning on a lamp."

He slowed down, falling in step with me, "You could turn on a thousand lamps, Sixteen. The blockage you've been experiencing doesn't come from a lack of power," He pressed two fingers against my head, "It comes from here."

"I'm not so sure," I breathed.

We stopped outside a set of double doors. His slender fingers wrapped around the handle. Before he pulled open the door, his gaze caught mine, "You trust me, don't you?"

A brief silence ensued. His aching blue eyes peered into mine.

"You know the answer to that," I replied. Of course, the answer was no. How could I be expected to trust anyone here, least of all him? I could hardly trust my own shadow. Just because we were stuck together didn't mean I considered him a friend, a mentor, or even an acquaintance.

We continued through the doors, and I was immediately taken aback. This was unlike any other room I had seen before. It was considerably warmer than the rest of the facility. The stench of chemicals burned my nose, so pungent it was almost difficult to breathe. The white tiled floor remained the same, running all the way up the walls and along the ceiling. Ahead of us was a pool of bright blue water. It occupied virtually all of the space in the room, aside from a few feet of concrete that ranged along the sides of it.

"Are you giving me swimming lessons?" I asked, "I don't think that's what Papa meant by training." My voice echoed oddly in the room. The sound of the ventilation was louder in here, but it somehow didn't bother me as much as the air conditioning did.

"Not today, I'm afraid," Peter's voice was beside me. I had almost forgotten about him for a few moments, too busy marveling at the expansive pool in front of me. "I'll explain everything after you change. You'll find a bathing suit in the locker room-- take your time and come back out when you're ready. I think you'll enjoy the exercise I have planned today." He pointed to a set of doors at the other end of the pool, "The one on the left."

I offered him an appreciative smile and began towards the locker room. I tried not to walk too fast and reveal just how excited I was. Sure, I was exhausted. Sure, I wasn't happy with where I found myself. But for the first time in what felt like forever, I was genuinely excited. I imagined water lapping overhead, shutting out the entire world until it was just me, floating, utterly weightless. I wonder if swimming was something I enjoyed before all of this. The scent of chlorine and the soft, rhythmic sloshing of water felt so innate.

I entered the locker room. It had the same tiled floor and bright, luminescent lighting as the rest of the lab. The decor was almost exactly as I imagined it. Bland, colorless, muted. A few rows of white metal lockers lined the walls, separated by the occasional white bench. On one wall, a mirror ran from floor to ceiling. The entire room was sterile, and I got the impression that it wasn't used very often.

There was no air conditioning in the locker rooms.

For days on end, it felt as though a million people were whispering in my ear. The harsh, sharp billowing of air had nearly driven me mad. My mind felt overrun at all times-- beyond overstimulated. Finally, it had stopped. And my relief was euphoric, coursing through me like a liquid diamond.

With a dumb, giddy smile on my face, I made my way toward a little box sitting on one of the benches. I opened it up to reveal a bathing suit. Or-- what was supposed to be a bathing suit. It was quite ugly. Colorwise, it resembled a bandaid. Once I pulled it out of the box, my brows furrowed. Odd, plastic panels ran along the side of it, and the bottom half extended all the way to the mid-thigh.

I stripped out of my hospital gown, leaving it on the ground in a crumpled heap. I made a concerted effort not to look at my naked body in the mirror as I pulled on the bathing suit. It clung to me like a second skin, and when I turned around, it looked as though I had sprained my entire abdomen. The bathing suit really did look like a worn, unsightly bandaid.

I frowned.

I suppose my waist looked alright, at the very least.

My eyes lingered on the mirror for a few more moments, drinking in the bags under my eyes and the '016' on my wrist. I hardly even recognized myself. When I first arrived, I pictured this version of myself, utterly repulsed by the thought. I would have rather died than become what I was now, desperate to avoid such an awful fate. My reflection felt like a mockery. I'd been reduced to a nightmare version of myself after swearing I would never allow it.

This place had taken far too much from me. Some days, it was easy to get wound up in the chaos of it all. My siblings, training, Papa, Peter. They proved a worthy distraction. However, the gnawing feeling that I should not be here always managed to resurface. I craved an unexamined day where I could wake up as late as I wanted, bathe in the morning sun, and then pass a lazy, perfect afternoon without a care in the world. That was the first thing I would do once I left.

If I left.

I peeled my eyes from the mirror and exited the locker room.

Peter was waiting for me near the door, already equipped with his easy, light smile. He glanced at my bathing suit, then back at my eyes, "Ready?" He asked. I nodded, still not quite managing to shake the dreary thoughts from my mind.

He produced a pair of goggles. They were large, ponderous things that would surely look ridiculous on me. There was a little gear on the side that could be rolled up or down. I tilted my head in confusion. A second later, he produced a small, black rubber ball. With a sidelong glance my way, he threw the ball into the pool. I watched as it sunk to the bottom, unsure of what he expected me to do.

"Please retrieve the ball, Sixteen."

I crossed my arms, "What is this, fetch?"

Amusement broke across his face, and he tilted his head, "I suppose it is if you'd like to look at it that way." I didn't move, regarding him through narrowed eyes. "What's the matter? Too scared?" He smiled wryly.

"Hardly." I was under the water moments later, surrounded by a susurrus of bubbles that petted my skin as they rose to the surface. The water was warmer than I would've expected. My aching limbs screamed in relief without the strenuous pull of gravity to wear them down. Complete and utter silence encircled me, serene in nature. I could only relish in the feeling for so long before I ran out of breath-- so I began searching the concreted underbelly of the pool. Through bleary eyes, I spotted what appeared to be a black smudge. I made my way towards it, feeling the pressure on my body increase as I got deeper and deeper, perhaps twelve feet. By the time my fingers wrapped around the rubber ball, my lungs were screaming for relief. I pushed off the bottom and resurfaced a moment later, holding the ball high above my head.

"I got it," I called through breathless gasps. I paddled my way towards Peter and pulled myself out of the water. "I got it," I repeated.

"Well done," He praised, "However, that was only the easy part. Now, I want you to put these on." He took the ball from me, and I took the goggles.

"These aren't very fashionable, Peter," I muttered, glancing down at the atrocious eyewear.

He chuckled breathily and shook his head, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Sixteen. Perhaps I could have them modified to meet your standards?" I grinned as I pulled them on, swelling with pride despite how easy the task had been. For, once, I had succeeded. Small victories, indeed.

My skull felt constrained after I pulled the goggles on. The lenses were a little dim, but at least my vision wouldn't be so blurry once I got underwater. Peter's fingers found the side of the goggles. He rolled the gear, and the lenses darkened. I frowned.

"Now, don't be nervous. It may be harder to see, but you can still make out the bottom of the pool," Peter explained. His fingers lingered on the side of the goggles, palm resting against my cheek. He pulled away a moment later, and a telling 'plunk' sounded as the ball sunk into the pool. "Go ahead," He pushed the small of my back, directing me towards the water.

Water surrounded me on all sides. I couldn't see very well, and the bubbles that I produced became rather disorienting. After a brief pause, I gathered my bearings. Focus. Once I was satisfied, I began scanning the bottom, unable to make out much of anything. My limited field of view proved to be quite the nuisance as the pool completely blurred together into one endless, grey slab of concrete. Focus. I wasn't quite sure why, but my gut told me to swim to my left. I did. My lungs cried out for air, and then my hand met the hard outside of the ball. I gripped it between my fingers and swam to the top.

When I resurfaced, I couldn't announce my excitement. I was too busy drinking in air as though I were dying of dehydration. My head pounded and my airways still felt starved for oxygen as I swam over to Peter. I rested my elbows against the edge of the pool, breathless.

"Sixteen," Peter's voice, wracked with worry, washed over me. I looked up at him, a weak smile coming across my face.

"I got it." The ball rolled towards him. He disregarded it and walked to the edge of the pool, not even hesitating to offer his hand. After one last greedy inhale, I grabbed it, and he pulled me out of the water.

"Are you alright?" He asked, nearly as breathless as me, "Don't stay under if you haven't found the ball, okay? You can always try again."

I shook my head, "I know. I'm fine, I chose to stay under."

At my response, the worry on his face disappeared, and he regarded me with his usual impassive stare. I watched his posture straighten back up before he reached for my goggles once more. He rolled the gear until there was no light to penetrate through the lenses. I was virtually blind.

I failed at concealing my worry, "Peter. I can't see. How can I find the ball if I can't see?"

"I believe you already know the answer to that question," Peter spoke from beside me. I hadn't even heard him move. "Envision the ball in your mind, Sixteen. Don't lose focus. I have no doubts about your capabilities, and you have to feel the same way if you are to succeed." I nodded.

He grabbed my hand, helping me navigate through the darkness until we reached what I assumed was the edge of the pool. I was about to jump back in when his hand blocked me from continuing. "Be careful, alright?" His warm breath fanned down my neck.

"I will," I confirmed.

"Oh, and Sixteen?"

"Yes?"

"Good luck."

Once against, I broke the surface and slipped into the damp, suffocating water. Not even two seconds in, I was utterly overwhelmed. Too much and not enough was happening. I couldn't see, I couldn't hear. My own thoughts were far too loud, echoing in my head with furious vehemence. I dug my fingernails into my palms, trying my hardest to ground myself and wash away the unrelenting panic that had already begun swelling up my throat.

Focus.

A soft, electric buzzing warmed my skin. It flowed through my whole body, more tangible than it had ever been before. It felt like a whole other entity, moving, turning, stirring underneath my skin. It seeped through my pores and littered my brain. This was omnipotent, older than the universe itself-- far beyond anything I could possibly imagine

Focus.

I saw the ball in my head, exactly eight feet to my right. It was as clear as daylight. I felt as though I could see beyond the absolute blackness of the lenses. I heard the water around it, gurgling, calling me toward it with reckless abandon-- ceaseless, growing louder by the second.

The tell-tale sign that I needed air was a pinching sensation that wrapped around my throat. I pushed it aside, and my hands met the bottom of the pool. The pulse beneath my skin grew stronger and stronger, pooling in my brain, a neverending surge of power. Every new wave was more potent than the one before. I felt around for a few more moments as my need for oxygen got harder and harder to ignore. Still, I refused to relent. Something deep inside of me, undeniable and desperate, told me to move exactly eight and a half inches to my right. Seconds went by, and I became lightheaded, feeling as though my lungs were about to explode.

Focus.

My pinky touched the ball. It began rolling away. I gasped, and water immediately filled my lungs. As black spots began dancing across my vision, I finally latched onto the ball. I pushed to the surface, and the pulse remained. I felt swollen, like my insides were too strong for my body and I was being crushed by my own skeleton.

I latched onto the side of the pool, throwing the goggles off of my head and coughing violently onto the concrete. No air was enough. I hardly even registered Peter pulling me out of the water until I was on my hands and knees, fitting on the concrete, coughing until my vocal cords were raw and I felt as though I could die. Every nerve inside my body surged with power, set on fire, and I was helpless to put it out.

Exhaustion replaced the power. Slowly, at first, and then all at once.

"Peter," I gasped as the world spun around me. Blood dripping onto the concrete. The bitter smell of copper flowed from my nostrils and into my mouth, straining my teeth red. All the lights in the gym had gown out. Sparks rained down upon us.

Peter's hand caught my jaw. His soft, authoritative grasp forced me to face him. Nothing but his bright, incessantly blue eyes were visible through the ensuing darkness. "I knew it," He whispered. He spoke as though he were in a daze, his voice far away and yet so, so close. It ricocheted through my bones. "You are powerful, Sixteen." He was manic, bursting with something dark and unimaginably momentous, "So, incredibly powerful."

"I got it," I whispered, dropping the ball from my hand.

And then I was falling, landing in his arms.

I didn't stop falling until everything went black.

Chapter Text

I awoke to the soft, susurrant sound of whispers. They sounded far away; perhaps in a different room. Tiredness spread through my entire body like an infection, gently seducing me back into sleep. Happily, I obliged.

Or at least I tried to. The voices grew louder, no longer muffled by my tiredness-filled haze. I allowed myself two more minutes of peace before I opened my eyes. An orderly was surely coming to wake me up and sweep me away to lessons. I was relieved to have finally gotten some sleep, though. I must have crashed after lessons with Peter.

When I finally peeled my eyes open, they felt like dead weight. The lingering ghost of slumber made my every movement unhurried and strenuous. I sat up in bed stretching my limbs in from of me.

The talking stopped.

"Daughter?" Papa's voice was soft as he clasped a hand around my shoulder, "How are you feeling?"

I blinked, slightly worried about the scent of my morning breath when I replied, "Hi, I'm feeling alright. How are you feeling?" I glanced passed Papa and frowned. I wasn't in my bedroom.

The events of yesterday's training came rushing back with vengeance. I recalled water in my lungs, those ridiculous goggles, and a black rubber ball. Then there was Peter. His lovely voice, his hand pulling me out of the water, the unhinged way in which he stared at me. I frowned when I couldn't remember anything past his hands grasping my jaw, "What happened?"

"That's what I would like to know," Papa replied, face twisted with worry, "You fainted shortly after breaking every light in the gym. Do you remember what happened?"

"Um... I was looking for a ball in training. Peter was trying to help me locate it without being able to see, so I had these funny-looking goggles on," I scraped at what was left of my memory, "Then I managed to find the ball even though I had the goggles on and I got the ball. I don't really remember what happened after that.

"She hasn't been sleeping," A woman called. My gaze shifted to hers. I'd seen her in passing a few times-- I think she was a nurse. Her chestnut skin sagged with age and her black hair was peppered with white. A warm smile lit up her face when we locked eyes. She wore hospital scrubs just like I did-- had somebody changed me?

"That and malnourishment probably caused her episode," She addressed Papa and then turned to me. A warm, easy smile tugged at her lips, "What's been keeping you up, Baby?"

I didn't answer at first. What's been keeping me up? I wasn't sure how to politely tell her my mind was incapable of shutting the fuck up long enough to allow me to fall asleep. Not to mention my one-sided war against air conditioning. If I told her that the machines made me want to stab myself in the ears until I couldn't hear anything, I'd probably be carted off to an actual loony bin.

So, instead, I opted for, "I can't stop thinking."

"Hm... How often do you have nights like that?"

"Most nights."

"It might be in her best interest to consider insomnia treatments," The nurse told Papa as a worried frown overtook my face. When she noticed, she chuckled and shook her head, "Don't you worry, Sweetheart. 'Insomnia' is just a fancy way of saying you haven't been sleeping very well. A pill will probably set you right again."

"Thank you for your help, Gloria. Would you give us a minute?" Papa raised an eyebrow at the nurse. She nodded and shuffled out of the door. When it was closed again, he took my hands in his, "It wasn't all tiredness, was it? You allowed your abilities to overwhelm you."

I briefly recalled the pulse beneath my skin. How it had flooded my entire body with electric, buzzing splendor. How I could feel every organ, nerve, and vein alight with a wonderful, delirious sense of vigor I hadn't felt before.

It was strength made flesh and blood-- an embodiment of power I had only ever heard of in religion.

"I didn't mean to," I muttered, warm all over, "I've never felt anything like it before. I didn't know what was happening."

Papa's eyes brimmed with something I couldn't quite put into words. It was pride, but also darker than that. Like he was staring down at his prized possession. I squirmed under the unrelenting weight of his judgment.

"This is why you must stay here, Daughter," Papa urged, "Left unchecked, your abilities will overwhelm you. Here, you have a chance of controlling your abilities instead of allowing your abilities to control you."

I nodded, mouth too dry to form a coherent response.

"You'll flourish here. I'll make sure of it," He smiled once more, and his hands released mine, "Peter should not have introduced you to sensory deprivation so early on in your training. I'm going to have some words with him soon. Training is meant to be a safe, productive space, and I'll ensure nothing like this happens again, alright?"

"Don't be upset with Peter," The words left my lips before I could stop them. A brief silence followed. I was taken aback by my own urge to defend him. "I wasn't progressing because of my own doubts," I elaborated, "Peter was only trying to help me work past my mental blockage. And it worked."

A shadow of worry passed over his face.

"Peter hasn't said anything... odd to you, has he?"

I frowned at the question. Peter was anything but odd. He was pristine, quick, a little too exacting. But never odd. He resembled Papa in a way that no one else did. Collectively, they exuded knowledge and control. The only notable difference was that Peter's tongue could coax you into trusting him with just one word, while Papa wasn't as good at that. His motives were always far too clear.

Peter was enigmatic, and Papa was predictable.

The way they spoke to--and about-- each other made it clear that there was history I didn't know about. It surely wasn't a good one. I recalled the look on Peter's face when he uttered Papa's name. How resentment filled every syllable and his eye twitched with something frustrated and emphatic. It was one of the very few things that managed to slip past his polished, practiced exterior.

"Nothing notable, no," I tilted my head, "Why?"

"It's not important," He replaced the glint in his eye with a smile and stood, "I have some business to attend to, Sixteen. Please go easy on yourself for the next few days. I'm having Gloria assigned to you for the foreseeable future. She'll meet with you before bed each night and do a checkup to ensure you're healthy and happy. How does that sound?"

"Lovely," I smiled up at him, "Thank you, Papa."

"Of course, Daughter. I'll leave you to rest," With one last squeeze of my hand, he pulled open the door and paused. "You have company, Sixteen." I watched as Six entered the room, a gap-toothed smile occupying her face. A few moments later, Papa was gone and we were alone. Truthfully, I was surprised to see her. We were friendly and I enjoyed speaking with her, but I hadn't expected a visit. How did she even know I got hurt?

Nonetheless, I grinned when she collapsed on her back at the end of my bed. She sighed contentedly and announced, "The beds here are so much more comfortable than the ones in our rooms. Why does a room designed for throwing up and crying have such comfy mattresses?"

"I hadn't noticed," I moved my legs, allowing her more space to sit.

"Oh, speaking of throwing up and crying, how are you feeling?" She kicked off her slippers and crossed her legs, "We saw Peter bringing you to the nurse during lessons. Honestly, I thought you died. Two had quite a few remarks about it."

"I'm sure he did," I muttered, "And I'm feeling fine. It was a mixture of using too much power at once and not sleeping well." I'd save the embarrassment for later. Right now, there was no use in dwelling over the fact that all of my siblings saw me passed out not two days into lessons.

"The mattresses, I'm telling you! We'd all sleep a whole lot better if we got new mattresses," Six rambled, "Anyways, I had that issue when I was younger. It'll get easier. You're new to this, that's all."

"Have you been here your whole life?" I questioned. She nodded. "Holy shit, I'm sorry."

She shrugged, "It's not all bad. It's all I've ever known. And the older kids get more privileges than the younger kids. I get music sometimes and dessert. And Papa's here. And so are you! I like that you swear a lot. Most times I get too nervous to swear. How is training with Peter?" The rapid-fire way in which she spoke had me staggering for words.

"Training with Peter is..." I recalled the events of yesterday. A trainwreck? "Intense."

She wriggled her eyebrows, "Intense, huh? I wish I could get intense with Peter."

A laugh bubbled from my lips as I shook my head, "Not like that, Six. It's all just very emotional and... heavy? If that makes sense. I feel exhausted after each session."

"The tiredness is probably from using your abilities. I've heard they're improving!" She grinned, "I'm very good at eavesdropping. Papa was talking about it to a nurse a few days ago. He kept going on about--."

A loud, guttural cry interrupted her sentence.

I exchanged a worried look with Six and immediately stood from the bed. My aching limbs almost buckled underneath the strain, but I persisted. Halfway to the door, Six grabbed my arm, "Wait-- where are you going?"

"Did you not just hear that?" I asked, yanking my arm out of her grip, "What if someone's hurt, Six? I'm going to see what happened."

I was in the hallway moments later. Though the screams were much quieter now, I could still hear the distinctly human cries for help. Six's footsteps sounded behind me, accompanied by a number of huffs and 'let's just go back's.

I ventured through the milky-white labyrinth, the ever-fading yells beckoning me closer and closer. Left, right, right, left, right. The hallways began blurring together until I believed I was lost. Perhaps I really was going insane. I paused. SIx bumped directly into my back.

"You heard the screaming, right?" I turned to her.

"I--," bewilderment toyed with her expression until her eyes were wide and her mouth was agape, "Yes, I heard the screaming."

There was another short, panting scream. It was much closer this time. My body begged me to go back to bed, swaying until I had to rest a palm against the freezing, spotless tile to keep myself from falling. When I thought of what I would find at the other end of the cries, I pictured a group of guards with their square shoulders, protruding muscles, and loud, angry voices. As my pace became brisker, I prayed it wasn't one of the kids.

But who else could it be?

Finally, I came across a room. The white door was reinforced, appearing as though it belonged in a prison cell, not a laboratory. An undersized, plexiglass window allowed a view inside. The risk of getting caught, should I openly look inside, prevented me from being able to witness the room in its entirety. From what I could see, it was an empty, soulless, white space just like the hallway. The only difference was the cushioning on the wall, perhaps for the purpose of soundproofing. I almost laughed at the idea. If that were the objective, then the cushions were surely failing at their job.

My breath caught at the sight of Papa.

He stood, two fingers brushing his jaw. Dark, furious eyes bore down at someone I could not see. Papa's lips opened, forming a command, and then the screams continued. My blood ran cold. They pierced through my ears and rang around my body, ricocheting off bone, organ, tissue, and muscle until I felt as though I could be sick.

Just as I was about to peer into my room, Six's hand clasped my forearm.

"You don't want to do that, Sixteen," Her voice was desperate, shaking with an emotion I could only assume was fear, "It will only make things harder. Don't look." My stomach felt as though it were freefalling. I thought I knew the secrets this place possessed. A lab, using human test subjects, indoctrinating them from birth. That in itself was awful-- worthy of damnation-- and yet, from the look on her face, I knew that could not be all. It must get worse.

The thought that had been lingering at the back of my mind during every moment of every day suddenly grew louder. I had to leave, I had to leave, I had to leave.

"Please, please!" Wrecked, pain-filled begging broke through the silence.

Peter.

Without so much as a second thought, my fingers were pressed against the metal door and I was peering into the window. Labored breathing fogged the glass. I could barely make out what was happening. Peter sat on a bench, writhing, his lithe body braced against a wall as a myriad of tasers dug into his skin. Two orderlies hovered over him. His hair was a mess around his head, teeth gritted against a pain that seemed abysmal.

He looked so, profoundly, disgustingly human on his knees, chest heaving up and down, drinking in air like he'd just spent his entire life underwater.

"You could have gotten her killed," Papa was shouting, storming up to Peter. He grabbed a taser of his own and hovered it above Peter's skin. Anger and fear intermingled in my head, leaving me incapacitated-- completely paralyzed.

"I didn't get her killed," Peter's beautiful, rasping voice was breathless, "I helped her. You asked me to help her, and so I did. You can't possibly be angry at me for that."

Papa dug the taser into Peter's skin. I watched him throw his head back, eyes clamped shut, body shaking with the flow of electricity in his veins. Sweat streamed down his face. "You knew the risk," Papa was seething, a kind of rage I hadn't thought him capable of, "And yet you still put her in harm's way. How does that help anyone?"

"She wouldn't have been able to access her abilities without my aid," He panted. His eyes wouldn't focus, utterly distraught. Grief slammed itself against my ribcage, desperate to break through my skin. I didn't know what to do. Watch? Help? Leave? Each felt like a betrayal.

Peter's gaze shifted, and suddenly his blue eyes snapped to mine. He did not speak, did not move, did not so much as blink. We watched one another, frozen in place. Shame burned through my body, scorching me until I expected to look down and see my flesh slipping from my bones.

"Tell him, sweetheart." A smug, perverse smile filled Peter's exquisite face, as though we were children and he'd just told on me. His eyes never left mine, even after Papa had burrowed the taser into his skin and the ominous, malevolent sound of clicking filled the room.

Six was yanking me away before I could think about reacting. Not moments later, we were sprinting down the halls, desperate to find our way back to the nurse's office.

My mind was spinning.

Chapter Text

My slippers slapped against the white tiled floor. The air conditioner hollered without pause. It taunted me with its insufferable, billowing laugh. This was all a big joke, wasn't it? If there was a God, he must have been up in the clouds doubled over, wrecked with omnipotent laughter strong enough to turn every tide and ravish every country.

That night had been spent agonizing over my entire existence until I wanted to reach into my chest and rip out my own heart. The guilt was indescribable. I'd been responsible for someone else's suffering before-- in fact, I'd even killed someone-- but it had never hurt like this. It had never felt like all of the nerves in my body were splitting in two.

The moment I was allowed to leave my room, I made a beeline for The Rainbow Room. No one was awake yet. Even the guards seemed caught between consciousness and sleep. It took all of my willpower not to reach over and smack them across the face. Couldn't they see what peril we were in? Didn't they hear the incessant clicking of tasers echoing down every hallway? Didn't they know Peter was hurt? Didn't they know it was my fault?

For the millionth time, I pictured his face. Oceanic eyes clamped shut, bracing against a pain I could hardly imagine. Papa's glare, impersonal and cold, evil in its own right. The thought alone had my composure withering to ash.

I threw open the door to The Rainbow Room and scanned my surroundings with bated breath. No one was here. No one except Peter, who oversaw the room as per usual. He stood in the back with a placid expression that certainly didn't fit the occasion. The entire world should have been furious. How could he be so calm in the face of such an injustice? I was even more taken aback when his eyes met mine with worry. The irony was laughable. He was worried about me. After it may as well have been my hand that ripped apart his flesh with the taser's metal teeth.

"I'm so sorry," I could hardly breathe, "Peter, I'm so sorry."

He didn't reply. He didn't even seem to hear me. Those blue eyes glanced above my head, sharp and exacting like he aimed to cut the room in half with nothing but his stare. I would not have been surprised if he was successful.

Then, he was storming towards me with a limp impeding upon his flawless posture-- the only indicator that something had gone awry yesterday. A smooth, cold hand wrapped around my wrist. He would not meet my eyes, even after pulling out a chair and gesturing for me to sit.

I didn't move.

"Sit, Sixteen," His tone was stern. I had never heard him speak in such a manner. My unsteady legs practically moved on their own, and then I was sitting. He took the chair opposite me, icy eyes finally meeting mine, turning blood to ice. Rational thought abandoned me.

"I know what happened," My fists turned white around the sides of the table, "I saw what happened. How Papa hurt you. I heard what he said. He hurt you because of me, didn't he?" Peter's face was impassive as I spoke. I almost would have preferred his fury to the cold, collected expression he now wore.

"I need you to do something for me, Sixteen," His voice was soft, cascading over me like ice cold water, "I need you to be calm. Do you think you can do that?" I wanted to scream in his face. How could I be calm? The word felt foreign when it left his lips-- I had nearly forgotten the meaning. "I'll explain everything, but you must not show any emotion as I speak. Do you understand?"

Briefly, my eyes snapped up to the cameras. Their metal glares cut through my skin with scalpel-like precision. Oftentimes, I paid them no mind, always too preoccupied with the air conditioning to notice much else. Now, I could feel the cameras like a breath of air fanning down my neck. "I understand," I muttered.

He reached for the deck of cards in the center of the table. "What you saw was not meant for your eyes, Sixteen." His brows furrowed. For once, Peter did not quite know what to say. Under different circumstances, I would have been amused. "And it was certainly not your fault." The cards clacked against the table. Peter would not look at me. "The man you call 'Papa' administers such punishments often. I'm not the only person here who has suffered his wrath."

The implication made my stomach drop. "The kids, too?"

His eyes finally met mine. The cards came to a halt in his grasp. A soft, hesitant nod of his head nearly made me forget his request. I forced my face to remain impassive, a stark contrast to the war that raged in my mind. "Why?" The word was like a razor cutting up my throat.

"Control," He rasped, "Obedience, power. Take your pick. He instills fear in those around him to keep order. However, his preferred method of manipulation for you and your siblings is a bit different."

"I know," I whispered, "I've known for a while. He makes us believe that he loves us because no one else will." I didn't know if I could even call his type of connection 'love.' The term infatuation seemed more suitable. But how were any of the children here supposed to know the difference? I already suspected most of what Peter was telling me; all he did was confirm it.

So why did it hurt so bad?

Peter's warm, gentle hands enveloped mine. The deck of cards lay forgotten. His stare was unrelenting, and there was no questioning if he understood. Papa was awful, this place was awful, almost everything around me was awful. Not Peter, though. Never Peter. A calming sort of morbidity lingered in the air until I felt like I was choking on it.

"You're smarter than the others," His voice was low, his smile was soft, "I suppose, in one way, I should be proud. Here, though, that will only make things more difficult for you. Your siblings grew up without any knowledge of the world. They don't have anything to miss. You, however," His gaze swept over my face, "You're not so lucky."

The sound of the Rainbow Room door opening made him pause. His hands lingered on mine for a little longer than what was wise, and then he stood. "Training is canceled today, Sixteen. Please, get some rest."

I nodded. All words had abandoned me.

Peter began towards the door and smiled at Number Two.

The look he offered before leaving the room was for me and me alone.

Chapter Text

I sat in a bathroom stall, fingernails burrowed into my palms. The freezing cold porcelain cut through the thin fabric of my hospital gown, sending a chill up my spine. I'd escaped to the bathroom in a desperate attempt at regaining my composure. Now, though, it seemed counterproductive. All I had managed to do was work myself into hysteria.

It felt like the entire facility was watching me. Walls, chairs, tables-- they had all set their gaze upon me with predatory obsession. I stood at the precipice of panic, barely able to keep myself from slipping over the edge.

The sound of the bathroom door opening was a much-needed respite from my racing mind. Hesitant footsteps treaded further into the room until a voice called out, "Sixteen?" I could have screamed in relief when Six's voice filled my ears.

After Peter told me training was canceled, a plan formed in my mind. Truthfully, I hadn't expected it to work. Still, I marched up to Six once she'd entered the Rainbow Room and asked if she would be willing to skip her lessons and join me. To my surprise, she said yes. To my further surprise, she had actually managed to slip out.

I unlocked the door and smiled, "Hi."

"Hi," She echoed, "So, I'm technically supposed to be resting in my room right now-- I told the nurse I had the worst headache of all time and I was going to die-- so let's just avoid the nurse's office and we should be fine."

"Alright," I replied as I held the door open and gestured towards the hallway, "Thank you for skipping with me. Where do you want to go?"

She grinned wryly and grabbed my hand, "You'll see."

With that, she began pulling me towards our destination. We started off at a walk, then moved to a jog until, eventually, we were running full force down the hallway, footsteps echoing all around us. Six erupted in a fit of laughter, growing more and more breathless as we proceeded.

When we stopped at a door, she placed her hands on her knees and gasped for air. She could not stop laughing. I didn't know what she was laughing at or why it was so funny, but I conceded eventually and giggled along with her.

"This," She gestured towards the door, interrupting her own sentence with yet another chuckle, "This is my favorite room. You'll like it, I think." Her hand wrapped around the doorknob. She rattled it a few times, and then her face fell. "Oh, it's locked. It's never locked. That's weird."

My eyes flitted over the doorknob. "Do you have a pin?"

Six offered me a blank stare. "I don't have hair, Sixteen. Why would I have a pin?"

"Paperclip?"

She began searching her pockets. Most of the other kids had the option of wearing crewneck and sweatpants instead of the hospital gown I wore. I wanted to ask Papa to get me some new clothes, too, but I figured he'd say no. After all, the last time I asked for something, a guard had ended up dead. My insides curled up at the thought.

Six opened her fist to reveal a small pile of paperclips. Most of them were bent at odd angles and broken in a few different places. "I like playing with them," She shrugged. One of the paperclips jutted forward. Six's eyes focused on the little piece of metal, face twisting with effort. The clip strained, and then slowly morphed into a star. "See? I can make other shapes, too. I've been practicing."

"Oh, wow," I took the star-shaped paperclip and felt the points one by one, "I'm impressed."

"Yes, I'm very impressive," She replied, "Why do you need a paperclip?"

"You'll see," I replied. I straightened out one end of the clip while keeping the other at a ninety-degree angle. Then, I positioned the straight end in front of the keyhole. I applied a bit of pressure and rotated the clip in what I assumed was the right direction. There was a small give, and one of the pins within the lock became stuck. The process was repeated a few more times until, finally, I twisted the doorknob and the door swung open.

Six watched me step into the room, bewildered, "Where did you learn to do that?"

I paused. She brought up a good question, and I had no idea how to answer it. The ability felt innate, as unconscious as walking. It was then that I remembered the dark, shadowy remains of my past that still lingered at the back of my head. Why would I have the ability to pick locks before all this?

"I...," A frown etched its way across my features, "I don't know."

"Weird," She closed the door behind us and flicked on a light, "Impressive, but weird."

When the room became bathed in the nauseating, fluorescent glow, a few different details caught my attention. The first being a large, black cube. It was mounted atop a wooden desk, proudly taking up the entire space. A piece of glass protruded from the front, glaring underneath the harsh lights. The next thing I noticed was a small jar stacked full of little brown squares. I wasn't quite sure what they were, but they smelt wonderful.

The last thing I noticed were the tapes. There were, perhaps, four shelves chalk-full of tape after tape from floor to ceiling. Each was marked with a different date-- or, what I believed was a date-- followed by a collection of random, unintelligible numbers. I frowned. The farther from the desk I got, the older the tapes were.

"That's security camera footage," Six said from the other side of the room, "They're boring, I've watched a few." She grunted, and then the sound of something sliding against the floor caught my attention. "This is what we're here for."

When I faced her, she was knelt down by an old, misshapen box. She peered inside, shuffling through an assortment of objects I couldn't quite make out. "Oh, what about this one?" She produced a tape. It pictured a fish-- or, what I assumed was a fish-- with its mouth splayed open, showcasing razor-sharp white teeth. Big, bold letters labeled the tape 'JAWS.'

"What is that?" I asked, kneeling next to her and taking the tape into my hands. Upon closer inspection, a person was in the picture too, swimming while the enormous fish stalked them from underwater. "Woah. Is this thing real?"

She looked over my shoulder, "The shark? Oh, yeah, they're real. Not the one in the movie, though."

"Shark," I tested the word on my tongue, "They're kind of scary."

"I thought that, too," She replied, "I asked Peter about them, once. He said they're not that scary in real life."

"Peter's seen a shark?" My eyes went wide.

"No," Six answered, taking the tape from my hand, "But he's probably read about them. There used to be a little picture book about sharks in the Rainbow Room, but they took it away." Six then clicked a button on the big, black cube. It sprang to life as static filled my ears and a blurry picture crackled on the screen.

"Holy shit," I muttered, pressing my fingers onto the glass, "Woah."

Six giggled at my reaction and pushed the tape into a little slot on the bottom of the box. "It's called a television. You can watch stuff on it!" She took a seat a few feet away from me, "Also, back up, it's not good for your eyes."
"Oh, okay," I did as she instructed and backed up. "Is the movie real?"

"No, it's all pretend," She replied, "You'll like it."

Six was right.

I liked that the movie had rules and I liked that the threat was easy to avoid. Stay out of the water, avoid boating unless it's absolutely necessary, and you'd probably be fine. I wished my own situation was that easy to navigate. But, of course, that was a movie, and movie logic did not apply in the real world. Or, at least, that's what Six said after I critiqued the film one too many times.

The theme repeated over and over in my head as I made my way back to my room. Forcing myself not to think about what Peter had told me was pretty easy. I'd have the entire sleepless night to inspect each word he had said and wonder about how that tied into everything I knew so far. My mind deserved some rest, at least for the time being.

I dreaded the night before it even began.

I pushed open my bedroom door and staggered in a few steps. Without warning, a light flashed on, and a 'tsk' sounded in the corner of the room. I looked up to see the nurse, Gloria, sitting on the chair beside my bed with a stern expression on her face.

"Did you enjoy your training today?" Her tone reeked of suspicion.

My cheeks reddened. "Peter canceled training today," I replied as evenly as I could.

"Oh, I see," She pushed herself from the chair and walked toward me, "Did he cancel Six's training, too?" My eyes went wide. What we had done wasn't deserving of a punishment like Peter's, right? We only watched a movie.

The kids, too. Peter confirmed it. God forbid Six was next.

Just when I thought I was doomed; that Six and I may have been condemned to the electric assault of the tasers, Gloria paused. A sly smile lit up the woman's face, "I'm not going to tell anyone, baby. You just have to be more careful next time, alright?

I could have cried in relief. "Thank you."

She smiled again, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You have enough to deal with already. I see no reason in giving you more trouble." She turned towards a small cart that I hadn't noticed when I first entered the room.

Her practiced hands shuffled through cotton swabs, bandages, latex gloves, and miscellaneous containers that I couldn't make out. Finally, she produced a bottle full of light blue pills. Through the dim lighting, I could barely make out the name 'Benzodiapines.'

"These..." She took a pill out of the container and handed it to me, along with a paper cup full of water, "Are meant to help you fall asleep. Brenn-- Your Papa picked them out for you."

"He did?" I questioned. The unassuming blue pill made my stomach lurch. If Papa could torture people, was he really above poisoning them? And either way, did I want to ingest something that he had picked explicitly for me?'

"Don't be nervous, baby," Gloria's cigarette-stained smile eased a bit of my worry, "I wouldn't give you anything I wouldn't take myself. I have insomnia, too, and these," She shook the pill bottle, "These help me. If you don't like them after tonight, I'll get you something new. How about that?"

I smiled appreciatively. Though I didn't entirely trust the pill, I bit back any further questions and swallowed it. After placing the empty water cup back on the cart, Gloria tilted her head, "Now that wasn't too bad, was it?"

"No, it wasn't," I replied, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, it's my job," She laughed a smoker's laugh and I smiled along with her. "Try to get some rest tonight, okay?"

I nodded and collapsed on my bed. A clatter echoed in the room as she sifted through something on the cart. After a few more moments, she began to exit. When she reached the threshold, she called, "Goodnight, baby."

"Goodnight."

I woke up in the Rainbow Room. Everything was fuzzy, coming in and out of focus too fast for me to process what was happening. A hand gripped mine, Six's. The next moment we were sat at a table. The room bobbed and ebbed before my eyes, moving side to side until I felt like I was going to fall to the floor. There were kids everywhere. Each one without hair, lacking any discernable features. They ran around the room, laughing and shouting until they all blurred into one discordant cacophony, ceaseless in their rampage.

An unexplainable panic rose up my throat. I stood from my chair, and suddenly all the kids were running toward us. "Six!" I shouted, but she could not hear me. I doubt she would be able to hear anything over such chaos.

Little bodies ran all around me. I tried to walk forward, to find Six's familiar face, but the children began to clasp hands and spin in a circle. I stood in the center, utterly disoriented, unable to comprehend what was happening. My head whipped every which way, desperately searching for an orderly to break this up. Why was such madness allowed? Surely, Papa could hear the noise.

And then the room lurched sideways, and I fell onto my knees. I should have collapsed on top of one of the kids, but suddenly they were all gone. The chaos stopped and I was alone. I could not stand, could not breathe, could not speak.

The door opened. Or, I assumed it had opened, as I couldn't incline my head. The echoes of laughter died down until there was nothing at all. My breathing was far too loud, sharp and quick and ricocheting off of every wall.

Footsteps sounded.

Unhurried and ghostly, they inched closer. Each click of a shoe hitting the floor made me flinch. The fear was unimaginable. What was happening? How did I get here?

Black shoes invaded my field of view. A sickening sense of deja vu ran up my spine. I could finally move, and with that ability, I allowed my eyes to venture up the length of white pants, and then a white shirt.

"Peter?" I whispered.

Violently blue eyes stared down at me. And then I could not move, forced to stare right back at him. "Get off of your knees, Sixteen," His voice reverberated around the room, piercing my eardrums. I did as he asked. I didn't think I really had a choice.

I was too close. Far, far too close. I could see each fleck of color in his irises like miniature shooting stars. His breathing fanned my face. Steady, warm, minty. And when I tried to step back, my legs would not obey.

A strangled sound left my mouth.

"Peter, what's happening?" I was terrified.

Slowly, his hand rose from his side. I watched each twitch of his fingers, each rotation of his wrist. The room blurred until the only thing that came into focus was him. Then the back of his hand met my cheek. Everything came to a screeching halt-- the very earth must have stopped turning on its axis.

"You're dreaming, I should think," His breath caressed my skin. It was there and then gone, far too fleeting. "So why am I here, Sixteen?" I didn't have an answer. Was any of this truly voluntary? It must have been the pill Gloria gave me.

"I don't know," I muttered. My heart thumped noisily in my chest. I could not think. "Can you make it stop?"

His eyes flitted over mine. I could feel him like an infection. Crawling through my veins, warming my blood, shutting down my organs one by one until I was helpless, left with no other option aside from watching as he overtook me.

"Do you want me to make it stop?" His voice was thunderous, but his touch was gentle. It moved to my jaw, hovering just above my skin. Each contact burned my flesh to the point I could not bare it any longer. He gently tilted my head up. I watched this all unfold, unable to fight it, unsure if I even wanted to.

My gaze caught on his lips. I knew Peter was beautiful. If the entire world could agree on one thing, they would agree on that. How could they not? With his lush, pink lips, so quick to offer a kind word or a smile. And how lovely that smile was.

That was all magnified. Awash in a dream, his skin glinted, his eyes pierced. Sometimes, they were so blue that they hurt. Now, they did more than hurt. They tormented. They mocked me for being completely unable to move away. They grew in intensity until I was sure I would melt beneath them.

It was unbearable.

His hand moved from my chin. It trailed across my clavicle, to my shoulder, up and down my arm. The point of his nose lightly brushed against my cheek. I could feel his every inhale and exhale as though it were my own.

"Do you want me to make it stop?" He repeated. I could not reply. This feeling was entirely foreign, stronger than anything I had ever felt, exploding in my body like a bomb had gone off. His hand ventured down my side, leaving fire in its wake. My lips were agape, sucking in sharp, shallow breaths.

I shook my head.

"No, I didn't think so," He whispered against my skin. The rasp in his voice was euphoric, cultivating a desperate, wanting pit in my stomach. My hands shook by my side.

I felt powerless and powerful at the same time. Intimate could not begin to describe the feeling. Every single part of my body was alert, watching, reactive, desperate to be burned by his wonderfully destructive touch.

His hands pulled at the bottom of the hospital gown, palms trailing up my sides. He guided my hand to the crumpled material that rested near my waist, "Hold it up for me, okay?" His breath fanned across my face. I nodded.

His knuckles brushed the cotton of my underwear. "Remember what you said, Sixteen." Each letter of my name sounded like gold as it passed the threshold of his lips, "You didn't want me to stop."

"Yes," I breathed.

His prepossessing blue eyes met mine. Something primal, barely restrained, pooled in his gaze. Blonde hair brushed against my forehead. His hands ghosted over my thighs. "You're going to wish I had."

Chapter Text

Never, ever again.

'Benzodiazepine' was officially my worst enemy, and I would avoid it at all costs. Gloria would have to hold me down and shove the pill in my mouth by force if she ever wanted me to take it again. Either way, if we ever got to that point, it wasn't looking good for Gloria. I didn't care if she was three times my age, I would body slam that woman without a shred of remorse.

I knew better than to like Peter. In a certain light, he was entirely lovely. With that loveliness, however, he was also exacting and meticulous, constantly armed with a tongue coated in sugar. The man could probably smile his way out of hell. I would not allow myself to be manipulated by him, no matter the insignificant feelings I felt for him. I owed myself that, at the very least. The dream meant nothing. It was simply the feverish amalgamation of a pill I had never been on and far too many hours spent training with Peter.

Still, I could not forget. Could not forget the way my name sounded on his lips, rasping and breathless and gravelly. Could not forget the way his calloused hands ghosted over my skin, evoking goosebumps and shuddered breaths. Could not forget his eyes, and how they never left mine for a single moment, even after the intimacy turned my face red and I could not stand the eye contact for one more moment.

It wasn't real, though, and it never would be. I sought refuge in that thought.

The slapping of Peter's clipboard against the table made me flinch. Training had only just begun, and I hated it. We hadn't spoken since he told me about Papa. The dream was inconsequential compared to all he had told me, and yet it still remained at the forefront of my mind. My foolishness truly knew no bounds.

"What's on your mind?" Peter asked conversationally. His eyes met mine, and I was immediately transported back to the night before. My gaze shifted to my hands, balled up on the table in front of me.

"Nothing," The response was hasty. "Nothing is on my mind. What are we doing today?"

He regarded my hurried response with a raised eyebrow. Part of me wondered if he knew about the dream. "Today," He began, "We are going to work on your extrasensory perception."

"You know I don't know what that means," I replied.

He gave me an amused smile and shook his head, "It's quite the mouthful, isn't it? Extrasensory perception is the ability to observe a subject of your choosing without using your five senses. Do you remember the training we did in the pool?" I nodded. "You located the ball without being able to see it. That was extrasensory perception."

"Oh, okay."

A few moments of silence stretched between us. Surely, he was waiting for a sarcastic reply or a complaint, but it never came. I feared that if I spoke, he'd somehow be able to piece it all together. The memories of last night burned into my skin. I half expected to look down and see Peter's fingerprints branded on my waist.

"Are you alright, Sixteen?" His eyebrows furrowed with worry. My entire body flushed at the sound of my name on his lips. It's like he knew, and he was toying with me.

"I'm fine," My tone certainly didn't sound fine, "I just haven't been sleeping well."

"Bad dreams?" His lips curled into a polite smile at the question. I very nearly fainted.

"Uh," I dug my fingernails into my palm, "Yeah. Yes. Very bad."

Peter's eyes flickered up to the camera in the corner, then back to me. He took the clipboard from the center of the table and began scribbling on the paper clipped to it. I observed his movements through weary eyes.

"Now," He placed the pencil on the table. "Tell me what I wrote."

I immediately knew what he wanted me to do. I sighed. "Do I have to?"

"Would you rather we try the lamp again?"

"No."

"That's what I thought," He frowned at the troubled look on my face. "Don't be so nervous, Sixteen. You've done this before. Just remember to focus. If it's too much, we'll stop, okay?"

I nodded and closed my eyes.

The soft, electric pulse coiled at the pit of my stomach jumped to attention once it was called upon. It began saturating my entire body with its slow, syrupy waves of warmth. The feeling grew stronger the more I focused on it, and suddenly my eyes were darting back and forth. A moment later, I was standing in suffocating darkness.

At first, I was confused. Was this my subconscious? No matter where I looked, the black stretched on. My entire body felt constrained, like I'd been sealed in an airtight bag. My fingernails left crescent moons in the flesh of my palm as my worry reached new depths.

Something dripped in the distance. It echoed around the blackness, beckoning me closer. With slow, unsure steps, I made my way nearer. A small ball of light formed just a few feet ahead, and the dripping stopped. I swiped at the spot, but my fingers passed through without hindrance. Confusion took hold.

For no apparent reason, the spot began growing. I stepped away, breath caught in my throat. Some aspects of it were solid, some liquid, some gas. They all danced around one another, soundless, brushing together and then separating.

Focus.

My steady, centering breaths echoed from every direction. A harsh, low hiss was the only indicator that something had changed. The spot transformed into two anamorphous figures. With nothing but sheer desperation, I willed the figures into focus.

It was Peter. A girl and Peter, sat at a table. My eyes went wide when I realized that girl was me. She sat straight-backed, inhaling deeply every few moments. Her eyes flitted back and forth beneath her lids.

"Woah," I whispered.

The girl repeated after me.

"Where are you?" Peter's voice was thunderous, echoing around in the emptiness with furious vehemence. Just like the dream. I briefly lost focus, and the entire image began to turn to static. The girl's face, my face, flickered in and out of focus.

"It's... glitching?" I didn't quite know how to describe it, "Like television static."

With achingly slow motions, Peter's blurry figure grasped the girl's hand. As he did, I felt a sudden warmth on my own flesh. I brought my hand up in front of my face and wiggled my fingers.

My gaze shifted from the girl to him. Peter watched her closely, silently analyzing each breath, each twitch of her face, each sigh. "Focus, Sixteen," His voice reverberated all around me, caressing my flesh like his fingertips had only hours before. "You're almost there."

I did as he asked. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the slow, lulling of power that ran through my veins. I coaxed it with my gentle breaths, bending it to my will until I knew my task had been completed. I opened my eyes, and as expected, the figures were back in focus.

"I did it," The girl and I announced simultaneously. Her lips slowly formed into a smile. Peter watched, eyes half shut as though he were in a daze, and then a grin overtook his face. It wasn't his polite, gentle smile. This was an excited, hopeful twisting of his face that made my heart thump against my rib cage until I feared it would burst.

I took a few steps closer to the table, eyes shamelessly glued to Peter. My breaths fell in synch with his, and I was almost convinced we were the very same being. The girl sighed a soft, content sigh. I reached shaking, unsure fingers towards Peter. His hair was styled as it usually was. I did not know what the style was called, but it was my favorite nonetheless.

When I tried to touch the lovely, vanilla strands that had fallen over his eye, my hand went right through them.

I was pulled out of the odd, longing haze when the phrase 'what am I doing' surfaced in my mind, and then the words flashed in front of Peter's face. I stepped away from him as a frown came across the girl's face.

"What do I do now?" She and I asked.

Peter seemed to be lost in thought, too. His glassy, unconfused eyes darted away from the girl's face, habitually snapping up to the camera. When his gaze fell back to her, the camera went static until it eventually disappeared, and all that remained was Peter, the table he sat at, and me.

"Can you tell me what I wrote?" He asked. I still wasn't quite used to the way his voice echoed without any discernable origin point.

I rounded the table until I stood behind Peter. The words on his clipboard fluctuated in the form of ambiguous blobs, moving in all directions across the paper. "You have really bad handwriting, Peter," I chided, "I thought mine was bad but this... Do you even know the English alphabet?"

A 'tsk' sounded, and he amusedly rolled his eyes, "Focus, Number Sixteen. You're doing beautifully."

"I am focusing," I craned my neck to get a better view. The letters spilled down his paper like water, incomprehensible. "It's not working. The letters are like... blobby."

Another brief pause. His eyes never left the girl's face. He sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, then said, "Try to reorient. My handwriting can’t be that bad.”

I finally obliged. A surge of power scraped through my body, attentive and waiting. Another steady inhale, and the words on his paper came into focus. I was not surprised to discover that his handwriting was an elegant, sloping thing, easy to make out.

'How was your movie?' The paper read.

The blackness cracked and fizzled around me, turning to static until there was nothing at all. An intense sensation similar to freefalling made my stomach drop. The strange phenomenon yanked at my limbs as though a magnet were dragging me closer, and then it all stopped.

My eyes snapped open and I was back in my body, regarding Peter through narrowed eyes, "How do you know about that?"

"The two of you certainly weren't quiet about it," He was not surprised to see my consciousness return. I wasn't quick enough to hide the panic I felt. First Gloria, now Peter. Who else knew? What sort of punishment would that merit?

A soft squeeze reminded me that mine and Peter's hands were still interlocked, "Don't look so frightened, Sixteen, I'm not going to tell him. You know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you." He smiled, again. A delicate, comforting thing.

For the millionth time, I pictured Six's face, veins popping as electricity burned her from the inside out. Papa, staring, playing God as though he weren't a normal, mediocre man. He had no right to hurt her. He had no right to hurt anyone.

It came as no surprise when I looked up and found Peter already staring at me. Sometimes, I wondered if he could see into my mind with those sapphire eyes of his. "How many times has he hurt you, Peter?"

His hand left mine. There was a slight shift in his features. It wasn't fear or sadness. It was hatred. Burning like a thousand suns, hot enough to boil every ocean. I didn't think Peter capable of such a feeling.

It suited him.

"I don't want to scare you, Number Sixteen," He whispered, "There are some things you don't need to know-- some things you'd be better off not knowing." The brief spout of anger disappeared, and he offered me a pitiful attempt at a smile, "I'm sorry."

I shook my head and reached for his hand. His skin was warm, exactly as I remembered it. "Don't apologize, Peter."

A strange, inexplicable beat of tension passed.

I had told myself not to trust him only hours before. I began to doubt if I even had a say in the matter.

Chapter Text

Six and I sat across from one another. She was uncharacteristically quiet today, doodling aimlessly on a piece of paper. The silence was only broken up by her occasional sigh. Now, most days I would have welcomed it, but the air conditioning was especially loud today, and I was especially irritable.

Palming the pill was far too easy last night, and tricking Gloria into thinking I had taken it was even easier. I suppose the universe would only grant me so many mercies at once, though, and I had to pay for them in the form of yet another sleepless night.

It was embarrassing how many hours I had spent mulling over Peter. Each interaction, each smile, each glance. I couldn't explain the sudden interest. I hardly knew the man, hardly trusted him, but my heart didn't seem to care.

In any other circumstance, perhaps I would have indulged such desires. But I knew better. The risk of getting close to anyone in the hell-like purgatory that was Papa's lab far outweighed the reward. My heart could trust Peter as much as it liked, but deep down, I couldn't count on anyone to get me out of here but myself. Not to mention the ever-looming threat of Papa's tasers.

On the other hand, I knew the second I was back in Peter's presence, all of my logic would go out the window. It happened before, and it would certainly happen again. I'd trade all of my pledges to self-preservation for rose-colored glasses as though I didn't have any impulse control. The back and forth of my emotions was enough to give me motion sickness.

I cursed myself for being so spineless.

But how could I be anything else?

Irrationally, I blamed Peter, too. I blamed him for being so kind, so beautiful, so warm. Didn't he know what he was doing? Didn't he know I wanted him to stop? Part of me wished he was more like Papa. Arrogant, easy to see through, lacking in any charm. I wish I hated him. Everything would be so much easier if I hated him.

I wanted him to be cruel. Perhaps, then, I wouldn't like him so much.

The growing bluster of the air conditioning pulled me out of my own head. The bittersweet distraction made me grind my teeth in annoyance. I was tired of thinking, tired of hearing, tired of seeing. Or, I was just tired. My eyes fought to stay open as the air conditioning grew louder and louder.

The ceaseless billowing came from all directions, unrelenting despite my efforts to cover my ears and block them out. I peered around the room in search of anyone else who was affected by the awful noise. All I managed to do, though, was lock eyes with Peter. He sat with a group of my siblings in the midst of a conversation I didn't care to listen to.

An irritated huff left my lips as I turned back to Six.

"I'm going to put a gun in my mouth," I muttered to her.

"Don't do that," She said dismissively, gaze fixed on her paper, "It probably wouldn't taste good."

"I don't think I'd mind the taste for too long."

The conversation came to a pause. The air conditioning grew louder.

The Rainbow Room was especially lifeless this morning. Most children sat at tables rather than in front of the toys scattered around the room. Without their soft, susurrant whispers, the a/c was louder. I couldn't stand it.

"Why is everyone so quiet?" I asked, "Why are you so quiet? Did someone die?"

Six finally dropped her pencil and met my eyes. "Oh, this is your first testing day, isn't it?" I nodded, unsure of what that meant. "I've been going through testing days my whole life, they're not too bad. Basically, we all have individual training today, and Papa comes to watch each of us to see how we're progressing. I don't usually take it too seriously, but our siblings..." She glanced around at them, "They want to impress Papa, so they spent all morning conserving their powers and meditating. I don't really understand what it's supposed ot accomplish, it's never made a difference for me."

"You don't care about impressing Papa?" I asked, though it was more of a statement. Six seemed to be one of the only people here who shared my disdain for Papa. It was refreshing to have someone who hated the same people as me.

"You know what he's capable of, Sixteen," She leaned forward, speaking in a nearly inaudible whisper. My eyes briefly left hers to glance at the camera in the corner of the room. "I'm focused less on impressing him and more on staying on his good side."

Just as I opened my mouth to reply, the chairs on the opposite sides of the table scrapped out of their place. Two and Four sat down, armed with sickeningly sweet smiles and glares made of daggers. The sound of the air conditioning quieted almost immediately as Six and I exchanged worried glances.

"Hi, Six!" Four greeted, lips tilting into a sneer as she faced me, "Sixteen."

"Hello," I replied, hoping my curt response made it clear they were unwelcome.

"You look really tired," Two spoke. Not even a minute into our exchange, he was mocking me. I barely restrained the urge to roll my eyes. "Really, really tired. Were you up all night worrying about testing day?"

I maintained a placid expression, "Yes, I was. It's my first testing day, so I'm nervous." I blew on my hands, "Sweaty palms, you know?"

"Oh, yes, I understand," He replied, abruptly reaching forward and taking my hand in his. Six didn't say a word as she silently edged off of her seat, prepared to jump into action at a moment's notice. "I would be worried if I were you, too. Papa doesn't like to be disappointed."

"I suppose I won't disappoint him then, hm?" My lips curled as my tone turned mocking, "You should be more worried about yourself, Two."

In response, his grip on my hand tightened. The threat was as clear as the hostile glint in his eyes. My face remained impassive. Four tsked, catching my attention, "I think it would be in your best interest if you failed your tests today." She nodded to Two, "Don't you agree?"

He nodded, and then his grip tightened even further. A wince slipped past my unmoving exterior. My entire hand was shaking.

"Aw, and why is that?" I spat, throwing as much condescension into my tone as possible, "Worried I'll do better than you?"

"That's a funny thought," Four laughed, "She has a sense of humor." All amusement ran screaming from her face. The glare she sent my way was abysmal. "No, Sixteen. I'm worried about your well-being. Today, Papa is going to choose one of us for his new program. Two and I have been working towards an opportunity like that for a long, long time. You wouldn't want to mess anything up for us, right?"

"I doubt she could," Two tilted his head mockingly, "You're weak, Sixteen. We know it, Papa knows, I bet even Six knows it. Throw the tests today, or you're going to wish you had." My fingertips turned blue as he clenched his fist, growing tighter by the second. I felt the bones in my hand crying out for relief as I fought harder and harder to keep my face straight.

"Or what, Two?" My pride would not allow me to back down. Six didn't say a word, either too scared or not scared enough to make a move.

"Or..." Two smiled a horrific, nauseating smile, "We're going to kill you."

A beat of silence passed by. I waited for a snide remark to come to mind, but I came up blank. For once, I was utterly speechless. I knew they didn't like me-- they certainly didn't try to hide it. The brutality of their methods, though, and the crude way in which they conducted themselves came as a shock to me. The seemingly needless escalation of violence-- what was so special about this program? Was it all simply to impress Papa? My gaze shifted to my hand, which had begun to lose feeling at a rapid pace.

They wouldn't really kill me... Right?

"Is there an issue over here?" Peter's voice boomed from right behind me, harsh and authoritative like I had never heard it before. When I faced him, his back was as straight as ever, regarding us all through narrowed, discerning eyes. I had nearly forgotten that he was my superior within the lab's hierarchy. That fact was glaringly obvious now, it almost stung.

If looks could kill, Two and Four would be far worse than dead. They offered each other nervous glances, and then Two released my hand with one final squeeze. "Of course not," Four smiled, "We were just wishing Six and her friend good luck. It's testing day, after all."

"Were you?" Peter tilted his head, tone dripping with condescension, "Why don't you two go wish them luck from," He gestured towards a table across the room, "over there. Hm?"

And just like the rats they were, Two and Four scurried across the room, leaving Six and I to stare at one another in stunned silence.

Before any of us could say anything to him, Peter was gone, having returned to his conversation without another word.

Chapter Text

Papa summoned the children to his office one at a time. First Two, then Three, then Four, continuing on in numerical order. Each person seemed to dread whatever was waiting for them, dragging their feet as different orderlies ushered them out the door. This only made me more nervous, as I had no idea what to expect, and Six had disappeared a few hours ago.

Each child came back right after their testing except her. I figured she just went to rest, choosing her bed over free time in the Rainbow Room. I'd of done the same. Still, though, it left me to sit alone as the hours ticked by, impatiently waiting for my turn all while fighting the urge to fall asleep. Each minute seemed to pass slower than the last.

As if it wasn't bad enough already, Two and Four's incessant glaring in my direction made me want to carve my eyes out. I was already hypersensitive with the lack of sleep and the endless screaming of the a/c, and their stares were enough to push me over the edge.

The cards clenched between my hands suddenly slipped, and I watched as they fell to the ground. On top of everything else, the fallen cards brought frustrated tears to my eyes. The light above me flickered as my anger reached new depths. "Fuck," I whispered, clenching my eyes closed as I tried to steady my breathing, "It's just a few cards."

There was a tap on my shoulder.

"What?" I spat, whipping my head around to face the culprit.

Peter's blue eyes filled with confusion at my outburst. Of course, it was Peter who I'd lost my temper on. Because why would the universe ever make things easy for me? "It's your turn, Sixteen," He said.

"Lovely," I muttered, rising from my chair. I was too tired to be nervous around him. The dream didn't even cross my mind as I followed him out into the hallway. I kept my mouth shut and my gaze on the floor, silently panicking as we made our way to Papa's office. I hadn't seen the man since I'd discovered his... more violent tendencies. Was I a good enough actor to play the doting daughter on zero hours of sleep?

I suppose I didn't really have a choice, did I?

My thoughts traveled back to Two and Four's threat. I truly didn't know whether to take it seriously or not. Why did they only ask me to fail? Why not Six? I must have given them the impression that I was powerful enough to get a spot in Papa's revered 'program.' Otherwise, they wouldn't have said what they did.

I didn't doubt Two and Four's capacity for violence. 'Unhinged' described the pair pretty well. Six once told me it wasn't unlike them to fight with their fellow patient. Broken fingers, legs, wrists, and arms. All inflicted to pay tribute to their obsession with Papa. In one way, I felt bad for them. They'd been molded to think that way their entire lives. I was more fortunate than they were in that metric. Papa's influence had shattered the minds of nearly everyone in the facility. The rest simply cowered at his feet.

My gaze shifted to my still-throbbing hand.

I dug my heels into the ground. If they didn't kill me, they would certainly hurt me. That thought had me stopping in my tracks and wondering if I had the willpower to walk into the office. What if I got the spot even after throwing the tests today?

"Sixteen?" Peter had stopped walking. I glanced down the deserted hallways on either side of us. For a moment, I considered hauling ass. Perhaps I could skip the tests altogether and take my chances at an off-the-cuff escape attempt.

Peter took a few steps closer. Slowly, though, like he was trying not to frighten an animal. "Are you feeling alright?" His eyebrows knitted together in worry. It briefly occurred to me how insane this all was. I was trapped in a lab, surrounded by children who possessed unknown powers, forced to follow the will of a man I did not know. All this time spent thinking about Peter when I should've been thinking about myself.

But then again, what else was there?

I had no memories of my own, no comprehension of the outside world. If I left... I would be completely and utterly alone, known only by those who remained in the lab-- a ghost in every way that mattered. Somehow, that was scarier than anything Papa could possibly do to me. So I had to choose between torture, paranoia, and manipulation or being virtually nonexistent.

The entire situation was impossible.

"They said they were going to kill me," The words left angry welts on my throat. The fear I felt was far too easy for Peter to see. From the flush of my skin to the widening of my eyes, it was too obvious. Before I even spoke, I wished I could take the words back, "I'm going to fail today, Peter. I'm sorry if that reflects badly on you, but I can't--," I took a deep, shaking breath.

"I can't." The finality of the words left no room for debate.

He stared at me, completely silent. I didn't know what else to say. Whatever he was thinking, I couldn't tell. Papa wouldn't punish him for my own shortcomings, would he? The thought alone made my head pound.

His jaw clenched. "You really don't see it, do you?" I gave him a blank stare as he stepped closer. "You're stronger than the others, Sixteen. They're not going to hurt you because they can't."

Slowly, he raised his hand. I glanced at the callouses on his fingertips and my blood went cold. Deja vu hit me like a speeding truck. He tapped two fingers against my head, "The blockage is in here. But I've said that already, haven't I?"

I shook my head, "It's not that simple, Peter."

He smiled and tilted his head, "Isn't it?"

"No, it's not," I sighed.

He appeared to be deep in thought for a moment. Part of me hoped he would just drop it and allow me to fail the tests to my heart's desire. I already regretted telling him about Two and Four's threat. It only complicated matters, and it wasn't like he could do anything to prevent it.

Peter tapped the tattoo on my wrist, "Do you remember when Papa gave you this?" A bitter taste filled my mouth at the thought. I always made a concerted effort not to look at the '016' that marred the flesh of my arm. It only reminded me of how hopeless my situation was-- reminded me that giving up would make my life so much easier.

"Yes," I muttered, "I wish I didn't, though."

"Me too," He whispered, warm fingers ghosting over the tattoo once more. He met my eyes, "The next time you use your abilities, I want you to think back to that moment. What were you feeling?"

"I felt..." I remembered waking up in that chair, alone, drugged out of my mind. Most of the details were fuzzy, too much was happening at once. But even so, the memory remained parasitically in the back of my mind. It served as a constant reminder of what was at stake. Body and mind, heart and soul. They all cowered at the thought. "Hopeless, I suppose."

"Hopeless," He repeated, as though he were tasting the word in his mouth, "Your emotions are uniquely connected to your abilities. They ground you, they sustain you. Use them, Sixteen, and your siblings' pitiful excuse for a threat will be the least of your concerns."

"I can't promise you anything, Peter," I still couldn't be sure. True or not, there wasn't enough time to prove his claim. Regrettably, my mind remained unchanged. "I don't mind if Papa is disappointed in my performance today. Impressing him doesn't mean anything to me. I can't risk it."

He remained silent.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," I mumbled, before side-stepping him and continuing towards Papa's office. My head throbbed. Each footstep pushed me more and more towards the brink of collapse. The air conditioning continued with its billowing. My heart sank.

I just wanted everything to go away.

"You could never disappoint me, Sixteen."

I suppose Peter could stay, though.

The first two rounds of testing went just as I expected. Papa watched me with perceptive eyes, occasionally offering the same useless advice I'd heard a million times. The first thing he asked me to do was push over a block. I grunted and groaned, pretending to put effort into the task until it looked believable. Feigning disappointment was easy. Next, he asked me to turn on the lights. I continued the ruse, straining the muscles in my neck and sighing after I 'failed.'

The whole time, I could feel Peter's eyes drilling into the back of my head. He stood at the door and never said a word, but his judgment simmered in the air between us. If I were him, I'd probably be annoyed with me too. How many hours had he spent getting me to the point I was at now? All for me to throw it away when it actually mattered.

I could not meet Peter's eyes, so instead, I stared at Papa's. I sat with a polite smile on my face and discerning, attentive eyes. Most of what he said didn't even register, though. My mind was far too busy wrestling with more important thoughts. The most predominant of which being-- holy fuck-- I was so tired I could feel my organs shutting down.

"Sixteen?" Papa's voice pulled me away from my thoughts. He, too, had a smile on his face, which was surprising, considering how badly I'd done so far. "Your last test of the day is rather simple. I'm sure you've done something similar with Peter already." He nodded in Peter's direction.

"I'm told you have an excellent grasp on extrasensory perception," He praised, before picking up a notebook on his desk. I locked eyes with Peter, who had an uncharacteristically smug smile plastered on his face.

Papa flipped through the notebook, "I'm not present at your training often enough to accurately track your progress, so Peter takes notes for me. Now, this entry is from your last session." He paused, cleared his throat, and quoted, "Subject successfully discerned written word without the use of the five given senses. Subject posed no physical or mental signs of fatigue in the aftermath of the experiment."

My eyes narrowed. Peter knew Papa had the notebook the whole time, didn't he? He practically had a fail-safe to keep me from completely throwing all of the tests. And the motherfucker hadn't even told me. If I failed the extrasensory perception test, Papa would have to believe I'd either lost all of that progress in one day, or that Peter was a liar. Again, I was forced to wonder what merited Papa's wrath.

My eyes met Peter's. A subtle inclination of his head gave me all the confirmation I needed.

Fucker.

"How about we skip your last test, hm?" Papa's words caught me by surprise. Maybe he had seen me fail thus far and figured another test was a waste of time. No, but that didn't make sense, especially if he knew I was best at the test he had canceled. Perhaps it was just a blessing in disguise.

I briefly forgot the role I had given myself. How would a doting daughter reply to such a thing? She wouldn't be excited. Probably not mad, either, in case that upset Papa. If anything, she'd be eager to do the final test and win his esteemed approval. With that thought in mind, I plastered a frown on my face and asked, "Why? I'll do better this time."

Papa offered me a reassuring smile and clasped my hands in his, "I don't doubt your abilities, Sixteen. You've progressed more in the past two months than some of your siblings have in their entire lives."

His approval made my heart drop. Surely, he wasn't considering me for the program. I had already failed two-thirds of the test. "I'm not so sure," I muttered, "The blocks didn't move, the lights didn't even flicker. Most of the children can do both of those things without any trouble."

"That's exactly what makes you so special," His eyes sparkled with scientific intrigue, as though he were staring at his newest invention, "Sure, your siblings can turn on lights and move blocks, but none of them can sustain an out of body experience for more than a few seconds. Especially not without being incapacitated for a few hours. You, daughter, weren't even tired."

He sat back in his seat, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "You're an enigma."

I didn't quite know what to say. If what I'd done truly was as exceptional as Papa was saying, then why didn't Peter mention anything about it to me? He hadn't even seemed surprised when I read the words on his paper. Perhaps Papa was just exaggerating it to make me feel better?

Oh, but that wasn't likely.

When I'd done badly in the past, he held it against me. Sometimes he even taunted me with the reality of my failures. At the time, I figured it was some sorry attempt at reverse psychology. Had he simply changed his methods?

"I have a surprise for you, Number Sixteen," Papa continued. I titled my head, signaling for him to go on. "There's a position open in a new program I'm developing. I would like to see you fill it." I very nearly threw up. My fingernails cut viciously into my palms. "Once a week, you'll be given a face and a name, and then it will be your job to locate that person. Each time you succeed, you'll be rewarded an extra hour in the Rainbow Room. How does that sound?"

Like a death sentence, and the worst possible thing he could've possibly said.

The universe must have gotten off on all of this. My entire life had begun feeling like a big game of 'how can we make this worse for Sixteen?'

"Intriguing," I replied after a short silence. My voice was all high and wrong. I hoped Papa would mistake the panic for excitement. "Are you certain I'm, uh..." I cleared my throat, "Qualified for that?"

"I have unending faith in you, daughter," He smiled once more. A sweet, saccharine smile that made something dark and frightened twist in my stomach. I glanced down at my palm, which was stained red from the crescent-shaped craters my nails had created. Maggots must've been crawling beneath my skin, gnawing at what was left of my composure. I could feel it slipping away by the second.

Never, in my entire life, had I been so wholly and utterly fucked.

Chapter Text

I knew it.

I fucking knew it.

'Don't trust Peter' I had said. 'It's too risky.'

And that task had been so, nauseatingly simple at first. As easy as breathing. Grouping him with everyone else was the most logical thing I'd ever done in his regard. But then, the motherfucker let me go. Sweet, kind, lovely Peter had watched as I walked free. I should've known that it wouldn't stop there. I should've known that he'd proceed to prove himself time and time again. With his beautiful smile, beautiful words, beautiful fucking everything. As I thought it all over, every single interaction we'd ever had felt like one big ploy to win my trust.

And it almost worked.

I had been, perhaps, one more sentimental moment away from giving in completely. Surrendering to those awful, cerulean eyes. Then testing day happened. The smug little shit tricked me, failing to mention his stupid fucking diary and how it had fallen into Papa's hands. God-- just the thought made my blood boil. How had I not caught on until then? I should have known something was wrong when he didn't try to convince me to try during the tests. Of course, he wouldn't let all those hours go to waste, not when it was Papa he'd have to answer to. I wasn't sure if he had given the notes before or after he knew about the threat posed against me, but either way, he had fucked up. If he tricked me once, what was to stop him from tricking me again?

I had fabricated our entire relationship. That was the only logical conclusion. He saw me as a part of his job. He probably had the same words for me and every other child he'd ever mentored. Oh, but that didn't make sense either. I highly doubt the other children had seen Peter getting punished or listened to him explain the wicked ways in which Papa conducted himself.

The entire thing made my head spin.

All I knew was that I was fucking pissed, and Peter would have to get on his fucking hands and knees and beg for my forgiveness if he ever wanted me to trust him again.

As training began and Peter led me toward our destination, I did not look at him. Nor did I speak to him. We walked side by side in complete silence, broken only by the rattling of the air conditioner overhead. His eyes, annoyingly, remained glued to my face. He watched me as he would an active bomb, apprehensive and expecting, prepared for me to blow up at any moment. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

When we arrived at a set of double doors, unmarked and grey just like the rest, he pushed one open and gestured for me to go inside. I did so without a word. No matter how petty it was, I hoped my cold shoulder made him uncomfortable.

I stood in the center of what I assumed was a kitchen. White tile occupied the entire room aside from the ceiling, which housed light bulbs and the occasional sprinkler. There were a few ovens, an industrial-sized fridge, and two sinks. Aside from that, there were rows upon rows of bleached, colorless cabinets.

The a/c was even louder in there.

"How long do you plan on moping, Sixteen?" Peter asked, suddenly right beside me. I didn't know what he hoped to accomplish with the question, because all it did was aggravate me further. I had every right to 'mope.'

I sniffed. "As long as I please, Peter. That is unless you plan on tricking me into a better mood."

"I'm not going to trick you." The way he said it almost made me believe he never had in the first place. A scoff fell from my lips.

"Why?" I asked, "You're so good at it."

He positioned himself in front of me. The corners of his lips tugged downward, creating the smallest hint of a frown. "Don't be angry with me," He urged, "Yes, I gave him the notes knowing the risk. I didn't want to trick you, Sixteen, but you wouldn't have succeeded if I hadn't." His confession only made things worse. Angry knots twisted in my stomach. Perhaps the situation would have been redeemable if he had given Papa the notes beforehand, but no. He knew the danger I was in and he still persisted.

"And now, because of you, I have a target on my back," I spat, "Succeeding isn't half as important as my wellbeing."

Peter didn't reply for a few seconds. He appeared at a loss for words. I suppose I had an advantage in that respect, having spent all night preparing my argument.

"Your safety is ensured, Sixteen. The threat is gone," He muttered, blue eyes filled with meaning. I barely restrained myself from laughing in his face. He had been here longer than me, surely he knew Two and Four's ways. Either he was stupider than I thought, or he was being naive on purpose.

"Is it?" I asked sarcastically, "Did you go up to Two and Four and fight them yourself? Or did you give them a stern talking to? If they didn't respond to the warnings of authority figures before, why would they do it now?"

He tilted his head down in order to see my face in its entirety. "The threat is gone," He repeated. A smile crept upon his lips. I stared, nonplussed. Half of me was convinced he was lying, but the other half couldn't help but notice the significance swirling around in his eyes. I realized that he fully believed the words leaving his mouth. Something awfully convincing must have occurred for him to be so sure. An ominous idea crossed my mind, so preposterous I almost felt foolish for thinking it.

It was like he was in my brain, watching as I made the realization. He tilted his head, impossibly confirming the terrible, sinking feeling that twisted in my gut. That, perhaps, he'd resorted to other methods. Methods more impactful than a slap on the wrist. My words were a whisper when they slipped from my tongue, "Peter... Peter, what did you do?"

Something dark filled his eyes. Something depraved that made me wonder if I truly knew him at all. The strangest feeling crawled beneath my skin. "I kept you safe," He breathed, "Someone had to." Alarm bells violently rang in my head as his hand left his side, attempting to touch my face.

I pushed it away and took a step back, stumbling over my own feet. He regarded my clumsiness with a light, amused smile. "Don't look so scandalized, Sixteen," He taunted, "Threats such as theirs are not tolerated. Especially not by your 'Papa.' If I hadn't reported them, another orderly would have."

My mind was spinning. Peter wouldn't have hurt them. He wasn't capable of malevolence. He was supposed to be better than that. But I could see that I was wrong. I could see it in the beautiful, terrible smile on his face. I could see it in his eyes-- he almost look unhinged. "So, what then?" I hissed, hardly believing the words were even leaving my lips, "You had them punished?"

His steady breathing was the only sound in the entire room. He nodded.

Something simmered in the air between us. His gaze was cutting, predatory. I feared it would eat me alive. "Oh my god," I put my hand over my mouth. I couldn't decide what frightened me more. The fact that Peter had done such a thing, or that fact that he'd only made the situation worse. "Fuck. If they were going to kill me before, what do you think they're going to do now?" A frantic laugh bubbled from my throat, "Holy shit, Peter. Why would you do that?"

"You should be thanking me," He stalked closer. My heart hammered in my chest. "They won't bother you again," He spoke as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, "And, please, mind your language."

I blinked.

"You don't understand," I whispered, "There's a hierarchy among the patients, and they're at the top of it. Two's pride is what drives his every breath, and if I've wounded it, then he won't stop just because you had him punished." My wide eyes met his, "This is really, really bad."

Peter closed the distance between us. I barely fought the urge to step away as he took my hand in his. "Listen to me, Sixteen," He commanded. The harshness of his tone took me by surprise. "They are not going to do anything to you ever again." He shook his head, blonde hairs falling over his eyes. "I'll make sure of it."

A sigh left my lips.

How wrong he was.

Training passed in a blur of anxiety and exhaustion. When the mood eventually lifted, Peter had me locate different objects in the room with a blindfold wrapped around my head. I did so without complaint. I was too tired to fight him, and far too busy sifting through my own thoughts.

Using my abilities drained me far more than usual. I could feel their weakening pulse beneath my skin, less prominent but still there. I wondered if I continued on like this, would they go away entirely? I welcomed the thought. It would save me a lot of strife. But, of course, things weren't that easy, and they'd probably be restored after a full night's sleep.

I held it together long enough to reach free time, where I was supposed to report to the Rainbow Room. Instead, though, I snuck into the room where Six and I had watched movies a few days ago. I sought solace in the quiet, the lack of air conditioning, and the isolation.

My entire body felt too reactive. Each time my shoulder brushed against the cold tile, a biting chill would rush down my spine. My nerves groaned as they scraped against one another, alive and cognizant in a way they had never been before. I held a hand to my chest, painfully aware of my heart as it pounded against my ribcage.

My peripheral vision blurred. I closed my eyes, willing everything to slow down, only to find myself completely unable to control all the emotions eating away at my sanity. The lights flickered. My hands shook. I couldn't breathe. My head was so full I feared my skull would burst.

The term 'panic attack' could not begin to describe the sensation.

I feared Peter didn't understand the gravity of what he had done. He must've faced so many punishments that he'd become numb to the significance of them. Two and Four would not stop. He could swear up and down that I was safe, but I wouldn't believe him.

Even now, I could feel the threat of their presence looming over me. Like a bird of prey, they watched and they bided their time with hungry, piercing eyes.

I had completely and utterly misread Peter. I always suspected that he had a darker side. And, even then, he still had me fooled. A few days ago, if you had told me he was a guardian angel, I wouldn't have doubted it for a second. What, with the way his eyes bewitched, his voice caressed, and his touch soothed. Something about him had to be divine. No one was that perfect.

I feared he was much more complicated than that. Where he was beautiful, he was cruel. He had condemned two children to a fate I would never wish upon anyone. At the same time, his reasoning was perfectly logical, and in one way, I should have been flattered-- but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong with him. That I had only just scratched the surface of his formidable, almost indestructible walls.

And what was more frightening than anything was how much it enamored me. How it only made me want to be around him more. To pick him apart piece by piece until I could see his insides, as ugly and rotten as they may be.

Something was truly wrong with me.

I was pulled out of my thoughts by the sound of footsteps walking down the hallway on the other side of the door. Truthfully, I welcomed the distraction. My mind was too loud, and I was far too tired to spend any more time thinking.

I took a deep, steadying breath and faced the shelves full of tapes. Since I had no idea how to work the television, I'd distract myself with the tapes. My knees were wobbly, shaking underneath my weight as I neared the shelves.

My touch ghosted over the plastic labels marking each tape. When I pulled my hand away, the tips of my fingers had turned grey. Whoever maintained this room was not very good at their job.

Suddenly, a thought popped into my head.

My arrival at Hawkins lab was all sort of a blur. When I closed my eyes, there were flashes of doctors, white lights, and hospital beds, but that was about it. I had never thought too much about it, though. A seizure wasn't really something most people would enjoy thinking about. I wondered what lost memories of mine were immortalized on that day's camera footage.

With discerning eyes, I scanned the label of each tape. The further I walked to my left, the older the tapes were, and the dustier. When I reached the end of the first shelf, I fought through a coughing fit, and then ventured to the opposite side.

By the time I reached the month of April 1979, the labels were so obscured by dust and cobwebs they were nearly incomprehensible. I blew away what I could and strained to see the little numbers scattered across the spines.

The date of my arrival had been April 1st, 1979.

And that seemed to be the only tape in the entire collection that was missing.

Chapter Text

"You look awful," was Six's form of greeting as I collapsed in the chair beside her. My entire body ached with exhaustion. I wouldn't have been surprised if I just dropped dead at any given moment. Even my fucking bones hurt. Was that possible?

"You have such a way with words," I replied. With slow, lazy movements, I laid my head against the table. The coldness of the wood was sobering, a welcome respite from the alluring pull of sleep. I looked at Sixteen through bleary, half-lidded eyes.

She was right, of course. I did look like shit. That morning, when I had finally given up on any attempt at rest and staggered into the bathroom, I almost didn't recognize the woman staring back at me. Just like the rainbow running along the wall, Papa's facility had slowly begun sucking the life out of me. I could see it in the hollowing of my cheeks, the bags under my eyes, and the lethargic way in which I moved.

I hated it.

How long could I go on in such a state? Were it not for the rising and falling of my chest, I would have mistaken myself for a corpse. The once healthy, warm glow in my cheeks had completely disappeared, leaving me to wonder if it'd ever been there in the first place. I'd been reduced to a stranger in my own body.

"Let me rephrase," Sixteen sat up and cleared her throat, "You look as though you haven't slept in your entire life. And I say that in the most loving, respectful way possible." She smiled, "Better?"

With an amused roll of my eyes, I replied, "Yes, much better. Thank you."

"Seriously, though, are the pills not helping at all?"

"I mean, they can't help if I'm not taking them."

She frowned, "Why aren't you taking them?"

"Uh, I don't know," I muttered, "They give me weird dreams."

Over the past few days, I'd been seriously considering taking the pills again. Were dreams about Peter really as bad as being so exhausted I couldn't think? Not to mention, it was only one dream. Perhaps I'd been too hasty in my decision to give up the drug. For all I knew, it was a one-off occurrence that wouldn't be repeated. Maybe that night, Peter just took up too much space in my head. Then, hormones had intermingled with my subconscious and fabricated the entire thing.

Either way, it'd been far too real. If I just closed my eyes, I could still feel his hands all over me. The harshness of his breath, the precise blue of his eyes. It was like he was right there, standing in front of me. I recalled each and every moment in excruciating detail, which certainly didn't help. My face burned with the shame of it all.

"They're staring at us again," Sixteen's voice pulled me from my thoughts. I followed her line of sight all the way to number Four and number Two. They sat in front of the wooden maze, narrowed eyes zeroed in on the SIxteen and me. A twinge of fear made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I peeled my eyes off the pair.

"I got the position," I said, "In the 'program.' Which actually sucks because I think Two and Four are going to wear my guts as necklaces. Not to mention, Papa is being annoyingly vague about the entire thing. There's no way it's just called 'the program.' That's an awful name."

Six's gaze snapped to mine, "That's really, really bad."

"Yeah, I know. It's a stupid name."

"No, not that," She leaned closer, wide-eyed and conspiratory, "They look like they want to kill you. And, considering their last threat, I wouldn't put it past them."

"Yeah, well, Peter is convinced that they're going to leave me alone, but I'm not so sure. My plan is to just stay around a bunch of people so they never get the chance to try," I shrugged, "It's not the most brilliant strategy, I know, but I'm so tired I feel like my brain is eating itself. And I'm too lazy to come up with another one."

In truth, I'd wasted most of the night trying to come up with a plan. Avoiding them would only work for so long. If they wanted me dead, then they'd find a way around that. So, I wracked my brain for hours and hours on end, only to arrive at one conclusion. No matter the precautions I took or the lengths I went to, I was completely and utterly helpless. Peter's promises were void, his punishments had surely accomplished nothing, and I was resigned solely to the will of Two and Four. There was no chance that they would leave me alone. My only hope was to fight them when the chance arose. And I really, really didn't like my odds.

I abruptly stood from the table, "I'll be right back," I said to Sixteen.

My hands were slick with sweat and I made my way toward Peter. He sat with Twelve, nimble fingers working at a piece of paper. A few origami figures sat beside Twelve, resembling a poorly-made lizard of some kind and a butterfly. Peter smiled at the attempts as he masterfully accomplished what the child could not.

I briefly wondered if there was a thing Peter couldn't do, though I doubted it.

With a clearing of my throat, I drew their attention toward me. "Good morning, Twelve." I smiled, then nodded at his disfigured origami, "You're quite good at that. Peter, a word?"

Peter smiled at Twelve and rose from his chair, "Keep practicing, alright? Remember to fold away from your body rather than towards it. I can see you're getting better already."

With that, I beckoned him to follow me across the room.

When we arrived at an unoccupied table, we both took a seat. If Peter noticed the exhaustion on my face, he didn't mention it. Why would he? The man was so polite it was almost absurd. A frown came across my face at the thought. So polite, and yet capable of such cruelty. I derailed the train of thought before I could climb aboard, distracting myself with the words, "I don't think I can go to training today."

A slight downward tilt of his lips accompanied the question, "And why is that?" His eyes flitted over my face as though he hoped to find an answer from my expression alone.

Stupidly, I hadn't thought that far. The night before, I'd been too busy trying to deal with the lingering threat of Two and Four. As a result, my plans for the day ahead were far from foolproof. Not once had I considered to prepare a decent excuse. So, as the moments ticked on and my brain began sputtering whatever nonsense it could, I frowned and said "I'm sick."

"Are you?" He tilted his head and gave me a once over, "You don't look sick. Tired, certainly, but not sick." I bit my tongue to prevent a bitter remark. Did no one here have basic courtesy? And how was he supposed to know the difference between 'sick' and 'tired'? They certainly looked the same to me.

In response, I coughed.

"See? I'm deathly ill." And then I narrowed my eyes, "And don't call me tired."

An amused smile filled his beautifully wicked face. "You're an awful actress, Sixteen. I'm not sure why you want to avoid today's training, but I'll allow it. Just this once." Peter paused, regarding me through contemplative eyes. "Perhaps you should use your newfound free time to rest, hm?"

"I think I'll pass," I muttered, rising from my seat. "And thank you."

Just when I turned to leave, his hand jutted out and wrapped around my wrist. I stared down at his slender fingers, surprise written across my face. Peter seemed taken aback by his own actions, too. Something like disbelief pooled in his eyes. Just as it appeared, it was gone again, and he offered his signature polite smile, "In all seriousness, Sixteen, please get some rest. You'll need it for your new program. And I don't--" He cleared his throat, "Papa won't like seeing you like this."

"I'll try, Peter."

There wasn't any evidence of what occurred during mine and Peter's previous training by the pool. The last time I'd been there, sparks rained down and scorched the bleary white tile-- the fulminations of light bulbs left glass scattered like sharp, murderous knives of crystal. Now, the room was completely renewed. The floor had been swept and the blood had been mopped, returning the space to it's awful, pristine glory. All that once happened was merely a forethought, lingering in the purr of the ventilation and my chlorinated memory.

I repeated the date 'April 1st, 1979' under my breath until I was so sick of it, I'd have preferred to stab my own ear drums than listen anymore. I could never forget that day even if I wanted to, and yet, I clung onto it as though someone was trying to climb into my mind and steal it from me.

I didn't quite understand my 'abilities.' I knew they acted up when I was angry or sad or frightened, but that was about it. Somedays it was easy to call upon them, other days not so much. The term 'extrasensory perception' still made my head pound with confusion. Apparently, though, I had an affinity for it. And that's where the pool came in.

Quite vividly, I remember being underneath the water and sensing my foretold 'abilities' better than I ever had before. How could I forget? What, with the lulling of power in my veins, syrupy and potent like the world's strongest poison. The feeling was otherworldly; so intense it was almost biblical.

At the time, I'd lost control.

I could only hope the mistake would not be repeated as I slowly lowered myself into the freezing cold water. Apparently, the pool heaters hadn't been run in a long while, leaving me to wonder how often the room was used. If sensory deprivation was such a strong aid, why didn't Papa use it often?

The bathing suit that enveloped my body had been left in a laundry basket in the girl's locker room. I forced myself not to think about who had worn it last or the odd stain near the waist as I pulled it on minutes before. Obviously, my plans for today didn't qualify as a valid training session, so no bathing suit of my own had been left out. It clung at my skin uncomfortably, compressing my lungs until I felt as though I would pass out.

I inhaled sharply as the cold water crawled up my arms and pooled around my shoulders. All I had to do was focus hard enough and ground myself without the perturbance of sound and sight. Use my abilities, locate the tape. It would only take five minutes if I was smart about it. I'd be in and out of the pool in no time.

As long as I didn't get caught.

With one final gasp, I braced myself for the frigid depths below me. A moment later, I was under the water. The coldness clawed at the flesh of my face, biting and ferocious. Bubbles caressed the flesh of my arms as they rose to the surface.

Focus.

I squeezed my eyes shut and allowed my body to go slack. The soft, tingling sensation hit me almost immediately. My limbs had ached a few second before, but it disappeared as the feeling spread through my limbs, crawling through veins, arteries and tissue. Curiously, the cold became bearable-- enjoyable, even-- as I pictured the tape in my mind. Bland, colorless, marked with the distinctive numbers 04/01/79.

I felt as though I were rising in the air, rising out of my own consciousness, and then everything tightened around me. The breath was expunged from my lungs as weightlessness overtook me, and my feet met solid ground. When my eyes snapped open, I was back in the dark, midnight wasteland.

Focus.

The bright ball of light appeared right next to me this time, brushing against my skin. It seared my flesh as my gasp echoed through the blackness. I took a step back, staring with bated breath as the figure distorted, turning gaseous, liquid, and solid all at the same time. Heat radiated from the image, warming the ground around me.

April 1st, 1979. I repeated the date over and over until the light grew. It took form slowly at first, and then all at once as I called on the electric thrum residing beneath my fingertips. Something stirred in my stomach, powerful and yearning and entirely too much for me to handle.

Focus.

A room sputtered to life, though it was slightly warped. The walls looked as though they were melting as paint and wood dripped to the bright, tiled floor. The edges of some sort of desk fluctuated, sharpening and dwindling as the seconds ticked on. I closed my eyes once more, focusing urging the voltaic pulse beyond my physical being and out into the space beyond me.

When they opened again, I stood in Papa's office. The dull walls and even duller decor were not difficult to pinpoint. An office with as little warmth and personality as his was rare to come by. Even if, of course, I hadn't seen many. My eyes scanned the rows of filing cabinets behind the desk, and then the perfectly organized cups of writing utensils. Each pencil was the same size, sharpened to an acute point, enough to poke someone's eyes out.

I raised two fingers in the air and then closing my fist around them. The sound of a drawer sliding open disrupted my train of thought. My surroundings turned static, flickering in and out of focus until I managed to gather my thoughts once more.

With careful, hesitant steps I moved to the other side of the room. Being on the opposite end his desk felt like a gross violation, as though I weren't worthy to behold Papa's esteemed view of the office.

I kneeled next to the drawer that had opened, shuffling through a few different belongings of his. A small pistol was the first thing to catch my attention. The barrel stuck out from the satin cloth wrapped around it. My fingers tips ghosted over the cold metal until something else caught my attention. A set of keys. They were golden, lacking in any discernible details aside from the initials 'M.B.' carved into the side.

My knuckles brushed against the hard, pointed corner of something deeper into the drawer. I dug past a file marked 'Henry,' until my gaze caught on a tape. With bated breath, I read the label engraved on the outside.

04/01/79.

A gleeful noise left my lips and reverberated around in the looming darkness. I'd almost forgotten that I wasn't actually in the office until odd, transparent waves warped the space around me, stopping once the echoes of my outcry ceased. The brief loss of focus was quickly remedied, and the room stilled once again.

I gathered my courage and reached towards the tape. As soon as my fingertips made contact with it's cold plastic shell, a shudder went down my spine and the room exploded around me.

Moments later, I was in the hallways, surrounded by white tile and the harsh exhale of air conditioning. The lighting was brighter than usual, glinting off of the tile and burning my eyes. I stumbled backward in confusion, back meeting the cold wall. The ensuing sound of the collision echoed down each hallway, far louder than it should've been.

Panic crawled up my throat.

Where was I?

Just as the thought crossed my mind, I heard shouting in the distance, somewhere to my right. The hallway to my left groaned and began fading away, turning to static and collapsing in on itself at an alarming rate. With no other choice, I ran in the other direction, towards the screams. The floor gave way beneath me and I picked up my pace, sparing glances over my shoulder only long enough to make out the ever-dissipating hallway.

I came to an abrupt stop when I nearly ran into a guard.

If he recognized me or the terror on my face, he didn't acknowledge it. The man didn't even seem to notice the facility as it caved in only a few feet away. His harsh, sovereign gaze was instead preoccupied with a woman who he dragged down the hall. She shouted and cursed, angling her body in all different manners, desperate to escape his clutch.

"Let me go!" She shouted. The noise echoed down the hall, growing louder as it neared me. As though the cries were their own physical force, I was pushed backwards. I stumbled, wide-eyed and incredulous. The girl only continued her hollering. "Mother fucker, let me go!" She threw her body backwards, earning another violent tug from the guard. "I'll fucking kill you. Get off of me!"

I followed after them, watching the her writhe and gasp. When I was close enough to make out her face, I stopped dead in my tracks, regardless of the fading tile behind me. She was almost unrecognizable with her skin smeared by dirt and hair flowing down her shoulders. I couldn't deny it, though, the resemblance was uncanny.

The woman was me.

Or, at least, the person I was a few months ago.

The realization was interrupted by the ground below me, which had suddenly given out. There was no stopping myself before I free fell, desperate hands trying to grasp the solid part of the floor. The hallway had completely disappeared.

Static surrounded me on all signs. It nipped at my flesh, closing in from all directions. There was no comprehending the space around me. Whether I was falling down or sideways or upwards, I could not tell. All I knew was the terror polluting my blood stream and the omnipresent flickering of static. The facility was nowhere in sight. My entire being was flushed with fever, reeling from a headache that pounded at my very soul.

All at once, my vision clouded and then the piercing screams of the young woman penetrated the all-encompassing static. An image formed right in front of my face. Her cries-- younger me's cries-- continued as her face came into focus. She was in the hallway again, screaming and bucking. The picture faded, only to be instantaneously replaced by another. The same person, except she was tied down to a metal table, face slick with sweat as she begged to be released. Again, it faded, and something else arose. Familiar blue eyes made my heart hammer in my chest as they stared down at the woman. Peter almost looked entranced as she struggled under his glare.

The final image to appear was the worst.

It was the same woman, seizing violently while doctors stood around the metal table. They didn't try to help her. Hell, they didn't even seem worried. Not even as foam seeped passed her lips and her eyes rolled into her head.

I didn’t even know I was screaming until it all disappeared. The static, the screaming, the doctors. They all retreated to the darkest, most secluded area of my mind, where I had no hopes of finding them. And then I was in the pool again, breaths wavering and panicked as I took in my newfound surroundings, the remnants of my scream echoing around the chlorine filled wasteland. My bones screamed from the cold and my head pounded from the pain.

Blood spilled onto my lips.

I had never been so afraid.

Chapter Text

The walk back to my room was probably the most taxing thing I'd ever done. My limbs were like lead, my eyes wouldn't stay open. I had to pause every few steps just to catch my breath and lean against the wall. I scraped at the dismal remains of my energy like a woman starved. I just had to get back to my room. I'd done it a thousand times before without fail.

This time, it was different. This time, my tiredness was so tangible that it blurred my vision and clawed at my insides. A sovereign force that demanded I bent to its will no matter how much I fought against it. And I was oh, so close to doing as demanded.

The hallway stretched infinitely ahead of me. Like a cruel being composed of tile that seemed to grow longer as I forced myself further into its depths.

I could almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Life was one endless, insufferable joke, and it seemed as though I was the punchline. That was the only possible explanation I could come up with. Either that, or some omnipotent being really got a kick out of fucking me over.

My mind swirled around in a whirlpool of self-hatred, bitter anger, and exhaustion. Why did everything have to be so utterly impossible? I couldn't recall the last time a problem of mine didn't require a multi-step solution.

My gaze briefly dipped to the tattoo on my wrist. The familiar, ever-present tug of hopelessness pulled at the back of my mind. Usually, I could ignore it. At that moment, though, all I wanted to do was fall to my knees and sleep. Did I really have to walk all the way to my room? What difference would it make?

No.

No, I had to make it back to my room. I needed my pills and I needed to figure out where that tape was.

The story I'd been fed about my arrival was clearly a lie. Looking back, the details had always been a little dubious. My hesitancy was only fueled by the fact that no one was allowed to talk to me about it aside from Papa. My worries had only been confirmed.

The seizure was real, of course. I'd seen it with my own two eyes. However, it was far too coincidental that I suffered a random seizure only after being kidnapped and transported to the lab. What were the chances? Very, very little-- of that, I was sure. Someone had certainly done something to cause it. I just had no idea who or what, and so I needed the tape. I also needed to find out what Peter had to do with it all.

Why did everything always trace back to him?

I shook the thought from my head as I arrived at the cold metal door of my room. If it were any other day, I would hate walking in there. I'd hate the silence that greeted me and the stillness of the room, forever frozen in its bleached, lifeless mediocrity. Today, I welcomed it.

On my walk back, I had decided I was beyond the point of worrying about silly dreams. Come what may, I was exhausted, and absolutely refused to stay up worrying about what this all meant. All I could do was hold my breath and hope to be blessed with a simple, pointless dream. Truthfully, I was too tired to care either way.

Gloria wouldn't be coming around with sleeping pills for some time. It was only, what, midday? Maybe on the later side, but still, far too early to sleep. Luckily, I'd been stockpiling all of my pills underneath the mattress.

I closed the door behind me. The room went completely black, aside from the small sliver of light that crept beneath the doorway. I stumbled through the darkness until I was kneeling next to my bed, scraping my knees on the tile in the process. A slew of curses left my lips.

I suppose storing the excess pills underneath my bed wasn't the brightest idea. Most of them would likely be crushed by now. At that point, I'd be willing to snort them so long as it gave me some respite.

I searched underneath the mattress until my pinkie came in contact with something cold. Far too wide to be a pill. I closed my fist around the trinket, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. I didn't remember hiding anything else beneath my bed.

The object was surprisingly dense as it rested in the palm of my hand. Probably some sort of metal. My fingers ran the length of it, coming across a little hole near the top and some sort of gear that was meant to be rotated.

I adjusted my grip and rolled the gear. A spout of fire bursted from the top, immediately warming my face as I gasped in surprise and dropped the damn thing. A lighter. Why did I have a lighter?

The night of my escape suddenly popped into my head. The guard that I'd killed and stolen from. How had I managed to forget hiding the lighter? God, what was wrong with me? There had to be some sort of lasting issue with my memory, otherwise I really was going insane.

I scrambled to find the lighter, palms running against the cool tile. The second I had it in my hands again, the sound of flicking filled the room. The flame sputtered lullingly, an ombre of red, orange, and yellow. It danced to the rhythm of my breath, fluctuating as I brought it closer to my face.

With slow movements as to not put out the flame, I situated my opposite hand in front of it. My eyes clamped shut as I focused on the electricity beneath my skin. It wasn't so reactive this time, likely as a result of my fatigue. Still, though, when I opened my eyes and urged it forward, the flame grew.

A curious, delightfully surprised smile came across my face. I closed my fingers into a fist, and the flame disappeared. When I opened my hand again, it was back.

An idea popped into my head. One that was rash, impulsive, and yet probably the best solution to my current predicament.

I needed to access Papa's office if I wanted the tape. Of course, though, I'd have to deal with an obstruction or two. There was always a guard situated in the hallway near his office, sending all who passed a warning glare. But what if I could get him to leave? What if a more pressing matter stole him from his position?

A fire, per se?

I had passed the veil of sleep and arrived in a dream. Of that, I was sure. The air around me echoed with each breath I took. There were no children this time. No screaming or running or... Well, anything, I suppose. There was only darkness. I couldn't open my eyes. Confusion was the first thing I felt. I'd never been so conscious during my sleep, able to recall taking the pill, the tiredness in my limbs, the events of the days prior. All in sharp, certain detail.

A wave of warmth brushed over my skin. Finally, the darkness disappeared, and I was able to open my eyes. Bathed in the blue hue of moonlight, the lab's hallways almost looked ghostly. Nor to mention they were completely abandoned. No night guards, no patients getting up to use the bathroom, nothing.

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that something else was there. Waiting, watching, prepared to jump out at any moment. My feet proceeded down the hallway as though they had a mind of their own. If this truly was just a lucid dream, I was in control. Nothing could hurt me unless I allowed it to.

And so I made the first move, angrily yelling down the empty hallway, "I'm not playing hide and seek with you."

Nothing happened. The silence persisted.

Annoyance shot through me, before something else caught my attention. The edges of the tiles blurred a little bit, coming in and out of focus every few moments. I could feel them move beneath my fingertips as though they were breathing. When I inclined my head, my eyes widened. There was no ceiling.

Stars freckled across the inky black wasteland, winking down at me. They contrasted the vacuum of space in the most perfect, empyrean way. If I reached up, I was almost convinced I could dip my fingertips into the darkness, shifting the moon and the stars as I so pleased. My heart dropped into my stomach as I became achingly aware of all that had been taken from me. How could the night sky possibly be on that list? Papa was not divine, and yet he'd managed to steal me away from divinity.

I liked to think that someone was in charge of the stars. That some god roamed around the galaxy, polishing each one until it was visible from millions of miles away. Watching over them as they had watched over me for so many years.

I was at a loss, overcome by grief until tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.

"Beautiful, aren't they?"

I gasped in surprise, whipping my head around to see Peter. He stood beside me, head tilted back, observing the night sky. The peaks and valleys across his face were accentuated by the dim lighting. His hair almost looked brown as he stood there like a dark angel from the deepest depths of my imagination.

"Are you fucking kidding me," I spat, "I can never have one decent sleep without you showing up. It's infuriating."

The beginnings of a smile came across his face. His eyes remained glued to the stars above, "And who's fault is that, hm?" My gaze caught on his jaw, made all the more prominent by the moonlight ahead.

Good lord.

I shook the sultry thoughts from my head before they could begin taking root. This was all insane. He wasn't real. The sky above me wasn't real. If I could just will it all away, I'd finally be allowed to sleep without interruption.

"Please, just leave," I urged, hoping my desperation showed well enough in my voice, "I shouldn't be thinking about Peter like... this. It's not healthy. And I'm not very happy with him at the moment. So please, go away."

His eyes finally met mine. An unwanted chill ran down my spine. I hated him for being so beautiful. "I like when you say that word... 'Please.'" He faced me, completely disregarding what I'd said.

"What does this say about me mentally?" I muttered. Why did my brain insist of making things so difficult? Why did Peter have to occupy so much space in my mind? I must have been truly, utterly fucked in the head.

"Perhaps you're not the one doing it," He hummed.

"Oh, but I am," I frowned, "And do you want to know the worst part? I only ever have these dreams when I take a certain pill. And if I don't take that pill, then I can't sleep. Ever. This is the first time I've slept in almost four days because I don't want to keep dreaming of you like this."

"Quite the predicament," He mused. Though, he didn't look incredibly sorry. In fact, the smug little grin on his face told me quite the opposite. "What if I told you this situation doesn't have to be as awful as you're making it?"

"But it is as awful as I'm making it," I countered, "Don't you remember what we did last time?"

The memory simmered in the air between us. I didn't want to remember the heavy way in which he breathed or the wanton way in which he touched me. I suppose I didn't really have a choice. It all came rushing at me until I was drowning in the memory.

"Vividly," His response was quiet, as though it were only meant for him. Something new filled his eyes. Something darker. He almost sounded like he was mocking me when he asked, "Is that what you want? For me to kiss you?"

"No, Peter," I spat in annoyance. "I want you to leave. How many times do I have to say that?"

"Maybe--," He took a few steps towards me. My gaze fell down to his shoes, watching as they came closer and closer. An awful, foreboding ache filled my stomach. "--If you asked really nicely, I would consider it."

"You're such an asshole," I crossed my arms, stubbornly refusing to meet his eyes. "I'm not going to beg you to leave my own fucking head. Maybe you should learn how to read social cues, hm?"

He took my jaw in his hands. His grip was as commanding as it was gentle. Just like last time, we were far too close. "No one said anything about begging, Sixteen," He tilted his head, "Light groveling would suffice, too."

My eyes were filled with defiance when I slapped his hand away. "I'm dangerously close to hitting you."

"Are you?" He laughed in gleeful surprise.

I nodded. One moment passed, then another. We stared at each other until I couldn't bare it any longer. Peter took joy in riling me up. And he was oh, so happy with himself. My blood boiled as we stood, trading glances as though we'd lost the ability to speak.

"I'm infatuated with you," His knuckles dragged over my cheek. The blood froze in my veins. I hated how real it sounded. How lovely it made me feel. Peter looked at me like he couldn't believe I was standing there, staring at him. My mind warred with itself as my gaze wandered to his lips. I could feel the urge to kiss him like its very own being. It screamed, clawed, begged, and reared its head, demanding I close the distance between the two of us.

And I was so, incredibly close to doing as it said.

"No, Peter, you're not," I whispered, grasping his wrist and pushing it away. His eyes were intoxicatingly blue. I almost couldn't look at him when I said the words, "This isn't real. And I know that, because the real Peter would never say what you just said." I took a step back, glaring accusatively at the surrounding hallways, "And I don't know why my brain insists on taunting me, but it would be really great it would stop."

"Oh, Sixteen," his head was tilted, watching me with delight, "It's all so confusing, isn't it?"

"Don't patronize me," I spat.

He only smiled.

Chapter Text

The lighter was like dead weight in the palm of my hand. The graveness of what I was about to do pounded at the back of my head, an ever-present reminder of all that could go wrong. What if the fire got out of control? What if I got caught before I even had a chance to light it? My entire plan could flip on its head at the smallest inconvenience.

Still, I could not find that reason enough.

I would keep the fire contained. Tenable, but not too easy to put out. There had to be some sort of risk factor if I wanted to push everyone into action. It would all be worth it, because more than anything, I needed that tape. Needed to know what had actually happened to me, and how Peter tied into it all.

As soon as his name crossed my mind, memories from the night prior resurfaced. His grin, an awful amalgamation of smugness and arrogance, strewn across the most beautiful face I'd seen in my life. Truth be told, I hadn't minded it. That grin was the most honest I'd ever seen Peter, despite the fact that it was entirely fabricated. I could have spent the entire day lingering on every minor detail, every word that passed the threshold of his lips, but I had more important things to worry about. For once, I would not allow Peter to have a chokehold on the forefront of my mind.

And so I walked with brisk, determined strides, careful to avoid cameras when I could. Occasionally, I would pass a guard. Panic would crawl up my throat, and then I'd send them the most tooth-achingly sweet smile I could manage. At the very beginning of my search for a storage room, an orderly stopped me and asked where I was going. I faltered, to be sure, but she didn't seem to notice. 'Bathroom.' I said that single word and then smiled. She smiled back, and I continued on my walk without interruption.

When I came across the perfect storage room for my plan, an awful, foreboding sensation lingered in the air. I could feel it brushing against my skin, whispering doubt in my ear. Still, I persisted. I didn't have a choice. My shaking hands pulled open the door.

I stared into the empty, white confines of the room. A pipe ran along the ceiling, the only object that occupied the space aside from a few cleaning products and a light switch. It was perfect. Far enough away from Papa's office so that I'd have time to slip in and out without detection. There were plenty of halls surrounding it, so should the fire grow unmanageable, anyone who wanted to run would have the chance. I didn't want anyone to get hurt without necessity.

I held the lighter between shaking hands. A click echoed down the hallway, and fire spouted from the top. The flame danced from side to side, ebbing and flowing with my every breath. I wasn't as nervous as I should've been. This could go so, terribly wrong in so many different ways, and yet I was completely content with what I planned to do. After everything this place had taken from me, I would take pleasure in watching it burn. Watching the awful, white tile wither away to nothing.

My palms were slick with sweat as I closed my eyes, readying for the task at hand. The energy in my veins was hypersensitive today, responsive although I hadn't done much to summon it. I didn't realize how much sleep factored into my abilities until I went without it.

Now, I felt so much more awake. My entire body hummed with a power that reddened my skin and rosed my cheeks as it flowed like molten lava through my veins. I allowed myself one quiet, introspective moment to relish in the feeling.

One more breath, and I opened my eyes.

The flame jumped to attention once I raised the palm of my hand. It curled around my skin, coming dangerously close and yet never daring to touch me. I urged the electricity forward until the flame sputtered, growing before my eyes.

I stared into the borderline empty storage room once more. It stared back in all of its useless glory, dismal as ever. There was no hesitation when I reeled back my hand and sent the lighter crashing onto the floor.

The tile wouldn't burn at first. But the mops would, the brooms. My outstretched hand made sure of it. I tensed my muscles and pushed all of my energy forward, arms growing numb as power overtook each and every nerve. The fire spread, crawling up the walls and along the ceiling. Heat radiated over my body as I watched the flames demolish straw and wood, warping the air around them.

It was an enchanting sight, made better by the power in my veins, heady as wine.

I broke with a cry, pulling my hands to my sides and watching for a few moments. The fire now acted on its own accord, crawling through the storage room and eating away at the door. I rubbed a hand underneath my nose, blood staining my skin when I pulled it away.

My nostrils burnt as I inhaled the smoke, signaling that it was time to leave. Still, I couldn't help but linger, no matter how unwise. The destruction was my creation, beautiful in a way that only I could possibly understand. Part of me wanted to sit there and bask in the view. Watch the flames curl around everything until there was nothing.

A shout echoed a few hallways down. My blood turned cold as any and all confidence deserted me and I was pulled from my self-satisfying haze. I ran in the opposite direction, desperately searching for a room to disappear inside. At any moment, I expected a guard to pop out and accuse me of what I'd just done. But no one had seen me. Certainly, no one had seen me.

I hope.

I came across a bathroom a few hallways down. It was completely deserted, allowing me lean against the door and listen without interruption.

As the minutes ticked by, chaos ensued. The shouting of the orderlies, nurses, and guards echoed down the hallway. I could scarcely make out tidbits of the hurried conversation. 'Fire department,' 'extinguisher,' 'the subjects.' Every once in a while, new people would come to assist, running past the bathroom and adding to the ruckus. My heart thrummed like a machine gun as I bided my time, hoping Papa would get there before the fire was resolved.

Almost on cue, the familiar clicking of black, leather work shoes echoed down the hallway. Papa's voice was barely discernible as he threw commands at those around him, tone never wavering. The man was frozen in his calm, collected disposition at all times. Not even the fire could melt that away.

And so I glanced at myself in a mirror, painted a worried expression on my face, and pulled open the door. Like a desperate, confused child, I made a beeline for Papa. "What's happening?" I cried, glancing around at the chaos which surrounded me on all sides. Now, I could clearly see all sorts of staff armed with big, red tanks which they sprayed at the fire. The flames shuddered beneath the white foam, weak but still burning.

He faced me, not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in his clothing despite the disaster he stood amidst. "It seems as though a fire broke out. Don't worry, we have it handled." His concern almost looked genuine as he observed my body, presumably checking to see if I was harmed. "Please, go wait in your room. Lessons will be postponed until this is all dealt with. Why don't you get some rest, hm?"

"Would you like me to escort Number Sixteen back to her room?" Peter's unmistakable voice sounded from behind me. It took all of my very limited acting skills to keep up my ruse and not roll my eyes. When I turned to face him, he didn't even spare a glance, staring right past me at Papa. Peter's spine was so straight I expected it to shatter at any moment.

No wonder I confused him as Papa's eternal lap dog at first.

"That won't be necessary," I replied, sending another wary look at the scene which unfolded behind me. "It looks like you need all the help you can get. Thank you, though." I faced Papa once more, plastering a frown on my face. "Please, be careful."

He smiled, "I will, Daughter. Now, go on."

I did as he asked and turned heel. Papa returned his attention to the staff, but Peter didn't move. As I was about to turn the corner, blocking him from sight, his gaze caught mine. His face remained impassive, eyes trailing down my figure until it caught on the blood staining my wrist.

My heart skipped a beat. I could've sworn something like accusation appeared in his cerulean irises. He didn't know. He couldn't have possibly known. I'd only found out about my ability to control fire last night.

I didn't dwell on the thought for much longer. I had a task to accomplish and a limited amount of time to do so. I picked up my pace, filled with utter disbelief at how well this had all gone. The universe had a funny habit of fucking me over. Perhaps this was compensation for it all? Or, in a more grim turn of fate, maybe it was just the beginning, and things were about to get much worse.

I chose the optimistic-- possibly naive-- option.

My strides slowed down when I began nearing Papa's office. I spared hesitant glances down each hall before I persisted. Just as planned, they were virtually abandoned. The air conditioning breathed down my neck as per usual, but the pure adrenaline flooding my veins made it much easier to ignore.

I wrapped my hand around the cold metal of the office's doorknob only to discover it was locked. But I had anticipated this. I'd anticipated almost every possible outcome as though my life depended on it. In one way, I suppose it did.

I reached into my gown and fished through the inside of my bra, producing a paperclip. I unfolded the thin piece of metal and inserted it into the lock, applying a bit of pressure and rotating the clip until the pins stayed in place. My movements were hurried and uncoordinated, drawing out the task all the more.

Once again, my mind wandered to all of the memories that remained locked away. Why had I learned how to pick locks?

The tell-tale sound of metal scraping against metal immediately pulled me back to reality. I didn't bask in my success this time and instead opted for hurriedly closing the door behind me. My hands shook with an abundance of nervous energy. Success was dangerously close. I could feel it like a tangible being against my fingertips.

An unsteady breath blew from my lips.

I flicked on the light switch and glanced around at the minimalistic room, deprived of personality. Usually I would sit there and think about how much I hated it, but there were more dire things to worry about at that moment.

I light above me flickered as I rounded Papa's desk. Deja vu's enigmatic chokehold wrapped around my neck. Suddenly, I was in the black wasteland again, surrounded by melting walls and static. When I blinked, it was gone.

My body thrummed with excitement when I knelt and pulled out the drawer in the center of his desk. Just like two days prior, the first things available to me were a few files and the tail-end of a gun. The name 'Henry Creel' marked the top left portion of the unassuming, tan file. I continued shuffling through the drawer until I felt the hard, plastic outer shell of the tape.

My heart skipped beats and my breathing went still. I pulled it out of the drawer and ran my fingers along the spine, gleefully reading the numbers 04/01/79 aloud. I was incredulous. It had worked. My ridiculous, off-the-cuff plan had worked. Last night, the chances of success were almost inconceivable. Now, with the tape in my hand, I felt on top of the world.

That was, until, a voice called from the doorway, "And what do we have here?"

I turned to see Peter standing there, flanked by four guards, scorchingly blue eyes boring into mine.

"Fuck."

Chapter Text

I was used to treachery.

So, incredibly used to it that I'd grown paranoid of my own shadow. Who knew? What if it turned around and swallowed me whole? It was exhausting, being suspicious of the very walls that enclosed me in my own colorless hell. Could I be blamed, though? To survive, I had to adapt. Naivety would only put me in danger, and I refused to be lead to the slaughter like some mindless little lamb. I'd kick and punch until my muscles were rendered obsolete, and after that, I'd bite. Laying over and dying was never an option I had the privilege of choosing. I'd been through too much, been hurt too many times. Call it pride or the highest form of delusion, I didn't care.

I learned to adjust to my environment and see through Papa's parental ruse. His smiles, his endearment, his promises of safety. They all rang hallow through my head, disappearing as quickly as a puff of air in icy cold weather. He never had me fooled.

Peter, however... Peter had me fooled.

I once believed we shared a sense of otherness. That we both recognized the demented innerworkings of the tiled halls caging us in. I thought he trusted me. We'd spent hours together, exchanging smiles, secrets and comfort that we both desperately needed. I could have sworn it wasn't one sided. That he cared for me, at the very least. And I could live with the fact that he wouldn't ever treasure me as I treasured him. Settling was easy when his eyes met mine, when he smiled, when he laughed. Perhaps it was foolish of me to consider him my friend. Some days, though, it felt so, incredibly real. But of course not.

Of course not.

I should've known. How many times had I repeated that saying in my head when he tricked me into the program? Hundreds, maybe thousands. Even still, I managed to forget the phrase as soon as he sent his awful grin my way. Like a spineless fool, I groveled at his feet, knowing he could kick me in the face if he pleased and yet fully convinced he would not. So that's exactly what he did. He lulled me into a false sense of security with his beauty, his warmth, only to smash my teeth in with the polished black tip of his shoe.

I should've been more angry. I should've been more surprised.

But things had always been this way, and they probably always would be.

So I stared at Peter in complete silence, the tape grasped between my sweating palms. The hurt of his betrayal, the sting of salt in a wound, it showed in my gaze. No one moved. The world had stopped and forced me to sit in the pain, hoping-- no, praying-- that it would kill me. The walls laughed, the door wheezed, the very air I breathed mocked me. How could you be so foolish? So blind?

I had no answer.

"So, what now?" My voice broke the silence, bitter and unsteady, lashing like a whip through the air around us. "Is it fulfilling, being Papa's little bitches?" I jerked my hand towards them playfully. Two of the guards winced away, as though closing their eyes would protect them. They were lucky, I suppose, that I hadn't actually tried anything. A smile played at my lips, "Why so jumpy? Don't tell me you're scared."

"Mind your manners, Sixteen," Peter's voice almost mirrored mine, the key difference being that I was far, far angrier. His deep, authoritative voice typically stuck an unsettling-- perhaps even fearful-- cord in me. Not today. Instead, it acted like coal to my already raging fire.

"Mind my manners?" I raised two incredulous eyebrows. "Oh, oh. That's my fault, I didn't realize I was talking to the fucking bastion of politeness. Please, enlighten me. What's the most polite course of action to take in a situation like this?"

His eyes were frozen, practically stone. The warmth I once adored was a ghost, his expression so devoid that I was forced to wonder if it'd ever been there in the first place. "Stop with the theatrics," He spat, as though I didn't have a right to be angry. As though I was a ridiculous, mindless child throwing a tantrum.

The light above us flickered with increasing violence as my emotions reached new, more frightening depths. The crackling of electricity that resided in my veins waited eagerly at my fingertips, straining against my skin, begging to be made tangible. It took all of the little composure I had left not to let it.

I watched the guard to Peter's left pull a taser from his belt. The others followed suit, until all but Peter watched me with hungry, malevolent eyes. Perhaps it was the sheer abundance of adrenaline coursing through my body, but I couldn't be scared even if I tried. Staring at those insignificant little trinkets, I very nearly laughed.

"Should we take her?" One of them asked.

Peter merely turned his head, regarding the guard through narrowed, judging eyes. He waved off the suggestion, "No, that won't be necessary." He faced me once again. Our stares warred with one another, daring the other to make a move. For once, I was his equal. Maybe even his superior. No matter how powerful Peter seemed, he couldn't do what I could. He couldn't manipulate his surroundings and he certainly couldn't win whatever fight that was on the brink of occurring. "Against the wall, Sixteen. Let's get all the unpleasantness over with, hm?"

My fingers clenched around the plastic of the tape. Truthfully, I didn't know what I planned to do. I was certain I could take the guards. Peter, too, though there'd be a little more reluctance. Still, I knew I wasn't powerful enough on my own to escape, and there was no other way out of the situation.

But anger had long since drowned out common sense. My withering stare never ceased. "No," I breathed, "No, I don't think so."

The only indication that Peter wasn't proud of what he was about to do was a soft frown. Barely there, the smallest tilt of his bottom lip. "Then you leave me with no other choice," He raised his hand from his side, gesturing towards me with two figures. "Do what you must," He addressed the guards, "No tasers."

And like ravenous, predatory animals desperate for blood, they began closing in.

Everything slowed down.

Time itself must have stopped. I wasn't sure whether I intended to hurt anyone. I could have sworn it was an accident when the barely-constrained electricity braced against my skin came flooding forward. All at once, it overwhelmed me.

All feeling disappeared from my limbs. There were no thoughts as power wrapped around my bones, encasing my flesh in a million little bolts of lightning. I couldn't see, couldn't hear. All I knew was white hot rage, burning like the sun, turning anything and everything to ash. I could taste the fear of the guards, feel their bones crumbling beneath my mind. I neared a precipice and stared into the abyss below, desperately trying to keep myself from falling into it and yet completely unable to control myself.

So I fell over the edge, plummeting into nothingness until even my rage went away. Until there was nothing at all but pure, untapped power, pounding away at my limbs, eating through muscle, organ, and bone. I felt the first guard die. Felt his bones give way and his heart stop beating. The other three followed in rapid succession.

And then I felt Peter.

My eyes snapped open. I must have blacked out. The power was gone, drained away into nothing. Peter didn't stand anymore. He stared at me from the ground, wide eyed, bleeding from his nose. He looked almost demonic, lips twisted into a smile as he sat amongst the mutilated bodies of the guards who had stood behind him only moments before.

My knees buckled beneath me. The bitter taste of copper filled my mouth.

This time, the blackness was not so welcoming.

I awoke with a start. My entire body ached. The air conditioning must've been turned up to its highest setting because-- holy fuck-- it was freezing.

"Hello?" My voice was like nails on a chalkboard, hoarse from hours of sleep. When I was offered no reply, I finally forced my eyes open. Harsh, white lights invaded my pupils all at once, coaxing a sharp inhale from my sore throat. I didn't quite know where I was. And immediately, I recognized that as a bad sign. This'd better not be a dream.

I was surrounded by white, convex walls which almost looked like oversized cushions. Aside from that, there was a vent in the left corner of the room, and nothing else. The vent blew in ridiculously cold air that pebbled my skin with goosebumps. My hospital gown didn't do much to help either.

I'd already been in that room long enough for my nose to go numb and my every inhale to sting.

However bad the situation had been up to that point, it only got worse when I tried to stand up. My legs wouldn't move, nor would my hands. My stomach dropped, and suddenly the cold was impossible to bare. I truly did not want to glance down at whatever was holding me back. For a few moments, my eyes stared ahead, unfocused while I prayed this was a dream and I'd be waking up at any moment.

When I didn't, my gaze lowered. A strangled cry escaped my lips. My wrists were bound to the metal arms of the chair I sat upon. Sturdy leather cuffs dug into the skin on my wrists and ankles, forcing me to keep still and groaning as I tried to defy them.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Of course, I remembered what had happened. Every second remained burnt into my memory in agonizing detail. Finding the tape, Peter's betrayal, the guards... The anger, the blood, the massacre, the influx of power that singed my insides. Papa once threatened to kill me. I thought if I simply behaved, if I played along, I'd be safe from that particular punishment. But sitting there in the insufferable cold, I couldn't help but wonder if this would be my final mistake. Would I die a nameless girl in a nameless prison at the hands of a nameless doctor?

Certainly not.

Certainly not?

All at once, my emotions sunk. They disappeared, retreating to the darkest corners of my mind.

I should've been more angry, or sad, or confused, or afraid. Truthfully, I felt nothing. There was a dull throbbing sensation in the back of my mind, but that was it. Maybe I was in shock. I mean, shouldn't I be fighting for my life right now? Shouldn't I be clawing at my bindings until my skin was rubbed raw? Instead, I sat perfectly still, inhaling deep, steady breaths.

I thought about my hospital gown, of all things. Someone had changed it. Fabric draped over my front and back, clumsily tied together with string on my left side. The edges of my stomach, hip, and waist were exposed. Just barely, though. I made a feeble attempt to cover myself up, only to hike it up further.

A sigh left my lips.

Suddenly, a door opened behind me. Or, I think it did. I couldn't rotate my body enough to see whatever made the noise. A short silence ensued, but I knew there was someone waiting on the other side of it. I could feel their eyes piercing into the back of my head like daggers. Shoes clicked against the ground, growing closer until I could make out Papa's face.

He was more solemn than usual, refusing to meet my eyes until he stood directly in front of me. Grasped in his wrinkled hands was a grey briefcase, which he placed on the ground in front of him. His eyes met mine, cold and impersonal. The room was a sauna compared to his icy glare.

"Number Sixteen," He greeted, though it felt more like a mockery. I was merely a number, while he was blessed with a name of his own, tailored just for him. This should've angered me. I should've been shouting and screaming and cursing at him as though my words alone could bury him beneath the ground. Instead, I stared a hallow woman's stare.

"Nine," He spat out the word like it was burning his tongue. I knew the significance of the number before he even continued. How could I possibly forget? "As of today, you have been responsible for the deaths of nine men, Daughter. Nine men with families to feed and lives of their own. What do you make of that?"

I stared at him, unblinking.

"I don't know. What do you want me to make of it?" I did know what I made of it, though. At that moment, when there were no emotions to impede of logic, I felt no guilt. Each man had been my capturer in one sense or the other. They all enforced Papa's oppressive rules, suffocating me until I had no other choice but to fight for air. And so that's what I did. I fought until they could not fight themselves, until they had been rendered obsolete. I'd do it all a thousand times more. Through bloody hands and bleary eyes, I would fight, ferociously defending my status of victor with each breath I breathed.

"That's not for me to decide," He answered. His gaze wavered for a moment, going far away and then refocusing right back on me. "You are not the first patient to lose your way. There was another one before you, a boy. Powerful beyond reason, but also disturbed. Deeply, deeply disturbed. And do you know where he is now?"

"Where?" I asked.

"Gone. Reduced to nothing more than an afterthought of what he once was... Weak." Papa's masked slipped further and further as he spoke. Gone was the loving, parental facade he typically paraded around with. This man was angry, bitter, lashing out as though he wasn't the author of all that displeased him. Utterly delusional. "I could make you disappear too, Daughter."

"You don't think I know that?" I muttered, "I've lived with that fact every moment of every day. Do you really think it scares me anymore? If you want to kill me, be my guest."

"I don't think you're quite understanding, Sixteen," He frowned. It was a patronizing, condemnatory little thing. "You're my creation. Your siblings, too. I could never kill you." Something hostile passed in his gaze. "Instead, I'll make you watch. I'll stick you in a uniform and strip you of whatever power you possess. You'll be made to sit in this facility for the rest of your life as the world spins around you. What about that, daughter? Does that scare you?"

The only thing I felt that might have lightly resembled an emotion was self-preservation. Things were awful now, almost unimaginably so. But they could get worse. Everything could always get worse. 'Rock bottom' didn't exist, because I could've sworn I hit it three months ago. And yet here I sat, hideously alive, free falling without any sort of 'bottom' in sight.

"Yes," The word scraped up my throat. I almost expected blood to begin filling my mouth. "Yes, that scares me. But you knew that already, didn't you?"

"I don't say that to taunt you. I say it to warn you," He shook his head, "This lab functions under a very strict set of rules. From today forward, you will not disobey, you will not fight, and you will not harm anyone unless you wish to be harmed yourself. For years, this is how we have all survived. You're powerful, Sixteen, and you're new. But under no circumstances does that make you the exception. Now, I aim to remind you of that. To make it absolutely clear in no uncertain terms that your disobedience will not be tolerated, and your actions have consequences," He opened up his brief case, fingers ghosting over its contents. "Today, I only mean to show you the error of your ways."

With that, he produced a long, metal rod-- a taser. With that, a dreadful, foreboding ache grew in my gut, wrapping around my bones like ivy, holding me steadfast in place. "No," I squirmed in my restraints with renewed vigor, "No, no, no."

My breaths escaped my lips in panicked huffs, growing louder and more frequent as the moments ticked by. Papa regarded me with his impersonal, belittling stare. "I tried to keep you from this particular fate as long as I could. You did this to yourself. It seems you only respond to shows of force. And so that's what I will show you, even if it pains me."

The sound of clicking echoed off of the walls. The taser screamed it's awful, shrill scream, cutting through my brain and slicing up whatever rational thought I once possessed. Any composure-- any dignity-- abandoned me all at once.

"You're a sick fuck, you know that?" I shouted, probably only worsening my situation, "You imprison a bunch of children and strip them of everything that isn't a bare necessity. And then you claim to love them? Are you fucking kidding me?" I leaned forward, teeth bared, spitting out words as though they were acid, "However bad you think I am, I will always-- and I mean always-- be better than you."

Any further remarks were ripped from my throat as his taser connected with the skin of my neck. Each and every nerve in my body was suddenly set on fire. I couldn't move, I couldn't think. All I knew was the debilitating, never-ending electric surge. My muscles seized up, contracting over and over until I was convinced it would kill me. Flashing white knives of heat stabbed into my legs, my arms, my torso. Everything ahead of me suddenly became spotted and dim. I threw my head back, desperately trying to escape the pain that had begun splitting my brain apart.

And then it stopped.

I doubled over, eyes clamped shut. No words could describe it. I'd never felt such pain in my life, and he had only just started. How much more of this would I have to endure? The hurt was so, incredibly deep, reverberating around my entire body at all times.

When I raised my eyes ahead, Papa was gone. At first, I figured it must have been my mind playing tricks on me. A cruel joke meant to instill false hope, only for another electric surge to rip into my skin and tear me apart. It made sense, after all, Papa wouldn't just stop. I was so dazed I almost couldn't keep my head up straight.

"It was my jaw first," Another voice called from the corner of the room. This wasn't Papa. The voice was far too deep. My eyes snapped up. The only evidence that he'd ever been here in the first place was the taser, resting on the floor. When I saw the man in the corner, I almost would've preferred Papa's company. The stranger stared at me through white, unblinking eyes. His limbs were jutted out at all the wrong angles, bones poking through his flesh while blood trailed like crimson tears down his face.

"Oh, my god," My lips were agape when I realized who he was. One of the guards. The one who had suggested tasing me. He was almost indiscernible, mutilated beyond comprehension. Fear exploded through my chest.

"And then it was my wrist," He stepped closer. Immediately, the pungent smell of death filled the air around me. Bile rose up my throat. I couldn't breathe. "You killed me and you don't even feel bad about it. What kind of monster does that make you?"

"Am I dreaming?" I cried, pulling at my restraints in panicked confusion. I couldn't look at him. This had to be a dream. This man should've been dead. He looked dead. He smelled dead. And yet he spoke as though I had only scuffed his shoe.

My vision swarmed in and out of focus when another guard appeared. The two of them stared at me with empty, unfeeling eyes. Dead eyes. I tugged at my restraints, panting in fear. The smell was unbearable. It seeped into my every pore, gnawing at my insides like a parasite.

"I was the next to go," Said the newer guard. His words were difficult to comprehend, as his jaw was twisted up and his tongue swelled out of his mouth. "You felt me leave. You felt me leave and you didn't stop."

"I'm sorry," I gasped. Tears had begun spilling from my eyes. My very skeleton squirmed inside my body, desperate to escape the the very flesh that enclosed it, "What's happening to me?"

"You think the taser hurt?" Another voice. A third body, the third guard. He walked until he stood directly in front of me. This once was different. His eyes weren't white. In fact, he didn't have eyes at all. Empty black holes left a void where they should've been, leaking a fluid I couldn't place. "You snapped my bones. One by one you twisted me... into this."

The fourth guard appeared right behind me. I didn't know he was there until a hand was wrapping around my throat, forcing my head back. His breath was rotten as it fanned down my face. Decayed flesh flapped against his skull. I could feel the bones of his fingers digging into my skin.

"Please," I sobbed, fighting in my restraints and making absolutely no progress, "Please, I'm so sorry!" They all closed in around me. Everywhere I looked there were deformed bodies. The smell was so terrible, burning my nose . Never in my life had I felt so helpless, so vulnerable.

And they all started screaming. As though they were in pain, they hollered at the top of their lungs, flailing their bodies around, convulsing before my eyes. One of them ripped at their own flesh, peeling off layers of decayed skin. The all joined together into one awful, never-ending cacophony, shouting into my ears, into my face, into my skin. I could only sit there as an ocean fell from my eyes. It was inescapable. I couldn't disappear into my own head this time, even after I closed my eyes. No, I was forced to confront the reality of what I had done. I felt every broken bones as though it were my own, every scar, every cut. And I couldn't even cry out, because who was there to save me?

The screaming stopped all at once. The smell of death disappeared. Still, my eyes stayed shut. I was too afraid to open them. The salty taste of tears filled my mouth while I let out shuddered breaths. My shoulders bobbed up and down while I waited, resigned to whatever cruel fate my mind decided to conjure up for me.

And then a hand was on my chin, tilting my head up.

My eyes snapped open, "No!" I screamed. I reeled my body away from whoever it was, throwing all of my remaining strength into the fight against my bindings. They never let up. Not even while I bucked and cried and prayed for any sort of relief.

"What's the matter, Sixteen?" I didn't have to look up to recognize Peter's voice. The mocking edge it held made my flinch. Anyone but him. Please-- dear god- - anyone but him. His perfect white suit burned my tearful eyes, the sting of his betrayal only made everything so much worse. "Look at me," His voice was almost a whisper.

"Leave--," My voice broke. Tears cascaded down my cheeks evermore. "Please, Peter, go away. I can't--," My gaze dropped to my lap. "Please. It hurts." I should've been ashamed of the raw emotion barreling through each syllable of each word I spoke. And yet, I was too tired to care and too weak to do anything to fix it.

"Come on now, use your words," Two of his fingers sought refuge beneath my chin. He directed my head up, making my eyes meet his. His head was tilted as he observed me like an inquisitive puppy looking at his favorite toy. "You look beautiful. Almost like an angel."

"Not now," I whispered, "I just want to sleep. Please, go away."

"You're already sleeping, Silly. How could you be dreaming otherwise?" He smiled. A cruel, perfect smile that made me loose feeling in my limbs. "I love when you say 'please.' I think I said that already, but I really do love it."

"Let me go, then," I nodded towards the leather cuffs binding me to the arms and legs of the chair. "If it's my dream then you have to do what I tell you. Let me go and then leave."

"Hm," His hand wandered towards the cuff on my left wrist, eyes staying on mine. His expression softened, finally making room for a hint of the warmth I so loved about Peter. However, it wasn't so comforting this time. Instead, it was just a reminder of what he had done.

His fingers undid the metal buckle on the cuff as he promptly began loosening it. The action became a momentary balm, soothing my racing mind long enough to allow some relief to pool in. Suddenly, though, a grin filled up his face. "No, I don't think so." With that, he tightened the cuff once again, making it cut into my skin harder than it had before.

I didn't even think before I spat in his face. He winced away from me, his grin immediately falling into a frown. "Go fuck yourself," I seethed, practically shaking with rage. How dare he? After all he had done, how could he poke fun at me? As though we were friends still, as though he had any right to speak to me like an inferior. I had to remind myself it was dream before I truly lost my mind.

He wiped his face with his sleeve, staring at me through slitted eyes the entire time. I stared right back, figuring my glare was the only defense I had left. "You're no different than Papa," I whispered, "You might be worse, actually. Papa never tricked me. Papa never pretended to be my friend. Get the fuck out of my head, Peter, I feel sick just looking at you."

"You always manage to surprise me, Sixteen," He breathed, "That was tactless. Tactless, but surprising nonetheless." He tilted his head, "Please, proceed with your insults. Get them out of your system. We both know none of them are true."

"You have to listen to me," I hissed, "Because you're not real. The real Peter might be a traitorous piece of shit, but he can't invade dreams. So kindly get the fuck out before I make you."

He laughed. It was a sharp, biting thing that very nearly burst my eardrums. "Do you really think you have any authority here?" His gaze devoured, "Look at you, Sweetheart. You can't even move unless I allow you to. In fact..."

He beckoned me towards him. I didn't want to move closer. It was almost as though my limbs had mutinied against my mind as an invisible force pulled me forward, closer to him. Disgust curled through me. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"You shouldn't use such ugly words," He frowned, "I suppose they're more bearable when you're the one saying them, but it's still so vulgar, don't you think?"

"Fuck off."

"What if I made you kiss me?" He wondered aloud. He placed his hands on either arm of the chair and leaned forward. I mirrored his movements until my back was flush against the back and I couldn't move any longer. His evil, lovely blue eyes felt as though they were stabbing me. His breath fanned down my face. Our noses very nearly touched. I tried to get away, I tried to move, but suddenly my limbs were glued in their place. My gaze fell to his lips. "Oh, but I wouldn't have to do that, would I? You don't need any persuasion. You'd do it all on your own," he hummed.

I couldn't think straight. Every single bone in my body was exhausted, and I couldn't help but wonder how much longer this would all last. Peter's eyes were so real, so detailed, I almost didn't believe I was dreaming. It hurt to look into them. More than I'd like to admit, it hurt. I wished he hadn't gone and made a mess of it all.

"I hate you," The words tumbled from my lips, "And I hate that you made me hate you. I thought you were better than this." Another wave of tears filled my eyes. I hated that, too. I hated being so pathetic, so distraught.

He frowned, soft fingers brushing against my cheek, wiping away the droplets beneath my eyes. As though it made things better. As though he could fix the cause of my tears with his touch alone. I laughed a bitter laugh. "I'm on your side, Sixteen," He tilted his head. Something I almost mistook as honesty filled his gaze. "Always. This is a minor setback, nothing more. I don't want you to know too much so early on. It doesn't change anything. We can move past this."

"How can you expect me to trust any word that leaves your mouth ever again?" I asked, a frown of my own creasing my features.

He leaned forward until his mouth was against mine. It was a gentle, longing gesture. His lips were softer than I imagined, even though I didn't kiss him back. And he likely expected that. As his lips pulled away from mine, I could feel his hair brushing against my forehead. For a fleeting moment, all went quiet.

"You're too smart to be manipulated," He whispered, his stare strikingly raw. "It's as infuriating as it is impressive. I like that about you."

I hated how much I loved the words falling for his mouth. I hated how my impulse was to let him back in, to trust him, to touch my lips to his until I couldn't breathe anymore. I was better than that, though. Smarter. I had to be.

"I wish it didn't have to be this way," I muttered, "I don't want you to touch me anymore. Get out of my head, Peter."

He nodded as though he expected it. Another soft smile, "I knew you were going to say that. Just as I know you'll change your mind."

And, for once, he listened to me.

He left.

Chapter Text

My eyes snapped open.

Darkness surrounded me on all sides. My breaths bounced off of the indiscernible walls around me, shuddered and quick. I wasn't sure whether I was awake or asleep, which only frustrated me further. Had I awoken to yet another dream? The complete and utter blackness told me I had to be asleep. However, this didn't feel like my mind. It was colder, emptier. Usually I found comfort in the silence, but now it only unsettled me.

I tried to tilt my head to the side and get a grasp on where I was, but my neck would not turn. I didn't panic until I realized that it wasn't only my neck ignoring my brain's commands. It was my limbs, too, my torso. First I was afraid, confused, and then I was angry all over again. I truly couldn't ever catch a break, could I?

"Hello?" I called out. The only answer I received was the ghostly resounding of my voice from all directions. At the vey least, I could speak. The ability didn't exactly improve my circumstances, but it was welcome nonetheless.

Without any other option, I shifted my focus to my surroundings. Water sloshed against my skin. I realized my body was almost completely submerged aside from my face. I laid on my back, legs floating just below the surface. The water was cold, sending chills down my back and making goosebumps protrude from my flesh. Wherever I laid, it was compact. Even if I couldn't physically reach up and touch the walls around me, I could feel the water lapping against something a few inches away and then rebounding towards me.

I couldn't help but feel dazed. My brain moved slowly, as though the water had seeped into my ears and filled up my skull. I could feel my limbs growing more and more numb as the moments passed by. Soon enough, I was stuck in my head, made to bask in the murky darkness without the ability to think clearly.

Without warning, the familiar whisper of static sounded overhead. It washed over me, cutting through my brain and swimming among my thoughts. I had to be drugged. Everything was so clear, so impactful. The simple sound of white-noise became music as it's haunting keys rang though my eardrums.

"Number Sixteen." It was Papa. His voice echoed from some sort of intercom system in the space around me. I could feel the noise like it was its own being, vibrating through the water, brushing against my skin. The oddest part of it all was that I could sense him. Just from the sound of his voice, I knew he was standing a few yards to my left. His face flashed across my mind, severe as ever. He leaned over some sort of microphone while doctors shuffled around beside him. Just as the image appeared, it disappeared. Still, his presence lingered on. The doctors around me were no different. The feeling was innate, involuntary, as I perceived them without meaning to. Each time a person walked by my watery confinement, I could feel their footsteps, hear their breathing.

Definitely drugged.

"What did you do to me?" I asked. My heart beat hammered in my chest.

"Don't be afraid, Daughter," Papa cooed. Gone was the man from my dream, unfeeling and cold. "Right now, you're feeling the effects of a drug named methylphenidate. A rather potent strain. It works as a concentration enhancer, increasing the flow of certain neurotransmitters in your brain. Now, that all may sound a bit scary, but I assure you, it will help with the task at hand."

"Am I dreaming?" I asked, only to realize how ridiculous that question was. Either way, he'd probably say no.

"No, no, you're not dreaming," Papa replied. How predictable. "You must be disoriented. You had quite the busy day yesterday, after all." My heart rate picked up. I almost feared it was too much for my body to keep up with. "Don't be afraid. You're not in trouble. If anything, this is an opportunity for you to redeem yourself. Your emotions overwhelmed you yesterday, and though the outcome was less than ideal, it affected your abilities innumerably. You've been hemorrhaging power four hours, now. If we're going to introduce you to your new program, I figured now would be the perfect time to do it."

My stomach lurched. Everything clicked together at once. I wasn't in my mind, I was in a sensory deprivation tank. That explained the drugs, the darkness, the water sloshing against my body. It was metal walls that closed me in, not some sort of haze caught between dreams and consciousness. I was in Papa's esteemed 'program.'

"Why can't I move?" I whispered.

"You have more than one drug in your system, Daughter," He answered vaguely. "That isn't important. What's important is the task you're meant to complete. Rest assured, everything will be explained as soon as you're finished. Before we begin, I want to introduce you to someone."

There was a brief silence, followed by the sound of a chair rolling back and then fingers brushing against the microphone. "Hello, test subject Sixteen." A new voice greeted me. As the man spoke, his face materialized in my head. He was a strict looking person, teeth stained yellow. His skin was wrinkled with age, fingertips freckled with callouses of all shapes and sizes. A pipe rested by his side. He had a smoker's voice, coarse and nasally. The man adorned a plain black suit with nothing but a pendant clipped onto his left side. It was a flag of sorts, with red and white lines and some stars in the top left corner. "I am Incumbent Vincent McLaughlin, Secretary of Defense."

I nodded as though he could see me. As though I knew what any of that meant. A silence followed afterward. "I expect a verbal response, test subject Sixteen," The man, Vincent, stated. I was lucky that he couldn't see me, as he certainly wouldn't approve of the 'fuck you' I mouthed.

"Uh... alright." I was still reeling from my dream. Too much had happened in the last few hours, and now I was expected to pull myself together enough to complete whatever ridiculously difficult trial awaited me. Not to mention my sleep had been less than restful. Exhausted, angry, and scorned were not ideal traits to exude when I had a task so paramount. Of course, though, I didn't have a choice in the matter. The best I could hope to do was push away my bitterness until this was finished, and I could promptly disappear in my bedroom.

I dreaded the next hour before it could even begin.

"Good," The man said. A sound that I assumed was paper crinkling reverberated around my watery cage. Once more, the man's face popped into my head. He held a white sheet of paper in front of him, stamped with some official-looking seal. "Today, you're tasked with locating one William Montagov." He disappeared again.

"Who is he?" I frowned, "What will you do when I find him?"

"Your job is to locate the subject, not ask questions," The man replied. Annoyance unfurled in my gut. "Do you understand?"

Before I opened my mouth to speak, I tried to suppress my anger. Giving McLaughlin grief would probably only add to the headache I navigated at that moment. "No, Incumbent Vincent McLaughlin, I don't understand," I answered, trying to keep my tone as polite and even as possible, "I can't locate someone if I have no idea what they look like. Could you pretty please go into further detail?"

There was a sharp inhale from McLaughlin as he likely prepared to throw a tantrum for patronizing him as he'd patronized me. Instead, though, Papa cut him off, speaking into the microphone, "A photograph is going to appear right over your head for a maximum of three seconds. That should be enough time for you to get a grasp on the subject."

I frowned, "What are you all going to do to him once he's located?" I had a sinking feeling that I already knew the answer. Why else would they have a program dedicated solely to locating people? Did he know too much about Papa's facility? For all I knew, this 'William' could be trying to get us all out of here.

"Never you mind, Daughter," Papa replied. I could hear the smile in his voice, a pitiful attempt at soothing my anxieties. No one could ever just give me a straight answer, could they? Everything had to be infuriatingly vague. "The image is going to appear on the count of five, and then our communication will shut down temporarily. We'll still be able to hear you. Once you've located the subject, tell us where he is, and then you'll be done for today. Are you ready?"

Do I have a choice? "Yes, I'm ready."

"Good luck, Number Sixteen," Papa said. And then the static disappeared, and I lapsed into silence. The only noise in the entire world was the gentle, rhythmic sloshing of the water against the walls. I tried to count down in my head, but the seconds seemed to be moving slower than usual. My mind and my heart raced, almost as though they were in a competition with one another. I just hoped this wouldn't last too long. The stupor I now sat in was an uncomfortable, syrupy kind of haze, and I was eager to break free of it.

A screen above me lit up. For a brief moment, light shined through my confinements and I could discern my surroundings. Murky, blue water surrounded me. When it slipped past my lips, it tasted of salt. The walls were metal just as I had expected. Empty, aside from rows upon rows of bolts and screws.

I remembered my time constraint and turned my attention to the image overhead. The screen was of grainy quality, making William's face appear as a collection of low-resolution lines. The man had unruly black hair, a scar running along his left cheek, and eyes so brown they almost looked black. The edges of his skin blurred into the background of the photo. The scar was recognizable, at the very least.

The tank went dark and the picture disappeared.

Usually, before I began using my abilities, I'd have to pause, gather my focus, and block out all outside distractions. Here, though, with both the drugs and the tank, that process was made much more simple.

I closed my eyes. Except, there wasn't really any need. It was dark enough already. The electricity in my veins was ready and waiting. Alert, although I felt the exact opposite. 'Hemorrhaging power' Papa had said. I didn't really know what hemorrhaging meant, but from context glues I could gather that I must've had a gluttony of power and my body was releasing what wasn't needed. Summoning my abilities was effortless today, as easy as breathing.

I was in the black wasteland without even trying. My mind was slow to react to the change, as was my body. For a few moments, I stood amidst the darkness, stationary, confused as to how I'd gotten there. This all felt like a huge fever dream.

I could still feel water lapping against my skin although there was none of it in sight. The sensation was as odd as it was intriguing. A deep, steady breath rang through my ears, startling me until I realized it was my own.

Jesus Christ, what was I on?

I figured I could move freely now that I was in my own mind. I tested my theory by wiggling my fingertips until feeling was restored to my arm. My fingers found solace in pinching at the bridge of my nose. Whatever drug-ridden stupor I was in made every touch so much more visceral. I could feel the grooves of my fingernails, the warmth of my skin, the peach-fuzz on my cheek.

Another breath resounded from all directions.

Why was I here again?

To find William.

Who is William?

Scar guy.

Just as the man crossed my mind, he appeared in front of me. There was no static this time, no slow focusing of a figure until they became discernible. Whatever drug I was on, it made this entire process that much easier. I suppose I was lucky in that respect.

I tried to stand, but my knees buckled beneath me. I fell back to the murky ground with a grunt, hitting my elbow in the process. "Ow," I huffed. Everything went slow and fuzzy again. Jesus fucking Christ, what was wrong with me?

I slapped myself in the face, hoping to sharpen my mind enough to remember my task and stand back up. William. With a scar. Find William Scar and then I can sleep. With that half-cocked thought in mind, I gave standing up another go. My palms pushed against the blackness below as I urged my legs to do as instructed.

I was standing a few seconds later, eyes narrowed in confusion. When did I stand back up? Why is it so cold? Why are the lights turned off?

"Focus," I muttered, slapping myself yet again. My legs didn't feel like my own as they staggered forward a few steps. I couldn't really walk all that well, loosing balance and tilting to my side a number of times. The world spun. My groggy eyes didn’t make it any better.

What did I have to do again?

William Scar.

Why am I doing William Scar?

Program. Papa's Program.

I sighed in frustration. Whatever sobriety I had ten minutes ago was completely gone. My brain felt too big for my skull and my head pounded. A man stood a few feet away from me, which only annoyed me even more because I didn't know who he was.

William Scar.

The man was William Scar.

I closed my eyes, attempting to bring my wits about me before I began my task. Instead, I just managed to confuse myself even more. Where did William Scar go? Oh, that's right, my eyes were closed. I opened them and walked towards William Scar.

He was exactly as I remembered him, except with longer hair. "You need to brush your hair,” I told him. The words echoed all around. He didn't respond. I frowned.

Without warning, he turned and began pacing back and forth through the darkness. He grasped some device in his left hand, which he yelled into with growing vigor. I didn't know exactly what he was saying. Either the man was an alien, or he didn't speak English. In that moment, both options felt equally plausible. His hands pantomimed in front of him as spit flew from his mouth. William Scar was angry, though I couldn't imagine why.

I urged the room around him to come into focus, hoping I'd be able to gather more clues about his location. Just as the thought crossed my mind, a room grew from the blackness, trapping William Scar and I inside four walls. I staggered back, loosing my balance and nearly toppling over for the millionth time. My abilities were almost alarming receptive to my demands.

Focus.

William Scar stood in what I assumed was a grocery store. Of course, the seizure erased any memories of me ever being in one, but from the number of shelves and miscellaneous products scattered around, I could assume that's where we were. The walls were an ugly shade of green, and all the signs were written in symbols I couldn't read.

Definitely not English.

Drugged confusion ran rampant through my mind as I sized up the room. Why were the lights yellow and not white? Weren't all lights as awful and harsh as the ones in the lab? If not, then Papa should really consider getting new lights. These lights were nicer. Warmer. William Scar didn't seem to find them too calming, though. He still looked quite upset.

He gestured wildly, shouting in a language I didn't know. Poor William Scar. He should really calm down.

Focus.

I sighed once more, rubbing two fingers along my temple. What did I have to find? Certainly not the toilet paper in the isle ahead of me. I found William Scar already, so was I done? No, no, that couldn't be it. I still had to find where he was geographically.

I staggered through the store for a few minutes, reaching towards the products only for my hands to go right through them. Then, I would promptly remind myself that I had a task to complete and I wasn't actually at the store. I was still in my mind, still in the lab.

I found a map hung on the wall in the far right corner of the room. There, I narrowed my eyes and tried to make out the foreign letters strewn across the paper in bloody red ink. I gave up after a few moments and focused my attention on finding something that I could read.

Surprisingly, I was in luck. There were a collection of odd little trinkets dangling from small metal hoops on one of the racks. Though most of them were indiscernible, I finally found one that didn't appear to be written in symbols. 'I Visited Kazan, Russia,' it read. I frowned. What the hell was Russia? There were two more trinkets on the other side of the rack written in English. The purple one read 'I Got This Keychain in Kazan, Russia.' Keychain. What is a keychain? Why don't I know anything? The last one was carved into a piece of wood, reading 'I Heart Kazan, Russia.'

"Kazan, Russia," I repeated under my breath. "I found it."

Chapter Text

The comedown was a brutal one.

I needed some time to rest, and so I gave myself a 'three day limit.' With that time, I failed to think about what had happened and I failed to get any real rest. When my limit rolled around, I was just as tired. If not more so.

I sort of lost track of the days after that. Feigning illness wasn't as difficult as it should've been. I don't think Gloria believed it, but she let the excuse slide nonetheless. Occasionally, she'd come into my room with soup or water and her bright, bubbly smile. Each time she spoke to me in this quiet, respectful voice as though I were a dying patient she had to tend to. 'You sure you're doing alright, baby?' She'd ask. And, without fail, I'd smile and say 'just not feeling well.' She and I both knew that's not what she was concerned about, but the matter was never pressed.

'You sure you're doing alright, baby?' The words played on repeat in my head for hours after she'd said them. I was fine. Perfectly, wonderfully fine. Fine, but I just needed some time away from training. Fine, but the thought of flipping onto my side felt like one big, sadistic joke. Fine, but breathing was a chore and I wished my lungs would collapse so I didn't have to do it any longer.

When I was alone, I would spend the day alternating between staring at the ceiling and staring the door. Sometimes I'd think about Papa. Other times I'd think about Six. Most times, I thought about nothing at all. I liked being alone. There was no one to make me feel guilty or angry or sad. There was just me, the tile, the bed, and the silence.

The air conditioner turned on and off in cycles. At first, it annoyed me. Then the hours stretched into days and I couldn't even be bothered to notice the difference. I'd simply close my eyes, pretend I wasn't in my body, and then everything would just sink.

It didn't always work like that. I alternated between feeling nothing and feeling everything. I preferred the former. If it were up to me, the latter wouldn't even exist. Of course, though, it wasn't my decision to make. During those times, I'd cry until no sound came out. Or I'd cry until too much sound came out, and I'd have to slap my hand over my mouth as to not alert anyone waiting outside.

I told myself to fight. To ignore the hopelessness that lingered at the back of my mind during every moment of everyday. The possibility that, maybe, this was an unescapable situation, and life would continue to be this awful until I died. I thought I could simply swallow it down. Bury the feeling beneath smiles I shared with Six, looks I shared with Peter. I figured the universe must've had an omnipotent vendetta against me. And so it would laugh in my face as the feeling resurfaced, taunting me for every trying to deny it.

Paranoia, exhaustion, and hopelessness proved to be a fearsome triad that I had no hope of defending against.

The hopelessness I had so desperately fought against manifested itself as a piece of metal buried beneath my skin. Uncomfortable, but not unbearable. With each inhale, I gave it life. The metal grew into a link, which grew into a chain that wrapped around my wrists and ankles, pinning my me to my bed. Veins, arteries, tissue, and bone scraped together as they turned to metal.

My very own mind acted as the metalsmith.

I should've fought against my make-believe restraints. Someone smarter than me, someone stronger, would have fought. They would've taken a scalpel to their skin, slicing through muscle until the little bead of metal was taken care of. I wished I was that person. But I had always hated knives, and I relished in the feeling of metal poking holes through my body, wrapping around my limbs until I couldn't even breathe anymore.

So I stayed there for a week, tied down, content as ever because I didn't have to feel anything else. And when I did feel, I could force it down all over again until the chains tightened and my blood stopped circulating.

I tried not to think about Peter for the first few days. Then, dusk had turned to dawn so many times and I figured he wasn't even a problem anymore. A week had passed. Maybe the entire world had forgotten about my existence, and so thinking about Peter wouldn't have to feel so real. At first, I worried if I thought about what he'd done, he would somehow know. Know that I cared so, incredibly much that it made me sick. And if he knew I cared, he knew he still had a modicum of power over me.

Peter wasn't god, though.

Peter was an average, mediocre boy. He wasn't extraordinarily smart, he wasn't extraordinarily cruel, he wasn't extraordinarily powerful. He was just a thoughtless, insignificant boy who had tricked me into thinking he was anything but. He could claim to hate this place as much as I did, he could pretend to care about me, he could do whatever he pleased. It didn't change the fact that he was a snitch, a liar, a person utterly incapable of loyalty. He was a hard lesson learnt, but good god, had I learned it.

I was finished with him. I was finished with the lab, I was finished with Papa. I was so, beyond finished that the thought of having to endure any of it ever again made me want to blow the brains out of the back of my head.

My only regret was that I hadn't seen through Peter.

That, and the way I'd spoken to Six.

On day number three, Six had knocked on my door. Assuming it was Gloria, I had told her to come in. I remember the exact thought that crossed my mind when she entered. 'I can't.' Can't speak to her, can't look at her, can't watch her realize something was wrong with me. And so she sat down on my bed, prepared to smile and laugh and soothe every aching muscle in my body until anything awful in the world just disappeared-- as though it had never existed in the first place.

I never gave her the chance.

'I don't need your sympathy,' I had said, 'I'm so tired of you.' And then I watched the smile melt off of her face. Watched the hurt fill her eyes. She breathed the word 'okay,' and then smiled again, as though she wanted to make me feel better for hurting her. Like she had any right to feel sorry when I'd completely disregarded her kindness and lashed out solely because I was spiteful and bitter. 'We'll talk later, okay?' She'd said from the doorway, 'I miss you.'

And then she left, and I curled up and cried until my head pounded.

I regretted that. I really fucking regretted that.

In some twisted way, maybe I'd done her a service. Hurting her once so early in our friendship was better than hurting her later down the line, which I was bound to do. Better than her potentially hurting me.

The door opened, pulling me away from my own self destructive thoughts. I was certain my room smelled bad by now. I hadn't gotten up to shower in nearly a week, nor had I moved from my bed. Gloria noticed, but she never showed it. Never crinkled her nose or winced or even wavered for a moment. She walked over to my bedside, a smile on her face and a cart rolling in front of her.

She gathered my uneaten lunch from my nightstand. "Still not feeling well enough to eat?" She asked, tucking the tray on the bottom level of her cart. I could almost cry as I thought about gathering the strength to nod. How many muscles would that require? I tried to rationalize it. A simple up and down movement of my head. One I'd probably done a million times before. So why did it feel like the world was ending? Why was there a pit in my stomach telling me I simply wasn't capable of what was demanded?

I took a deep breath and nodded despite my unwillingness. The smallest possible gestures, and yet it weighed on my limbs like a two hundred pound weight. I almost felt out of breath when I'd finished. Gloria and I watched one another in silence. Her mouth opened and closed, as though she wanted to say something but wasn't sure if she should. Whatever it was, she opted against it and grabbed a familiar pill bottle.

I counted the days spent in my room by the number of pills resting beneath my pillow. I didn't have the energy to pull up my mattress and stuff them in there like I had with the other ones. Instead, I tucked them under my pillow and pretended like they didn't exist.

Of course, I couldn't take the pills. I could hardly breathe, let alone entertain Peter for hours on end. If nodding was impossible, then that was the ninth circle of hell. Luckily-- I use that term loosely-- I was able to catch a few minutes of sleep throughout the week. After all, I spent every moment of every day sitting in my bed, eyes half shut, staring at one insignificant thing or the other. I was bound to fall asleep. When I did, though, it was fitful and dreamless, and I'd wake up after no more than fifty minutes. Still, it was a welcome respite from my ever-buzzing mind.

When Gloria handed me the pill, I did as I always had. I thanked her, dreaded the process of sitting up and taking the cup in my hand, and then palmed the thing and pretended to drop it in my mouth. By the time I was finished, my entire body was screaming at me to lay back down. Gloria was abnormally quiet, though I almost didn't realize, too preoccupied by my own exhaustion.

Just as I was about to roll over and offer my bone-weary limbs some respite, Gloria caught my wrist. Her hand was surprisingly soft, or maybe it was her grip. Her touch was tender, loving, and so clearly that of a nurse.

"I know you're not sick, Baby," She said with a meaningful nod of her head. I didn't reply. I didn't really know how. Part of me had hoped she'd let it go on like this forever. "Now, I don't need you to tell me what happened or why you're feeling so blue." She turned to her cart and produced a little cardboard box, "But I do need you to eat. And I know that I'm asking a lot, but look at all you've dealt with already. A muffin is nothing compared to all that."

I stared at her. Stared at her until the room went blurry and my shaking hands clenched around the box. "Okay," I muttered. It felt like a promise I couldn't keep. A dirty lie that Gloria would no doubt resent me for when she returned in the morning and the box remained unopened.

Suddenly she was moving forward. I flinched away when she raised her arms towards me, convinced that she'd rather hit me than do what she actually planned on doing. I didn't even really register the hug until I smelt the cigarettes on her clothing and her hair was rubbing against my cheek. The metal which cringed onto my limbs loosened, if even just for a moment.

She was warm. She smelt nice. I wasn't even embarrassed that I hadn't showered. I was crying when I wrapped my arms around her, too. Crying because this was the first time I had been hugged in months. Crying because I didn't want to feel this way. Crying because-- oh my god-- someone wanted to hug me and I didn't even need to ask.

She rubbed circles on my back.

"I know, Baby," She whispered, "I know."

Chapter Text

It took another two days for me to gather the strength to get up and go to the Rainbow Room. The night prior, I'd managed to grasp onto three glorious hours of sleep. My muscles still ached and most everything felt like a chore, yet I'd risen from my bed. To the average person, it would be an easy, insignificant feat. To me, it was exhausting, and though I wanted to just collapse and wallow in everything for another week, I didn't.

I dragged myself down the hallway, feet shuffling across the floor. The smell of lilac lingered in the air around me, a gentle reminder that I had already finished the hardest part. I was showered, I was clothed, I was as put together as one could be. I could still feel metal scraping together beneath my skin, but for now, the chains were loosened, and I was free to breathe again.

The air-conditioning annoyed me. I took that as a good-- though irritable-- sign, because it meant I was feeling something. For once, the cacophonous exhale of the a/c was like music to my ears, a soothing melody that urged me forward, beckoning me towards the Rainbow Room. And so I obliged, no matter how much my body screamed at me to turn around.

I would be fine.

This would all be fine so long as I persisted. Pulling myself together wasn't impossible, even though it often felt that way. I had Gloria, I had Six. They were all I needed. For them, I got up this morning. For them, I would smile and laugh and force myself to feel better until it was real.

I paused outside of a familiar pair of metal doors. My fingers curled into fists by my side, nails digging into my palms. I inhaled once, twice, three times. My racing heart didn't exactly steady itself, but it did slow, and I suppose that was the best I could hope for.

My palms met the cold metal panels on the door, and a moment later, the dismal rainbow along the wall was burning my eyes. Nothing had changed. I don't exactly know what I was expecting, but nothing had changed. The children occupying themselves with the same toys, under the same lights, with the same bland attire was typically a miserable sight. Today, I found comfort in that misery. As much as I hated to admit it, at least it offered a shred of normalcy. The world would spin and the sun would shine no matter what awful thing happened to me.

I felt a pair of eyes almost immediately. I barely withheld a flinch and continued into the without even looking in Peter's direction. Last night, amidst haphazard sleep and groggy eyed pondering, I'd decided not to engage with Peter. I could simply pretend he didn't exist. Of course, that was a short term solution, but I wasn't in a rush.

I met Six's eyes instead of his. My legs marched towards her before I could talk myself out of it. The weight of our last exchange hung heavy in the air, and though she didn't say anything when I sat myself across from her at one of the tables, I knew she could feel it too. A whole speech had been composed in my head meant just for her, but as we stared at one another, I suddenly couldn't remember a single word. The unrelenting sigh of the air conditioner continued to break my focus.

"Feeling better?" She asked, a soft smile lighting up her face. I knew she wasn't referring to my supposed 'illness,' yet I nodded nonetheless.

"I'm getting there," I replied. 'Getting there' was certainly a term to describe it. "Thank you for asking."

She nodded. Another short silence followed. I didn't know whether to get right into my apology or continue to beat around the bush until I had the balls to bring it up. She didn't seem nearly as troubled as me, but then again, Six had always been particularly skilled at hiding her emotions.

"Six..."

"--Don't," She shook her head, "Don't apologize. I'm not angry."

"Okay, well, that's too bad," I frowned, "Please let me apologize because if I were you, I would have slapped me across the face by now."

"I'm barely restraining myself," She replied sarcastically. Usually, her jokes were a welcome distraction. Today they just felt forced and out of place. I hoped it wouldn't stay that way for too long. "Okay, fine, you can apologize. Some light groveling would be appreciated, too."

"Alright, are you ready? I've been planning this all night."

"Can't wait."

"Six," I started, "I'm very very very sorry for what I said. And I know you're trying to make jokes and avoid the serious stuff, but what I said wasn't okay, and I'm not tired of you."

A pause.

"It's about to get sappy so cover your ears if you don't want to hear the rest," I muttered. She didn't cover her ears, though. Instead she offered me another placating smile and gestured for me to continue. So I did. "I really hate it here. I hate the people and the lights and just about everything. Not you, though. You make it so much more bearable and I took that for granted. I'm sorry. Really, really sorry."

"Finished?" She asked with a raised eyebrow. I nodded. "Okay, good. I forgive you."

"That easily?" I frowned.

"Yes, that easily."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not an idiot and I can see that something's wrong, and sometimes I lash out when I'm not doing great, too," She said, "You know you can talk to me about this stuff, right?"

I nodded. "I missed you."

"Who wouldn't?" She scanned the room around us, brown eyes flitting over a few different patients. She leaned forward and began speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, "Two and Four have been glaring at me literally all week. No offense, but I thought they hated you, not me. They actually won't stop and it's getting creepy."

I spared a glance over my shoulder, and just as expected, I locked eyes with Two. His eyes were narrowed, head lowered. Something like anger or bitterness swirled in his gaze. I kept on staring until a few seconds had gone by and he refused to relent. It was as though he was trying to split me in two with his glare alone. Part of me expected it to work. Tension weighed heavy on my shoulders until I gave up and turned back to Six. "Jesus Christ," I scrunched up my face.

"In one way I'm flattered," Six breathed, "It's like we have our own little fan club."

"Our own little murderous, emotionally stunted fan club," I replied.

"They do look a bit stunted, don't they?" She frowned, glancing over my shoulder once more. "Anyways, tell me what happened. Why did you disappear for a week?"

I knew the question would arise eventually, and I dreaded it. That was one of the many reasons why it took me so long to pull myself together. There would be questions I didn't know how to answer and words better left unsaid. Part of me still didn't entirely understand what happened. The lines between reality and dream had blurred beyond the point of separation, and when I looked back on all that occurred, I only managed to give myself a headache. The only thing I knew for sure was that Peter was a little bitch, and I would sooner cut off my arm than have to speak to him. And I might've gotten tased. My memories were a patchwork quilt, mismatched and disorganized, blurring together and contrasting one another at the same time.

"That bad, huh?" Six asked, pulling me from my thoughts.

I laughed breathily, "You have no idea."

"Was it Peter?"

"Yes. No. Sort of?" I sighed, "It was a lot of things."

She reached forward and patted my shoulder, "Aw. Feelings are hard."

I slapped her hand away, "I take it back, I didn't miss you."

"Then I take back my forgiveness."

"Oh, fuck."

"Okay, jokes aside," She rescinded her hand and her smile disappeared, "You don't have to tell my anything right now. Especially not with,--" She looked away and locked eyes with Four, who continued with her staring, "--These two leering at us. Maybe we can skip lessons tomorrow? We could go to the kitchen and steal sodas."

"Soda?" I frowned.

"How do you not know what soda is?" She demanded, "You lived in the outside world your entire life, right? I mean, I know you're probably not allowed to talk about it, but even I've had soda. That's saying... a lot."

"Maybe I did. But then I had a seizure and now I don't remember shit."

"That's... weird," She sat back and crossed her arms. I nodded. "Soda is a type of drink. It's bubbly and if you drink it too fast it makes you burp and your tongue feel weird."

"That sounds really unpleasant."

"Oh, it's not. You'll like it. I don't remember much from my childhood, either, to be honest. Not because I had a seizure, just because I was super medicated. I think." She shrugged. I hadn't really thought about what it was like to spend your entire like in a place like this. To never, ever see anything besides the same tiled walls and dreary lighting. What had she endured in her childhood to make her memories so scattered?

"That's very worrying, actually," I frowned.

"Oh, I know." She opened her mouth as though she wanted to continue, but then her face fell. Her eyes latched onto something behind me, "So what Peter did was really bad, right?"

"I would say so. Why are you changing the subject?"

"Would you be upset if I told you he's walking over right now?" Her eyes met mine and my heart dropped. It then occurred to me that avoiding Peter would only work if he, too, wanted to avoid me. I assumed he would.

"You're joking," I frowned, "Tell me you're joking right now."

"Not joking."

"Okay, uh," My eyes darted across her face, and then over the table, "On the count of three, I stand up and you take your chair and smash it over my head until I'm dead." She nodded. "Okay, one... two...--."

"Good morning, girls."

My gaze fell to my lap.

Peter's voice washed over me. I used to love the sensation, but now it just like lava running down my back, eating away at skin and bone. No, no, no, no. He should've left us alone. Didn't he know we didn't want him here? Didn't he know all the grief he'd caused? He knew better. He was smarter than that. He should have known better.

My mind rambled on, picking up thoughts and discarding them like candy wrappers. Getting up that morning had been nearly impossible, but I persevered partly because I was convinced I wouldn't have to do this today. Wouldn't have to see Peter and pretend to maintain the slightest bit of composure.

"For some of us," came Six's voice, pulling me out of my mind for the second time that day. She wore a sickeningly sweet smile when she replied to Peter, but her words were angry. She didn't even have to know the situation to be on my side. I mouthed a 'thank you.'

"I need to have a word with Number Sixteen. Do you mind?" He asked, polite as ever. He stood directly behind me, which was a blessing in one way, because he couldn't see the grimace that ran across my face. Yes, we mind. Yes, we mind so much it fucking hurts. The thought of having to speak to him made the metal links crawl along my veins, cutting through tissue all over again. Just when they had begun shrinking away, he managed to coax them back. My fingernails bit into the palm of my hand as I tried to hold myself together.

"We're actually in the middle of a conversation," Six replied with another smile, "It's pretty personal, that's all. Maybe later?"

"Is that so?" I could picture Peter's expression. Head tilted, wearing a practiced expression of mild interest. Nothing more, nothing less. Six nodded. "As much as I hate to interrupt, this is a matter of utmost importance. I'm going to have to insist that you give us a moment."

Six and I exchanged hesitant eye contact. Like it or not, Peter was our superior. She could dismiss him all she pleased, but the decision was ultimately his to make. Knowing that, and not wishing to get Six in trouble, I offered her a single nod. She stayed in her seat for a few more moments, eyeing Peter with thinly veiled disdain.

"Of course," She bit out, standing from her seat and mouthing 'I'm sorry.' I shook my head. At least she tried. Not a second later, she was gone, having retreated to the other corner of the room. Far away from the shit show that was no doubt going to occur.

The atmosphere was tense as Peter walked passed me, running his fingers along the wood until he sat in Sixteen's place. My eyes remained glued to the cards arranged on the left side of the table. I scattered to bring my wits about me, but everything was still rusty after days of disuse. A thought crossed my mind like a big, shooting star of hope. I didn't have to sit here. Sure, Peter was my superior, but I'd never been one to listen to authority figures. Not Papa, not the guards. In the past, I'd obeyed him solely out of respect. But now that was all gone, and there was absolutely nothing keeping me glued to my chair.

Without offering him a single word, I stood.

He was faster than me, though, and he must've been anticipating that. Before I could so much as step away, his hand was shooting towards me, wrapping around my wrist. I winced. My own skeleton fought to escape my body just to get away from his god awful touch.

"Take a seat, Sixteen," He said, his voice barely above a whisper.

My heart pounded as a few heads turned toward us. No, no, no. This was bad enough already, and an audience would only make it worse. My eyes flitted between the exit and Peter's grip on my arm. If I was really smart, I would cut my losses and haul ass. I'd go to the nurses, say I was still sick, then spend another five days stewing in my room, living off nothing but apple juice and Gloria's muffins.

No, no.

I had put far too much effort into getting up already, wasted far too many hours thinking about Peter. He could only hurt me if I gave him an angle in. In the past, I'd practically given him a knife and pointed it out. Not again.

I pulled my arm from his grip and sat back down.

Not again.

I met his eyes with cold indifference. He didn't deserve my anger. He didn't even deserve to be in the same room as me, but that was out of my control. "Can I help you?" I bit out, trying my very hardest to keep my voice steady.

He was quiet for a few moments. I watched him, careful to keep my expression blank, gauging each blink of his eyes, each twitch of his lips. Did he even care about what had happened? Had it crossed his mind once? I hoped there was a tiny little voice in the back of his head telling him he fucked up, but his silence only acted as apathy. Those moments where I could have sworn we were friends took up far too much space in my mind. During training, when we would lapse into silence and his eyes would never leave mine. How he watched me as though I were his favorite movie, and I'd do the same. Was all of that truly just an orderly doing his job? He was perceptive, encouraging, caring but never too caring. Never enough to cross a line or make his feelings towards me entirely clear.

Maybe I really did just make it all up.

"I want to teach you a new game," Peter spoke, reaching for the deck of cards. I curled my hands into fists, desperate to maintain my poker face. "Play with me?"

"You... Want to play a game?" I asked. The incredulity didn't manage to seep into my voice, but I felt it beneath my skin. Peter wanted to play a game. After fucking up in a way I'd never seen anyone fuck up before, he wanted to play cards. It was absurd. I genuinely had to fight to keep myself from laughing.

"If you'll play it with me, then yes," He replied. With his usual perfect, practiced movements, he pulled the cards from their sleeve and began shuffling them. The silence was full, brimming with emotions neither of us cared to decipher. Or maybe it was just me. At that point, I really couldn't tell.

"The game is called 'War.' Have you ever played?" He asked. I shook my head. My mind was spinning. "It's rather simple. You get half of the deck, and I get the other." He handed me my half. "There's really no skill required to win, it's all about chance. On my count, flip over your top card and I'll do the same. An ace beats every other card. Aside from that, the game goes in order of superiority." I nodded. "Ready? Alright, one... two... three."

He held a jack, I held a nine of clubs.

"Oh, look at that. I win," He mused.

He took my card and the one he'd just played, placing them face up to his left. Everything he did only breathed anger into my lungs. I had to physically restrain myself from reaching forward and slapping the smug grin off of his face. I narrowed my eyes, "Again."

He smiled and reached for his pile once more. I now held an ace, and he held a two. "Oh, look at that," I mimicked, "I win." His eyes latched onto mine, but the reaction I wanted was the opposite of the reaction I got. The look in his eyes was one of excitement, as though he found my challenge stimulating.

"Again," He parroted. I produced a six, he produced a seven. An irritated sigh escaped my lips as he took the card from my hand. It was as though his words alone were pulling at the strings of my poker face, loosening them until some emotion finally broke out.

"We missed you this past week," Peter said. We continued with the game, but I was too distracted to really pay attention. How could he address my brief exile but not his own wrongdoing? "What kept you away?"

"I wasn't feeling well," I replied just as I won another card from Peter. His face remained the picture of calm. If there was anything about Peter that I envied, it was his maintain his composure at all times. It truly was a talent.

"That's a shame," He took my card, "Are you feeling any better now?"

I almost rolled my eyes. The smalltalk was unbearable. "Yes."

We continued playing the game in silence. I wasn't sure when it took a more severe turn, but suddenly every single loss of a card felt like defeat. Like he was rubbing salt in a particularly massive wound. Stealing his cards back, however, was a feeling heady like wine. I watched him lose and I smiled, but he did the same when it was I who had to surrender my card. Our eyes never met, remaining steadfast to the game ahead of us. Overtime, his pile dwindled, and I was in the lead.

We flipped our cards once again. Mine was a queen, his was a king. Another placated smile ran along my face as I reached to steal the card from his hand.

He jerked away, "The king outweighs the queen."

"You're funny," I muttered, holding out my empty hand, "I win. Give me the card."

"King beats queen, Sixteen," He repeated. I could hear the condescension in his voice and-- dear god-- I saw the entire world in a furious red hue.

"According to who?"

"Me. The rules. Whichever you prefer."

"What I would prefer, Peter, is if you gave me your card," I refused to relent. It wasn't just about cards anymore. It was about the ever-present chains wrapped around my wrists and how he contributed to putting them there. I wouldn't lose to him. Not again.

"Come now, Sweetheart. Don’t be a sore loser,” He mused, fingers wrapping around my card. The bright red 'Q' that marked the plastic queen glared back at me, and I refused to let her go. When I tried to pull away from him, he pulled back. I felt the card give, and then the sound of tearing paper filled the air like a scream. We both froze, holding opposite sides of the card which had split down the middle

I stared down at the queen's face, noting the lines beneath her eyes and the tiredness adorning her features. Peter held her other half upside down between his fingers. My composure gave one last shaking exhale, and then it was gone, ripped to shreds like just like my card.

"I hate you," I seethed, low enough so no one else could hear. The words were for him and him alone.

He didn't seem at all surprised. The only indication that I'd even said anything was the tightening of his jaw and the smallest hint of a sigh. "I know," He whispered, allowing his eyes to meet mine, "And I understand."

"You don't, Peter," It almost hurt to look at him. The precise blue of his eyes was branded into my memory like a wound that wouldn't ever heal. "If you understood you wouldn't have said anything to anyone in the first place."

He tilted his head, furrowing his eyebrows as though I'd suggested something outlandish. "Do you seriously think I would do that? Walk up to some guards and tell on you?"

"Don't," I shook my head, "Don't lie to me and act like you were some kind of innocent victim forced to go after me."

"I'm the farthest thing from a victim," He spoke, "Do you think I enjoyed a single moment of that exchange? Do you think I enjoy seeing you hurt?"

There was a certain urgency to his words, like the sky would fall if I didn't believe him. But how could I? If he was innocent, he would have checked on me afterward. If he was innocent, he wouldn't have done it in the first place. "Honestly, Peter? Yes."

His jaw ticked. His stare was unrelenting. "You're wrong. So wrong."

"I've had a week to think about it," my fingers wrapped around the remnants of the queen, "To think about any excuse you can give me, and to decide I don't care. Remember when we sat down in this very room and you told me all about Papa and how he treated the people here? I do. Vividly. Because that's when I decided to trust you despite knowing better. I won't make that mistake again, Peter. I won't."

"Those are only words, Sixteen," He said lowly. "Words that you'll eventually take back when you realize I'm on your side. That I always have been. I'm not proud of what I did to you, but it was necessary. And I know you won't believe me now, and I won't ask you to, but soon you will. I'm sure of it."

His stare was never-ending. I should've found it intimidating, but instead it only acted as fuel to my fire. Without ever breaking eye contact, I whispered, "I wouldn't be so certain. You and Papa are keeping me from that tape. I don't know why, but I'll find out. Rest assured, I will. There's something wrong with you, something you don't want me knowing. I had this-- What should I call it?-- this... vision when I touched the tape. And you were in it." His lip twitched into a frown. "If I really can trust you, and you really are sorry, then get me that tape."

"Sixteen..." Worry broke through his impenetrable exterior. My mouth went dry. I had hoped my suspicions were absurd, that he'd jump at the chance to redeem himself. But his hesitancy was the only confirmation I needed, and with that, my course was set.

"I'm going to find out what you did, Peter," I swore, "And when I do, Papa and his tasers will be the least of your concerns."

Chapter Text

The next day, Papa called on me to 'sort things out.' Whatever that meant, I dreaded it. Who could blame me? The last time I'd seen his face, he was burying a taser in my neck. Dream or not, the memory was far from pleasant. Not to mention I was supposed to meet him in his office, where I massacred four different people only days prior. Why he would decide to meet there of all places, I couldn't say.

I figured my inevitable 'punishment' would be more lenient if I was on my best behavior, so I obliged despite whatever protests I had. My shoes padded against the floor, the only indication that the hallways weren't deserted entirely. Nervous fingers tapped against my outer thigh as I, once again, contemplated just going back to sleep.

It was a lovely idea, one I toyed with but wouldn't submit to so easily. I kept on having to remind myself how much effort I already exerted just getting up. I wouldn't jump at the opportunity to repeat that awful process again.

I placed one dread-filled foot in front of the other, walking as slowly as I could.

I hadn't gotten much sleep last night. The tiredness didn't bother me too much, though. My mind was constantly brimming with nervous energy, much too full to dwell on such a trivial matter as sleeplessness. That mentality was evident by the growing pill collection beneath my pillow, which had begun to spill out onto my sheets. I'd have to put them under my mattress when I got the chance.

Peter took up most of my mind last night. Which annoyed the hell out of me as one would expect. I could pretend to be indifferent all I wanted, but nighttime kept me honest. It coaxed my most pressing thoughts to the surface whether I liked it or not. The second the moon budded like a rose into the night sky, my brain insisted on turning over every single detail of our last exchange. It was infuriating.

Still, I did make an interesting revelation.

I realized Peter acted eerily similar to how he had in my dream. 'I'm on your side' he insisted; the exact same words he used when I was strapped down to that chair. Almost verbatim, all the way down to his promise of 'always' afterward. I suppose spending hours upon hours in his company would could make me subconsciously aware of the way he spoke, which then manifested itself in my dream. After all, Peter didn't have the power to read my mind or enter my dreams. I decided to write it off a coincidence. An eery one, to be sure, but a coincidence nonetheless.

I intended to keep my promise of finding out what part Peter played in my arrival. Not just because I was curious, but because I needed a distraction. Something to throw my mind, body, and abilities into in order to avoid the headspace that I'd just recently escaped. The promise was, admittedly, uttered in the heat of the moment, meaning I didn't have a plan quite yet. Still, I had no doubt that I'd be able to figure out what happened. The people here weren't nearly as smart as they thought they were. After all, I got so close to finding out the truth without even really trying. Next time around, I'd have to be far more conniving and far less impulsive.

My first move would be to get out of training with Peter. I certainly couldn't delve into the events of my arrival with him breathing down my neck at all hours of the day. Not to mention I didn't like him all that much. It would be difficult, though. I didn't want to admit it, but I knew a part of me would mourn our sessions together. After all, that's where this all started. With his invigorating smiles and stupid fucking words that I once loved so much.

I dispelled any further thoughts of him as I reached the familiar wooden door of Papa's office. I didn't want to dive down that particular hole today. The Peter I knew, the Peter that enamored me, he wasn't real. The real Peter was calculated and perfidious. Every action he ever made was premeditated and intentional, and I simply couldn't get twisted up in his mess all over again.

The door groaned as it swung on its hinges, sounding as ancient as the man who sat on the other side of it. The man in question smiled and gestured to the chair on the opposite side of his desk upon seeing me. "Number Sixteen," He greeted, "Please take a seat."

Goosebumps littered my skin. Not only because Papa's office was frigid, but because a sickening sense of deja vu hit me all at once. Looking at the immaculate perfection that was the room around me, I could almost forget what I'd done.

Almost.

If I narrowed my eyes and the light glinted just right, I could see sparks raining down all over again. I could smell copper in the air, omitting from four twisted up bodies encased in dark green uniforms. Of course, though, that was all cleaned up now. There wasn't a single shred of evidence that anything had gone awry. Papa's pencils were back in their container, his papers were neatly arranged on his desk, and the drawer that once contained my esteemed tape was... empty. He surely made a point to leave it open, reminding me that I failed.

A sigh escaped my lips as I took a seat across from him.

"We have a lot to discuss, don't we?" Papa asked, to which I nodded. Reading him was never a particularly difficult feat, but the expression on his face didn't offer me much. There was no twitch of his eye or tilting of his lip. Either he was putting in extra effort to be unreadable, or I was off my game.

"Am I in trouble?" I asked. Truthfully, I was surprised it took him this long to demand recompense for all I had done. Murder wasn't a light offensive, especially the murder of five. The last time I killed someone, he threatened to do the exact same thing to me. Sitting there in front of him, I doubted the validity of that statement. If he wanted to kill me, he would have by now. Not to mention I was a constituent in his ever-vague 'program,' and apparently well-versed in extrasensory perception.

"No, no. You're not in trouble," He folded his hands in front of him and leaned closer, "I would, however, like to talk about what happened last week... and how you're coping with everything. Taking a life tends to weigh on a person, especially one as young as yourself."

"It was self defense," I muttered.

He nodded, eyes brimming with I assumed was empathy, "I understand your perspective, Sixteen. I do. That wasn't an accusation, just an observation, you don't have to justify your actions... Having abilities such as yours is quite the paradox, isn't it?"

"I don't know what paradox means," I replied. I couldn't understand his angle. For once, he seemed entirely genuine, which didn't make any sense considering the subject matter. If anything, I'd expect him to be more transparent than usual. Somehow, though, there was absolutely no condescension or anger in his voice.

"A paradox is something that's self-contradictory," He explained, "Your abilities are a perfect example. Some days, they're a gift. You're able to do, see, and understand things the average person can't. With those gifts, however, there are also pitfalls. If you're too emotional or too tired, your abilities will eat away at you. Some would go as far as to call them a curse."

"That makes sense," I mumbled.

"What about you, Sixteen? Do you consider them a gift or a curse?"

Curse. Curse. Curse.

I didn't even have to think about it. The entire reason I was in this situation in the first place was because of the god-awful electricity weaved beneath my skin. I didn't care for the jealousy and competition that it inspired amidst the other patients, and I certainly didn't care for the target it put on my back. If it were up to me, my abilities would weaken and wither until it was if they never existed at all.

Of course, the confession was for me and me alone. I'd be damned before I told Papa any of my innermost thoughts.

"Um, I don't know. Sometimes they're good and sometimes they're bad. Like..." I cleared my throat, "Last week. Every once in a while I lose control, and when I want to stop, I can't. I get sort of wrapped up in it, if that makes any sense."

"I understand better than you know," He sat back in his chair. His mouth opened, and then froze, as though he was rethinking whatever it was he planned to say. "You remind me of someone. A boy who used to be under my care."

Deja vu hit me all at once. I half expected to look down and see leather cuffs wrapped around my wrists. Papa had spoken of a boy in my dream. A boy just like me; powerful beyond comprehension. The coincidences began piling up, and I had this awful, sinking feeling that maybe the dream wasn't just that. How could my subconscious possibly know all about that boy-- about the exact words Peter would use to justify his actions?

Good, plain common sense whispered logic in my ear. It told me this was just another coincidence. It told me to collect myself, stop making up wild conspiracy theories, and get a hobby before I truly collapse into delusion. And I listened to it, because the alternative was foolish and ill-conceived.

Still, 'the boy' caught my interest.

"A boy?" I asked, keeping my tone light and my expression mildly curious, "Who was he?"

"I suppose you could call him the original--," Papa paused, furrowing his eyebrows as though he couldn't believe the words just left his mouth. Without any warning, he pivoted the conservation in a drastically different direction, "You know, I regret having you train with Peter so soon after your arrival. I should have spent more time with you, Daughter, before introducing you to the inner workings of the lab. I understand it must've been... overstimulating. There was no adjustment period, and I have a feeling that's why you're having such a hard time here."

I frowned, "I'm not having a hard time. What makes you say that?"

"Well, your recent insomnia diagnosis, for example. There was no record of any trouble sleeping before you arrived here. It must've been brought on by the stress of entering a whole new environment."

"Maybe," I shrugged.

"And that," He nodded towards me, "You're closed off, Sixteen. Cold."

Cold. What else did he expect me to be? After all I'd been through, how could I be anything but? It was his fault that my entire life had been ripped away from me. I couldn't even mourn what once was, because I didn't remember a single detail. Peter had said it was a mercy to have no memory of what happened to me. Then he went on to contradict that statement by saying I wasn't lucky, because I knew a life existed that was better than this one. At the time, it confused me. Now, I realized he was right, and that this whole thing wasn't as black and white as I once thought.

A double edged sword, indeed.

My favorite thing about free time was how easy it was to wonder around the hallways. Occasionally, a guard would stop me and ask where I was going, but lying had basically become my second language-- one that I spoke masterfully. 'My room,' 'the nurse,' and 'the bathroom' were the most popular destinations I'd lie about. Sometimes, if I was feeling a little bit brave, I'd lie about training or a call to Papa's office. The issue with those excuses, however, was that they were relatively easy to check, and I didn't want to risk getting caught and facing further restrictions.

Apparently, I was the only patient who discovered the ability to lie. As Six and I cruised down the hallways, two guards had stopped us. Each time, she went deathly quiet and held her breath like an exhale would expose our true intentions. Of course, I was well-versed in avoiding such a fate, and we walked away scot free.

"I can't believe you talked me into this," She breathed by my side, the first words she uttered since we left the Rainbow Room.

"Me? You were the one who wanted to 'talk about my feelings' and get snacks. Blame yourself," I taunted as we turned left down another hallway. The metallic set of double doors which led to the kitchen waited at the end.

"Yes, well, in retrospect that wasn't a good idea," She frowned, "The mood was all serious and I wanted to make you feel better. Now I don't really care about your emotions. I'll kill you myself if we get caught."

"Ouch," I gasped, placing a hand over my heart, "Not nice at all."

"Yeah, that was the point."

"That was the point," I mimicked under my breath, earning a sharp glare from Six. With a roll of my eyes, I wrapped my fingers around the cold metal doorknob and wrenched it open, gesturing for her to go inside.

The kitchen hadn't changed a bit. Immaculate, lifeless, forever frozen in its pasty white perfection. I wondered if the space was even used. There was no way people actually cooked in there-- the stovetops, counters, and cabinets showed scarcely any signs of wear and tear. Aside from that odd detail, I noticed that the a/c was far louder than usual, coaxing an aggravated sigh from my throat as I followed Six into the room. "Doesn't the air conditioning bother you?" I groaned.

She gave me a funny look. "No. Why would it?"

"It's just so loud," I muttered, "It's incessant. Makes me want to slam my head into a wall."

"You make me want to slam my head into a wall but I don't call you incessant, do I?"

"You're acting like I hurt the air conditioner's feelings."

"Maybe you did," She shrugged, making her way toward the fridge and pulling it open, "Okay. So we have two different soda options. There's coca-cola and coke. Papa says they taste the same, but that's just not true."

"Uh... which one do you prefer?" I asked, hoisting myself onto the cool metal counter.

"Coca-cola," she answered, "It's sweeter, it looks better, it tastes better; basically, it's better in every possible way. Coke tastes like shit in comparison."

"Oh, my god, you swore!" I gasped, "I've never heard you swear before."

She grinned, "You're a bad influence."

"Says the one who suggested we sneak into the kitchen."

"Shut up. So what do you want, coca-cola or coke?"

"Well, since you have questionable taste in... most things, I'll have a coke," I replied.

"Fine, have it your way. I hope you enjoy shitty soda," She huffed, reaching into the fridge and producing two bottles, "I think I should swear more often. It really gets the point across, doesn't it?"

"Obviously. Why do you think I do it so often?" I asked. Six crossed the room and placed the bottles on the counter before pulling herself onto the surface next to me. The containers were wholly composed of glass aside from label, which wrapped around the top half of each bottle. Hers read 'Coca-Cola' in cursive, while mine read 'Coke.'

Six took her bottle and brought it between her teeth. A wince crossed over her face, and then a pop sounded as she bit down. She pulled the bottle into her lap, placing the cap on the table beside us.

I figured I was meant to do the same, so I brought the bottle up to my mouth and bit down on the metal lid. I waited for the indicative 'pop' to tell me that my task was accomplished, but it never came. I frowned and pulled it from my lips. "How did you do that?"

She watched me with amusement, "It took me three months to learn how to bite the top off. You really think you can do it on the first try?"

"Obviously not. That's why I'm asking you, stupid."

She held the hand towards me, "Give it to me." I did. With almost no effort, she managed to pop off the cap between her teeth, giving me a smug grin after handing it back. I barely restrained the urge to roll my eyes.

"Cheers?" She asked.

"I don't know what that is."

"And I'm the stupid one," She jabbed, "Just pick up your bottle and click it against mine, then say cheers."

"Why?"

"Because I told you to."

"Fine," I huffed, "Cheers." She echoed me as our bottles clinked together, throwing her head back and taking one long sip. "Wait, wait, wait. Did I do the cheers right? What do I do now? Your directions were too vague."

"Drink," She demanded, taking the end of my bottle and pushing to to my lips.

"Fine," I replied, doing as I was told. The brown drink fizzed, cold as it met my tongue. An odd sensation followed afterwards, like there were fireworks going off in my mouth. The liquid in the bottle hissed, foaming up for a few moments before going flat. I swallowed and frowned. "Is this poison or something?"

"No, it's not poison," She chuckled, "Why, do you not like it?

"I actually... Well, I actually liked it quite a bit. I just don't understand why it's foaming. That can't be safe," I frowned, "I also don't really know what it reminds me of. I've never had anything like this before."

"You're looking into it too much."

"Maybe you're just not looking into it enough," I retorted, taking another sip. The taste was odd. The word Papa had taught me, 'paradox,' rang in my head. The drink was as sweet as it was bitter, refreshing but also also wearying on my tastebuds. "I like this."

"What did I tell you?" She sat back against the wall, "It's good. I'm always right, Sixteen, when will you realize that?"

"When it's actually true," I hummed, "So never."

"Haha, so funny," She said sarcastically. I collapsed against the wall beside her, taking another tentative sip. Before she even uttered her next words, I knew what she was going to say. The energy in the room physically shifted as though it were its own being, and I remembered the reason she wanted to come here in the first place. "So..." She faced me, "Do you wanna talk about it? What Peter did? Why you were gone for so long?"

Did I want to talk about it? What a loaded question.

In one way, yes, I did. I wanted to pour my entire heart out to Six just so I could have someone to talk to about it. Someone to take on some of the burden with me, so that the weight on my shoulders could finally lessen even if it was just a little bit.

Then again, the idea of disclosing something so personal, so raw, made me feel sick to my stomach. It was almost horrifying to imagine Six knowing such intimate details of my life. The last time I'd laid myself bare before someone and truly allowed them a glimpse into my mind, it had blown back on me in a way I hadn't thought possible. Peter's betrayal hurt me more than I wished to admit, and I couldn't deny the possibility that Six was capable of doing the same thing.

"Honestly... I don't really want to talk about it, if that's okay," I muttered. The words almost hurt when they left my mouth. I wished I could trust Six. I really did. Somehow, this place had reduced me to a paranoid, distrustful mess in the span of months. I didn't want to view the world in such a way, but was there really any other option? My naivety, my willingness to trust, it had already backfired on me once. There was simply no way I would allow that to happen again.

"That's okay," Six smiled reassuringly and gestured towards me with her bottle, "You don't have to share anything with me if you don't want to. How about you tell me a different secret instead? Like a really embarrassing one."

"That's a good idea," I hummed, taking another sip of my coke. I relished in the coldness which soothed my ever-on-edge nerves. I had plenty of secrets, of course. Embarrassing ones, though, I didn't have too many of those. "Well, I suppose I do have one that's kind of embarrassing."

She leaned forward, "Tell me."

"Okay, but promise you won't judge."

"I'm not making any promises. Judging you is my job. Now tell me."

"Okay," I breathed, "Sometimes I have these like... drug dreams? I don't really know what to call them, but I'm prescribed a pill for my insomnia and it gives me insanely realistic dreams. Like realistic as in I'm fully conscious and I confuse them with real life sometimes."

"That's cool, Sixteen, not embarrassing," She frowned.

"I'm getting there. Give me a minute, damn."

"Hurry up then."

I smiled and rolled my eyes at her rudeness, "So, sometimes I see people in my dreams. And on occasion they get a little, um, inappropriate, and I see..." Embarrassment took hold and I had to pause. My cheeks flushed.

"No!" She gasped, eyes going wide, "Don't tell me you're having wet dreams about Peter."

"Six!" I slapped her arm, "Oh, my god. I don't even know what a 'wet dream' is and I don't want you to tell me. How the fuck did you know I was gonna say Peter?"

She laughed like a psychopath, throwing her head back until I had no choice but to join her. "Oh, my god it's so embarrassing," I wheezed, "I can't believe I just told you that."

"I can't believe it took you so long to tell me!" She cried, "Are you kidding me? God, I thought you were like stunted or something."

"What? Why?"

"I mean, come on," She paused to take another sip of her drink, "Have you seen Peter? I just thought you were really stunted sexually. How could you spend hours upon hours in close contact with him and not dream about him? I never told you this, but I was so, so jealous when I found out you got to train with him. I would literally kill like five people for that opportunity."

"Five people? Really? It's definitely not worth five people," I chuckled, "I don't even dream about him like that anymore, anyways. Not since we fell out." I took another sip of my drink, "Okay, I'm done. That was my embarrassing fact. Which you won't ever tell anyone or I will wring your neck, by the way. Now it's your turn."

"Hm, okay," She paused, eyes going far away as she thought of a secret. "This one is kind of bad."

"It's a good thing I'm very openminded, then."

"So... You know Four, right?" She asked. I nodded. "Well, I mean, obviously you know her. So I'm allowed music privileges since I'm older and 'well-behaved.' I have this little device called a walkman which lets me listen to these tapes with music like... encrypted into them. I don't really know how it works. Anyways, so Four has access to music, too. A few months before you arrived, Four and I got in this big fight because one of my favorite tapes went missing and I knew she took it. I could have sworn, because I left it at the table we used to sit at." She paused, taking a deep breath.

"Now it's your turn to hurry up," I mused.

"Okay. It's bad though. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Oh, my god just tell the story."

"Fine, fine," She hissed, "So, I knew she took my tape, right? One day during free time, I may or may not have snuck into her room and destroyed every single one of her tapes as revenge. And then-- this is where it gets even worse-- I found the missing tape later that night, and it was just under my bed. I forgot that I put it there, and I never confessed to ruining her tapes. Ever. Obviously she thinks it's me but I will deny it until the day I die--."

Suddenly, the kitchen doors burst open. Six immediately paused her story as we hurriedly jumped from our spots on the counter. "Oh, shit," I whispered. I expected an orderly to come in any second and shout at us for breaking into the kitchen. Oh, what sort of punishment would we get for this? Probably reduced free time and... no, no. We wouldn't get tased solely for stealing some soda. Unless it was like a three strikes and you're out sort of system. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Instead of an orderly or a guard, though, Two came in. Trailing behind him was Four. We stared at one another for a few moments, standing utterly still. They glared at me with a brand of fury I almost couldn't put into words. Cold, unbridled determination practically seeped from their pores. I could feel Six tensing beside me, and then my stomach dropped. They said they were going to kill me. And from the look on their faces, that's exactly what they planned to do.

I wasn't sure who moved first. Everything sort of blended together. Each body was springing into action at once, and then a force I couldn't see was pushing me against the wall. I heard a strangled cry uttered from Six's lips. My heart hammered in my chest as I desperately reached for the electric pulse I'd once been able to harness so easily. I was out of practice, though. Two weeks had gone by without so much as a whisper from my revered abilities. Without any real, decent sleep, I was weaker than usual. Two and Four didn't seem to have that problem as they fought with the vicious, predatory finesse of someone who had been training their whole lives.

The breath was expelled from my lungs as the pressure on my body grew. At any moment, I almost expected to break through the wall. I gasped for air like a fish out of water. "Stop!" I shouted, eyes bulging out of my skull. Desperation and fear intermingled in my gut until whatever clear-headedness I once possessed was completely obliterated.

"We warned you," Two whispered, taking a step closer. The lights above us flashed violently as the four of us, all armed with unthinkable power, grappled to take the other down before they could access it. My vision swarmed. The pressure was unbearable. I couldn't breathe.

Four and Six stared at one another, veins popping from the invisible battle they waged against one another. The cabinets slammed open and closed as one light exploded after the other. Complete and utter chaos unfolded no matter where I looked.

"Stop," I cried, "I can't--" I paused, gasping, "I can't breathe you fucking asshole!"

I fought with all of my strength, exerting each and every muscle in my body to absolutely no avail. I couldn't move so much as a finger away from the wall. "Sixteen!" Six's voice screamed from across the room as she thrusted a hand towards Two. His eyes went wide with surprise and stumbled back. "Use your abilities, Sixteen--" A knife whizzed past her head, one Four had found in one of the drawers, "--Fuck!"

"I can't!" I screamed, snapping my head in every direction, desperately searching for something to defend myself with. Six had me covered, through, holding up two fingers and making the knife pause midair. "I haven't slept in like three day, I'm fucking exhausted!"

"Okay, okay," Six gasped as Four took control of the knife once again, slicing her arm. "You bitch!" She shouted, thrusting another hand forward and sending Four to the ground, "Catch!" Six cried, and the knife was barreling in my direction. I gasped, raising my hand just in time to wrap my fingers around it's cold, metal handle. Two was standing by now, and with no other option, I lunged towards him, pushing him to the ground all over again. My body hummed with adrenaline as I kicked him in the ribs, but it barely deterred him.

His retaliation was swift and brutal. He took control of the knife with a force I couldn't possibly fight against, burrowing it into my left arm. A yell escaped my throat as I stumbled back, holding my shaking arm to my side. "Oh, fuck!" I gasped, "Fuck. What the fuck!?" Blood seeped from the wound, but my entire body was numb. It must have been the adrenaline. He pulled the knife back all over again, wrenching it from my arm. I screamed bloody murder, but his face was the picture of calm as he thrusted his hand forward and burrowed the blade into my calf.

I stumbled backward, knocking into the cabinets this time. I desperately felt around with my right arm until my fingers made contact with what I assumed was a pan. With no other option, I swung at Two with all of my might, catching him in the ribs again. He let out a sharp cry, dazed for just a moment. I walked closer, prepared to take another swing, but I was loosing blood. Fast. He must have punctured an artery.

My vision swarmed. My entire body swayed. A dull throb echoed through my limbs, sourced from the two stab wounds which ceaselessly bled like a crimson river. Six was against the wall, having been caught off guard by Four after helping me.

Two walked with the beginning of a limp, but he was nowhere near incapacitated. Murderous rage twisted his face into something I could only describe as demonic. "If you tell anyone that Four and I did this," He seethed, eyes flitting between Six and I, "I'll kill both of you. What we're doing now-- this is a mercy. You can only imagine what it would be like to die without our graciousness."

He jutted another hand towards me. I caught Six's wide, frightened doe-eyes just before I smashed into the wall. My head slammed into the tile, and everything paused. A loud, high pitched ringing filled my ears. I wanted to fight, I didn't want to be weak, but I couldn't even think anymore. All I knew was a sharp, bright pain that grew from a throb to a torturous, erratic heartbeat all over my body.

Blood stained the tile where my head had been.

Everything went black.

Chapter Text

Sometimes Henry wondered if he should just kill Sixteen.

When they first met, he toyed with the idea as though it were his favorite game. It wouldn't be an easy task, of course. He'd have to finesse his way past the cameras and their piercing metal glares without Sixteen raising an eyebrow. She was smart, though, far smarter than he'd like to admit. She wouldn't make the task easy. Not to mention the actual act of killing her. Months ago, he found it quite stimulating to image how he'd do it. Not with any sort of gun, of course. He wanted it to be personal; for both of them to feel every moment of it. Perhaps he'd wrap his hands around her throat and watch her lips turn blue.

That was before, though.

Now, he knew he couldn't do that. If he ever wanted to leave the lab, he'd need her. The thought made him ill. It was an unsettling feeling to need someone-- foreign, especially to him.

His fingertips ghosted over the protrusion in his neck. One would think after so many years, he'd adjust to it. Henry wished it was that easy. He felt the chip like deadweight strapped to his person at all times. It pulled at each and every muscle in his body, ceaseless in its intensity. He remembered what it was like being a young boy, able to do as he pleased without the ever-present nuisance. That memory was what kept him sane.

One day, he swore, one day he'd feel that pulse again.

That day had yet to come, however, and so he had to wait with bated breath until it did. He used to count each one, but gave up somewhere in the eight hundred area. It was torture to count, to bide time, never knowing when it would be up. At one point, he was convinced that the day would never come.

And then Sixteen showed up. Screaming, fighting, clawing at every single guard until she had bits of skin and blood beneath her fingernails. The other orderlies dreaded the idea of being her guard. After all, she'd maimed so many in such a short amount of time. To this day, Henry wasn't sure whether it was schadenfreude or stupidity which made him volunteer to look after her. Either way, he had a new task to complete. For hours he would watch as she paced back and forth, muttering to herself as she agonized over whatever awful fate awaited. It was her power that caught his attention. She must not have known, but her undoubtedly overwhelming emotions made the lights flash from two hallways down.

Henry's abilities far outweighed anyone else's. Brenner's second-rate copies could move bricks and turn on lights all they wanted, but they would never come close. After all, he was the original. Superior in every possible way. And then there was Sixteen, untrained, a nonbeliever, pacing her room and practically hemorrhaging power.

Evidently it caught his eye.

Their first exchange only cemented that curiosity.

"Are you doing that on purpose?" He had asked her. Sixteen paused in the middle of the room, head snapping to the door until her gaze caught Henry's. She stared at him for a few moments, hands drawn into fists, a look he could only describe as abysmal glinting in her eyes.

Beautiful, he remembered thinking.

"If you say another word to me I'm going to carve out your fucking eyes," She responded, and immediately resumed her pacing. Henry furrowed his eyebrows, not knowing whether to feel threatened or intrigued. He opted for both.

That was months ago. Presently, he patrolled the hallways, bored as ever. He'd grown to hate the obscenely white tile, so much so it burned his eyes. To distract himself, he would imagine the outside world, though it became infected with growing vagueness as the years slipped through his fingers. He never particularly liked the people that inhabited it, but he could appreciate the natural beauty.

Henry often times had to make a point not to think about Sixteen. He didn't like how much she occupied his mind, and so he would force himself to think about other, more mundane things. But, really, what else was there? Certainly not his monotonous, repetitive little life. Nothing excited him, nothing challenged him. Nothing except her. And just like that, his thoughts would shift back to Sixteen like clockwork.

At first, Henry told himself that his obsession with her was simply his obsession with escape manifesting itself. After all, she would play the starring role in his getaway whether she knew it or not. It made sense for him to think about her so frequently. She certainly couldn't die on his watch, nor could she become compliant. It was his job to fixate.

It was his job to invade her dreams. It was his job to wonder about her every moment of every day. It was his job to kiss her.

The lines between manipulation and infatuation had blurred long ago. Henry couldn't quite discern which was more important to him. It was maddening.

He hated her. He really, really did, so much so he had to associate that hatred with all five of his senses.

Seeing her made him want to go blind. Sometimes, when she wasn't looking, he would hold his eyes closed and pray that when he opened them, she would be gone. That she'd somehow disintegrate into a pile of dust so he wouldn't have to gaze upon with her appallingly divine countenance.

Hearing her made him want to go deaf. Her voice was awful, running like a river of molten lava until it burned away Henry's skin. He despised hearing his name uttered from her lips. 'Peter' she would say. 'Peter' she would lie. Sometimes, he would fantasize about his real name tumbling from her mouth. How horrible it would sound. Horrible, but he would burn the entire world if it meant he could hear it.

Her scent was worse, if that was even possible. Never a day went by where she didn't omit the putrid smell of lilacs. The soap she used likely claimed to be 'odorless,' but it was a liar. A filthy, sickening liar because the smell haunted his very existence; a ghost he hoped would never be exorcised.

Tasting her should have been a crime. Tasting her was the worst curse; one he wouldn't wish upon any man. None except himself. It was depraved, revolting, and perhaps the cruelest punishment he would do anything to face.

Touching her... Henry didn't even have words for the feeling. He used to wonder what it would be like, and then she took that pill. That pill which was his one true ally, relaxing her mind to the point where he could call upon what meager fragments of his abilities remained. That first night he hadn't even planned on kissing Sixteen. He didn't want to. And then he saw her, wide-eyed, innocence and sin all at once. It was out of his control at that point. No person alive could defend themself against her.

He hated her.

He wanted her dead.

Henry was distracted from his particularly destructive thoughts by hurried footsteps echoing down the hallway. He came to a pause, attempting to straighten his back although there was no need. His posture was perfect. It always was.

Six turned the corner, bumping directly into him. She released a strangled cry and staggered back, staring up at Henry like a frightened, wounded animal. And that's exactly what she appeared to be. Blood dripped from an alarmingly deep wound on her arm. Her lip bled, too, staining her dark skin crimson.

"Six?" He asked worriedly, "Are you alright? What happened?"

"I--," She hunched over, placing her hands on her knees as she greedily inhaled. Henry almost expected her to steal the air from his lungs, too. "Peter. Oh, my god--," She couldn't get a coherent though out. Her entire body shivered.

"Six, look at me," He urged, trying his best to calm her down, "You're alright. You're fine. Do you want me to take you to the nurse?" He knew he wasn't exactly helping, but he didn't know what else to say.

"Peter," She gasped, "It's Sixteen."

His blood froze in his veins. Henry wasn't used to being worried about other people and failed to realize that was a blessing until it was gone. Panic wrapped like a noose around his throat, tightening with every passing moment. He scrambled to keep it from showing on his face. Things like panic always had a way of coming out, however, and so his voice shook when he breathed out the word, "Where?"

"Kitchen."

And not a moment later, he was barreling down the hallway, Six following in his footsteps. He didn't slow down for her, even after she paused and leaned against the wall. She must've had a broken rib, though Henry couldn't be bothered to aid her. If Six was the one to retrieve him despite being in such awful shape, he dreaded to think of what that meant for Sixteen.

She wasn't dead. Peter repeated the words over and over again in his head. He would have known if she was dead. He would've felt it in his bones. How could he not? Sometimes he swore he could feel her through the walls, feel her presence lingering when she was long gone. Certainly, he would know if she was dead.

Wouldn't he?

Henry was starved for air by the time he threw open the kitchen doors. The room was in the deepest possible depths of disarray. Pots and pans littered the floor. Most of the lights were broken, leaving glass scattered like crystal knives before him. Silverware littered every feasible surface, some stained with blood, some bent, all glinting like awful metal stars.

There was a body on the floor.

Sixteen's body.

He was kneeling beside her a moment later. Her blood stained his immaculately white pants as shattered glass cut into the skin of his knee. The pain didn't even register as he devoured each and every cut on her body with scalding eyes.

He was furious. Furious like he had never been in his entire life. There was no questioning who had orchestrated the attack. Sixteen warned him about Two and Four, warned him that they would not stop. It was foolish of him to disagree with her. She was always right. Always, always right. The rage was shakespearean, echoing through his bones, burning him from the inside out.

He would be the one to kill her.

Not Two, not Four.

Only he was worthy of taking her life. Only he was worthy of laying her to rest at his altar.

He would not insult her by allowing her to die by their filthy, inferior hands.

"A nurse is coming," Six breathed from the doorway. Henry almost didn't hear her. His fingers absently brushed the smooth skin of Sixteen's arm. The pool of blood grew ceaselessly. He felt as though she were decaying right in front of him, reverting to the skeleton, then ash. Her chest rose and fell in short, shallow motions.

"Get me that towel," Henry pointed to a rag hanging on the handle of the oven. His gaze never left Sixteen's face. Six obliged. "Who did this to you two?" He asked, though he already knew the answer. All he needed was confirmation.

From the corner of his vision, he saw Six tense. Her knuckles lost color as she clenched her fist around the rag. "I don't know," She whispered after a few moments, throwing the towel in Henry's direction.

He caught it. "What do you mean 'you don't know'?"

Six looked taken aback. She'd never heard him speak in such a manner. Angry, uncaring, perhaps even mean. Another apprehensive look passed over her face. "I don't know, Peter. I'm sorry."

'She's lying' he thought, eyes briefly flitting over her face before reverting to Sixteen's.

Peter took the rag, gingerly pulling up the sleeve of Sixteen's hospital gown. He could clearly see her wound now. It was deep, maybe an inch long, likely inflicted by a kitchen knife of some sort. He steadied his hands and whispered, "I'm sorry," as he wrapped the cloth around her arm and pulled it as tightly as he could. To his surprise, Sixteen clung on to a modicum of lucidity. An audible gasp fell from her parted lips as he secured the cloth. She was strong. So, incredibly strong.

Guilt bloomed in his stomach. He could almost laugh. When had he ever felt a shred of remorse for hurting someone?

Chapter Text

I was left with no other option aside from biding my time, waiting with bated breath until a swell of light finally pulled me from my colorless stupor.

If I was sleeping, I did not dream. For hours, all I knew was expansive, perpetual darkness. I tried to summon my abilities a number of times, but I couldn't keep myself focused. My entire body ached. Even breathing was a chore. The air around me was stale and damp, leaving a wanting pit in my lungs. I felt as though I was moments away from drowning. Each one of my senses were gone. Perhaps I was dead.

Where was I, then? Purgatory? Even the lab was a step up from whatever 'this' was. It almost felt disrespectful, like an insult to myself, to crave the bleached white hallways and the blustering of the air conditioner. One could call it humbling; yearning for the place I hated more than anything else. Part of me didn't even want to admit it, stubbornly holding onto the opinion that the lab was the ninth circle of hell.

I hated being wrong.

Just as the thought crossed my mind, a pin prick of light appeared in the darkness. For the millionth time, I tried to move, tried to summon what dismal energy I had remaining. And just like the million times before, I failed.

The light grew in a slow, steady crescendo. I watched the darkness wither and decay before my eyes. To my left, it ebbed and flowed, as though it were fighting an invisible war with the ensuing light. For a little while, it stubbornly refused to retreat, but the war had a clear victor. The luminescence cut through the inky blackness like a knife comprised of pure sunlight.

In no time at all, the darkness was gone.

My head pounded with an ear-splitting ache. I gritted my teeth and tried to open my eyes, but the white-hot glare of the lab's lights made the task impossibly difficult. My left arm throbbed with a pain I could only describe as bone deep. However, it was my leg which took the brunt of my body's ire. Nerves, muscle, tissue, and bone all cried for reprieve against the never ending surge of hurt.

I was too scared to move. If my afflictions stung this badly when I was still, I could only imagine the pain if I dared to move.

I forced my eyes open only to be blinded for a few moments. A soft exhale escaped my lips, but soon the brightness died down and my bleary eyes could make out the room. A bag of fluid was propped up on a hanger to my side. A tube ran from the bag to my arm, which ended in the form of a needle burrowed in the crook of my elbow. I winced at the sight and averted my gaze.

I sat in some sort of hospital room. At first, I thought it was the nurse's office, but upon closer inspection I realized the space was far more advanced than that. Equipment of all kinds hung up on the wall, though I couldn't possibly imagine what they were used for. Gauze, bandaids, waste bins, and cotton swabs practically burst from a cabinet to my right. A few feet away, a screen displayed a jagged green line which spiked upwards and downwards with an audible 'beep.'

Just when I thought I'd seen all the room had to offer, my eyes landed on a pair of inky black work boots. The word "fuck" fell quietly from my lips.

Peter was splayed on a chair to my left, head in his hand as he gingerly massaged his temple. His gaze was glued to the floor, eyebrows furrowed together in silent contemplation. The view was certainly one to behold. I'd never seen him so... casual. That back-breaking posture he always wore was a memory as he leaned into the palm of his hand and spread his knees until they touched either side of the chair. A few blonde strands of hair fell out of place and brushed against his forehead.

It was his clothing that caught my attention. He adorned his signature white button down and white slacks, but the clothes weren't blemishless this time. They weren't so immaculate it almost hurt to behold. Dark, crimson stains marred the material along the center of his shirt, as though he'd buttoned it up with bloody fingers. My eyes flitted over to his hand, and just as I expected, his skin was dotted with red.

"Am I dreaming?" I asked. My voice was hoarse, scratching the inside of my throat. I must have been dreaming.

Almost instantaneously, Peter's head snapped in my direction. His gaze met mine, pooling with a thousand emotions trapped beneath frozen irises. His shoulders relaxed as a soft sigh fell from his lips. Relief. What in the world did he have to be relieved about?

"Are you gonna answer my question or what?" I frowned.

"No," He said, almost breathlessly, "You're not dreaming."

"Oh," My gaze shifted to his hands, then his shirt. If this wasn't a dream, then I could make him leave. The irony was almost laughable. It was in my very own dreams where he could do as he pleased, using my mind as though it weren't my own. Real life was the only place where I had a modicum of control over him. And with that control, I wanted to make him go away. I was tired, sore, and deeply unhappy with where I found myself. His presence only made it worse.

When I opened my mouth to cast him out, he interrupted, "I know what you're going to say."

"Do you?"

"I do," He replied, "You're going to tell me to leave because you're upset with me. Give me five minutes, Sixteen," He sat up straight in his chair, "Cease fire for five minutes. That's all I ask."

I watched him through ponderous, hesitant eyes. Five minutes. What could he accomplish in five minutes? Probably my bloody murder. Or the cutting off of each individual finger one by one. Honestly, I wouldn't put either past him... He did seem genuine though. Perhaps, instead, he would use that five minutes to apologize. Not in the the shitty, haphazard way he had in the past. A real, genuine apology which I knew I would never accept and yet craved with every breath I breathed. A sigh escaped my lips, "Five minutes."

He smiled, "Thank you."

I nodded and made a pitiful attempt at sitting up. A sharp, scalding hot pain cut through my arm. My vision blurred and a wince crossed over my face, but I wouldn't be deterred. I cradled my left arm in my lap, careful to make slow, concise movements.

"Careful, Sixteen," Peter cautioned. I sent him a cutting glare. 'Careful.' No shit, Sherlock. With an annoyed huff, I continued my efforts, getting about halfway up before pausing to catch my breath. He watched me with a frown. "Please, can I help you?"

I was silent. Embarrassed, because I talked a big game, and now I could hardly sit up without aid. This was a unique type vulnerability, worsened by Peter's worried stare. He pitied me. "No, I'm fine," I muttered. My right arm gave one last almighty push, and I was sitting up. Exhaustion hit me like a freight train.

Peter offered me a pointed look, "It's a marvel that you can come so close to death and still be so stubborn."

I rolled my eyes, "How did you know I was going to tell you to leave?"

A soft, amused smile lit up his face, as though I'd asked the silliest thing in the world. "Because I know you."

My heart skipped a beat in my chest. That familiar blissful, dizzying rush filled my veins. I cursed myself for that reaction; cursed my body for not listening to my mind. Peter must have sensed the change in me. Somehow, he always could. His head tilted to the side, eyes boring into mine as though he could see inside my brain. "Do you also know that you have blood on your shirt?" I asked, masterfully changing the subject.

He glanced down, blonde hair falling around his head, "No, actually, I didn't know that." He looked back up, "I was in a bit of rush earlier."

My gaze fell to the bandage wrapped tightly around my calf. The only indication that there was anything wrong underneath was a small, red dot staining the center. "I'm assuming it's my blood on your shirt."

"Yes," He answered, "It was a lot worse before. I thought all the blood might... frighten you, so I changed, but that seems beside the point now."

I frowned, "I'm sorry."

He furrowed his eyebrows, "For what? Staining my clothes? Trust me, Sixteen, they won't be missed."

"Still, I'm sorry... Is Six alright?" I asked. My face flushed when I recalled the events of that morning. Just when I thought I couldn't possibly be more embarrassed. 'You're powerful' Peter had said. Another lie. If I was powerful, I would've been able to help. I would have been able to keep Six out of harm's way. Instead, I fumbled around like an idiot, trading real, authentic power for pots, knives, and kitchen utensils.

"She'll be fine. Nothing a few days of rest won't cure." His expression shifted into something that resembled a wince, "You might need a little more time, though. It was touch and go for a little while."

"Oh." My eyes fell down to the bandage all over again. It was a sobering affair, to come so, incredibly close to death's doors. If I really focused, I could still feel my fingertips brushing against its frigid, breathless doorknob. The contemplation of dying wasn't a new feat following the past two weeks, but I was certain it would be of my own free will when I walked up to that door. Not because some foolish, insignificant children had a foolish, insignificant vendetta against me.

I felt... violated. Like Two and Four had broken into my body and robbed a part of my soul. They knew what it was like to have no control, to be utterly helpless, crushed beneath Papa's thumb. My life was the one thing I had full sovereignty over. And yet, somehow, they managed to take that from me, too.

I hated them for it. Hated them with every severed nerve-ending, every bleeding wound, every throbbing inch of my body. Another volt of pain shot down my arm when I realized I wanted to hurt them, too. Perhaps even worse than they'd hurt me. I pictured them bloody and beaten before me while I loomed over like some divine entity. A rush filled my body, nauseating and cathartic all at once.

And then shame brought me crashing back to earth.

"I think I want to hurt them," I couldn't meet Peter's eyes. I was embarrassed, ashamed, knowing I should better than that and yet not knowing how. "Really, really bad. Fuck, and it sounds so awful to admit out loud."

"No, no, no," Peter's shoes padded against the ground as he rose from his chair and neared me, "That anger, that rage, it's perfectly understandable. Innate, even... Can I confide something to you?"

His shoes entered my peripheral vision as he reached the side of my bed. My gaze moved from my bandage to Peter with agonizing slowness. He loomed over me, a sight I would almost consider intimidating if I didn't trust him not to hurt me. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I almost laughed at the irony. 'Trust' and 'Peter;' words I wouldn't ever expect to be in the same sentence after all he'd done. I suppose there were some habits I couldn't break so easily. He was Peter, after all. A fatal drug I knew better than to take and yet craved more than anything else. I didn't even realize the withdrawals I'd been going through until he was there, speaking to me, perfect as ever.

He was my very worst daydream; one I knew to be a nightmare and still, he always managed to lull me back to sleep.

"Sometimes..." He leaned down, closer to me so I had to crane my neck to meet his eyes, "I wish I could hurt people, too."

I furrowed my eyebrows. Sweet, kind, loving Peter wishing harm upon others. I suppose I always knew he had two faces. The first face he wore when he wanted to appear the diligent, composed orderly. I saw it in his soft, polite smiles, lacking in any genuine happiness. It showed in the straightening of his back, the conciseness of his movements. Then there was the other face. Darker, warped, perhaps even a little depraved. It presented itself in slivers, a beast rearing its head only for a brief, scathing moment before disappearing beneath robotic civility and tact.

"You should confide in me more often," I breathed, "It suits you."

He smiled, "Perhaps I will." A strange breed of tension hung in the air, writhing between our stares. After so many days apart, after so much had gone wrong, I was surprised at how strong I felt the urge to kiss him. Surprised that my walls had collapsed so easily. My feelings towards him were always so intense, be it hatred or adoration. The bipolar nature of it all, the inability to predict how I would respond to him one day to the other, it was maddening.

But I had to be better.

I had to be smarter.

My exhale was an unsteady one as I begrudgingly moved my eyes from his. The invisible thread that bound us together dissipated before I could even think of mourning it. "I'm assuming you know Two and Four did... this," I nodded to the bandage on my leg.

I looked back at Peter. If he was at all effected by the moment that had just passed between us, he didn't show it. That familiar clenching of my heart, that longing for a sign that what I felt wasn't entirely one-sided, it was stronger now. I cursed him for being so skilled at hiding his emotions. An answer was all I needed; a clear sign that I wouldn't be able to refute.

"It wasn't too difficult to figure out," He replied, "After their threat. I should’ve listened to you when you said they were going to stop. I know it doesn't change anything, but I am sorry."

"When will you realize I'm always right, Peter?" I mused, "Have you said anything to anyone yet?"

He shook his head, "No. I've been holed up in here for quite a while. Why?"

He said it so nonchalantly, as though it were as simple and meaningless as brushing his teeth. Maybe I was delusional. Maybe I was grasping at straws, reading into something that didn't go beyond surface level. But he waited for me. Hours passed and he sat right next to me, watching like some guardian angel from my worst nightmares.

"I don't want you to tell anyone who did it," I explained, "Two and Four threatened Six and I. They said if we told anyone what happened, they'd actually kill us. And I know you think the right amount of pressure will keep them from going through with it, but look where that got me. I don't want to put anyone else in danger."

His jaw ticked. "They nearly killed you, Sixteen." He titled his head, sapphire eyes narrowing, "You're asking me to let them get away with it."

"Yes, I am."

"I can't let this go unpunished. I won't," He shook his head, "You shouldn't either."

Two and Four had nearly killed me. That action alone would merit a punishment. But it was what they did to Six that they'd suffer for; how they dragged her into a conflict that wasn't hers to begin with. I would have my retribution, but it wouldn’t be at the hands of Papa or his guards. I couldn't rely on them to truly send the message, to send Two and Four screaming back to the dark, decrepit corner they crawled out of. No, that would be my job. I'd hurt them exactly how they had hurt Six and I. They key difference being it would be far, far worse.

And Peter couldn't know that, because I wouldn't be fooled into trusting him with such information again. He'd gotten in my way once, and I'd be damned if I let him do it again. Especially when it was Six's life on the line.

"What would you do to earn back my trust?" I faced him once more.

He was silent for a few moments, eyes glued on mine. It was those god awful eyes that made keeping my composure so difficult. Simply looking into them felt intimate beyond words, like he reserved them for me and me alone. Or maybe it was just Peter, who stared in a way only he possibly could. Sometimes the intensity of it all was frightening. "Anything," He rasped.

My heart pounded against my ribcage. I could feel the brittle bones stirring, cracking, breaking into a million pieces until my skin was bloodied and bruised. "Good," I sighed, "Then this is the first step to earning it back; don't say anything. I don't care if you think it's the right thing to do. I'm asking-- no, telling-- you not to let Papa know who did this. It's not your story to tell and it's not your decision to make."

His scrutinized my face, lips tilted into a frown. I allowed him a few silent moment to contemplate, though I already knew his answer. His eyes blazed as he replied, "Fine. Though, you should know, I wholeheartedly disagree with you on this."

"I know you do," I averted me gaze. My expression shifted into a gentle smile that didn't quite reach my eyes, "Your five minutes are up, Peter. Please send Papa in after you leave."

He lingered for a moment longer, almost like he was waiting for me to change my mind and call him back. A part of me wanted to. It kicked and screamed and tried to claw its way onto the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it back. Peter's fingers grasped the doorknob. He paused.

"You'll trust me eventually, Sixteen," He breathed, "Take your time. I can wait."

Chapter Text

I never quite understood the term 'dying of boredom' until I had to spend three weeks in recovery. Sitting in a hospital bed, surrounded by the incessant noise of both the air conditioning and the heart monitor was enough to drive any person insane. On top of that, I wasn't allowed to leave the room without a guard flanking me, which just about trampled any chance I had of enjoying myself. There was no adventuring down new hallways or sneaking into the kitchen with Roger breathing down my neck at all hours of the day.

Fucking Roger. The bane of my existence, clad in his stupid green uniform with his stupid unibrow and-- good fucking god-- that man's social skills were as deficient as his personality. Watching paint dry with a blindfold on seemed like a thrill ride compared to a conversation with Roger.

I admit, the weeks had amped up my irritation with... Well, everything, I suppose. On day two, Gloria told me that my recovery would be a lengthy one, and so I'd have to form a routine to keep myself out of my own head. I appreciated her for looking out for me, and lord knew I wanted to avoid that awful headspace I fell into after everything happened with Peter, so I obliged.

Day four spawned my official routine. Every morning since, I woke up at eight o'clock. Then, I'd have the same breakfast of pulpy orange juice, toast, and an egg. The term 'toast' was a generous title for the food. It wasn't ever really toasted, just kind of warm like someone had stuck it in the toaster for five seconds and pulled it out. Either way, I would simply shut up and eat what I was given without complaint. Sometimes I would read, but then I'd get annoyed at myself for not understanding the occasional word and give up. Afterwards, I'd sit back in bed and day dream about having another soda or doing something impossibly rash and stupid just because I was bored.

Mid-day was probably my favorite part of my routine. I'd pass the time until Six came around by practicing my abilities. They were far stronger than they had been during Two and Four's attack, but I still pushed myself. I didn't want to be that weak ever again; sleepless, out of practice, completely unable to defend myself. I fantasized about getting even with them, hitting them back harder, and so I developed a plan. If Two or Four ever strayed from the group, I'd follow them, try to shut off the cameras with my abilities, and then promptly beat them into something as pulpy as my orange juice. I'll admit, it wasn't the most well-thought-out or fool-proof idea I ever thought of, but at least it was something. After that, Six would come around with her walkman and her favorite seven tapes. We would listen to them over and over, and then I'd berate her for having bad taste in music and she'd berate me for saying that since I didn't know any other music.

After our attack, Six and I were questioned relentlessly as Papa searched for any possible indication of the perpetrator. We both claimed to have amnesia. Six had said the trauma of the incident made it difficult to recount, like her brain refused to let her remember. I claimed that the sheer physical damage I endured made me forget the incident altogether. With both of our memories allegedly mangled beyond repair, no one was ever brought to justice for the ambush. To this day, I was shocked that it actually worked. Papa might have been one of the most cruel, infuriating men to ever exist, but he wasn't stupid. Hidden beneath his boring clothes and mediocre personality, he was quite intelligent, and so I expected him to catch onto our lies as soon as they'd spilled past our lips. Three weeks passed, though, and there wasn't so much as a peep.

My alleged amnesia wasn't a total lie. There were bits and pieces of the fight I couldn't remember. Like when Six broke her rib or Peter found me barely conscious. Perhaps I wouldn't be so worried if it just ended there. After my 'seizure' erased any memories of my old life, I figured there wasn't anything else to forget. The past few months regrettably proved me wrong. There were new, odd gaps in my memory that I couldn't quite place. Random conversations I didn't recall having, words that I used before but suddenly didn't know the meaning of. Maybe there was some sort of lasting damage to my brain's hipocamp-thingy. I always had a sinking feeling that something was wrong, but I hoped it was just my paranoia.

Maybe it was the pills.

Maybe it was whatever Peter did to me and didn't want me to remember.

After the attack, I waited with bated breath for Papa to burst into the room and accuse me of lying. I didn't have much faith in Peter when it came to keeping his mouth shut, and to my delighted surprise, he proved me wrong.

Peter visited me every day at first. I would insist that I was still pissed and he had to leave me alone, but he wouldn't be deterred. Each day, he entered my hospital room with a smile. I would groan in annoyance and then he'd just smile wider and take a seat beside me. He liked riling me up, I realized. His visits became less frequent as the days ticked on, and then they stopped altogether. In one way, I was happy. Spending so much time around him wasn't good for my overarching goal. I still had to figure out the part he played in my arrival. It was so easy for me to get swept up in the moment, to give in to him as I had so many times in the past. Sometimes, late at night, I caught myself thinking maybe I could just let it go, stop pursuing the truth, and let bygones be.

Of course I was far too stubborn to actually consider the possibility.

The last part of my routine was the night time. Gloria would stop by, bring me my pills, and then we would sit together. Sometimes she told me about a new tv show she liked or updates on the status of my siblings, but she never mentioned anything of any importance. I would ask, and then she'd make a big show of laughing, saying something inconsequential, and then changing the subject. It made me sadder than I wanted to admit. I wished Gloria could be real with me. We only ever had one serious conversation, and that was when she brought me a muffin during my self-imposed exile in my room. I liked to think she wanted to be real, too, but with Papa's hawk eye she just couldn't risk it.

She never stuck around too long, well-aware that my pill kicked in pretty quickly. I decided, after the attack, that silly dreams were far better than being weak all over again, powerless against people like Four and Two. To my intense relief, the dreams were different after the attack. They weren't painstakingly detailed or so realistic I confused them with reality. They felt like dreams again.

Peter still played the starring role.

While I slept, he visited me in misty, blue-sky flashes. He would whisper words so sweet my teeth ached and my stomach turned. Other times he wouldn't say anything at all, trading spoken word for the soft brush of his lips against mine. I would ask him to really, truly kiss me, to touch me however he'd like, but he never listened. 'Soon' he would whisper, and I knew he was smiling because I could feel it against my skin. It seemed like he enjoyed riling me up in my dreams, too.

Embarrassment rosed my skin whenever I thought too hard about it. My logical mind and my subconscious seemed to have drastically different opinions on how I should regard Peter. Given the chance, would I kiss him or smack him as hard as humanly possible? I really had no clue.

Sometimes, when I was particularly bored, I'd run my hand along my jaw and reminisce about the times Peter had done the very same. Truth be told, I preferred his touch to my own.

That embarrassed me, too.

I worried that if him not visiting didn't work as a reality check, what else would? Sometimes his apathy was so, abundantly clear it was blinding. He didn't care nearly as much as I dreamed. But then he would do that awful, Peter-like shit he always did, where he smiled and said he'd do 'anything' to earn my trust again.

I suppose it was good that Papa finally deemed me ready to return to training. At least then I wouldn't be left alone with my lewd thoughts and ridiculous, impossible imaginings of Peter.

As if on cue, there were three sharp raps on the door. I practically jumped from my bed. If my last encounter with Vincent McLaughlin was any indication of how our training would go, I probably shouldn't have been so eager. Still, I couldn't prevent my nerves from humming with excitement. Three mind-numbing weeks passed, and I was finally allowed to leave the hospital wing. Before I could return to the empty utopia that was my room, I would have to complete a short training session with McLaughlin. The man was insufferable, but at least I could finally do something aside from sitting and rotting in my room.

I practically sprinted to open the door, a ridiculous grin on my face as I turned the knob. Papa raised his eyebrows when he saw me. "Hi," I said, "Is it time to go?"

His face softened, mouth melting into a smile, "Yes, it is. You look well." I thanked him and closed the door behind me. I walked with a slight limp, brought on by my still-healing leg. It didn't hurt nearly much as it had before, but I was still careful not to over-exert myself.

"Eager, aren't we?" Papa hummed, locking his elbow with mine. Usually I would reel away from such a gesture, but I appreciated the weight being dispersed from my leg. It wasn't everyday that I had a semi-fresh stab wound to recover from.

I nodded, "Yea. I've just been stuck in that room for so long. It's nice to be useful."

"You're always useful, Daughter," He mused, "But I understand. How are you feeling?"

"Sore," I shrugged, "But much better than before, thank you for asking."

"Of course. Now, I know you’re probably sick of hearing me ask this, but... Have you remembered anything else? Anything that could help us find your attacker? No detail is too small." He asked the questions casually like he had a million times before. Each time, it sounded more like, 'no pressure, but the entire world is going to split in half if you don't tell me everything you know.' And each time, I would shake my head and repeat, 'no, sorry.'

"It's alright," He sighed, "We'll figure it out soon enough, hm?"

"Yeah," I smiled as we turned down another colorless hallway, "What are we gonna do in training today?"

"Well, I'm not entirely sure. I won't be accompanying you, I'm afraid."

“Oh,” my smile fell, "So it’s just going to be McLaughlin and I?"

Papa glanced at me sidelong. It seemed I wasn't the only one who wasn't a fan of his. "That's right. There’s no need to be nervous, Daughter. McLaughlin is a little strict, yes, but he's an honorable man. He only wants what's best for you and his country. Surely you can relate to him in that respect."

I chewed on the inside cheek as we walked. Truth be told, I couldn't relate to him. I barely even knew what my country was. Who ran it? What type of people lived in it? I hated being so clueless. God, if he would just let me read one fucking book that wasn't meant for children. Then again how could I understand something written for adults if I could hardly read kid's books?

"You’ll do wonderfully today, I’m certain." Papa directed us down a new hallway, one I hadn't been in before. "Just remember to focus and keep your emotions separate from your abilities. Who knows, maybe you could earn yourself some extra time in the Rainbow Room."

He grinned like that prospect should've excited me. I almost laughed. "Maybe," I replied, trying my very hardest not to sound sarcastic.

As we walked further down the corridor, I frowned. There were three rooms on the left side of the hallway, two of which appeared to be in the very bowels of disrepair. The white-hot lighting flooded through the windows on each door. I could scarcely make out old chairs, blackboards, and layers upon layers of cobwebs. Aside from that, there was one singular door at the end of the hallway. When we got closer, I could see the fragmented remains of '001' etched into the metal. The black inscription was jagged in various places as though someone had tried to scratch it away.

Curious.

"I've never seen this hallway before," I began, trying to sound as casual as possible, "What was it used for?"

Papa didn't miss a beat, as though he prepared his answer beforehand. "Ah, it was the staff wing. Nurses, guards, and janitors would sleep here, but we relocated them for convenience. It's so far from the children, don't you think? It used to be quite the hassle to get everyone here and back."

"Oh," I replied, "That makes sense."

It was like he didn't even try. If he wanted to lie, then he could've at least acted like he believed what he was telling me. It was so, beyond easy to tell that I almost felt bad for him. His speech pattern would turn automated as though he were reading aloud and he wouldn't meet my eyes. Lying had practically become my second language at that point so it wasn't difficult to notice his tells.

My interest was piqued, of course. Why did everyone insist on keeping 001 a secret? He was like folklore, a myth passed down from staff to patient. Six told me he didn't exist, but she wasn’t present for Papa's slip up. 'The original' he said. Who else could that be besides One?

As we walked, I made a mental note of each hallway we turned down. My efforts to find my missing tape were certainly numerous, but they never produced any results. I used to close my eyes, visualize that date and recall the feeling of cool plastic in my hand almost every night. I never got much farther than my personal black void before a terrible headache broke my focus. It was as though someone were trying to block me out. With no new developments about the tape, I suppose I could allow my mind to wander to other topics. The secrecy surrounding One only made me more ravenous for answers, and so I decided right then that figuring out what happened to him would be my new favorite past time.

Papa paused in front of an unmarked grey door and unlinked our arms. "Here we are," He smiled encouragingly, "Good luck, Sixteen. Remember; focus. Let the energy come to you. Don't let your emotions interfere with your abilities."

"I won't," I replied, wrapping my fingers around the freezing doorknob, "Thanks for walking with me."

Another smile, "Of course, Daughter."

With a final deep breath, I pushed open the door. I don't really know what I expected, certainly not anything grandiose, but the room was just... empty. Aside from a metal table with two metal chairs, there wasn't anything to occupy the space. General McLaughlin stood, spine straight as an arrow, regarding me through permanently narrowed eyes. His thinning white hair gleamed underneath the harsh lights-- it was almost blinding. Two orderlies stood in the corners of the room, paying neither of us any mind.

"Hi," I muttered awkwardly, closing the door behind me.

His yellowed teeth bared as he replied, "You're late."

Irritation dug a pit in my stomach. My fingernails dug into my palm. "Yes, I know, and I'm sorry. I got hurt a few weeks ago so I'm having a hard time moving around. The walk here took a little longer than I anticipated--."

He held his hand up, silencing me, "I don't care for your excuses. Make sure it doesn't happen again. Take a seat before we waste anymore time."

I bit my tongue and rounded the table. The room was frigid as the a/c worked overtime. Its automated sigh sounded more like a scream as I lowered myself into the stiff, inflexible chair. Not even five seconds in and my back ached.

"I'm told you're quite skilled at extrasensory perception," He took a seat next to me. Just like Papa, his movements were brisk and concise, no doubt perfected by decades in the military. "Not so much at telekinesis. Today, that's what we're going to work on."

He reached beneath the table and produced some sort of cage. With plastic blocking my view, I couldn't see what was inside. McLaughlin worked at the lock for a moment before the cage opened, omitting a sharp metal screech in the process. The first thing I saw was a long, fur-lined tail, followed by two pointed ears and bright green eyes. I stared down at the tabby cat in bewilderment.

"Go on, pet it," He instructed. I glanced at him sidelong as I reached for the cat, which backed away from my hand and hissed. It's wide, fearful eyes were practically rabid as it pawed at me, cutting through the flesh of my thumb. One of the orderlies' boots shuffled against the floor.

I gasped and pulled my hand back, the words "what the hell" tumbling from my lips. It wasn't long before the claw marks dripped blood onto the palm of my hand. I sent McLaughlin a withering glare as he watched me in what I would almost call delight. Fucker. From the look on his face, he anticipated the cat's reaction. He knew it would attack and yet still encouraged me to pet it.

I barely bit back a slew of curses.

"Try again," He instructed, "I didn't say you could stop."

"Are you kidding? It scratched me," I hissed.

"So what? It's just a flesh wound, you're not dying," He smiled once more, taking a sadistic sort of pleasure out of this. I stayed quiet, hands steadfast by my side. He sat forward in his chair, breath rancid as he said the words, "Pet it. I won't ask again."

My head spun as I reached for the cat with my opposite hand. I wished Papa was here. The irony wasn't lost on me as his name crossed my mind. He was certainly wicked, but not wicked enough to allow something like this. I couldn't even wrap my head around what McLaughlin aimed to accomplish by letting some cat scratch me up.

The cat stared at me, viridescent eyes strikingly perceptive. I tilted my head and reached forward slowly, hoping to lull it into a sense of security. It arched away from me, matted fur standing on edge. I could only assume the poor thing had been mistreated for quite some time. Its ears perked up and suddenly the sting in my hand didn't hurt as bad. The cat would be darling were it not for the murderous glint in its eyes.

I smiled gently and clicked my tongue, urging it to smell my outstretched hand. Its baby pink nose tickled as it brush against my skin. The room was silent aside from the air conditioning and the tabby's harsh inhales. After a few moments, I ghosted my finger over its head. Once again, it jerked away with feline grace, green eyes never leaving my hand.

"It's scared," I muttered, "It's not going to let me pet it."

"Figure it out, Test Subject Sixteen," McLaughlin replied. I gritted my teeth. He only ever called me 'Test Subject Sixteen.' It truly was a talent to make another person's name sound like an insult. I hated the dehumanizing way in which he said it-- the smugness on his face, as though I were his lesser for being stuck here.

"You can just call me Sixteen, thanks."

"And why is that?" He titled his head, "Don't tell me the term 'test subject' hurts your feelings." I knew myself far too well, and if I opened my mouth right then, whatever came out would certainly be offensive. Instead, I opted to keep my mouth shut and try to even out my breathing.

"That is what you are, you know," It's like he wanted me to berate him, "A test subject. You may as well accept it, hm? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about."

"Can we please continue with training," I muttered.

He titled his head, "Of course. I understand that reality can be daunting on the feeble mind."

Whatever calm I had left breathed one last dying exhale, and then I was sitting forward in my seat, poison dripping from my tongue as I said, "Don't patronize me. And stop with the insults. I don't like training with you either, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna throw a tantrum like a child. Grow up."

In a flash he reached forward and the sharp echo of a slap filled the room. For a moment, everything froze. I could hear my heartbeat hammering in my ears, drowning out the buzz of the a/c. Tears blurred my vision-- angry tears. The lights flickered on and off as I brushed my palm against my stinging cheek. I glanced at the the orderlies, praying that one of them would step in and defend me. Instead, they stared right ahead, too cowardly to so much as meet my eye.

"Disrespect and insubordination will not be tolerated, Test Subject Sixteen," His eyes were narrowed into slits, back straight as ever. He stared down at me as though I were filth caught on his shoe. "Am I clear?"

I was silent, too afraid to move, too angry to speak.

"Am I clear?" He repeated.

The lights only flashed faster, growing in pace with my heartbeat. The word was like a curse as it cut up my throat, "Crystal."

"Good," His smug expression returned as he gave me a dismissive wave, "Continue with the cat."

My gaze settled back on the tabby. It stared back at me, wide eyed, as though it had any idea what McLaughlin had just done. My fingernails cut into my palm as my mind scrambled, desperately trying to understand what happened in the last two minutes. I hoped McLaughlin didn't slap the cat around, too. "Does it have a name?" I asked, figuring it might respond better if I called it by something familiar.

"No, it doesn't have a name," He answered, eyebrows raised as though I were foolish for asking.

The rage was insurmountable, burning through my veins like acid rain. "Okay," I breathed. I couldn't even think straight. My hand trembled as I reached forward, prepared for it to reject me all over again. Instead, the cat stepped closer, delicately sniffing my outstretched fingers like it had before. It nudged me, soft ears brushing against my skin. Victory was mine as I gently scratched its ear, careful not to overwhelm it and risk getting cut up again. The cat leaned into my touch, and I nearly forgot that it scratched me minutes before.

Perhaps I was fond of animals before all this, and so I knew how to treat them. Or maybe the cat somehow knew what it was to be slapped by McLaughlin and wanted to offer me some sympathy. Could cats even perceive something like that?

It purred lowly, leaning its head into my hand. The knot of anger in my stomach loosened just a little. "What does this have to do with telekinesis?" I tried to sound as respectful as possible.

"You'll be using it on the cat," McLaughlin answered.

"What do you want me to do? Make it like... float or something?"

"Of course not," He shook his head, "I want you to kill it."

My hand froze on its matted fur. Almost as though the cat understood, it turned its head to me, green eyes meeting mine. A black hole opened in my stomach as I drowned in an overwhelming sense of dread. "What?" I spat.

"Don't be coy. You heard me."

"I'm not gonna kill the fucking cat," I hissed, "Are you insane?"

"What did I say about disrespect?"

I stared, incredulous. The man had forced me to bond with the tabby just so I could kill it. Sadistic couldn't even begin to describe his actions. Did the orderlies not see what was happening? How could they just stand there and watch?

My hands turned into fists by my side, "Fuck you. I'm not going to hurt it. I won't."

McLaughlin was silent for a little while. The harsh lighting overhead cast shadows on his face, making him appear demonic. The air conditioner's cacophonous sigh was the only noise in the entire room. Neither us nor the orderlies moved for quite some time, standing and staring as though looks alone would remedy the situation. My heat sunk at the familiar coolness of metal wrapping around my wrists, cutting into my skin. Never, in my entire life, had I wished so badly for a sink hole to open and pull me into the Earth's molten core.

McLaughlin stared into my eyes. "Tase her."

The orderlies were flanking me before I could even think. Panic wrapped around my throat as the cat arched away. My chair scratched against the floor and I stood, nearly bumping into a brown-haired orderly. The white of his uniform burned my eyes. With nothing except the flick of my wrist, he slammed into the wall. I could feel him-- muscles, bones, tissue-- beneath my mind as though he were made of paper. I knew I could kill him if I pushed harder. Electricity surged though me, heady like wine. The power I missed so dearly flooded my veins with adrenaline, striking like lightning beneath my fingertips.

Cool metal pressed against my neck. I heard the clicking before I felt the pain.

My eyes rolled into the back of head, and it wasn't long until I was on my knees. My brain split in half, my nerves were set on fire. Every muscle in my body contracted until I was certain they would collapse in on themselves, crushing me from the inside out. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think.

Then it stopped.

"That is only a sample of what I can do," McLaughlin stood from the table. I panted until my throat went raw. My ears rung as he began towards me with slow, confident strides. When his shoes entered my field of vision, I snapped my head up, meeting his eyes. My gaze burned. I hoped I could flay the skin from his bones. His smug, yellowed grin was monstrous as he loomed over me like some dystopian bogeyman. "Do as you're told. Kill it. You just pushed a man into a wall without breaking a sweat. Certainly you can do this."

I looked at the cat once more. It was petrified, now, bracing against its cage as it stared at us with wide, feline eyes. "Why would I kill an innocent animal when I can just kill you?" I asked, jutting my hand forward with renewed vigor. Dark and light enveloped the room, fighting an invisible war against each other as the lights flashed violently. I heard McLaughlin gasp in pain as crimson pooled from his eyes.

The two orderlies would not give up.

They cornered me, somehow still convinced that they had a fighting chance. The ominous cry of their tasers echoed around the room, ricocheting around in my brain. Disarming them was not a difficult task, all I had to do was nod over my shoulder and the weapons went flying out of their hands. The power shifted in my direction. They must've felt it too as they staggered backwards, towards the door.

They weren't even who I was after, and yet I refused to let them go. When they tried to pull open the door, I raised my palm and forced it closed. My body shuddered with power as I rolled back my shoulders. Three weeks I had waited, bided my time, saved my abilities. Now I could feel them stronger than ever, unhindered by sleeplessness or guilt. The voltaic pulse which careened through my bones was empyrean. Euphoric, almost divine.

I was about to fall into the precipice, collapse into the feeling like I had when Peter caught me in Papa's office. The guards writhed, trying to move away and yet completely unable. I wasn't even trying to hold them in place when I heard McLaughlin behind me, followed by the brunt of one of the discarded tasers slamming into the back of my head. My focus gave way as I staggered back, wide-eyed.

McLaughlin didn't hesitate to dig the weapon into my skin once I was destabilized.

The power dissipated all at once, its ghost lingering beneath my skin. The feeling turned against me, and suddenly the cathartic electricity was torturous, carving up each cell, eating away at each atom. The orderlies seized my arms and the taser stopped. I tried to gather my strength, I tried to fight against them as they forced me back into the metal chair, but I didn't get far. Two tasers attacked me at once, one from McLaughlin and one from the brown-haired orderly.

My body seized up, my mind all but stopped. A million stars exploded over my flesh, shockwaves practically scorching me alive. I tried to cry out, but the sound got caught up it my throat and I choked on it. My lungs sparked with bright, all-encompassing agony when I tried to breathe. The air rushed down my throat, rubbing it raw and clawing at each exposed nerve. Everything was in shambles, finding new ways to fracture and decay just when I thought it couldn't possibly get worse.

I remembered Papa's punishment in my dream, how he ripped into my skin with a taser like they did now. It was agony, to be sure, but I wouldn't have preferred to peel my own skin off than take another moment of it. What McLaughlin was doing-- it was never ending, inescapable, cataclysmic. I could not imagine a more terrible fate.

The tasers stopped.

My heart raced at such a speed, I feared it would explode. I didn't even know I was crying-- I thought my entire body had dried into a husk. But it didn't, and I was. I expected the floor beneath me to tremble as violently as I did.

When my hearing returned, there were harsh voices hissing at one another. I tried to listen but my brain would not allow it, shutting down like some dead battery. My leg ached, my arm bled. I must have reopened my wound. This entire thing didn't make any sense-- what had I done to earn McLaughlin's ire? Why would he have me kill an animal on day one? Did Papa know what a monster he was?

A hand clasped my shoulder and my thoughts ran screaming from my head. Instantaneously, I jumped from my chair, stumbling away from McLaughlin's god-awful touch. "Stay the fuck away from me!" I seethed, raising my hand and calling upon the electricity once again. There was a flare beneath my skin, but it burnt out before it could become a fire. Fear, helplessness, and desperation laughed in my face.

It wasn't McLaughlin who grabbed me, though.

It was Peter.

He turned away, glacial eyes peering at McLaughlin and the other two orderlies. "Did you pass any of this through Brenner?" His voice was biting, cold as his irises.

McLaughlin glowered at Peter, "I don't have to pass anything through Brenner. I'm his superior. In fact, I'm your superior, too. What makes you think you can barge in here and interrupt a private training session?"

"What makes you think you can administer an unauthorized punishment on a patient who isn't under your jurisdiction?" He refuted, nodding towards the camera in the corner of the room. I didn't even realize it was turned off until then. "Without documentation, too? You're Brenner's subordinate in the lab and you know that. Otherwise you wouldn't have tried to keep this..." his eyes fell to one of the tasers with disdain, "foolishness a secret."

McLaughlin, for once, was rendered speechless.

Peter turned his attention to the orderlies, eyeing them with the same contempt. "You two report to Brenner. Now."

The second one stepped forward, bald head glinting beneath the lights, "We were only doing as instructed. She attacked us, too, you know. We wouldn't have tased her if she just did as she was asked and--."

"Enough," Peter silenced him, voice rebounding off the walls, "Save your excuses. You both are aware of protocol and yet you sidestepped myself and Brenner. You don't answer to--," his eyes flitted to McLaughlin, "--him or his errant demands, do you?"

The room was silent.

"Do you?" He repeated, the words lashing like a whip through the air.

"No," The brown-haired one answered, eyes downcast, "We don't."

"I didn't think so," He spat.

Peter turned towards me once more. I stood, utterly still, half expecting him to yell at me, too. Instead, his face softened, frozen irises melting into a lazy, cerulescent river. He situated himself at my side, giving me a once over. His jaw clenched at the sight of blood on my arm, but he said nothing. "We're leaving," He whispered to me, gentle fingers pushing on the small of my back.

I nodded, careful to avoid eye contact with McLaughlin and the orderlies as he ushered me towards the door. Instead, my gaze stayed on Peter. The word angel floated across my mind as we walked. For now, I allowed myself to forget about every awful thing he'd done. Perhaps it was foolish, but I could only focus on the warmth of his fingertips pressed against my back. It was a simple gesture, one meant only to guide me, and yet I relished in it. I wanted to bottle the feeling and get drunk on it until I couldn't breathe anymore.

When we reached the threshold of the door, McLaughlin tried to block our way out. "What in God's name do you think you're doing?" He hissed, proud as ever and refusing to admit his evident defeat, "You can't just take her. We're in the middle of a session."

Peter's hand moved from my back and wrapped around my forearm. He regarded McLaughlin through narrow, judging eyes. "I can, actually," He smiled a mocking smile, "And I will. You have a good day, now."

And without another word, we left.

Chapter Text

Peter held my forearm as though it were sand falling through his hands. Urgent, desperate fingers wrapped so tightly, I expected them to paint my skin black and blue. He didn't say a single word as he listlessly dragged me down hallway after hallway, staring into every camera with a hatred that was nearly palpable. He forced us to halt outside of a plain, unmarked training room and ushered me inside.

My weary limbs screamed in relief when I leaned against the tiled wall. It was cold to the touch, a loving embrace for my feverish skin. The re-opened wound on my arm wept crimson tears, staining the sleeve of my hospital gown. I couldn't be bothered to stop it.

Peter didn't glance at the camera in the corner of the room like he typically did. That's when I realized there wasn't one for him to glare at. Whatever was about to happen, he didn't want anyone to see it.

I barely restrained the urge to break down crying right then and there. Just when I thought things were getting better; just when I thought things could be okay. McLaughlin, his tasers, that poor cat. They showed up and made a mess of it all. I must've been an awful person before I lost my memories. Maybe I had this coming. The universe was punishing me for my past sins and laughing because I couldn't possibly redeem myself. How does one repent for a transgression they don't remember?

Of course I wouldn't cry, though. Not while Peter watched. I was humiliated enough as it was. With Two and Four's attack, with my failure to defend myself from McLaughlin, I didn't need to make a fool of myself in front of Peter, too.

"No cameras," My laugh was strained. I was on the verge of tears, begging myself to just hold it together long enough to make it back to my room, "Perfect time for you to kill me."

His eyes narrowed. Apparently he didn't find my joke very funny.

Silence followed. It seemed Peter was more perturbed than I was. Strands of vanilla colored hair fell onto his face, but he didn't seem to notice, too focused on glaring at me. Unabating blue eyes greedily watched my every movement. Each twitch of my finger, each rise and fall of my chest. I squirmed beneath his unrelenting stare.

"Maybe I should just go to the nurse?" I suggested after a few more moments passed, "You probably have, you know, orderly shit to do--."

"--What did he do?" I was taken aback by the anger in his voice. No, no, it was more than anger. It was hatred. Burning hot and simmering off of him in slow, rolling waves. If he was an angel, then he had fallen from grace.

I sighed, "You saw, Peter, didn't you? He tased me."

"Don't be coy, Sixteen. What else did he do?"

"It doesn't matter," I shrugged, "It's nothing Papa wouldn't do."

"That's not an answer," He spat. I couldn't shake the suffocating feeling that I was cornered as he took slow, careful steps towards me. "Look at you. You're bruised, you're bleeding. Tasers don't inflict such wounds."

"Do we really have to get into the gory details?" I tried to cross my arms, but a biting pain shot through my ripped open stitches. Peter's stare didn't relent, as though he were trying to coax an answer out of me with looks alone. I could feel the pressure of his eyes boring into my brain, pushing on my temples, crushing my skull in. "Fuck, fine, stop glaring at me. He had me pet a cat and it scratched me." I showed him the claw mark on my thumb, "See? It's fine. I'm fine."

"What else?"

"He didn't do anything else."

"Clearly he did."

"You're being unreasonable."

"What else, Sixteen?"

Irritation curled in my gut. It's like he wanted me to be mad at him. "He slapped me, Peter. Is that what you want to hear? Are you satisfied?" I returned his glare with equal intensity, "You and I both know nothing is gonna come of this. Papa would've done the exact same given the chance, so why would he punish McLaughlin for it? I've dealt with worse. It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal?" Peter echoed the words like he couldn't believe they fell from my lips, "He raised a hand to you. What if it were Six, hm? Tell me that if he slapped her, you wouldn't think it was a big deal."

I didn't say a word.

"That's what I thought."

"Don't waste your energy. Being angry won't make a difference. What's done is done, okay?" It seemed Peter was unyielding to good, plain common sense. There weren't enough words in the English language to dictate how awful McLaughlin's actions were, but even if I used every single one, it wouldn't change anything. Somehow, the orderly who had been here far, far longer than me didn't understand the helplessness of our situation. I envied his naivety.

"What then?" Peter took another step closer. His anger lingered in the air around him, and as I breathed it in, I could feel it becoming my anger, too. "You're going to let him get away with hurting you. Aren't you? Like you let Two and Four get away with it?"

"I didn't let them get away with anything," I could hardly believe the words exiting his lips. Didn't he know I hated this as much as he did? I still planned on hurting Two and Four, but I couldn't be reckless. I couldn't act on every passing spike of emotion. "I just..."

"You just... what?" He tilted his head, condescension practically dripping from the words.

"Peter, stop."

"Two and Four nearly killed you and I did nothing. For you, I did nothing... Do you know why I stopped visiting you in the hospital wing?" He asked rhetorically, "Because I couldn't stand to see you there, hardly able to move on your own, while Two and Four walked free. I won't make the same mistake with McLaughlin. I won't, Sixteen."

"So what? Hm? Are you gonna give him a stern slap on the wrist? Don't you realize there's nothing we can do? He's a fucking egomaniac, he's not going to listen to a word you say." I had to pause, take a deep breath, and gather my thoughts. "And the recovery wasn't all that pleasant for me, either. Of course I want to get even, Peter. More than anything, but it's not that simple. I can't make every decision based on what I want in a fleeting moment. If I want to get back at Two and Four, I'll have to think through every single second of every single action I make-- because, if I don't, people will suffer for it. Nine people are dead because of me. Six got her rib broken because of me." My stare burned into Peter's, "You got tased because of me. Don't you see the trend? I need to stop being the reason other people get hurt. So, yes. I suppose I am going to let McLaughlin get away with it. He'll end up dead if I try to do something about it... I don't have enough control over my abilities. Unless you think Papa would hold him accountable, but let's be honest about the chances of that."

Peter stared down at me. He opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something, but he opted against it. His fire of rage slowly but surely burnt out, leaving nothing but embers alight in his eyes. His fingers were warm to the touch as they brushed against my arm. "Oh, Sixteen." The words were quiet, reserved only for me. It was the way he said my name that made my heart stop-- the way he curled the number into a caress, a melody.

"It seems I'll have to take the matter into my own hands. I'll make sure McLaughlin doesn't try anything again. How about you go get this--," he ran his thumb over my bleeding arm, barely touching the skin, "taken care of. Hm?"

"It's fine. Just leave it alone," I shook my head, "I don't want you getting punished for something that has nothing to do with you."

"I'll be punished regardless."

"Peter--."

"--Sixteen, it isn't up for debate. It's my job to look out for you, after all. Someone has to."

Two days passed.

To my intense displeasure, I spent them in the hospital wing. Gloria added extra stitches this time, along with a few more bandages. She certainly wasn't happy with me when I showed up bloody and beaten. The lecture she gave was certainly one for the ages. After she was finished, she helped patch me up like she had a million times before, smiling and chatting with me the whole time. Gloria wasn't very good at staying angry.

A combination of pain meds and benzodiazepine made the time pass in a blurry, half-conscious haze. Peter didn't come to visit me in my dreams or in reality, which I suppose was a blessing. I kept on having to remind myself I was mad at him, that he ratted me out.

Around midday, I was summoned to Papa's office.

I practically screamed at the opportunity to stretch my forever-aching limbs. No guard came to accompany me on my walk, the air conditioning wasn't too loud, and my head didn't hurt too bad, either. I navigated the hallways with a smile on my face, running my fingers along the indents in the tile.

Where any other person would be grateful for the positive respite, it made me nervous. Whenever things started to get better, it was just a precursor to some awful occurrence that was sure to follow. For example, I remember being so, incredibly glad when I found my tape, only for Peter to come and take it from me. Then I tried my first soda with Six and promptly got beaten the fuck up. Every time my life went well, I knew it wouldn't last long. No doubt something terrible would ensue and make me feel foolish for ever being optimistic in the first place.

Or maybe I was just paranoid.

My brain insisted on going into crisis mode at every single minor inconvenience. It was exhausting to be so on edge, to have my nerves so jangled at all times. I yearned for that version of me who had just arrived at the lab. She was frightened, sure, but she wasn't driving herself mad asking questions she couldn't possibly answer. Getting herself into ridiculous, avoidable situations. She wasn't spineless for some random man with a stupid, white suit.

I missed her.

One by one, the lights ahead of me shut off. I frowned once the hallway became bathed in darkness, pointlessly searching for the culprit. Sometimes, when my emotions became too strong, the lights would flicker on and off. This wasn't me, though. My abilities rested comfortably in my veins like a small, insignificant weight. A constant reminder that they existed. They hadn't stirred a bit.

This wasn't me.

The air conditioning wheezed and coughed until it, too, shut down. The silence was all encompassing as I stood in the empty hallway. I didn't know whether to make my way to Papa's office or just sit there and wait for the power to return. Even the cameras were clicked off, their red, watching eyes gone dim.

There was a clatter, a whispered curse, and then someone turned the corner. Papa. Somehow, I could sense him from the complete other end of the hall. Was that extrasensory perception? I sighed. Sometimes I felt like I didn't understand my abilities at all.

"Papa?" I called, voice especially loud without the a/c to drown it out, "Is that you?"

"Sixteen," He answered, and then his footsteps inched closer to me. I almost screamed when his hand unexpectedly wrapped around my shoulder, "There must be an issue with the breaker. Why don't we go back to my office? I think I have some flashlights in my desk."

I nodded stupidly before remembering the lights were out and he couldn't see. "Alright, sounds good."

We stumbled our way through the blackness until we arrived at the dark, wooden door of Papa's office. He must've had a flood light of some sort. Something dim and blue shined out into the hallway, barely illuminating the tiled wall. His door creaked noisily as Papa pushed it open. The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed through the vacant halls, striking an unsettling cord within me.

I was more than glad to follow Papa into his office, arching my body away from the darkness on the other side of the door. I couldn't see him, but I could hear him as he rounded his desk. A metallic clang filled the room as he shuffled through one of the drawers. "Aha," He exclaimed, and then a click sounded. The flashlight shuddered before it turned on.

Just as he moved to hand me a flashlight of my own, the air conditioning overhead gave a deep, guttural groan. The sounds of machines firing up echoed all around until I could feel cool air blowing against my skin. The lights in Papa's office turned on, fighting off the darkness until it was rendered obsolete. I squeezed my eyes shut against the harsh whiteness that filled the room without warning.

"Would you look at that," Papa's voice hummed, "It seems we won't be needing these after all." Another click sounded as he turned off the flashlight and put it in his desk. Slowly, I opened my eyes.

"Huh," I muttered, glancing around the room in its entirety. The camera's lens was once again dotted with red. "I wonder what that was about."

"It's probably nothing. The lab is a massive building and it requires an abundance of electricity. The power is bound to go out from time to time," He took a seat in his chair and gestured to the one in front of him. That's how it always was with Papa; business as usual.

Once I was sitting, he rolled back his shoulders. The signature smile disappeared. He frowned, and something more severe filled his wrinkled face. I immediately knew the meaning behind this ad hoc meeting. "I've received some troubling news, Sixteen. No doubt you know what it's about."

I nodded.

"Care to tell me what happened between McLaughlin and yourself?" He asked, voice stern as ever.

I adjusted uncomfortably in my chair. Peter must've reported the incident. 'I'll take care of it' he said, 'I'll take matters into my own hand.' God, if I knew this is what he planned on doing I would've just told Papa myself. At least then I'd know what I was walking into.

"I don't think McLaughlin likes me very much," I began, "He was sort of angry at me off the bat for being late. I tried to explain my injury but he just said it was an excuse... Uh, I'm sorry the details are a little fuzzy." That was a lie. The details were so clear I could've recited the entire exchange word for word, second for second. I just didn't want to have to go into detail-- again-- about how I bickered with an old man and then he slapped me for it. It was humiliating, having to submit to McLaughlin, and I certainly wasn't eager to relive it.

"That's alright," Papa reached forward and placed his hand on mine, a gesture that was surely meant to bring me comfort. It did the exact opposite, however, as I fought with all my might not to curl away in disgust. "Tell me what you can. You're not in trouble, Daughter, I just want to understand what happened."

I smiled a soft, gentle smile and prayed it didn't look like a wince. "I know, don't worry." I cleared my throat, "After that we sat down and he brought out a little cat. He tried to get me to pet it but it scratched me. I didn't want to, but he made me try to pet it over and over even though it clearly didn't want me to."

I showed him the scratches on my hand. He was stone cold, silent, but I didn't miss the angry twitch of his eye. That was the thing about Papa I never quite understood. Where he was cruel, he was also confoundingly kind. Admittedly, I was a stubborn piece of shit and if I were him, I'd resent me. For some reason he didn't, though. The man genuinely cared for each of the patients in his own deranged, diseased way. That was also what made him so frightening. He knew us, maybe he even loved us, and yet he wouldn't hesitate to wreck our insides with electricity and exploit us for all we were worth. He had us call him 'Papa.' I wondered, if I had a father in the outside world, was he the same way?

If so, then I couldn't help but think that maybe I was better off without one.

"Please continue, Sixteen," His coaxing words pulled me from my thoughts. I took a deep breath.

"Uh, yes, sorry. So he had me pet the cat and it eventually warmed up to me. Then, he asked me to kill it. I said no and he had the orderlies tase me," I rushed through the last half of the sentence before I could convince myself not to say it. "It's all sort of a blur."

Papa blinked. Once, twice. "And you didn't do anything to... insight... such a punishment?"

My freehand clenched into a fist. "I don't think so, no."

"Well then," He cleared his throat and sat up straight in his chair, "It's clear to me that I was misguided in allowing McLaughlin a place in your program. Such depravity is unacceptable, especially without proper cause or permission from myself. I'll see to it that McLaughlin is removed as soon as possible."

I nodded.

"Truly, I am sorry," He frowned.

"It's alright, you didn't do anything wrong," I tried to ask my next question as casually as possible, "Who, uh, reported the incident? Was it Peter?"

"Yes, it was," Papa said, "He and I agreed that immediate action had to be taken. McLaughlin will likely be relocated in a week's time. You won't see him again, Daughter."

"And the cat?"

Papa raised an eyebrow, "The cat?"

"The cat that McLaughlin tried to get me to kill," I elaborated, "I think he was mistreating it. Its fur was all matted and it was really jumpy. Do you think you could, uh, make sure it's okay? Make sure he doesn't take it with him?"

Papa's eyes softened, "I'll see what I can do--." He was cut off by three sharp raps on the door. Our conversation came to a halt as I turned in my chair to get a better look at the source of the noise.

"Come in," Papa called.

Two guards came in, pale as ghosts. The man on the left looked as though he were about to faint. Both of their uniforms were ruffled, one of which had a dark stain across the chest and arms. A few moments of silence passed, broken only by the guards' heavy breathing and the air conditioner above. No one moved.

"Well? What is it?" Papa asked, voice brimming with both confusion and worry. With the looks on their faces, I was worried too.

"A body was found in G wing with their throat slashed," The shorter one on the right started. His eyes were so, incredibly wide, it almost looked bizarre. There was a tremor in his voice as though it hurt just to expel the words from his lips.

"It was Vincent McLaughlin's."

Chapter Text

Peter wasn't in the Rainbow Room the next morning.

Six's voice came in and out of focus as she ranted to me about some book she was reading. I didn't register a single word, too preoccupied glaring daggers at the doors, praying they'd open up and Peter would walk through. At first, I figured he was just late. Maybe he ran out of identical white suits to wear and had to throw in a load of laundry. Or maybe he had to practice the next ambiguous monologue he was gonna give me about my abilities. My grasp on common sense seemed to be loosening with each passing moment.

The next thing I knew, hours passed, and still no Peter.

That was when the panic really set in. What were the chances that McLaughlin dies and then Peter goes missing? I couldn't fool myself into thinking it was a coincidence. Not after his promise to make sure McLaughlin wouldn't 'try anything again.' Anxiety had my knee bouncing up and down beneath the table. I didn't even blink, afraid that he would show up and I'd somehow miss it.

I had this awful black hole in my stomach that told me he might have done something incredibly impulsive and ill-advised. Peter was smart. So, ridiculously smart. He would know how to shut down the power, he would know how to time a murder just right. I recalled the severity which filled his eyes when he pulled me into the training room. The cold, collected fury, sealed beneath immaculate clothing and rigid posture. That man could kill someone. Of that, I had no doubt.

No.

No. He was above such a thing. He wouldn't kill someone for me. Peter wasn't capable of a crime so brutal as slitting one's throat. How could he? His smooth, gentle hands weren't even calloused. Sure, he had his more... unhinged... tendencies, but murder was not one of them. I strained to even picture him holding a knife.

'Sometimes, I wish I could hurt people too.'

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Peter was a fucking idiot.

An idiot who was most definitely capable of taking a life. Too much time came and went. I exhausted all possible explanations. The final conclusion I reached made me feel physically ill. Peter killed McLaughlin. And then he got caught.

I told him not to do anything. I fucking told him. Of course, stupid, stubborn, heedless Peter didn't listen. I swore, when I saw him again, I was going to wring his fucking neck. That is if Papa hadn't done it already.

I pictured him on the floor of that dreadful, tiled room, tasers ferociously digging into every single exposed piece of skin. Head thrown back, cries echoing from his lips. I never wanted to hear him beg again. I never wanted to hear him so helpless. Papa didn't show up that morning either. At first, I figured he was simply too focused on finding the culprit and didn't think to check in with the patients. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the culprit had already been identified. Maybe Papa was already exacting punishment. My heart ached, my stomach clenched. Never in my entire life had I wanted to see Peter so badly. See his insufferable, unabating blue eyes glaring into mine. I wanted him to be sat right in front of me, to bicker, to condescend, to do whatever he pleased so long as he was here.

At that moment, I would have taken him at his very worst just to make sure he was okay.

He should've been here.

He should've been here.

"Sixteen?" Six's voice called, rather loudly, in my ear. My head whipped towards her. "Can you stop that?"

"What?" I frowned, "Stop what?"

"Bouncing your knee up and down. You're shaking the table," She nodded toward my tremulous leg which was indeed shaking the table. I forced it to stop and muttered 'I'm sorry.'

"Don't apologize," She said. My gaze went back to the door. "What's wrong?"

I faced her. 'What's wrong?' What wasn't wrong? Peter might have exacted a revenge murder in my name, and I couldn't say a word about it to anyone. Six was far more trustworthy than most but, even still, I couldn't risk anything getting back to Papa.

Oh, god, but maybe I was wrong. I hoped I was wrong. What if Peter did commit the murder, but he just hadn't gotten caught as I suspected? What if he was laying low? With each muscle in my body, I clung to the idea. Dug my fingernails into it, burrowed my head into the naive, irrational possibility.

Maybe he was fine.

Probably not, though.

"We should leave," I muttered, "Like right now, we should leave."

"And go where?"

"The old staff's quarters."

"Why?"

"Because I am going to lose my fucking mind if I don't distract myself right this minute," I replied.

"Distract yourself?" Six looked hesitant, "From what?"

"Peter," I answered, "Up, up. Let's go."

"Sixteen," Six placed her hand on my arm, "I say this with so much love and respect, but you don't seem... well. Why don't we slow down and, I don't know, think it through? You can't just go on little adventures every time you're stressed out."

"Why not?" I frowned.

"Well, one, because it's not healthy... I think," She sat back, "And because someone just got murdered. There's no way Papa would let us just walk around." She did have a point in that respect. The entire lab was on high alert, going so far as to cancel lessons and enforce a strict curfew. Each patient could choose between their bedroom or the Rainbow Room for the day, and of course, most chose the latter. Every camera was powered on, silently observing every stop we took with its unrelenting metal glare. Not to mention the halls were practically crawling with guards.

"I could convince him I think," I remained standing, "You underestimate how good I am at manipulating men."

"I don't think you should brag about that."

"Too late."

"Fine," She begrudgingly rose from her chair, "But when Papa sends us right back to the Rainbow Room, don't say I didn't warn you."

I grinned and linked my arm with hers.

"I expect you to give me a lesson in manipulating men as a thank you," She muttered when I began pulling towards the door. "You're a bad influence. You know, six months ago, I wouldn't have dreamed of doing something as stupid as this. Why do I let you talk me into stuff like this? Why are you so good at it?"

"Stop asking questions," I demanded, "Just know I'm always right and I never make mistakes, okay?"

She scoffed.

We marched up to the guard blocking the door. His neck was probably the size of my thigh. A scar ran along his eyebrow and a rather mean-looking scowl twisted up his face. Nonetheless, I offered him my best attempt at a nervous smile and asked, "Hello. We were wondering if we could please speak with Papa. We're feeling really ill-at-ease and he usually coaches us through stuff like this. We'll be here and back in five minutes, I promise."

The man merely narrowed his eyes. Silence followed.

"And we don't have a mother figure," Six piped up, "So..."

Stupid.

"Yes," I barely restrained the urge to elbow Six in the ribs for such a pointless interjection, "Six has a particularly difficult time with that bit, and so she's really reliant on Papa for emotional counseling. He usually encourages us to talk to him when we're feeling anxious. And he would probably be upset if he found out we were denied our much-needed emotional support," I frowned, "You wouldn't want to upset him, right?"

A few more moments passed. The man stared over my head as though I weren't standing right in front of him. There was a clenching of his jaw, a soft exhale, and then he stepped aside. Six and I exchanged a look as we walked passed the guard-- hers of surprise, mine of smugness. Once the door closed behind us, I grinned.

"Told you so."

"I'm going to laugh in your face when Papa sends us back to the Rainbow Room."

"That's precisely why we're not going to ask him," I grabbed her wrist and pulled her with me down the hallway.

She dug her heels into the ground, "What do you mean we're not going to Papa?"

"Well, he'll just say no," I shrugged.

"Sixteen, you know I love sneaking out as much as you do, but maybe you should think this one through," She frowned and gestured towards the corner of the hall, "The camera. Papa will know we left."

"Look closely," I said, "It's turned off."

She narrowed her eyes when she realized it was, indeed, turned off, devoid of its typical red dot. "Why?"

I grinned, "Because I turned it off. No one will know we even left, I just have to keep shutting them off as we pass."

"How did you turn it off?"

"I've been practicing," I glanced towards the light overhead. It flashed. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession, and then it stopped.

"Impressive, Sixteen," She looked as though she were on the verge of agreeing, and then a frown creased her lips, "Won't Papa notice when all the cameras are shut down?"

"I can turn them back on when we're out of view,"

She was silent.

Guilt twisted in my stomach when I realized I probably went too far. Six wasn't so quick to defy Papa's orders, and I should've been more conscientious of that. My lips formed a soft smile, "You can go back to the Rainbow Room if you want. I totally understand why you're nervous, I won't be mad. Don't want you to feel pressured if you really don't want to come."

"Oh, no, I want to come," She muttered, "I just feel like this could backfire in a million ways."

"Oh, it definitely could," I said, "If we get caught I'll take full responsibility. Deal?"

She smiled, "Deal."

We navigated the hallways for about twenty minutes before I stumbled upon what I assumed was the correct turn. I used the term 'labyrinth' to describe the lab before, but it was when I truly took the time to navigate its milky white confines that I realized how accurate that description was. The hallways were utterly indiscernible from all the others which proceeded it. Metal doors, tiled floors, harsh overhead light. The purr of the a/c was maddening as it grew in an ear-splitting crescendo, ever-present no matter which turn we took, never too far behind.

I was just about ready to give up and attempt to find my way back to the Rainbow Room when I paused. We stood at the beginning of a hallway that had three doors on the left side and one door at the end. From that distance, I could barely see the black ink labeling it '001.'

"This is it," I turned to Six, "This is the hallway."

"Lovely," She peered around, "So, uh... Why are we here again?"

"Remember when I talked to you about One?" I asked, to which she nodded, "And you told me he wasn't real? Well, I think I found something that might disprove that-- it's just a hunch though, I might be wrong."

"What does an old hallway have to do with him?" She frowned, "I'm beginning to think you're schizophrenic."

"You're hilarious," I rolled my eyes, "Follow me."

I pulled her toward the end of the hall. Six glanced through the three doors on the left side with weary, apprehensive eyes. I couldn't deny that the hallway had an unsettling way about it. The rooms were simply left behind, frozen in whatever time they had been abandoned. Chalkboards, chairs, and tables-- all in seemingly perfect condition-- were now hidden beneath layers of cobwebs and dust, left to wither and decay for no apparent reason.

The door marked '001' only added to the eerie ambiance.

Six's eyes went wide when she saw it. For a few moments, I watched her try to process what was in front of her. If One truly never existed, then why was there a door marked with his name? If One never existed, then why did someone try to scratch away what remained of him?

"Woah," She glanced over her shoulder, "Okay. You have my attention. This is really... weird."

"I know," I breathed.

"But why would Papa lie to us," She frowned, "I mean obviously he isn't great at telling the truth but why keep one of our siblings a secret?"

"I'm worried that something bad happened to him," I said, "Bad enough to make Papa want us to forget he even existed."

"I can see why... So, are you gonna open the door or what?"

"Uh, fuck no. What if there's like a demon inside? You do it."

"You dragged me out here. You have to do it."

"I can't. I got stabbed in the arm, remember?"

"You were fine ten minutes ago," She hissed.

"My arm is literally on the verge of falling off. I can't do it."

"Not true," She crossed her arms, "Open the door."

I frowned, "Fine. But you have to glue it back on when it falls off."

I could almost hear her roll her eyes as I reached for the doorknob. It was inexplicably cold, as though a blizzard was raging on the other side, burying the room beneath snow and hail. I don't know what I was so afraid of, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Like some monster was curled up watching, waiting, prepared to jump out as soon as I opened its cage.

I rolled my eyes at my own cowardice. It was a room just like the others. White, tiled, nondescript, perhaps containing a few more dust mites. Nothing that warranted such anxiety.

The door gave an unceremonious groan as it creaked open. I stared into the darkness and it stared back, motionless, silent, unperturbed by our intrusion.

"That was anticlimactic," Six frowned.

"I know."

"I could've sworn a ghost was gonna come out and eat you."

"Me too. What a shame," I ventured inside, reaching for the light switch on the wall. Thin ropes of cobwebs clung to my hospital gown, which I regarded with a crinkling of my nose. A few spiders scrambled away from my hand as the switch flipped and the room was flooded with blinding white light.

Six closed the door behind us. The bedroom was almost exactly like mine. In the center was a plain, white bed with plain, white blankets tucked neatly beneath the mattress. There was a single mirror overlooking the dresser on the left-hand side of the room, its corners yellowed with age.

"What exactly are we looking for?" She asked.

"I don't know, I didn't think that far," I shrugged, "Just look for something that doesn't fit with the rest of the room."

And so we did.

I made a beeline for the closet while Six ducked beside the bed.

Just as I expected, more cobwebs ran along the door. Inside, there were a few hospital gowns, a folded pair of slacks, and black boots. One must've been pretty young when the bedroom belonged to him. Judging by the pediatric size of all the clothes, I figured he was somewhere around 9-12 and hadn't yet reached puberty. That, or he was a very, very small man.

If he was younger, then I hoped he lived long enough to outgrow these clothes.

Perhaps he escaped. Maybe that's why Papa didn't want us to know he existed; he didn't want us thinking it was possible. One was the first, so he probably wasn't born into Papa's lab. Like me, he had known a life far better than this one. I only hoped he was permitted to remember it.

I didn't understand what about One had me so intrigued. Maybe it was the ambiguity of it all, the folklore. Or maybe it was the fact that he was a little kid who had to navigate this madness all on his own. Without Six or Gloria or any concept of what was happening to him. He was the original test subject, the independent variable. How many times had he been poked and prodded just so Papa could understand the best way to recreate him-- to make a whole race that he would imprison and hide away?

Maybe it was the fact that I'd want someone to wonder about me. If I went missing and Papa insisted that I never existed in the first place, how mad would that drive me? One was a little boy with hopes and dreams and ambitions and fears and everything else that makes up a human being. I didn't know him, and yet I owed him. At the very least, I owed him the dignity of wondering. Because he was real, and his existence had been invalidated for far, far too long.

"Sixteen, come here. I think I found something," Six called from across the room.

My gaze lingered on the closet for one moment longer before I turned towards Six. She knelt at the end of the bed, head titled in curiosity. Ahead of her was a small, unassuming cardboard box. Perhaps one meant for shoes, judging by its size.

I fell to my knees beside her. She ripped at the small pieces of tape on either side until the top was loose enough to pull off. She did so, and then a shriek ripped from her throat. Spiders-- a whole nest of them-- came crawling out all at once. I gasped and stumbled back while Six shook her arm and flung her body around the room as though she had been set on fire.

"It's on me!" She screamed, flailing her arm, "Kill it! Oh, my god, Sixteen. Kill it!"

I had to fight the urge to laugh, "Six, stay still."

It took her a few moments to oblige. All the color drained from her face, doe-eyes filled to the brim with horror. "I would've preferred the ghost to this," She wailed, "Oh, my god, what if it bites me? Is it venomous? Sixteen, I don't want to die."

"You're not going to die," I grabbed her wrist and forced her to stay still. There it was-- the smallest little spider crawling along her forearm. I placed my fingers in its path, watching as the little insect crawled off of her arm and onto my hand. I placed it on the table beside us and turned back to Six.

She pulled off her shoe and made her way toward the spider.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm killing it. It almost killed me."

"Don't kill it," I frowned, "What if he has a wife and kids?"

"I'll kill the wife and kids, too," She seethed, "Mark my words. Little fucker."

"Don't kill it," I repeated, "Pretty please."

She rolled her eyes, "Fine. But I die, it's on you."

I scoffed and turned my attention back toward the box. The nest of spiders had quickly begun abandoning their cardboard home. Most of them were already scattered across the floor, seeking refuge beneath One's bed.

Now that I could clearly see the contents of the box, my frown deepened. What was One doing with a bunch of old tapes? Each one appeared to be music of some sort, though the song names were blurred by years and years of disuse. I blew as hard as I could, my breath carrying dust and grime away with it. Then, I could scarcely make out t artists written along the spines. Gerry Rafferty, Bobby Womack, David Bowie, Ella Fitzgerald. None of which meant anything to me because I didn't know who they were.

I ran my finger along the tapes in a failed attempt to clear away the dust. The very moment my skin made contact with the plastic of one specific tape, I froze. A frostbitten chill ran down my spine, icy cold, painting my skin frigid blue. My heart sank into my stomach and suddenly I felt like I was free-falling. My breath halted, my heart stopped. Everything positive and light-hearted about mine and Six's rendezvous dissipated into nothing. An overwhelming sense of helplessness, of fear, of anger hit me all at once, right in the sternum, terrible and all-consuming.

And then the sound of a phone ringing came from every direction. It was deafening. The shrill, penetrating cry ricocheted around in my skull. It chimed three times, growing louder and more forceful until I was convinced it was going to split my brain in two.

The moment I retracted my hand, it all stopped. The hole in my gut suddenly disappeared as though it had never been in the first place.

My heart resumed its slamming against my ribcage.

Confusion overtook me.

"This is it," I looked to Six, "This is what we're looking for."

It was curfew by the time I reached my room again. Box in hand, I padded through the last few halls, more than eager to burrow myself beneath thin, scratchy blankets. I made a concerted effort not to move the lid of the box and risk touching that tape again. I wracked my brain trying to understand what had happened; why a few pieces of plastic and polyester made me feel like I was on the verge of dying. Eventually, I'd sit down, close my eyes, and try to use my abilities to get to the bottom of it. Not tonight, though. Tonight, I didn't have enough energy for that particular mystery.

I passed a few guards before I returned to my room. Only one of them returned my smile and 'goodnight.' Unconsciously, I scanned the hallways for a familiar white suit. Peter was nowhere to be found, though. It seemed my little distraction didn't work as I hoped it would.

Four and I made brief eye contact as she passed me on her way to her room. Her lips pulled into a smile that looked much, much more like a sneer. I only glared. That knowing look in her eye, one of smugness and self-confidence, it made anger twist like a knife in my gut. As awful as it sounded, I couldn't wait to get back at them. Two especially. Did they have any idea what I was planning? Did they know how badly they were going to hurt?

I hoped so.

And I hoped they were paranoid beyond belief, searching for my face in every crevice, every shadow, knowing that soon enough, I would be there.

That thought quelled my frantic nerves as I reached my door. My eyes scanned the hallway one final time, a last-ditch effort to find Peter. Of course, he wasn't there. A frown unfolded across my face as I entered my room. The tapes in the box made a soft clatter as I placed them on my dresser, the only indication that I had entered.

I hooked my fingers around the bottom of my hospital gown. Just when I was about to pull it off, I froze.

Someone was watching me.

I spun on my heel, glaring accusatively at the figure which stood near my bed. Their face was wholly sealed beneath shadows. I was about to shout at them, demand to know why they entered my room, when I realized who it was. That white suit that I had been searching for all day wasn't nearly as harsh beneath the soft, blueish lighting which filled my room.

Maybe I was dreaming.

"Peter?" I whisper-yelled, "What the fuck? How did you get in here?"

I almost didn't believe it was him. My eyes blinked. Once, twice, three times, and he remained real as ever. He wasn't a trick of the light or my mind making a fool of me. "I opened the door," His voice confirmed it, "And then I walked in."

I stood there, mouth agape, speechless as I had never been before. My eyes ran over every inch of his face, checking for bruises or cuts or any indication that he had been punished as I suspected. I didn't find any. He looked perfect. Perpetually so. Far too perfect for a man who had killed another only hours prior. It's like he could see my mind whirring behind my eyes, trying to understand why he was here, why he disappeared all day. His lips pulled into a soft, delicate smile.

"You look vexed," He hummed.

"Vexed?" I hissed. A million thoughts ran rampant through my mind like a discordant choir singing off-key. "It was you, wasn't it? You killed McLaughlin."

Again, he smiled. I waited for an answer to fall from his lips. At that point, I would've taken a single nod of his head. Instead, he stared. All he ever did was stare. My fingernails dug into my palms as I tried not to shout at him, to smash his head in, to pluck his stupid fucking eyes out of his head. And just when I thought he was never going to answer me, he shrugged his shoulders.

"Peter. You are the most idiotic person I've ever fucking met," I spat. He opened his mouth to reply, but I shushed him, "No. No. You don't get to talk right now. Do you know how worried I've been all day? I thought you got caught. God, you're so stupid. Why would you kill McLaughlin? Don't you realize you're going to get caught? This is exactly why I wanted you to leave it alone. I knew you were going to do something stupid and impulsive and Peter-like. I'm the stupid one! That's my job! You're supposed to be composed and rational and not murder people when they piss you off!" I was on the verge of ripping the hair from my skull. Peter looked utterly amused. "Think of all the trouble you're going to get in. God, I think I'm actually going to kill you. I swear, Peter. And stop fucking smiling! This isn't funny!"

He didn't stop smiling. I could hardly breathe I was so angry.

"Are you finished?" He asked.

"Yes, I'm finished," I sighed and begrudgingly added, "Now... Are you okay?"

"I'm wonderful, thank you for asking," He took a few steps closer. The only noise in the entire room was the click of his shoe as it hit the tiled floor. He tilted his head, "You were worried about me?"

I scoffed, "If that's the only thing you gathered from my monologue, then you missed the point entirely." His nauseatingly blue eyes gauged my every blink with startling intensity. I couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that he could see into my mind. The weight of his stare was unbearable. A sigh fell from my lips, "Yes, I was worried about you. Obviously. Believe it or not, Peter, I consider you my friend. Even though you've been fucking up royally these past few weeks."

"Friend," He said the word as though he were testing it out on his lips. Tasting it, judging it. "So that's what we are?"

"I'd like to think so," I shrugged, "All I'm trying to say is that you should be more careful. And, next time, come to me before you do something so rash. At least, then, I could help you." He laughed. It was a breathy, rasping thing. I narrowed my eyes, "what's funny?"

"Nothing, Sixteen," He shook his head, sandy blonde hair almost looking brunette in the dismal lighting, "You surprised me, that's all. I was prepared for a lecture, not an accomplice."

"You thought I was gonna give you an earful about the ethics of killing McLaughlin?" I asked. He nodded. "I'm not a hypocrite. I've done worse. I just think you could’ve gone about it better.”

"We make quite the pair, hm?" As the words fell from his lips, something stirred. I didn't know what it was or why it felt like the room was tilting upside down, but Peter seemed to notice it too. The ocean that was his eyes started turning. If I listened, I could hear waves cresting, crashing, pushing both of our heads beneath the surface. Slowly, the smile fell from his face.

The oddest sensation layered upon my skin. It was a warm type of ache, the soft dripping of blood from a wound, ephemeral and perpetual all at once. My vision blurred until I could see nothing but the lush pink of Peter's lips. A shaking breath fell from my parted mouth.

This couldn’t be real.

When I met Peter's eyes, they were darker than I'd ever seen then. Blue turned to black like a bruise. His pupils expanded, eating away at whatever bits of lazuline remained. This was not an angel's stare. This was a monster shedding his heavenly skin, losing the air of innocence with which he paraded around. This was honesty embodied; a dreadful truth staring me right in the eyes. So, incredibly clear, it was as though he turned to glass.

"You're so pretty," The words spilled from the tip of my tongue and dripped down my chin. Peter's head tilted to the side. A grin captured his lips. My heartbeats fused together, utterly indiscernible from the one before. I must have been dying. And, oh, what a sweet death it was. He stole the air from my lungs, drank the blood from my veins, sliced my throat with the knife that was his stare. How lovely it is to be slaughtered.

This couldn’t be real.

Our lips were centimeters away. I breathed him in, beckoned him closer. My beautiful executioner, my honeyed curse. He cupped my face like water in his desperate hands. I was moments away from slipping through his fingers, disappearing between the cracks in the tile. His breath was a caress against my skin, "I missed you."

“You missed me?” My eyebrows furrowed.

His lips brushed mine, but only for a moment. "Yes. Always." He whispered. My heart detonated in my chest. My rib cage shattered, my veins split apart. I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me like a sinner wants God. Desperately, agonizingly, wretchedly. Like my life depended on it. There was no room for dignity. Not when his words were a drug and I was so helplessly addicted. "I've never missed anyone before. Only you." His thumb brushed my lip, stealing it away from my teeth.

This couldn’t be real.

"I want you to kiss me," I told him. "Please."

He smiled. A wide, wicked smile that nearly made me fall to my knees.

"Goodnight, Sixteen."

And then he left me standing there, bleeding, begging, desperate for salvation.

Chapter Text

Peter was thirty minutes late to training the next morning.

The other patients had long since cleared out of the Rainbow Room, leaving me to my own volition. I sat at one of the tables, absently tapping my fingernails against a deck of cards. I alternated between staring at the door and staring at the clock, impatiently waiting for him to show up.

I hadn't slept too well the night before. Unsurprisingly. The moment Peter took his first step out of my bedroom, I knew my night was going to be spent overthinking, overanalyzing, and screaming into my pillow. So that's exactly how it went.

After he left, I stood in the same spot for a good twenty minutes trying to process what just happened. First I got a murder confession, and then I almost got kissed. Part of me was still convinced it was a dream. Another silly fantasy my mind conjured up. One that was far, far too good to be true, just like all the others. After all, it had been months of waiting for a sign. Catching myself day dreaming about Peter. In my head, he would tell me he thought of me too, dreamed of kissing me, wondered about me as much as I wondered about him. And it didn't feel like a big deal because I knew it wouldn't ever happen.

Then his lips touched mine. For one fleeting, insignificant moment.

It was everything. So 'everything' that I felt like my brain was going to swell out of my head whenever I thought about it.

Everything, but then it turned into nothing when he left me standing there, alone. I stayed up all night wondering if I did something wrong. Maybe I had something caught in my teeth or, when he got too close, he didn't like what he saw. What was Peter's standard of pretty, and how would I reach it? I didn't have any makeup-- or hair, for that matter. Would Papa buy me some if I asked?

Peter was beautiful. Strikingly so. How does one amount to that?

After the insecurity came the annoyance. Annoyance that Peter had even tried to kiss me in the first place if he wasn't going to go through with it. 'I missed you' he said 'always.' I was so dizzy when he uttered the words, so out of sorts. He wouldn't have said that if he didn't want to kiss me, right? He wouldn't just lie for the fun of it. Not to mention he quite literally killed for me. Another human being with thoughts and feelings ridden from the earth with the flick of his wrist. That had to mean something.

But he left. All that, and he still left.

Maybe he was just playing with me. Maybe he was bored, and so he decided I would make a good distraction. A better woman, a smarter woman, wouldn't settle for bits and pieces of his affection. She wouldn't answer to his beck and call like some mindless little lamb. I wish I was her. I wish I had more self respect. But I knew, deep down, I'd happily be his distraction. His secret. However he wanted, whenever he wanted, so long as it was me and not someone else.

Spineless. God, I was so spineless.

I couldn't even hate him for more than a few weeks. Fuck, and I really should hate him. He never apologized for ratting me out. He never even seemed sorry. The man fucked me so royally, and still, I pined over him. He managed to burrow beneath my skin and make a home there, one which he was oh, so comfortable in. I knew he was a parasite. I knew he was sucking up what little bits of logic and common sense I had remaining. Still, I couldn't find it in myself to be rid of him.

My heart sank into my stomach when I realized how uniquely awful that was. How much trouble that would mean for me. No matter what he did, no matter how much it hurt, I couldn't ever really hate him. He was the metal bead, the link, the chain. He was all of it.

The sound of the door opening pulled me from my thoughts.

I knew it was Peter before I even looked up. A sigh fell from my lips. Why was I thinking so much of him when I should be thinking of myself?

"Good morning, Sixteen," He greeted as he pulled out the seat across from me. My muscles tensed when we met eyes. For a millisecond, we were in my room again. He was a breath away and I was at a loss for words, transfixed beyond explanation. Now, we sat in the Rainbow Room, surrounded by children's toys while Peter leaned as far away from me as possible.

"Good morning," I said, almost hesitantly.

"I'm sorry for being so late," His clipboard made a clatter as he placed it on the table, the only noise in the entire room aside from the air conditioning. "I had an errand to run."

I raised an eyebrow, "An errand?"

"Yes, that's what I said," He replied curtly. There was an edge to his words as though he were annoyed. Was he mad at me for last night? A sour taste filled my mouth. He had no right to be mad. Not when he left me standing in the middle of my room with absolutely no explanation. A familiar twist in my gut told me he was going to either ignore the situation entirely or pin it on me.

Fine. Two can play his annoying, petty little game.

"Okay," I said, "Where are we going today?"

"I figured we could stay in the Rainbow Room today," He flipped through some of the papers on his clipboard, "When you first arrived, it was my job to take notes on which fields you excelled in and which you did not." He slid a rather dense bundle of papers towards me, "These are your records from April. Read them out, please."

I gave him a side eye before picking up the papers. In big, bold letters, the top of the paper read 'CONFIDENTIAL.' It made sense that Papa's little science experiment was 'confidential.' One could assume the general public wouldn't take kindly to human experimentation.

The next section of the paper was written in a slightly smaller font, though it was just as bold. 'Hawkins National Laboratory: Project MKUltra.' I scanned over the line a few time just to make sure I read it correctly. All I managed to do was confused myself more. "Peter?" I asked, "What is Hawkins?"

"That's where we are right now, silly." He gave me a look as though he expected me to know that already. Surely he was aware that no one told me shit, right?

"Okay..." I frowned, "And what is MKUltra?"

"Not relevant," He shook his head, "Why don't you just skip past that page, hm?"

"Why?" I narrowed my eyes.

"Because it's not relevant," He repeated with a soft, dismissive smile. He reached forward and took the paper from my hands, making a show of flipping the page and handing it back to me. Irritation curled up my spine. Since when did Peter lie to me about affairs of the lab?

"Fine," I muttered. There was a single heading, labelled 'April, 1979.' Beneath was a neat, cursive scrawl which I immediately identified as Peter's. "Subject failed to relocate, shift, or redirect objects using psychokinesis. Proper tutelage was provided, though it had no evident affect on the Subject's performance. Further assistance needed," I read, and then frowned. "Seems a little harsh."

"Objectivity is a necessary evil, I'm afraid. Especially in official lab documents."

"Do you make a point to use words I don't know?" I crossed my arms.

"On occasion," He confirmed with a smile. "Objectivity, in this case, means the comments were written without the influence of personal feelings."

"Does this mean you're going to use objectivity when you log my performance today?" I asked.

"Yes, it does," He shook his head, "There's nothing to worry about, Sixteen. You've improved innumerably since April. I'm fairly certain that you didn't give credence to your abilities when those notes were taken."

Credence. He knew I didn't know what that meant. Fucker.

"Great," I stood from my chair, "What do you want me to move?"

"Quite confident today, aren't we?" He stood, too, cerulean eyes flitting around the room. "How about... that?" I followed his pointer finger to a rather heavy looking table in the back of the room. On top of it laid a few stacks of books.

"Uh," I balled my hospital gown between my fists, "Why don't we start with like... a tissue or something?"

Blonde hair fell around his face like a halo when Peter tilted his head. "What's this?" He tutted, "Don't tell me you're backing down, Sixteen."

"I'm not. Why don't you try it, hm?" I defended.

"Oh, but that's not my job. It's yours," He nodded towards the table, "Go on."

My narrowed eyes lingered on his for a moment longer before I faced the table. The metal of its legs winked beneath the harsh lighting overhead, goading me on. A deep breath escaped my lips as my eyelids fell shut.

The warm, dizzying rush came to attention as soon as it was called upon. My nerves hummed, my mind went quiet. Every time I used my abilities, it was as though I entered a stare of limbo. I walked between reality and my own subconscious until the lines blurred together and I couldn't differentiate one from the other. Oftentimes it felt purifying-- one could even say lustral. Of course, that wasn't always the case. It could be quite the opposite; repressive, as though I were being shoved into an airtight bag. It wrapped around my limbs, crushed my organs, caved my head in. Luckily, it only ever really felt that way when I was overwhelmed-- when I crossed that threshold between an ocean of power and drowning beneath its surface.

Focus.

I opened my eyes and extended a hand towards the table. There was a screech of metal as it scraped against the tiled floor, but the table didn't do anything more than shudder. I could feel Peter a few feet away, feel his eye boring into my skull. What an odd sensation it was; to know exactly where, when, and how someone was regarding me without even having to look at them.

I shook my head.

Focus.

The warmth had circulated through my entire body at that point, though its focal point was in my fingertips. I almost expected them to turn red-hot. Another breath fell from my lips as I tensed the muscles in my neck. I could feel the coolness of the metal, taste the remnants of pine on the wood. I jerked my hand backward with as much ferocity as I could muster. The table came crashing to the ground, skidding a few feet towards me before it came to a full stop. Fallen books littered the floor around us.

I turned to Peter, "That counts, right?"

He looked upon me with something I would almost call adoration. Or envy; I couldn't tell the difference. Either way, he smiled and answered, "I would say so... You're bleeding, Sixteen."

I swiped at my nose and frowned at the sight of blood.

"It's alright, your body just needs time to adjust. Whenever you used your abilities at such a magnitude in the past, your emotions were running high. Without that emotion, there's nothing to ground you. Nothing you can draw from, and so your body takes the brunt of your power." He shook his head at the discouraged look on my face, "It's nothing some more practice won't fix. Your body is already capable of so much... I can only imagine what else it could do."

The words hung in the air for a moment. My mouth went dry.

'I can only imagine what else it could do.'

Peter looked at me expectantly, anticipating my response. Oh, that's right, we were in the middle of a conversation. I scrambled to think of a proper rebuttal. "Are you gonna make me pick up the books with my mind, too?"

He laughed and shook his head, "No, Sixteen. Judging by how long it took you to move the table, we'd be here until tomorrow morning."

"You're hilarious," I muttered sarcastically.

"Thank you," He beamed, and then turned back to his notes, "Now, I'm not going to make you read the notes again. If you thought the last ones were harsh, then you certainly won't like these. Remember our first session together when I asked you to turn on a lamp?"

I nodded.

"Good. Well, I want you to do the same thing, except on a grander scale." He gestured to the lights above us, "I want you to make at least five of them flash on and off."

"All at once?" I asked.

"All at once." He confirmed.

"I can barely turn off cameras," I frowned, recalling mine and Six's last trip through the lab where I had to shut down each camera in each hallway. By the end of that twenty minutes, I could've collapsed. "I don't know if I can do the lights."

"You could turn on every single light in the facility," He hummed, "This is nothing."

"I'm not so sure."

"Alright then. How about we add some stakes? Maybe that will motivate you."

"Intriguing," I said, "Go on."

"If you're successful in turning on the lights, I'll clean up the books," He nodded towards the pile on the ground. "If you fail, though, you have to do it."

"Deal," I replied, "But you have to give me as much time as I need."

He nodded, "Deal. Start whenever you're ready."

I angled myself in front of the mirror which ran along the wall. Overhead, the air conditioner breathed cool air on my skin, coaxing goosebumps onto my arms. I cracked my neck, fingers, and knuckles before angling my head towards the ceiling.

There was a distinct difference between my ability to afflict people and my ability to afflict technology. When confronted with living beings, it came as naturally as breathing. All I had to do was visualize their heartbeats, their mind, and my abilities would do the rest. To truly effect a person, I had to surrender my own thoughts. I had to momentarily leave my body and imagine being in theirs. If they were scared, I could feel it. If they were angry, I could feel it. My reach extended far beyond emotion, too. When I truly focused, truly surrendered, I could sense their muscles, their hearts, their minds. All of it. Beneath my mind, their bones could either crumble to dust or strengthen beyond belief. The ability to make or break another human being with the simple nod of my head was a heady feeling, one I often didn't trust myself with.

Still, it came as easily as my desire to eat or drink.

Technology was different. There wasn't a heartbeat to search for or an emotion to sense. All I had to work with was metal, glass, polycarbonate, and steel. Cold, insensible things which I didn't have a way of relating to. At least where people were concerned, I knew what it was to feel emotion, and so I could envision that emotion and establish a connection. Technology had always been difficult for me, lights especially.

Still, I focused on the warmth in my skin and ushered it forward. My muscles strained with the effort. Fluorescent lights burned my eyes as I attempted to see beyond their simple glass exterior-- desperately searching for the ebb and flow of electricity, the barrier between each wire, each bulb. There was a familiar ache in my head which signaled I was overexerting myself. Still, I persisted, compelling my abilities to escape the threshold of my skin and become tangible. Forcing it was like trying to get a piece of thread through the particularly microscopic eye of a needle. Each time, I missed, until my thread began splitting apart and the pressure behind my eyes grew to an unbearable intensity.

I broke with a grunt, dropping my head to inhale deep, greedy mouthfuls of air.

"You're forcing it," Peter was suddenly right behind me. My spine went rigid as his eyes, pure as falling, crystalline snow, met mine. through the mirror. He was so close. I could feel body heat rolling off of him in slow, rhythmic waves, each one pulling my thoughts further and further away from our session.

Everything went blank, until all I knew was the image of him towering over me in the mirror. The ball of tension which had so quickly climbed up my throat and taken residence in my tongue kept me from uttering a word. If Peter felt that same obstruction, he swallowed it back with the bob of his Adam's apple.

I almost screamed when I saw him craning forward in the mirror, leveling his mouth with my ear as he murmured, "I'm supposed to encourage you not to use your emotions during tasks such as these." His eyes snapped up, meeting mine once more. The ghost of his breath made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "But, for you, I'll make an exception. Do you remember when we discussed--," I watched his reflection with bated breath as Peter's hand dropped to my side, wrapping around my wrist, pointing to the tattoo which resided there, "-- this?"

I swallowed. Maybe it was a gulp. "Yes," I breathed.

"That hopelessness you talked about," He said, "I want you to focus on that. Embrace it. Think about the exact moment that feeling reached its climax. What were you thinking? What was your Papa saying? What did the tattoo gun feel like against your skin?"

I hardly registered anything he said.

"Sixteen?" He frowned.

"Yes," I mumbled, "Yes I can do that. Okay. Sounds good."

He watched me expectantly through the mirror. I closed my eyes and focused on the electricity circling through my veins. I never really got the chance to try again before my focus was broken. Peter's breathing was warm against my neck. How was I meant to focus when I could feel his breaths?

"Can you please back up," I opened my eyes, "You're distracting me."

He tilted his head. I realized the error of my ways the moment the words left my mouth. 'You're distracting me.' God, I was so fucking stupid. Why would I say that? My cheeks burned with embarrassment. Peter looked gleefully surprised, lips tilting into a mocking smile, "Distracting you?" His stare made me want to sink into the ground below.

"You're too close. Back up," I crossed my arms. He laughed softly and did as asked, finding his place a few feet behind me. His warmth disappeared, leaving an hallow pit in my gut. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

A sigh fell from my lips as I finally gathered my bearings. I flexed the muscles in my hand and tried to do as instructed. My pulse slowed, allowing the voltaic surge of power to intermingle with the blood in my veins. The lights never relented, unperturbed by my efforts to make them blink.

Focus.

I ran my fingers over the tattoo on my wrist. It protruded from the surrounding area, an inky black reminder of the identity forced upon me. One light flickered. I closed my eyes and focused on that feeling. I basked in the helplessness, allowed it to seep into my pores and eat away at my nerves, drowning out my surroundings. The air conditioner went quiet as Peter's presence all but disappeared. The entire world faded away until all that existed was me, the lights, the power in a veins and an abysmal sense of dread. It stirred within me, seeking solace in my veins.

It grew and grew and grew until every crevice of my being was flooded. Head beneath the surface, I swam as furiously as I could, deeper and deeper. I remembered what it was to suffocate. To have my lungs cry out for air, to beg for relief and to be denied. This was a different type of suffocation. The ache was enchanting, bewitching, pain turning to pleasure until my entire body was ridden with a divine fever.

I recalled the days after Papa had labelled me. Days spent scrubbing my skin raw, praying the tattoo would wash off, spill onto my feet, and disappear into the shower drain. I wished for nothing more than to gift the vile ink to the sewers below, watch as the water ran black and stole away the identity Papa assigned me.

Something shifted in my veins. I knew I passed that Godforsaken threshold as soon as my organs lurched forward. With bated breath, I waited for that sense of being crushed alive. For the air to be expelled from my lungs as my skeleton collapsed in on itself.

It never came.

The exhaustion which usually accompanied using my powers never came, either. Instead of feeling depleted, I felt invigorated. My breaths were steady, my skin hummed with bliss. I must've reached the bottom of the ocean. The pressure didn't crush me. It wrapped its aqueous arms around me, cradled my aching limbs. For a moment, I was in heaven. Surrounded by the seraphic lull of water, my fingertips brushed the deepest grain of sand on the sea floor. I reached a depth no person had ever dreamed of and oh, what a sweet victory it was.

When I opened my eyes, five lights were not blinking. All of them were. On and off, erratically, they plunged different sections of the room in darkness before light interfered and washed it all away. "Oh, my god," I whispered.

I couldn't even be angry when my focus broke. The lights shuddered thrice more before stabilizing. I was too elated to care, turning around to face Peter with a broad grin on my face, "Did you see that?" I cried.

Peter did not answer, body infected with a stillness I had never seen before. His eyes were on my face, but it was almost like he was looking through me. Slowly but surely, he grinned. My heart all but exploded as he took a few steps closer, blue eyes posing a violent contrast to the white of his suit. He tilted his head, parted lips uttering the words, "That was exceptional... You’re exceptional.”

My skin buzzed, "Peter?"

"Yes?"

"You're on cleanup duty."

My dream was different that night.

There weren't any blue eyes or sweet caresses. No words whispered against goose-bumped skin or dizzying rushes of adrenaline. Instead, I found myself in the lab. A hellish version; devoid of its immaculate, impersonal perfection. It was laid to waste, utterly destroyed. Lights fell from the ceiling, exposing circuited innards and veins composed of wire.

A phone rang. One, twice, three times. The exact same sound I heard after touching that tape in One's box. It cut into my skull with scalpel-like precision, devastating my brain matter until it leaked from my eyes like flushed pink tears. I felt as though I could die. What an odd sensation it is, to feel your organs shutting down, your bones crumbling to dust, your heart sputtering with its final beats.

A scream echoed down the hallway, beckoning me closer. I wanted to run away. Oh god, I wanted to run. It seemed I didn't have a choice in the matter as my legs moved, heedless of my brain's demands to stop. The closer I got to the source of the scream, the more the phone chimed.

There was blood.

So much blood. It stained the floor, the tile, the ceiling. Like a crimson river, it ran down each hallway, leveling everything in its path. The lab was almost unrecognizable. Violent, tumultuous white lights shuttered on and off, laughing in the face of the order which was once so adamantly maintained.

The bodies were worse. Children, guards, nurses. Some faces I recognized, some I didn't. Others were so destroyed they couldn't even be conceived. Bones jutted out at unnatural angles. Limbs twisted and shattered like the depraved branches of a leafless tree. And the smell-- oh, my god-- the smell. Pennies mixed with death and decay. The fear was tangible, smoldering off of every freshly-dead body like a physical force. It pushed me back, screamed at me to turn around, begged me to save myself.

The Rainbow Room was just ahead.

And then I woke up, cold sweat running down my back, shuddered breaths echoing around the hollowness that was my room.

Chapter Text

After hours of fitful, pointless attempts at falling back asleep, I decided to head to the Rainbow Room early. I sat alone for a little while, accompanied only by an orderly who stood in perfect, unperturbed silence. Peter was likely due to arrive any moment but, for once, I couldn't be bothered to wonder about him.

My fingers tapped with growing ferocity on the table. I made a concerted effort to maintain eye contact with my lap, afraid that if I looked up, blood would be everywhere. I knew it was just a dream. Another meaningless, infuriatingly detailed dream. There was no deeper meaning to search for or secret message to decode. My subconscious just took immense joy in fucking with me.

Still, I couldn't shake the image of bloodied bodies, bent up and broken. I was awed at the deliberate way in which my mind framed a massacre in the lab. It was just so detailed, so particular. All the way down from the flashing of the lights to the dizzying, metallic smell of blood. I hadn't even thought of death at such an exponential scale; let alone the deaths of people I actually knew. How had my mind managed to conjure up their faces with such clarity?

I sighed. It was unsettling, sure, but it was just a dream.

Just a dream.

Fuck, but it felt so real.

No. No. I cursed myself for being so disturbed by such a stupid thing. It was just my memories and imagination coming together to fuck me over as they had so many times in the past.

I needed a distraction. Desperately.

Another hour passed, sitting there, trying not to think about my dream. Instead, I focused on my newest puzzle; One. I still had to listen to that tape, so why not pass the morning doing just that? Even if it proved to be pointless, at least I could enjoy some music and quell my buzzing nerves.

I was pulled from my thoughts by the sound of metal scrapping against the ground. Six took the seat across from me. Chipper as ever, her lips pulled into a lovely gap-toothed smile. "Good morning," She greeted, "I have a theory. Do you want to hear my theory?"

I sat up in my chair, trying to wipe any and all perturbance from my face, "I would love to hear your theory."

"So," She cleared her throat, "You're aware that I'm nosy, right?"

"The nosiest. Go on."

"Good. So I was getting ready this morning and I went to the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth. The usual, you know? So I'm on my way there and guess what I see in the hall?" She glanced over her shoulder before leaning forward and whispering conspiratorially, "Two and Four. And guess what they were doing?"

"Hm," I tapped my chin, "Plotting their next ambiguous threat?"

"I mean, probably, but also something else." She took an overly dramatic pause between each word, "They. Were. Holding. Hands."

I gasped, "No!"

"Yes!" She cried, "So my theory is that they aren't just coconspirators; they're also in a secret relationship. That's why they beat us up together."

I sat back in my chair, "Woah. So their version of a date is joining together and violently assaulting someone?"

She nodded, "Yes, exactly."

"Wait," I met Six's eyes, "Are we thinking the same thing right now?"

"I think we are... It's kind of romantic, right?"

I laughed a little louder than what was wise, "Yes! Oh, my god. In like a totally fucked up and not healthy way, it's really cute." I turned to see a few heads looking our way, probably as a result of my laugh. Six held a hand over her mouth, too, trying and failing to stifle a few giggles of her own.

"Shh," She put a finger in front of her lips, "You're being too loud."

"Says you," I countered. "Sorry to change the topic, but can I ask you something?"

She nodded.

"Okay, so I know your walkman is precious to you and you use it all the time, but I was wondering if I could borrow it. Just for like two days. I swear I'll bring it back to you right after." I clasped my hands together as soon as an apprehensive look came across her face, "Pretty please. For me?"

She stayed silent. Honestly, I wouldn't blame her if she said no. It didn't take a genius to know Six felt a stronger connection to that little hand-held walkman than she did to most people. My theory was that she loved the device so much because it was hers and hers alone, which was quite a rarity in a place where most things were communal.

"Fine," She bit out, "But if there is so much as a scratch when you give it back, I will personally rip open both of your stab wounds. Understood?"

I grinned, "Yes. Understood. You're my favorite person, thank you so much." She waved me off and rolled her eyes. "Do you think I could borrow it like... now?"

"I mean, sure. It's in my room under my pillow. Why are you in such a rush?"

"It's about One," I stood from my seat as I spoke, "I have a theory. I'll tell you about it tomorrow, okay?"

"You better."

Six's room was boring. Almost exactly like mine, aside from the discarded hospital gowns and socks which littered the floor. Her bed was a mess of crumpled sheets, miscellaneous blankets, and stiff, scratchy pillows. I didn't even know I was allowed to request extra blankets. From the looks of it, Six had made herself quite at home in the least homely place imaginable. I envied her for that.

My hand ventured beneath a few different pillows before my pinky made contact with the smooth plastic walkman. I pulled it from its cushioned hiding spot and into my hands. It was a tiny device comprised of muted blue and grey. 'Sony' labeled the top of the tape in similarly colored grey letters. Wrapped around its body was a set of black headphones, apparently 'the best ones around' as Six had said.

With a contented skip in my step, I made my way toward the exit. Though, I wasn't exactly thrilled to figure out which of One's tapes had triggered that feeling of profound dread-- part of me was terrified that it would happen again. Here I was, however, with both the tape and the walkman in my possession. There was no point in turning back now; not when I'd already decided One's mystery was my new burden to bear.

Just as I re-entered the hallway, I saw someone turn the corner and disappear from sight. My body went still when I recognized who it was-- Two, headed in the direction of the bathrooms. The seeds of a half-witted scheme planted themselves in my head. For weeks, I'd been telling myself that I would get back at him. Hurt him just as bad as he hurt me. But with Peter, Six, Papa, McLaughlin, and training to keep me occupied, I never got a chance. Maybe, now, I finally had the proper opening.

No. No. Was I not lecturing Peter on how impulsive he was just days ago? How stupid it is to act on a passing thought? Two wasn't my priority. I had too much on my plate, and I was far from eager to add one of Papa's punishments to it.

Then again...

I could always turn off the cameras. Not to mention, it technically wouldn't be acting on a passing thought if I'd been planning to get back at Two for so long. I was rested now; powerful enough to get a few decent hits without him even getting a chance to see my face. And it wasn't like he could snitch on me either way; not without risking a punishment himself.

I gingerly placed the walkman on the floor, careful not to scratch its pretty blue paint job. I cast my gaze toward the camera at the other end of the hallway. An unsettling chill blew down my spine as it stared right back, metallic eye omnipresent as ever.

I flexed the muscles in my hands, cracked the joints in my neck, and closed my eyes. My fingertips brushed my tattoo. I envisioned all the confusion and anger which lingered between my skin and the midnight-colored ink, calling upon it until my flesh was flushed with fever.

When I opened my eyes, the red dot on the camera had disappeared. A hushed, alloy stalker no longer.

My footsteps were light against the floor, inaudible as I made my way toward the bathroom. I glanced behind my shoulder once, and just as I expected, the hallway was deserted. I probably would have sensed it otherwise, just as I could sense Two on the other side of the door. It was a blessing that his abilities were stagnant at the moment, lest he felt me coming and managed to prepare himself before my attack.

'Attack'. So what did that make me? An attacker? I almost didn't mind the idea, as terrible as it sounded. There was a distinct kind of rush which came with being a predator. Well-aware of your own malevolent intentions while those around you were clueless, resigned to your will whether they knew it or not. A sadistic type of delight surged through me as I imagined what exactly I would do.

I pushed the door open with a passive look on my face, collected despite the chaos that was no doubt about to ensue. Two stood, hunched over the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. A scoff almost fell from my lips-- of course, he was the type to relish in his own reflection. How laughably unsurprising of him.

"Two!" I greeted, a wide smile coming across my face.

I watched the emotion flash in his gaze. First, it was confusion. Next suspicion, before it settled comfortably on worry. He peeled his eyes from his face and turned to me, palms clasping the porcelain sink. "What are you doing in here?" He sneered, "Can't you read? The sign said 'Boys.'"

"Oh, I know." I frowned, "We just haven't had a chance to catch up in a while. I really, really wanted to check-in. Oh, wait... Am I intruding?"

"What--."

"You just looked so busy with your reflection. I really hope I'm not interrupting your self-satisfying staring contest," I titled my head. Two just leered, either too stupid to reply or too taken aback. I tsked, "How about this-- I'll be quick, and then you can go back to whatever you were doing. Can you guess why I'm here?"

"Get out, Sixteen," He squared his shoulders, any and all worry disappearing from his face as he neared me, "You know, you should've learnt your lesson by now. Don't you remember what happened last time I got angry at you?"

"Oh, I do. That's actually why I'm here, believe it or not."

"What? Came to apologize?" He hissed.

"Close, but not exactly," I replied. "I came to return the favor."

Without giving him a second to reply I jutted my hand forward. His head slammed into the sink as a dull thud and a gasp filled the washroom. We stood for a moment, motionless. The nearly inaudible dripping of water into the sink almost sounded thunderous at that moment. His eyes bugged out of his skull. His hand jerked towards me.

A wall of power slammed into me. I braced myself against it and forced my own invisible wall towards him. I could feel his power. Conjured without thought or preparation, I was surprised at how considerable it was. Like a violent, tempestuous wave, it tried to crest over my head and suffocate me beneath sea foam.

I'd only ever warred with guards, technology, and objects. All of which could certainly inflict damage, but their power was nothing compared to mine. Not with Two, though. To war with a being who possessed twin capabilities was a starkly different experience. There was no emotion to search for or leverage to gain. Not when a wall contrived wholly of unprecedented and ineffable power blocked any attempt at hurting him.

My shoes began to slide on the floor. I was losing my leverage.

I could feel Two burrowing into my pours, infecting me with disease. His abilities tried to tunnel beneath mine, start a fire, and smoke them out until he could pick me off piece by piece. Suddenly my arm felt like dead weight. My muscles gasped for relief, but I denied them. That warmth that I so loved about my abilities started to grow into more than just a subtle heat. It seared me with its red-hot touch, branding my body with licks of fire until I felt like my flesh was going to melt from the bone.

My back was against the wall, now. I could not move backward any longer.

Cornered.

I was cornered.

A breath fell from my lips. The lights flashed violently, but I took little notice of them as my vision blurred. Peter's words poured into my ears as though he were still standing right behind me, whispering the advice against my neck, 'the hopelessness' he said, 'I want you to focus on it. Embrace it.'

And so I did. As best as I possibly could, I focused on it. I scraped my mind and heart clean of the feeling, pushing all that remained towards Two. He slipped back. Just a step, but it meant I wasn't against the wall anymore. That he didn't have the upper hand.

Of course, the fight was not yet over. I could still feel his force against me like a tangible entity trying to trip up my feet and send me tumbling. I was certain there was a goldmine of power somewhere inside of me. If I could just focus on the right memory; the moment when I really and truly hit rock bottom, I knew I could tear him apart. The tattoo was a nightmare, to be sure, but it wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to me. It wasn't hurt and betrayal rolled into one. I knew Papa was going to harm me. His actions came as no surprise, condemnable as they were.

I searched, but I could not find such a memory.

So instead, I focused on the same one as before. There was still a palpable shift in power, a dramatic swelling in my veins until I felt crushed by my own skeleton. Like last time, instead of pain, there was pleasure. A few hundred stars exploded in my brain, angry and bitter, leaving embers on the floor of my skull.

Two stumbled back.

To use the same memory was to drain a battery. The power was still considerable, of course. Far stronger than it would be if I wasn't thinking about hours spent trying to scrape my skin raw in the shower. But it wasn't as strong as before. Not as euphoric.

My dissatisfaction didn't seem to matter. Two's face grew into a furious sneer, like an animal that had gone rabid. I wouldn't have been surprised if foam started spilling passed his lips. He was almost against the mirror now, limbs shaking as he desperately tried to conjure up whatever of his power remained. I would not give him the chance.

I tilted my head and stepped forward once more. My eyes darted around furiously beneath my eyelids. A grunt left my throat, guttural and low, and then Two finally broke down. His trembling hands came to a halt as he was thrown against the mirror. Glass rained like snow around him. He collapsed in a heap on the tile.

Two tried to gather up his power. Instead, he got his head slammed into the sink. My hands gestured wildly, sending him barreling into the bathroom stalls, the wall, the door. A cut on his forehead pooled red in his eyes, making blood trail like tears down his face. A cry fell from his lips after he careened into the paper towel dispenser, after which I finally allowed him a moment to collect himself.

Instead of being grateful, he set his path on me again. He lurched his hand forward, throwing every single muscle in his body into the effort. I felt the same wall, but it was smaller this time. Thinner.

I had no trouble breaking through it.

I pantomimed snapping my wrist backward, and Two's extended hand did the same. A sickening crack filled the room and his wrist dangled limply at a crooked angle. "Wanna try that again?" I asked. He didn't answer, soundless through gasps of pain.

"You're p-pathetic," he stuttered, trying and failing to grasp onto the last straws of his dignity.

"Am I?" I questioned, taking slow steps toward him. Whether he intended to or not, he winced away from me. "I'm not the one on the floor, though. I'm not that one bleeding... Not this time, at least."

He grimaced, and then his uninjured hand was springing in my direction, a jagged piece of glass grasped in his palm. I knew it was coming. I could feel each movement of his joints as though his body were mine. I'd never been so hypersensitive.

I offered a mildly interested glance at his hand and it came to a screeching halt. Not by his own accord, obviously. His face twisted up as he strained to fight against the invisible force holding him still.

I reached forward and opened the palm of his hand. The rest of his body reeled in a desperate attempt to gain control of his sedentary limb, but I would not allow it. I confiscated the blade of glass and tilted my head, "Careful, Two. You could stab your eye out with this," I smiled and lulled the blade just in front of his face, purposefully dangling it near his eye.

"No, not there," I frowned and aimed the knife at his side, the same exact place where he had stabbed me, "Don't worry, I won't cut your eye. I want you to see the look on my face when I choose the right place."

"Ah," I brushed the sharp end of the glass against his skin, "There we are."

"Stop it!" He gasped and tried to crawl away from me, but it was pointless. A psychotic glint filled his eye, making Two look as wild and murderous as ever. Spit flung from his mouth and he seethed, "You can't do this! I'll tell Papa. Do you want to get Peter punished, too?"

I halted. A frown came across my face, "What does Peter have to do with this?"

"I know," He spat, "I know what you two have been doing. I saw him holding your hand that morning in the Rainbow Room. You think I'm stupid? I could go to Papa right now and tell him all about it. You wouldn't be allowed to speak to Peter for the rest of your life. What about that, hm?"

Sickness crawled up my throat.

My face hardened. My resolve was steel, and I would not let him melt me. There was no hesitation before I reeled my hand back and stabbed the knife as deeply as possible into his torso. Now we would have twin scars, too. His eyes widened, a choked gasp falling from his lips. Clearly, he hadn't expected me to call his bluff.

I kept my hand on the knife as I bent closer to him, my words a whisper against his ear, "Send my love to Four." I twisted the knife in his side. A piercing shriek spilled past his lips. His entire body trembled as he struggled to process the bone-deep agony which had no doubt just exploded inside his gut.

I leaned back on my heels. The back of my free hand brushed against his cheek while the other remained at his side-- a warning. "You won't say a word about Peter to anyone, am I clear?"

He gurgled, trying to jerk his head away from my hand, "Go to hell."

"Listen to me, Two," I grabbed his face, forcibly making him look at me, "Peter stays out of this. You won't say a word about him. Not a single fucking word, understand? Do you really think I'm above going after the people you care about? Papa... Maybe even Four."

"Fine," He gasped, "I won't say anything."

"I'm glad we understand each other," I patted his cheek, "This was a nice talk. You have a good day, Number Two."

Fuck.

I knew the moment I opened my eyes that I was dreaming again. And it wasn't one of the enjoyable dreams, either. This was a clear-sighted vision, so true to life that I would've mistaken it for reality if I hadn't been in that same situation so many times before. The Rainbow Room wasn't a difficult thing to place as I stood among children's toys, games, and a few bookshelves. An irritated sigh fell past my lips as I faced the camera in the corner of the room. The red light was switched off.

"Hello?" I called. My voice echoed with startling vehemence, as though I were shouting into a void.

Silence persisted until it didn't.

Suddenly, every single air conditioner in the room went on full blast. All at once, they joined into a freezing cold caterwaul, hammering at the entrance of my eardrums. I slammed my palms over my ears, stumbling back a few steps as though that would save me from their ear-splitting shriek. "Stop it!" I shouted at the empty room. If anything, my demands only made the a/c grow louder. The raucousness came from every direction, inescapable, seeping past the buffer that was my palms. I could feel the temperature in the room nose-diving until my blood was ice.

And then it all stopped. Without any rhyme or reason, the room fell silent again. I hesitated to unblock my ears for fear that it would start all over again if I dared to move. My heart pounded in my chest.

"Curious," a voice hummed, "You're sensitive to the air conditioning. For me, it's the cameras. How odd."

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," I met Peter's eyes with a glare, "God, you never fucking give up, do you?"

"Well that's not very polite," His lips pulled into a frown. "I thought you'd be excited to see me."

I rolled my eyes. "Maybe I would've been excited if you didn't just burst my ear drums. God, can't we just go back to the other dreams? Please?"

He tilted his head, confusion breaking across his face. Standing on the other side of the room clad in his signature white suit, blonde hair neatly combed back, Peter perfectly embodied his role of orderly. "You're having other dreams?" He questioned.

"Yes. And they're much better than this one, by the way," I sent him a cutting glare.

"How so?"

"Oh, don't be coy," I crossed my arms. "I hate these dreams, Peter. You know that. I'm only going to ask this once, as politely as I can-- please get out of my head. I don't have the energy for that staring thing you always do. I've had a very long day."

"Staring thing?" He raised his eyebrows, taking a few steps closer.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"You know what I mean," I waved dismissively, "When you get all close and it looks like you're trying to suck my soul out through my eyes. It's all very unsettling." He took another step closer. I narrowed my eyes and stepped back, "What are you doing, Peter?"

"What am I doing?" The calm, mildly interested expression on his face shifted into incredulity. "What are you doing? You just confessed that you've dreamt of me, Sixteen. How do you expect me to respond to that?"

"You shouldn't be surprised!" I cried, "You are quite literally part of a dream right now. This is like the fucking fifth one! Not to mention the amount of dreams you've been in that aren't this...--" I glanced around at the Rainbow Room, "--realistic."

"You're not stupid, Sixteen. It truly baffles me that you haven't figured it out by now," Peter shook his head. He stood no more than four feet away now, glaring down at me with his cerulean stare.

"Figured what out? Oh, my god, if you give me one more cryptic, throw-away line, I'm going to kill you." I was about to continue threatening him when I paused. This was insane. I was going insane. Here I was, in my very own dream, fighting with a man who wasn't actually there. "This is such a monumental waste of time."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Peter asked with a new, more menacing edge to his voice.

"It means you're literally a figment of my imagination and I'm missing out on a refreshing sleep because you insist on making things difficult," I crossed my arms, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Peter, but you're not real. This room isn't real. I'm so, so, so tired of you refusing to listen to me in my own head. Why don't you just do us both a favor and fuck--."

"--You think you know everything, don't you?" His voice sharpened into a fine, ominous point. My mouth clamped shut. With nothing but a gesture from his hand, I was being pulled towards Peter. I tried to stop myself, but an invisible force kept me still. It was as though the air which surrounded us had turned into a cage, trapping me between intangible bars. When I opened my mouth to demand an explanation, he took my jaw in his hands and brought my gaze to the mirror on the wall. "How about I tell you what I know?"

Deja vu slammed against my ribcage in the form of a million butterflies as we made eye contact through the reflection. He all but towered over me, blue eyes turning azure in the white-hot lighting. He took a few steps back, scrutinizing each detail of my face with a stare that stole every thought from my head.

"Peter..." I was surprised at how hoarse my voice came out.

"Sometimes I wonder if you think I'm stupid," He tilted his head. There was a wicked glint in his eye, flooded with dreary, fatalistic promise. "Do you think I can't see you looking at me? Do you think you can hide it?"

A foreboding ache accompanied the rosed flush of my cheeks. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come now," He smiled, "don't lie to me."

I watched him stalk closer in the mirror. Each step was slow, careful, calculated. Whatever he planned to do, he was taking his sweet time with it. I couldn't even try to stop him; a fact he was well aware of as he prowled towards me like some kind of monster. I felt the warmth of his hand wrapping around my wrist before he pulled my back flush against his chest.

My eyes went wide. Each breath that fell from my lips was sharp and shallow as rational thought ran screaming from my head. The smell of fresh mint took its place, settling comfortably inside my skull, wrapping like a chain around me. Warmth pooled off of Peter in gentle, lulling waves.

"Or maybe I'm wrong," His treacherous eyes bore into mine as his left arm snaked across my torso. It held me firmly in place. "I want to try something. Stay still for me, okay?"

My lips were agape.

I nodded.

An amused sigh fell from his lips at the disheveled look on my face. Finally, his eyes left mine. My tense shoulders relaxed for a moment.

His fingers were comets racing across the galaxy that was my skin. They glimmered as they trailed down the center of my chest, nearly bright enough to blind me. My eyes fell from the mirror. I could not watch something so disgustingly, profoundly intimate. When his palm brushed against the peak of my chest, a celestial ache sent tremors through my whole body. My spine went rigid, but Peter's hold on me did not relent. His hand trailed lower and lower, cutting like a sword through my solar system. Planets, stars, and meteors split in half as his hand passed them by.

Fingers ghosted on my thighs, coming dangerously close to the sun before they paused. Peter reached up and took my jaw between blistering fingers, angling my head towards the mirror. His eyes were all of the seven sins, the deepest layers of hell. "Watch," he commanded.

I could hardly formulate a response. The words teetered on the tip of my tongue before I was able bring myself together and reply, “Peter, I’ve never—.”

"—I know. I’ll teach you.” Again, he grinned.A lewd, immoral grin that almost felt too mature for me to fathom. A spark exploded in my stomach. His fingers resumed their trailing, their pacing, their agonizing slowness. I leaned into him, tried to crawl between his ribs, and seize the simple beating of his heart. Claim it as mine as his hands claimed me.

Without a warning, three of his fingers pressed against me. A bundle of nerves was suddenly set on fire. My exhale was a shuddered, pitiful little thing. I stared at his fingers as they took liberties no one else had ever dared, for fear the sun would melt away their skin. Peter either didn't feel the burn, or he sought refuge in it as he brushed that same spot once more, coaxing a gasp from my throat.

He met my eyes once more. My back arched away from him. "Hm," His mouth brushed my ear, warm breath fanning down my neck, "I was right, wasn't I?" Peter's shooting star lips freckled across the night sky that was my flesh. I knew nothing but the delightful ache of his fingers at the center of my universe, unmoving. My mind all but ripped into pieces when he caught my skin between his teeth. There was a bright, bold spark of pain, but before I could process it, his fingers were moving between my legs all over again. "Answer me, Sixteen," He said.

"Yes." I breathed, though I didn't entirely know what I was agreeing to. "You were right."

When his fingertips ventured lower, barely delving inside of me, I froze. There was a blaring moment of clarity. I took my free hand and wrapped it around his wrist. His palm still brushed against that bundle of nerves, but he came to halt.

"Wait." My voice was still far too weak. I cleared my throat. "This isn't right. Peter wouldn't want me to think about him like this. I shouldn't make him do stuff like this even if it's just in my head."

Peter laughed. The feeling sent ripples through the universe, shifting the planets off of their axes. "A girl after my own heart," He whispered, almost mockingly, "How sweet." The arm across my torso held on even tighter as he shook my hand from his wrist and secured it against my chest. My entire body turned to liquid. "I don't think Peter minds, sweetheart," He rasped.

And then his fingers were delving into the sun. At the same time, his thumb orbited a spot so sensitive, I shuddered at the mere brush of his fingertip. He moved with torturous indolence, eyes trained on my face the entire time. I tried to stare back, but I was already drowning in the sensation of his fingers on my body and to drown in his eyes, too, was inconceivable. Impossible. My gaze turned to the ceiling. Even there, I couldn't escape him. He simply glowered down at me, and then his hand slipped from between my legs.

A desperate, wanting ache flooded my nerves as his astral touch disappeared. "Peter," I whispered, "Please--."

I was cut off by his hand mercilessly wrapping around my throat, forcing my head up. "I'm not going to ask again," He hissed lowly in my ear, catching my eyes in the mirror, "If you look away, I stop. Understand?"

My hands shook by my side as I soared to new heights.

"Do you understand?" He repeated, grip on my throat squeezing just a little bit tighter. At the same time, he placed a soft kiss on the curve of my ear— a dizzying contrast.

"Yes," I gasped, "Yes, I understand."

As soon as his anger appeared, it disappeared. His fingers returned to their spot between my legs, bathed in sunlight. He wasn't slow this time. Something animalistic broke through as he hummed lowly against my neck, lips touching each and every exposed piece of flesh. Three of his fingers curled inside of me while his thumb feverishly drew circles above. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I couldn't hear.

I reached a great precipice. My sun had fallen out of equilibrium, and I could feel it beginning to tremble, moments away from crashing in on itself. Peter's grip never left my neck. I stared at my own body in the mirror, a lecherous sight if there ever was one. My back arched away from him, enticing a sharp gasp from my lips.

That star exploded into a supernova, brought on by the cathartic rush that was Peter's fingertips sinking into me. Shock waves exploded across my entire galaxy, throwing planets, stars, and meteors out of orbit. Everything was shattered by magnificent, all-consuming destruction. The earth was leveled, the moon was devastated. All that remained was the starving, rabid look in Peter's unspeakably crystalline gaze, perpetual even after the universe had been brought to its knees.

We were free-falling, and yet the bone crush never came.

Peter's whisper was religion. His breath, a saving grace.

"I've never seen something so beautiful."

Chapter Text

Henry watched the patients file into the training room one by one. Each child had a look of apprehension written across their face as they lined up near the wall. Word of Two's attack hadn't broke yet, and so Brenner's impromptu mandatory meeting must've been a mystery to them all. Of course, they'd been here long enough to know it couldn't mean anything good.

Sixteen, however, was new.

Henry saw her walk into the room, seemingly unfazed by the prospect of a group meeting. She tried to get the attention of her friend, Six, but the girl wouldn't respond. The entire room bubbled with nervous tension as they anticipated the brutality which was no doubt about to ensue.

Henry couldn't deny the pit in his stomach, either. It wasn't like he empathized with the others-- no, that wasn't possible-- but standing there, watching it unfold, he was reminded of being in their place. Being a confused child wrapped up in colorless hospital gowns, forced to navigate an impossible situation. He mourned for himself.

It was a rare occasion when he felt grateful for his status as orderly, but days like these, he couldn't help it. Maybe it was selfish, but Henry would much rather be on the inflicting end of a taser than the receiving one. He didn't take a great amount of joy from hurting the kids, but he certainly didn't feel bad about it, either.

It was them or himself. Self-preservation was all he had left.

Things had changed since then. Just a little. Now he had Sixteen to worry about, though he much preferred the way it was before. Back then, he didn't have anyone to hold him accountable for his reprehensible actions, and even if they did, it didn't really matter.

Now, Henry couldn't deny the import of Sixteen's opinion. In his head, she wasn't just on a pedestal. She sat in the clouds, glaring down at him with her sovereign gaze. He used to hate her for it but, eventually, he realized he had no one but himself to blame. He was the one who let her crawl inside his head.

Of course, though, Henry knew the feeling was mutual-- perhaps even stronger on her part. Sixteen wouldn't ever admit it, but he knew the power he held over her was far greater than she let on. He liked that. So much was out of his control, but Sixteen wasn't. For months, he'd been carefully weaving a web around her, tying up her wrists and ankles without her even noticing. Now, she was reduced to a puppet on his strings. One Henry had no problem maneuvering around, bending to his wishes, but only at the cost of his own sanity.

Sixteen wasn't stupid. She knew which strings to pull, too.

It seemed like today, she didn't want want to play puppeteer at all. Henry could see her across the room, making a conscious effort to avoid eye contact. It didn't come as a surprise to him; not after the dream he'd given her. Sixteen's modesty would be her undoing, as much as Henry adored it. Even last night, when his fingers were buried inside of her, she clung onto it. With the furious, humiliated flush of her cheeks, she clung. Henry's stomach turned at the memory. What he would do to see that face again. To capture it and frame it like a trophy.

After all, last night was quite the victory. It wasn't everyday when a person as unabashed and brazen as Sixteen was beneath him, turned to clay while he sculpted her however he pleased. The days prior, she'd been angry with him for leaving her so unsatisfied, standing alone in her room when he knew she wanted just the opposite.

Henry couldn't deny the desire to make her wait. Perhaps it was sadistic, but he wanted to draw this all out. Make her wonder about his next move, teeter on the edge of her seat until she couldn't take it anymore. A fair punishment, he decided, for doing the same to him.

It wouldn't last forever. Soon, they'd be beyond such petty games.

For now, Henry would take great pleasure out of watching her come undone for him.

"Children," Brenner's voice pulled him away from his lewd thoughts. Brenner addressed the children with all the condescension he usually did, but there was an added sense of hostility woven in the words. A few of the patients became tense, holding their breaths as though that would save them. Even Henry couldn't help but roll back his shoulders, assuming the posture Brenner had spent so many hours nailing into him with tasers, punches, and all other forms of 'reminders.'

"I'm sure you're all wondering why I've called you here," Brenner began pacing up and down the line, abandoning the 'fatherly' facade he so often adorned, "Unfortunately, it seems I've become a little too lenient-- enough for a few of your siblings to think they're somehow immune to the rules."

What worried Henry was that he didn't know exactly what Brenner planned to do. Usually the man was easy to predict; it wasn't often when he strayed from routine. Today was certainly one of those days, though. After Two was found in the bathroom, beaten and bloody, stabbed through the kidney, Brenner all but lost his mind. That morning had been spent standing with the rest of the staff, sorting through security camera footage only to find it had been tampered with. He watched 'Papa' become more and more angry, until he eventually called a meeting.

Henry knew who attacked Two. Of course, though, when Brenner had prompted the staff to tell him any and all possible suspects, he stayed quiet. He wouldn't ever sell her out unless he had to, like when Sixteen was searching for that tape from the day she arrived.

Knowing that Sixteen was capable of such brutality, such depravedness, only made Henry more enamored with her. Weeks ago, he told himself he would kill her when he got the chance. The prospect was still alluring, yes, but keeping her with him was even more so. How powerful she was... How powerful they could be together.

"Two among you have been attacked in the last few weeks," Papa's gaze cut to Sixteen, "Sixteen, please step forward."

Sixteen's face remained emotionless as she glanced at Six sidelong. After a few hesitant moments, she stepped forward. Though she hid it wonderfully, Henry could feel her panic. The worry that, perhaps, she hadn't covered up her tracks well enough. One of the pitfalls of caring for someone, Henry realized, was fearing for them, too. His heart clenched uncomfortably in his chest as she separated herself from the group.

Brenner offered her a soft smile, one that sent irritation down Henry's spine, and then he continued, "As the rest of you might have noticed, Two is absent from today's meeting. The reason being yesterday, he sustained a stab wound to the stomach, a broken wrist, and multiple other injuries. Unfortunately, this isn't the first attack of its kind."

The children were visibly confused, having had no inclination of the violence taking place behind the scenes these last few months. All they ever knew was brief power outages and panicked guards.

"Four weeks ago Sixteen, too, was attacked in a very similar manner," Brenner eyed every single child with accusation, "And a man, Vincent McLaughlin, was killed not even a week ago. Now, I know I didn't hurt anyone, and nor did the nurses or the guards. Conveniently, the cameras were also inoperative at the time of these attacks. The only people who could possibly affect the cameras and attack someone with such force is... one of you."

Sixteen balled her hands into fists. Henry had watched her long enough to know what that meant-- she was scared.

"You may step back, Sixteen," Brenner said. She didn't hesitate this time. In fact, she almost ran to her spot in line, body language betraying her attempts to seem collected. Sixteen's frightened fingers wrapped around her friend's arm the moment she was back by Six's side.

That annoyed Henry, too. He should've been the one to soothe her.

She didn't seem to realize how willing Henry was. How superior. If it was comfort she was looking for, then he could comfort her better than any other. If it was pleasure, then he could give her pleasure utterly unrivaled. Should she need to be ruined, he could ruin her, too. Ruin her best. Not even God himself could tend to her like he could.

Didn't she know?

She had to know.

Brenner, once against, pulled him from his thoughts.

"It's clear that the perpetrator of these crimes needs help, and so I am offering them a deal. Whichever one of you is responsible, you have one week to come forward," Brenner glanced at the children one by one. Some stayed still, paralyzed under his gaze. Others dropped their heads as though that would save them from his relentless glare. "Now, I can't promise that they won't face punishment. Insubordination on such a scale is utterly unacceptable. However, should they come forward of their own accord, I promise it will be swift."

No one moved. No one breathed.

"Should no one come forward within the next seven days..." Brenner's voice echoed around the virtually empty room, loud enough to make Henry's ears ring. "A group punishment will be administered on each one of you, regardless of who is at fault."

A few soft gasps echoed through the room. Henry's heart dropped into his stomach. For a moment, his impassive facade dropped, and his wide eyes shot over to Sixteen.

"The victims of these crimes will not be punished no matter who comes forward," Brenner sent Sixteen a soft smile, as if to reassure her, but she only look more horrified. Henry calmed. As long as she wasn't getting hurt.

Though, Sixteen clearly didn't feel the same way. He knew what she was thinking. She'd been the one to attack Two, after all. She blamed herself for the punishment that would no doubt befall the other children. He cursed her for that sense of morality; for caring about those who weren't worthy of her empathy. It was moments like this where Henry was reminded of why she needed him so desperately. Who would guide her, if not for him? Who would keep her from harm?

He had to be greedy with her, he realized. He had to keep her to himself or else he'd risk her putting herself in danger for these people. And, from the look on her lovely face, she was more than willing. It was infuriating. She was infuriating. Henry would've killed every one of them to keep her from such a degrading fate.

And then she stepped forward.

Anger simmered in his chest like a million, scalding-hot suns. "Fool," he whispered under his breath. How could someone so smart be so stupid?

"Papa," She called out. Her siblings fell absolutely silent while Six reached out and tried to pull her back. "A group punishment isn't necessary."

Brenner cast her a cold look, "Hush, Sixteen. Go back in line."

She faltered for a moment. Fear crept into her eyes, distorting the features on her face. Silently, Henry urged her to do as she was told. This could only end badly.

But when had Sixteen ever listened to him? "I won't," She replied, drawing herself up. Resilience poured like a waterfall from every word she spoke. "It's not fair to punish all of them for another person's bad actions. How does that make you any better than the one you're trying to punish?"

The other orderly placed his hand on the taser near his waist. Henry's jaw clenched. This was not going to end well. She was going to get herself hurt.

"I am trying to teach your siblings a lesson in obedience. One you clearly haven't learned yourself," Brenner took careful steps towards Sixteen. She held her ground, staring up at him with all the fury she could manage. "If you have any further objections, number Sixteen, then you can join your siblings for their punishment next week. Hm?"

She narrowed her eyes, "What makes you think any of this is okay? It's honestly beyond me."

Brenner stared at her for a few moments longer, clearly pondering what move he was going to make next. A tentative silence filled the entire room. Even the cameras seemed to pause their endless flitting around to let everyone stew in it. Sixteen never broke eye contact, never blinked, as though she were in some sordid staring contest.

Brenner held out his hand toward the other orderly. "Daniel, would you please hand me your taser?"

"Papa..." Her mouth fell open. Fear poured in, but also anger. The light above her head flashed on and off. Henry dug his nails into hand, neatly folded behind his back. He barely restrained the urge to step forward, to force Sixteen back in line, to save her from her own morals. How brave she was. Brave, but not for the right reasons. These children were not worth a moment of her suffering.

"This is your last warning, Number Sixteen," Brenner brandished the taser in his wrinkled hand, staring Sixteen down with the most murderous glint in his eyes. Henry could see the debate going on in her head, the refusal to give into resignation, and the knowing she didn't have a choice.

After a few more moments, she swallowed. "It's just not right," she said softly, before dropping her head and stepping back in line. Henry sighed quietly and relaxed his shoulders. Good girl. (QUICK ANNOUNCEMENT FROM THE AHTHOR. FOR THE HORNDOGS: this is not supposed to be sexy. The “good girl’ is a term of endearment in this context.hoe.i love you thanks for reading.lets kiss.)

'It won't always be like this,' he wanted to promise her. One day, it would be she who Brenner answered to. That is if Brenner was permitted to live long enough to see it happen.

"Good," Brenner glanced around the room once more, cool, collected fury gleaming in those lifeless eyes. "All of you, report to your rooms. You have much to think about. I do hope the perpetrator comes forward. For all of your sakes."

That was Henry's cue.

Silently, he walked towards the door and wrenched it open. The boy closest, number Seventeen, watched him nervously. "Go on," Henry said, nodding towards the hallway. He smiled afterwards, hoping to soothe the boy's nerves as best he could. Seventeen simply dipped his head and walked out of the room. His smile fell.

The rest of the patients trailed behind him as though they were on their way to a guillotine. All with slow, dragging steps, lowered eyes, paled skin. None made a sound, for fear that would work their 'Papa' into yet another fit of rage.

Henry watched Sixteen get closer and closer to the door. She never met his eyes. It wasn't to avoid thinking about that dream, not like earlier. Instead, it was shame. She couldn't meet his eyes because she knew 'Peter' knew-- she was the one who hurt Two. He wanted to tell her he wasn't angry, that he didn't blame her. He wanted to make her feel divine until guilt wasn't even an option.

Of course, though, the wasn't possible.

He opted for the next best thing. As she walked by him, he reached for her hand with as much subtlety as he could manage. He brushed his fingers along hers, and then her head shot back up. Sadness filled her eyes, desperation, but when they made eye contact, it lessened for a moment. The softest hint of a smile came upon her enchanting lips.

Henry's heartbeat picked up. He smiled back.

That smile fell, though, when something flashed before his eyes. A box, marked '001.' His old room, dusty and decrepit, filled with spiders. His tapes grasped in Sixteen's hands while she combed through them. 'Dream A Little Dream of Me' playing through a blue and grey walkman.

When Sixteen's hand left his, the images disappeared.

He told her to leave it alone-- to stop investigating into matters she didn't have any place in. He thought stealing that tape from the day she arrived would keep her off his trail.

He thought wrong.

Now, Henry had a problem to solve.

Chapter Text

The walk back to my room may as well have been a walk to my own execution, feet dragging along the floor. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, throbbing in alignment with my footsteps. The ground and I maintained incessant eye contact-- I was too humiliated to risk looking up and catching someone's eye. Unshed tears made my bedroom door appear as one endless, watery block of grey.

I closed it behind me, safely returned to the bosom of the one place where I could cry as much as I pleased. The moment that the hallway disappeared behind opaque, ash-colored metal, I held a hand over my mouth. A stifled cry fell from my lips as I, too, fell to the floor. The ground cradled me in it's tiled arms, coolness offering me a moment of respite from the humiliated burning of my skin. The tears cascading down my face were not tears of sadness.

I was furious.

Furious enough to sit on the floor in a heap, trembling violently enough to send seismic waves through the lab. How stupid I was... To believe I could get away with hurting Two when the universe never failed to pelt me with its divine justice. How many times had it taught me this lesson, and how many times had I ignored it? Of course something like this would happen.

Of course.

And now, because of me, an innocent group of children was going to get punished for a crime they had no part in. They were going to know the pain of electricity coursing through their veins, frying them from the inside out. I pictured them all in my head, teary-eyed, screaming, begging for mercy while Papa watched over them with his sovereign gaze. I hated him. I hated him so much I couldn't breathe.

Sitting there, on the floor, I heaved deep breaths. Somehow, each inhale only made me more starved for air. I clawed at my throat, fingers slick with tears and I tried to will myself into calming down. All of the lights in my room flashed on and off, plunging the room in darkness before pulling it right back out. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed to a God I knew wasn't there, begging for salvation or escape or anything that wasn't this.

Those metal chains I had been so vehemently fighting against grew at such a velocity, wrapping around my throat, cutting off my airways with their insensible metal hands.

This was all my fault. This was all my fault.

I was going to kill 'Papa'. I was going to string his innards from the ceiling like streamers, break his bones until his screams echoed down every single hallway. He would know what it is to be afraid, to be utterly helpless. He was going to fall on his knees and beg for mercy like I was God, only for me to laugh in his face and deny him.

My eyes snapped open.

What was I becoming?

I blew gentle, shaking breaths from my lungs, desperately trying to pull myself together. "It's fine," I whispered to the stillness of my surroundings, "I'm fine. I'm fine. It's fine." Part of me expected the walls to suddenly come to life and prove me wrong. To tell me that this, in fact, wasn't fine. But they didn't, because I wasn't going insane.

I wasn't going insane.

That phrase played on repeat in my head over and over-- a desperate attempt to ward off the panic attack which had just snuck into my body and temporarily robbed me of my sanity. I was smart. I had little else, but I would always have that. I could find a way out of this. I could save the kids and myself. A week is a long, long time. Perhaps I could force Four into a confession using similar methods, or simply talk Papa out of it. He was a rational man, on occasion. He could be reasoned with.

He loved us, after all.

Bile filled my throat at the thought. If that was love, then perhaps I'd be better off without it.

My gaze traveled to my bed. The thought of raising myself from the floor and walking over to the mattress felt like a cruel joke. One where I was the unwilling punchline. That familiar feeling of helplessness seeped in, and suddenly I had the desire to be 'sick' again. To rot in my bed, staring at everything and nothing for days on end. I had hoped those chains were broken, shattered, nothing but ash in the pit of my stomach. Clearly, I was wrong.

"No, no, no," I whispered.

I pulled myself up from the ground, wiped the tears from my eyes, and cast aside the gnawing ache of hopelessness. Not again. I'd been through this once before and I'd be damned if I rolled over and let it happen again. I refused to let all that effort go to waste in the name of an old man like Papa-- who was he to govern my mind?

Distractions. Gloria always encouraged distractions when I fell into states like this. The hurt was too raw, and there was always tomorrow. My newest wound might have time to scab over by then, so that I may re-assess the situation with dry eyes and a lighter heart.

My gaze fell to the cardboard box marked '001,' brown corners peaking out from beneath my bed. I swiped a hand beneath my nose, sniffled one final time, and crawled over. The contents of the box clattered together as I placed it on top of my bed and threw off my slippers, joining it shortly after.

I stretched my aching limbs in an attempt to breathe some life back into my body. Reluctantly, my muscles obliged. The smallest smile lit up my face, though I couldn't deny how artificial it felt.

I didn't dwell on it for long as I peeled off the lid, placing it neatly beside me. The spines of the tapes were difficult to see in the dim lighting, but if I squinted hard enough, I could make out a few of the names. I pulled Six's blue and grey walkman out from underneath my pillow, fingers brushing against a few old benzos. I really did have to get rid of those.

The lump in my throat was forcibly swallowed back as I ran my fingers over the tapes. Instantaneously, as my flesh collided with the third tape to the left, a frigid ache crept down my neck.

"Weird," I muttered as I picked the tape out of the box and set it down beside me. 'Dream a Little Dream of Me' by Ella Fitzgerald was scrawled across the spine. Oddly enough, the front part of the tape almost looked destroyed. The once-- presumably-- transparent plastic case was scratched up, just like the '001' on that door. Nail marks in rows of three marred the surface, along with a few dents here and there. Damn, One must've really hated this song.

Taking Six's walkman in my hands, I played with it for a few moments before figuring out how it was supposed to work. A click sounded, and the front piece popped out, revealing a hallow section meant for the tape. Unceremoniously, I put the tape in its designated spot and brought the headphones over my head.

There was brief silence, and then some static. I frowned. The tape was in bad shape, certainly, but it was the inside that mattered, right? Not the plastic part on the front. Shouldn't it be playing? I cursed myself for my lack on knowledge on the topic.

With no better ideas, I hit the side of the walkman with my palm a few times. A single note cut through the headphones, and so I took that as a good sign and hit it some more. After a little while, the audio become more consistent, though it did cut here and there. I replayed the song from the beginning and closed my eyes.

A soft sigh fell from my lips as I focused on the first few notes. At the same time, I called upon my abilities, feeling that familiar warmth creep through my veins. Some sort of trumpet, I believe, announced the beginning of the song. It played for a little while before I opened my eyes and found myself in a new place.

I stood in an empty house, now. Muted creme wallpaper with rose-shaped accents ran halfway down the wall, meeting dark wood before it came to stop. There was a staircase to my right, composed of the same wood as the base boards. This was probably the foyer, with its high ceilings and sweeping, oak-colored floors. I stood facing a door, which was pretty bland aside from a stained-glass window comprised of vivid reds, oranges, and yellows in the shape of a rose.

My attention shifted from the composition of the house to the sound of a few voices on the other side of the door. The knob rattled for a few seconds, before a click echoed through the empty house. A man entered shortly after, followed by a woman and two children. A family, I assumed. Three of their faces were blurred, making it difficult to see the preciseness of their features or any other discernible traits for that matter.

The last person, however, was not blurry. If anything, he was the clearest in the entire room, posing a stark contrast to the walls behind him. The boy looked to be no older than 10 or 11, which helped me deduce that he was probably One.

One had light brown hair, gelled back neatly onto one side. Dressed in a pair of slacks and a plaid button down, he looked completely normal. I don't really know what I expected; our abilities were pretty covert. Looking at me, you'd think the same thing. The most striking feature on his face were his eyes, a blue so deep they almost looked lazuline. 'Pretty,' I thought.

The family chattered lightheartedly about their new home. The other child, a girl, ran up the stairs, pink dress trailing behind her. The husband and wife stood side by side, admiring the house with gleeful smiles. However, the boy-- One-- didn't look half as excited. If anything, he looked rather melancholy, lips pulled into a dissatisfied frown, blue eyes downcast.

I took a few steps toward him. As I did, his head snapped in my direction. I froze like a deer in headlights, wide eyed, unsure of what to do. Those vivid blue eyes of his stared right through me. One sighed deeply and leaned over to grab his luggage, tiny arm straining against the weight of the bag. His mother called after him as he began down the hall, "This place will be good for you, Henry. I just know it."

So that was One's real name. A soft smile came upon my face; I liked it. 'Henry' suited him.

Henry paused, briefly facing his mother to give her a small nod. Without saying a word, he kept on walking and turned the corner, disappearing from sight. His mother and father exchanged weary looks.

"Virginia, don't start now--," The father began, only to be interrupted by the mother, 'Virginia.'

"There's something wrong with him, Victor. I know you don't want to believe it, but he needs professional help. Not a new house," She spoke in an urgent whisper, "I spoke to a doctor. He can help Henry--."

"--It's not up for discussion," Victor replied, shaking his head, "Henry doesn't need a doctor. He's not disturbed, Virginia, just shy. There are plenty of boys his age who don't have many friends. There's no need to be so hysterical."

"I'm not being hysterical--."

"--You are, my dear."

"Just let him meet the doctor one time, Victor. Just once. Martin Brenner... He's renowned for the advancements he's made in pediatric psychology. If anyone can figure out what's wrong with our boy, it's him," Virginia urged.

Victor sighed.

Suddenly, the room began shifting. The couple slowly faded away, becoming more and more transparent until sunlight cut through them. The lighting shifted, too. Blazing midday light shone through the window, overtaking the golden, late-afternoon glow which had previously illuminated the room. Henry walked past me, dressed in an entirely different outfit. His clothing wasn't the only thing that changed, though-- he was about six inches taller.

I followed him down the hall, which appeared to be newly painted and renovated. He paused in front of an old clock. It stood about a foot taller than him, a great time-teller composed of bright oak wood. He looked to be reading it, blue eyes staring intensely at its metal arms. I took a few steps, standing by his side and doing the same.

After a few moments, I gave up. How the fuck does someone read this?

That seemed beside the point, though, when the arm began moving backward. Slowly, it traced the circumference of the clock before drastically speeding up. A deep, resounding chime came from the clock, causing the floor beneath me to tremble. When I faced Henry, his eyes were clamped shut. I could see his eyeballs zooming back and forth beneath the lids, and then I realized just what was happening.

He was doing this.

My breath caught in my throat when I turned and saw Virginia, silently watching the scene unfold, skin deathly pale.

And then the house was changing again. All at once, the clock, the wallpaper, the wooden floor, and Virginia disappeared. Suddenly, the sun was no more. All that remained was harsh white lights-- a glaringly familiar sight if there ever was one.

It took me a few moments to adjust to the change, and a few more after that to locate Henry. His hair was shorter than before, body no longer clad in his sleek shirt and pants. The familiar blue and white of a hospital gown took their place. It practically swallowed the small boy whole, reaching all the way down to his ankles.

It didn't take long for me to understand what was happening.

We were in the lab again. The tile was cool beneath my feet as the familiar roar of the air conditioner filled my ears. That, and the distinctive buzzing of a tattoo gun. Henry's face was twisted up in anguish as he leaned as far as he possibly could to his right. To his left, Papa-- 'Brenner'-- sat, cutting the point of the gun into Henry's skin. My heart clenched at the familiar sight.

I crossed the room as quickly as possible, reaching for Henry's freehand. I wanted to comfort him, to tell him that it would be over soon, but this was a memory. I wasn't actually there, which was made abundantly clear as a chill ran through my body at the slightest touch of our skin.

I was transported to a new place.

Henry was gone, now. Instead, there was Peter, standing in front of an empty basin, furiously scrubbing at his hands. I leaned next to him and peered at the blood which covered his skin, making the water run crimson as it sank into the drain.

"What did you do?" Brenner's unmistakeable voice spat from the other side of the room.

"I took care of him," Peter replied, blonde hair lurching forward as his scrubbed his hands with increasing force, "He was a threat." There was something in his eyes-- something furious, untethered. He looked wholly out of his mind.

"A threat?" Papa demanded. Suddenly, he stormed forward, grasping Peter's arm and throwing him into a nearby wall. Peter's eyes went wide as Brenner wrapped his hand around his throat, veins popping out. "Foolish boy," he seethed, saliva spewing onto Peter's face. He flinched away, more frightened than I had ever seen him. "You didn't have to kill him!"

I hated seeing Peter so afraid. I hated seeing him hurt.

My eyes shot open. Cold sweat ran down my back as my head whipped around, feverishly assessing my surroundings only find myself back in my bedroom. The song had ended. My heart thumped violently in my chest, breaths shallow and wavering. My mind raced with all that I had just learned. A daunting realization dawned upon me. The thought was nightmarish, a silent betrayal crossing my mind. A betrayal of Peter, of the faith I had in him.

It was ridiculous. Peter wouldn't kill One.

Sickness crawled up my throat.

I tried to convince myself that it was ludicrous, that Peter wasn't capable of such a thing. But why would the last vision be Papa confronting Peter about killing a boy? 'A threat?' One must've been incredibly powerful, being the original. Maybe that's why Papa refused to acknowledge his existence-- he couldn't have people finding out Peter was the one to kill him. As much as I hated to admit it, Peter had already killed someone. Laced a knife across their throat, watched the blood spill down their neck and paint their clothing red.

Was it that much of a stretch to suggest that he killed before?

"I've missed you," Peter whispered against my ear. I could feel his lips forming the words, making my mind run slow and liquid. 'Dream' I harshly reminded myself. We sat on my bed as he gently pulled me closer. I laid against his chest, feeling the soft, rhythmic thud of his heart. His left hand held my wrist, long fingers easily encompassing it. My stomach fluttered at the feeling of his thumb gingerly drawing stars around my tattoo.

Guilt bloomed like a flower in my stomach. How I loved the feeling of his arms wrapped around me, the scent of his shampoo, the brush of his hair against my cheek... Did One smell that same thing when Peter killed him? Or maybe Peter hadn't touched Henry at all; maybe it was just some sort of mistake with the vision. The chances of that, however, were incredibly low.

God, I felt sick.

Peter's lips pressed against the curve of my ear, pulling me from my thoughts. "What's bothering you, sweetheart?" The nickname made my skin flush. Fuck, but he might've been a child murderer. My mind and heart had never contrasted each other to such a degree.

"I can't tell you," I whispered, "You'll get mad."

"Oh, but I'm already mad, Sixteen," His honeyed tongue twisted the words into a sweet nothing. That hand which had been tracing my tattoo suddenly stopped. A foreboding chill wrapped around me as his grip on my wrist tightened. He rested his chin in the crook of my neck, "Furious, even. How long have you been trying to find out what happened to One?"

My heart stopped. Suddenly, his words didn't feel so sweet. "I don't know what you mean, Peter."

His teeth scraped the skin on my neck, bordering between pleasant and painful. "I think you do. Want to know what else I think?"

"What?" I whispered.

"I think you're going to get yourself hurt if you don't stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

"What do you mean?" I asked, "Who would hurt me?"

He took my chin in his gentle fingers, guiding my face to his. I stared at his lovely blue eyes, our noses nearly touching. "Me."

"You wouldn't hurt me," I told him.

"Wouldn't I?" He tilted his head.

"No," I breathed, eyes trailing down to his lips. The word came out so easily, it wasn't even a question. After saying it, though, I paused. Just for a moment. How could I be sure? Where Peter was kind, I knew he could also be cruel. Where he was beautiful, he was also wicked. If he could kill a child, he could kill me, too.

No, but what if it was just a mistake in the vision?

"I suppose you're right. I could never hurt you. Not badly, at least," He pressed his lips against mine only for a moment. When he pulled away I tried to move closer, but his hand came up and grasped my neck, holding me still. He laughed as a frown took up my face, "What's the matter, Sixteen? Is there something you want?"

I rolled my eyes.

He grinned, tightening his grip just a little bit more. "Use your words, sweetheart."

"I want you to kiss me, Peter," I narrowed my eyes, "Obviously."

He leaned closer, lingering just in front of my face. His eyes were enchanting, irises holding me beneath their sapphire spell. Perhaps I was cursed; made to have the breath stolen from my lungs whenever they met mine. One would think after seeing them so often, I'd have grown accustomed to their flowing, sun-lit current-- grown used to drowning beneath his waves. "You want me to kiss you?" He asked.

I nodded.

He moved even closer, bottom lip scarcely touching mine as he whispered, "That's too bad."

With the flick of his wrist, I was flying from the bed. My back harshly slammed into the wall, casting all the air out of my lungs. Peter stood, grinning wickedly. There was no shame in the way his eyes devoured me from head to toe, lingering on the most private parts of my body. I struggled to pull myself from the wall, but my limbs may as well have been glued to their place. Not even a finger could be lifted.

"It's clear a lesson is in order. I'm not going to kiss you, Sixteen. I'm not going to reward bad behavior," Something new emerged in him. That beast I only ever got little hints of-- the one that lingered beneath his finely-pressed suit and the immaculate straightness of his spine-- it completely overtook him.

"I'm not a dog," I spat, "'Reward bad behavior' are you fucking serious?"

"I want you to stop looking into One," He said. Suddenly, the sound of the air conditioner got louder. I squeezed my eyes shut as it's cacophonous sigh invaded my eardrums, pounding away at the back of my head.

"Not gonna happen," I replied. In response, the air conditioner grew louder. "God, could you stop that?"

"If you had to choose between me and Six, who would you choose?" He took a few steps closer, completely disregarding my request. Something like urgency filled his eyes as they delved into mine, searching for an answer as though he could see inside my brain.

"Turn off the air conditioning, Peter." I demanded, "You're hurting me!"

He frowned, and the air conditioning only got louder, "That's not an answer."

"Fuck!" I gasped, squeezing my eyes shut. Although I hadn't been trying, I could feel the warmth of my abilities beginning to seep into my blood supply. Electricity pulsed underneath my skin, rushing to the tips of my fingers as I slowly gathered the strength to push myself away from the wall.

If Two's abilities felt like a wall, then whatever Peter was doing felt like a fucking mountain. Trees, rocks, and dirt pushed against me, ancient as the very earth that surrounded them. I hadn't ever felt something so powerful.

Using all the strength I could, I barely managed to nudge Peter back a step. He grinned at my sorry attempt, tilting his head to the side and sending me crashing onto the bed. My face buried into the mattress with such force, it prevented me from breathing.

Peter would not relent. "You're so powerful, Sixteen." His hand brushed my neck, a dizzying contrast to the force of whatever was holding me against the bed. "Just not as powerful as me. There's no need to be embarrassed, though, I've had much more practice."

Finally, he relented enough to allow me to breathe. My head shot up from the mattress. I inhaled greedily enough to steal every particle of air from the room. "Stop this, Peter." I spat, "Can't we just do what we did last time?"

He briefly lost his focus. I could feel the force on my body wavering.

With the passing window I had, my hand lurched forward, throwing him against the wall with all the ferocity I could manage. His back slammed into the tile, but instead of being angry, he just laughed. As though we were playing a fun little game. "What we did last time?" He tilted his head, mocking me with the words, "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Shut up," I hissed, jutting out my other hand, pushing him further into the wall as though I planned to push him through it. He winced, a grunt falling from his mouth as the pressure became too much to bare. Immediately, I dropped my hand. A great fire of guilt grew in my stomach, kindled by the way Peter stared at me and the breathless rise and fall of his chest. I rushed closer, "Peter... Peter, I'm sorry. I got angry, I shouldn't have--."

His eyes were dark. Starved. "--Hurt me, Sixteen. You know you want to."

"What I want, Peter, is one decent night's sleep. If you're gonna break into my head like some kind of criminal then at least be nice," I shook my head, "I have enough on my plate already."

He frowned teasingly, "You poor thing." I watched as he pulled himself from the wall, taking slow steps towards me. With the way Peter acted in my dreams, I had no doubt that he was capable of killing One. He tutted at the shift in my expression-- the defeat, "Don't look at me like that. Do you know how difficult you make it to be angry with you?"

As he got closer, I inclined my head to maintain eye contact. Anger simmered in my stare, but that only seems to excite him more. "Difficult, but not impossible," He breathed, before swiping his hand sideways.

Before I could stop myself, the same invisible force sent me tumbling to my knees. My mind raced as I desperately called upon my abilities. I tried to take a moment to collect myself, to yell at him, but Peter captured my jaw in his hand before anything could be done. The look he gave me was abysmal. "You have to stop," He whispered.

"Me?!" I cried, "I'm the one who has to stop?"

Emotion twisted his face into something divine. Those cerulean irises suddenly looked so agonized, so distraught, it was like he was channeling every single tragedy he'd ever suffered into a single glance. "I haven't ever felt like this... You have to stop, Sixteen." He took my hand and brought it against his chest. I could feel the pulse of his heart beneath my palm, "Do you feel that? It's for you. Everything I ever do is for you. Do you know how maddening that is?"

"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I didn't entirely understand why.

"I don't think you are," He said softly, tracing my jaw with his thumb, "That's okay, though. I can make you sorry."

Suddenly, a chime rang through the room. That same sound of a phone ringing from when I first touched One's tape. I gasped and stepped back, rising to my feet only long enough for another chime to sound and send me falling to the floor. It hurt more than before. It hurt more than anything else had ever hurt, slicing through my nerves and drilling holes into my brain. A scream escaped my throat, but I was silenced by another chime. "Peter!" I shouted, "Peter, please!"

I hardly registered Peter kneeling beside me, hands grasping my shoulders, "This isn't me," He cried.

Another chime.

My next scream was bloodcurdling, enough to rub my throat raw. Tears streamed down my face, bleaching my skin as I tried to understand what was happening. My entire body felt as though it had been set on fire. The chimes rang through my head, my bones, my veins. The pain was inescapable, unavoidable, lurking in every single nerve. Wherever my body touched the floor, it blistered. Even the air seemed to be closing in on me, burning away my inside as I inhaled and exhaled.

"Make it stop!" I begged, grasping Peter's shirt in my hands, "I'm sorry! Please, I'm sorry!"

He took my hands in his, shaking his head over and over, eyebrows furrowed with worried, "What's happening? Sixteen, what's happening?! Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere!" I roared, choking on my own tears as my mind was torn apart.

The room transformed around me. Suddenly, Peter was gone. The chimes resumed, but they were quieter this time. They weren't debilitating enough to devastate my mind, body, and soul. It took me so long to gather the strength to stand, and once I was able to, I wished I hadn't.

It was the lab all over again. The version where blood was everywhere, running through the hallways, lingering in the air, imbedding itself into my lungs. My hands shook violently as the chimes continued. I tried to run away, to escape my torturous fate. Peter shouted somewhere in the distance, but I didn't know where. My legs acted on their own accord, marching me past body after body. They were heedless of my mind screaming that I couldn't go on.

I'd never been so terrified in my life.

When I reached one particular hallway, I froze. On a white column at the end of the hallway, there was an unassuming red telephone. It sat there in all of its mediocre glory, beckoning me closer. The phone looked beyond out of place surrounded by mangled bodies, rivers of blood, and destroyed circuitry.

Three more chimes sounded.

I made a beeline for the telephone, intent of slamming it into the ground and destroying the ugly red plastic which had clawed my mind into pieces. So quickly, the little device had rendered me obsolete.

When I got there, however, I found myself completely unable. My body mutinied against my mind. When my hand wrapped around the phone, it burned, sending the smell of burnt meat throughout the entire hall. A scream fell from my throat as I desperately tried to get my hands to listen. To put the phone down and stop the agony which they inflicted upon themselves.

The coil running from the end of the phone and connecting to the dial swung limply. It grew taut when my arms moved without my permission, bringing the phone to my ear. It burnt there, too, melting the skin surrounding it until I was sobbing so intensely that no sound came out. This was my own personal Gehenna, robbing me of all things good and beautiful. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think.

Suddenly, a voice came from the phone. A woman, shouting, begging for help. She gasped and cried into the receiver, desperately urging me to come find her. "Help!" She cried, voice flooded with panic, "I'm at some lab, I don't know where I am. They're about to do something bad to me. I know they are. Please, help me! Plea--."

She paused. There was a shuffling on the other end, the sound of something like a chair scraping against the ground. The woman returned to the phone with renewed vigor, no longer just begging, now screaming for help. "Please! Please, I don't have long! No, no, no, no, you can't let them do this. I'll do anything, please!"

And then the line went dead. My hands shook violently as I moved to put the phone back.

The moment it was returned to its designated spot, I was back in my bedroom. Peter was there, too. I stared at him, unable to speak, too horrified to think. My skin no longer burned, my mind no longer felt as though it was going to split in half. All that remained of the torment which I had just suffered through was the scorch marks in my mind, which would no doubt stay burned into me for a long, long time.

My entire body trembled. Tears poured down my face.

"Sixteen," Peter whispered, looking nearly as horrified as me. He crossed the room seconds later, placing his hand on the back of my head and pulling me into him. I held on as though I were moments away from falling to my death. Everything felt too raw, too shattered. I had no idea how I would piece it all back together.

Peter shushed me, whispering sugar and honey into my ear, "It's okay, it's alright." He held me tighter with every moment, brushing the tears from my eyes. My heartbeat thundered in my chest, moving at such a speed I feared it would send me into cardiac arrest.

He brought my hand to his lips and gently kissed the tips of my fingers, "You're safe. I've got you."

Chapter Text

I liked to tell myself that I was a logical person.

Although I did loose control from time to time, most of the decisions I made came from my head rather than my heart. Each time I had a new problem to overcome, I allowed myself a grace period. Depending on the urgency of the issue, that period could be a day or maybe even a week. Either way, I'd use my time to analyze said problem, figure out the best way to address it, and then brainstorm possible consequences that would follow.

Logic was my native language, one which weighed heavily on my tongue with its rational accent.

What really sucked, though, was the fact that logic was completely thrown out the window in the Lab. Everyone spoke a language I couldn't possibly understand, littered with words like 'telekinesis' and 'extrasensory perception.' Most everything felt like a fever dream of bland walls, empty rooms, and awful, fluorescent lights.

There was no 'logic' when it came to visions of dead children and bright red phones. I couldn't sit back and allow myself a grace period because I had no fucking clue where to start. It was impossible to differentiate dream from vision, real from fiction. How do I address an issue when I can't even fully comprehend what it is?

For the duration of my walk to the Rainbow Room, I tried to understand what last night's dream meant. I recalled the brush of Peter's fingertips against my wrist, the feeling of his lips forming words on my skin. That was one of the few things about last night that I understood. I liked Peter far more than I liked most things-- of course he would show up in my dream. What didn't make sense, though, was how quickly he went from sweet and doting to possessive and condescending. How his fingers wrapped around my wrist, reminding me that he was gentle to me only because he chose to, that he was fully capable of hurting me should he change his mind. It made even less sense that I couldn't bring myself to resent him for that.

My adoration for him wasn't healthy. It was intimate and risky and probably misguided. Deep down, I had a feeling it wouldn't end well at all. Deeper still, I knew the risk of crashing and burning with him was far better than our flame being huffed out.

The entire situation made my head spin.

Unfortunately for me, that wasn't the worst of it. Whether I liked Peter or not, I still had to figure out what he did to One. A sinking feeling in my gut told me perhaps this could take a turn for the worst. There wasn't a question if Peter was capable of murder-- he himself confessed to killing McLaughlin. Truthfully, it was hard to picture him lacing a knife across someone's throat. Blood splattered on his pristine suit, silky blonde hair a mess around his head. I knew it was truly wrong to think of Peter in such a state and still be enamored with him.

I couldn't help myself.

I really, truly couldn't.

When I pushed a familiar set of grey, double doors open, the sound of toys clattering greeted me. A final sigh fell from my lips before I was able to convince myself to enter. Once I had, my eyes scanned the room. Four was in the corner, hunched over a puzzle, looking dismal as ever. Number Ten sat in front of some pieces of origami, an art he had slowly but surely been getting better at. Six was at our usual table, wrist zooming back and forth as she scribbled away at a piece of paper.

I made a beeline for her.

I don't think I was consciously looking for Peter. Nonetheless, as I walked to Six, my gaze was drawn to a lovely white suit and sandy blonde hair. Cross-legged in front of a plinko board, he watched as the young girl next to him dropped a chip. Number Eleven, I believe her name was, wore a deep frown as her chip landed in the '6' spot. Peter smiled at her failed attempt. When he opened his mouth to offer advice, his eyes met mine, and he paused. A brief halt was all it was, a dying of the words in his throat. Our eyes were magnets, his north, mine south. It was intrinsic, unavoidable, for my gaze to be drawn to his.

His lips tilted into a smile, one I did not return.

I collapsed beside Six, somehow weary from that exchange alone. "Hi," I said to her, "What're you drawing?"

She briefly looked up at me before her attention turned back to her drawing, "Shark. I watched 'JAWS' again last night, and now it's stuck in my head."

"The theme song is very catchy, I understand," I reached forward and stole away her drawing. Six was good at many, many things, but drawing had to be number one. Somehow, she managed to bring the shark to life on a piece of paper, perfectly capturing depth, shadows, and detail in a way I never could. Even without a reference, she knew where the light caught on a shark's grey skin and where it did not.

I handed her picture back and crossed my arms, "That's beautiful. You're so good at everything, it's infuriating."

"I know," She grinned, "I've had lots of practice. One of the benefits of being indoctrinated into a lab as a child is that I have lots and lots of free time. Maybe you have a hidden talent too and you just don't remember it."

"What do you think my hidden talent is?"

"Maybe you're really good at writing," She shrugged, "Or dancing?"

"Dancing? So I could be an exotic dancer?"

"I mean, in theory, yes."

"Fuck yeah," I sat back in my seat, "Should I start practicing?"

"I'm sure Peter would like that very much."

My skin went red. I shook my head, "Too far." After a short silence, Six's mouth fell open once, then twice. Conflict shone in her eyes, like she wanted to say something but she wasn't sure if she should. "What is it?" I asked.

"Nothing," She shook her head, "It's nothing."

I glanced around, making sure no one was within earshot. "It's clearly not nothing. What's wrong?"

"It's not about me. I have some... thoughts that I've been wanting to share with you but I didn't want to seem nosy," She leaned forward, "And I know that it's none of my business but, as your friend, I think it's my job to warn you when--."

"--Six, just tell me."

She anxiously played with the skin around her fingers. I hadn't noticed that nervous habit until then but, judging by the scarring around her nails, she'd been doing it for quite some time. I frowned.

"Okay, but you have to promise you won't get mad," She leaned closer and lowered her voice.

"I promise," I smiled, "Whatever you're going to tell me, it better be worth all this buildup."

Another pause. She almost looked like she was going to be sick. "Okay, so, I know that you've been getting close to--," Six's nervousness showed in the way her eyes continually scanned our surroundings, tirelessly searching for any possible onlookers, "--you-know-who--."

"--Don't speak in codes. I'm not smart enough for that. Is 'you-know-who' Peter?"

"Lower your voice," She hissed, "And yes. But I'm going to refer to him as 'you-know-who' just in case someone hears, okay?"

"Okay, fine. Your stress is starting to stress me out."

She waved dismissively and continued, "Okay, so I know that the two of you have been getting closer. At first, I just thought 'good for Sixteen,' you know? Because you-know-who is probably the most beautiful person I've ever seen."

"Very true. Continue."

"I just thought, when you guys first met, that you didn't really have a chance with him. He's an orderly, after all, and relationships between staff and patients are like... strictly forbidden," The skin on her thumb began to turn red as she picked at it with growing forced, "And you know I'm not usually one to care about Papa's rules, but I think maybe he's right in this case."

I nodded, "Oh, so that's it. You're worried that we're gonna get in trouble... Six, we are so, so, so careful. I promise. And nothing's really happened that could get us in trouble--."

"--That's not all, Sixteen. I mean, it's part of it, but there's something else..." She trailed off, her eyes falling down to her hands. I could see the words swelling on the tip of her tongue, demanding to break past her teeth and say whatever it was she wanted to tell me. "Remember... you promised not to get mad."

I nodded, "And I'll stick to that promise. Seriously, Six, don't be so nervous. It's just me."

She nodded, teeth gnawing at the inside of her cheek. "I don't know. The longer I think about it, the more it just doesn't sit right with me. I don't think Peter is good for you."

I nodded. In my dreams, Peter and I were far more intimate than we were in real life. Perhaps I'd exaggerated our relationship on accident, made Six think that we were doing more than almost kissing. Honestly, it didn't really matter if Peter was 'good for me' or not, because nothing was gonna happen.

"I appreciate you worrying about me," I smiled softly, "But there's really no need to. Peter and I definitely aren't in any sort of relationship where he could be 'good' or 'bad' for me."

"I know that," She said, "But you yourself told me that he almost kissed you. I don't blame you at for that... I blame him."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"It's just..." She swallowed, "He's so much older than you. He should know better than to try and kiss you."

I frowned, "But I tried to kiss him, too."

"Yes, I know that... You're just in such a vulnerable position. You met him when you had no idea who you were or what was happening here. It just feels sort of exploitative that he thinks this is the right setting to make moves," She shrugged, "And I know you like him, but doesn't it just seem off to you? At least a little? He's supposed to be looking after you and tracking your progress, not... almost kissing you."

"I don't know, I've never really thought of it like that," I sat back in my chair, looking over Six with contemplative eyes.

"And that's fine," She sat up, "Just... promise me you'll keep what I said in mind. I'm not saying you have to stop liking him, but try to pay closer attention. That's all. Everyone in this place has ulterior motives. Some of them are just much, much better at hiding it."

After being summoned to Papa's office, I was more than happy to get a brief respite from the clattering of toys and incessant whir of air conditioning. Unfortunately for me, that wasn't the worst of my problems, and a walk through the hallways failed to soothe my nerves. With my only distraction being the soft tap of slippers against the tiled floor, my untethered mind ran wild. Mine and Six's conversation reigned over my mind, kicking aside any other thoughts.

Peter couldn't really be blamed for any of this... could he? I was the one who had a weak spot designed specifically for him. Sure, on occasion he could apply pressure to said spot, but it was never intentional. It's not like he knew.

But what if he did? What if, this whole time, he knew I was uniquely drawn him? What if he felt the connection too, and so he fanned our flames all for his own ends? God, but that possibility was so inconsequential when I also had Henry's death to worry about. Another crime where Peter was my only suspect. The entire situation had become far too complicated far too quickly.

Sometimes I caught myself thinking this would all be so much easier if Peter and I had never met. Then, I remembered how I adored him more than anyone else. To be without him would be worse than any possible consequences that came with him.

When I arrived at the dark mahogany that constituted Papa's door, I took one more moment to pull myself together. Expelling any and all thoughts of Henry, Peter, or Six, I smoothed out my hospital gown and knocked on the door. There was a shuffling on the other side, the sound of a drawer opening, and then Papa's voice called, "Come in, Sixteen."

Immediately, my heart picked up pace. There was no cheeriness in his words, no adoration like usual. If anything, he sounded angry. "Fuck me," I whispered under my breath, along with a slew of other curses as I pushed the door open.

His room was freezing, like someone had left a window open in the dead of winter. It was quite fitting with the look in his eyes as I made my way inside and took the seat opposite him. Our last exchange had certainly been... unpleasant, but he wasn't one to hold a grudge. Even after tattooing me, the man had smiled and wished me a good day.

"Hello," I greeted after a few moments of silence.

His face was stone cold, the picture of composure. My skin prickled as the quiet persisted, settling over us like the world's most uncomfortable blanket. When I was about to open my mouth and ask what was wrong, he spoke up, "I've been dreading this meeting for a very, very long time."

I felt sick. "I'm not sure I follow."

Abruptly, he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. With our height difference, I had to lean my head back just to look him in the eyes. Beneath his stare, I felt more than small. He made me microscopic, some insect reeling away, desperate to avoid being crushed beneath his polished leather shoe.

"I know the adjustment from your old life to this one has been trying," He said, absently placing one of his pens in the cup which was perfectly centered on the right side of his desk. "I've tried being patient. I thought, in time, you'd settle down, become compliant like your brothers and sisters. It seems I overestimated you."

"Is this about yesterday?" I asked, "I'm sorry, okay, I just--."

"Yesterday was the final straw, Sixteen. Your behavior has been a problem for a long time," He sighed heavily, "It's about time I set it right, don't you agree?"

My heart hammered in my chest. 'Set it right.' Oh, god, he was going to punish me, wasn't he? He was going to bury tasers into my skin until I couldn't think about anything besides the electricity cooking me from the inside out. Panic swelled up my throat as the light above us flickered. "I'm sorry," my voice was smaller than intended, "I really am."

"I'm afraid it's too late for that. Some mistakes are irreversible, Daughter. I'm sure you of all people understand that," His voice was cold, impersonal. My hatred for him crescendoed. "The deaths of all those men you've killed-- they're not reversible, either. Quite frankly, you're a danger to myself, your siblings, Six, Gloria, Peter, and everyone else you care about."

"I would never hurt them," I shook my head, "Never."

"You say that, but did you ever intend to kill those guards?" He tilted his head. I stayed silent. "I didn't think so. You lost control, Daughter. And you can claim that you're able to contain your abilities, but if that was the case, then the lights wouldn't be flickering right now, would they?"

"That's not my fault," I cried.

"Oh, but it is. Just like it will be your fault when, one day, you let your emotions get the better of you and someone you love ends up dead. How will you justify it then, Number Sixteen?"

I was free falling from a cliff, desperately grabbing at sticks, rocks, ledges. Anything to save me from the harsh, unrelenting ground below. No such relief ever came. All I managed to do was cut up my hands, harsh wind licking at my wounds as the ground came nearer and nearer.

My face grew hot, and the threat of crying had never felt so real. "What are you gonna do?"

"What's best, Daughter. For you and for everyone else," He finally sat down, neatly folding his hands in front of him, "Seven days from now, you're going to undergo a procedure."

Bile crawled up my throat. 'Terrified' was an understatement.

"A chip of sorts is going to be implanted into your neck. Now, I promise it won't hurt. The recovery will easy to endure-- if anything, you'll enjoy the time off," He smiled and took my hand in his. I forced myself to stop shaking, but it felt like containing an earthquake in my own skin. "This isn't the first time a patient has been chipped. However, yours is going to be much less restrictive. You'll still have access to your powers and you'll still continue your training, you just won't be as strong. All I wish to do is prevent any further harm and, perhaps, level the playing field between you and your siblings."

I didn't want to cry. Fuck, I didn't want to cry. My entire body had broken out into a cold sweat at that point-- heart thundering violently in my chest, threatening to break my ribs. "And you're doing this because I'm... what? A danger?"

"Regrettably, yes."

My terror gave way to anger. Scalding hot anger, crawling like a fire through the room, devastating everything it touched. "If you're chipping anyone who's 'dangerous,' then you may as well chip yourself, too."

"I was expecting you to lash out," He sat back and crossed his arm, eyeing me as though I were a misbehaving child.

"You're the dangerous one. Not me. And the only reason I'm in a position to be 'dangerous' is because of you!"

"I understand what's happening, Sixteen. You're blaming me for your own mistakes because you can't take accountability," He narrowed his eyes, "Go on, make me your scapegoat."

"Fuck right off," I spat, "How could you possibly blame me for any of this? You kidnapped me. You brought me here. I wouldn't have hurt anyone if you just treated me like a human being instead of a fucking lab rat!"

He looked unfazed, "I've treated you with dignity, Sixteen. Always."

"Oh, is that so? Where was the dignity when you sent me to train with McLaughlin? When you let me get stabbed twice under your own roof? When you tied me to a chair and tattooed me, 'Papa?'" My voice was raw, almost painful as it spilled past my lips, "Where was all your fucking dignity?"

"You can't blame me for any of that. I didn't know McLaughlin was going to hurt you."

"You should've!" I shouted, "You should've fucking looked into him before you sent me away with a man you barely know. How am I the dangerous one, when I have been victimized and abused time after time under your supervision?"

"I regret any harm that has come to you, Sixteen. Truly. However, that doesn't change anything. You're out of control, and I will not risk another life being taken because you can't control yourself," Emotion finally began seeping into his voice-- anger.

"That's the funny thing, isn't it? I'm dangerous because I hurt people when I loose control. What does that make you, then? You're in control, and yet you still hurt people. You manipulate, you abuse." I stood from my chair, leering down at him with all the anger I'd been storing for months and months on end. "If I'm dangerous, you're fucking fatal."

"Don't you think it's odd how none of your siblings have any such complaints? Maybe that's because you're the problem. You're the maker of your own unhappiness, and you're taking it out on me," His eyes were set ablaze, "I've loved all of you. My only regret is that you took it for granted."

"I never wanted this," My voice quieted. Clarity was bittersweet, a blessing and a curse. "You know, you've done so many terrible things. But loving me... loving me has to be the worst. Look where that got us."

"You have seven days. Enjoy it while it lasts," His hands clenched into fists, "Now get out of my office, Number Sixteen."

"With pleasure," I breathed.

Chapter Text

Gloria always announced her presence with a distinctive knock on my door. She'd hit it once, go quiet for a moment, and then drum her fists over and over until I finally allowed her to come in. The first time she did so, I found it quite jarring, but overtime I learned to love the sound-- like an audible balm capable of relieving my irritated mind.

Today, I welcomed her with a grin, more than happy to speak with the only adult figure I looked up to. Though, to be fair, the other option was Papa so the bar was basically in hell.

Gloria pushed open the door with the rubber tip of her shoe. The wheels on her cart squeaked noisily as she wheeled it over to me. "Hey, Baby," she greeted. I smiled at the nickname and sat up in bed, facing her.

"Hi," I said, "You got the goods?"

"How many times have I told you to stop calling them that?" She gave me a pointed glare. Gloria was probably the least intimidating person of all time, so I wasn't too phased. "When you call your sleep medicine 'goods,' you make this sound like some sort of drug deal."

I frowned, "What do you mean? Is this not a drug deal?"

"That depends, do you consider pharmacists drug dealers?"

"I don't know what a pharmacist is," I replied, "And I also don't know what constitutes a drug deal, but I'm going to say 'yes' anyways."

She sighed amusedly and turned to her cart. "You really need to get out more."

I couldn't help but laugh at the comment, "Low blow."

Her smile faded when the implication dawned on her. Gloria sheepishly turned her attention back to her cart. The room was silent aside from the blow of the air conditioner and the sound of pills clanging against each other.

Who knew joking about unlawful imprisonment could be a conversation stopper?

I really did have work on catering to my audience, didn't I?

Gloria got to work on unscrewing a familiar orange prescription bottle. The pills clattered as she fished one out and handed it to me. "Oh, I've been meaning to talk to you about these, actually. Before I forget, would you say your meds give you weird dreams?"

I almost laughed. If only she knew. "Weird how?"

"Well, for me, I get really detailed dreams," She explained, screwing the cap back on the bottle, "Benzodiazepines are pretty well-known for having that affect."

"Like... detailed enough for you to confuse them with reality?" I tried to ask the question as nonchalantly as possible, though I was more than eager for any sort of explanation about my dreams.

"No, not really. Do you get dreams like that?" She asked. For a moment, I considered answering truthfully. Though... what if she asked me to go into detail? What would I tell her? I certainly couldn't confess to dreaming of her colleague. My heart skipped a beat when I imaged her telling Peter about it-- something she definitely wouldn't do, and yet it still sent a chill down my back. How embarrassing would that be?

"Oh, no," I shook my head, "Just curious. What about the pills causes someone to have vivid dreams?"

"Someone's full of questions today," She grinned, "You're lucky I'm so charitable. The pills lower lower dopamine levels in the brain, triggering tiredness and an increase in melatonin. Melatonin is basically what makes you sleepy. Helps induce R.E.M, too."

"Very interesting," I said, nodding as though I followed any of it, "I understood maybe half of that."

She laughed heartily and shook her head, "Bless your heart. I'm sorry to cut our visit so short, Baby, but I have to go check on a few of your siblings."

"I'm sorry, what?" I crossed my arms, "You have other patients? I thought I was the only one... Is this considered cheating?"

She signaled for me to lean forward. When I did, she bent down and whispered almost conspiratorially, "Now, don't you tell anyone, but you're my favorite." I opened my mouth to reply, but she placed a finger to her lips and shushed me, "You take that to your grave, understand?"

I nodded. Gloria wished me a goodnight and clasped the handle of her cart. The metallic squeaking of wheels picked up as she made her way to the door. Before she could leave, though, I stopped her, "Hey, before you leave, I actually have a question."

She paused, "Alright, hit me."

"I'm not sure if you're actually allowed to talk to me about this, but I've been doing some... research," I tongued the side of my cheek, searching for the right words without coming off too eager, "Do you know anything about Number One?"

She shook her head, "There is no Number One, Baby. The program began with Two."

I raised my eyebrows, "Gloria, I know that's not true."

The conflict in her eyes was impossible not to notice as she took a moment to reply, likely thinking of the most vague answer possible. One moment passed, then another. "You're gonna be the death of me one day, you know that?"

"Aw, thanks."

"I'm not allowed to talk to you about other patients," She sighed, "I know you're just curious and I wish I could tell you all about it, but I don't want either of us getting in trouble. You understand, right?"

I waved dismissively, "Of course. It was just a question, no big deal. Have a good sleep, Gloria."

Her tense face softened, "You too, baby."

My fingernails dug into my palms. Henry was probably the most elusive mystery of all. A grand puzzle I had to piece together without any sort of reference. My mind fruitlessly jabbed mismatched pieces against one another, hoping that somehow their edges would dull and they'd finally fall into place. Of course, that's not how puzzle-solving worked, and if it was that easy then I would've figured it all out by now.

As if discovering the truth wasn't hard enough, the collective secrecy of my peers made it nearly impossible. Gloria wouldn't budge, Six didn't know anything, and my only possible suspect was still Peter. I'd interrogated all but one, and the others were just dead ends.

The night before, an idea had come to me. The kind of idea where I thought of it and then felt ashamed for even contemplating such a thing. But, after dwelling for a little longer, I realized I was very, very capable of executing it.

If Peter really was the killer, then he wouldn't just willingly answer my questions. And, in the very unlikely case that he did entertain me, one slip up and I could all but kiss the possibility of finding answers goodbye.

Gloria was about to shut the door when I called out one more time, "Hey, wait! I have one more question."

She put her head through the crack in the door, "Alright. Make it quick, though, I really do have patients to tend to."

"Alright, sorry. So, In theory, could my medicine like... relax someone's mind?" I questioned.

She gave me a crooked smile, "Of course. That's the whole point. Bye now, sweet dreams!" Without letting me reply, she slammed the door closed.

My fingers snaked beneath my pillow, curling around the forgotten pills I never bothered to dispose of.

Perhaps I would bring last night's idea to life.

Sweatpants were officially my new favorite possession.

For months, I'd been stuck wearing the same stiff, scratchy hospital gowns. I hadn't realized how terrible it was until I returned from lessons the following day to find some clothes neatly folded on the end of my bed. Two pairs of sweatpants, both grey, accompanied by two white t-shirts. Originally, I thought it was some sort of mistake. I hadn't requested new clothes, and the t-shirts may as well have been dresses. The sleeves stopped just above my elbows, and the shirt itself reached mid-thigh. For a time, I considered reporting the mistake, but then I decided against it. New clothes were new clothes, and the sweatpants felt like heaven in pant form.

Pockets were also a luxury I'd been deprived of. I marched down the hallway with my hands buried in my darling pockets, very aware of curfew as it crept closer and closer. There were exactly three pills in the left one, jiggling around with each step I took. Every few seconds, I double and triple checked to make sure I had all three. Peter was a relatively large person, and though I couldn't be sure of his dosage, I knew three benzos would knock my ass out so they'd do the same for him. Hopefully.

All I had to do was find him.

In hindsight, I probably should've used my abilities to pinpoint Peter's location beforehand, but Papa's threat had been throwing me off my game. Perhaps I could talk Peter into saving me from my 'procedure.' Though, truth be told, part of thought maybe it could be a good thing to get my abilities reduced. Papa was right. I was out of control. God fucking forbid I ended up hurting Six, Gloria, or Peter. The thought made me ill. Ghosts of their bodies, broken up and bent, haunted my mind, relentless after hours of trying to exorcise them.

Then again, to cave to Papa would be giving up almost everything I stood for. My gluttony of power was his fault. If he hadn't forced me to harness them, we wouldn't be in this mess in the first place. Not to mention a literal chip in my neck would only make escape all the more difficult. I suppose escaping had been placed on the back burner after all these months, though.

My thoughts came to a halt as I turned down another hallway and caught sight of a lithe figure clad in an immaculately white suit. Even on his own, patrolling the halls, Peter maintained his back-breaking posture. Sometimes just looking at it made me wince-- that couldn't be comfortable.

I suppose, at the very least, the way he walked was a little less robotic as he sauntered down the hall, oblivious of my eyes boring into the back of his head. Before calling out to him, I took a moment to focus on the camera in the corner of the room. I'd been getting better at controlling technology, honing my powers without a great deal of effort. Almost lazily, I waved my hand in its direction. There was a rush of warmth followed by a prickling sensation beneath my skin. The little red dot shuttered on and off for a moment, and then the camera powered down completely.

Just as it did so, Peter's steps stuttered. Like he could feel the camera shutting off, his hand shot to the back of his neck. His eyes habitually shot up to the corner of the room, face twisted up in confusion. "Peter!" I called as I began down the hallway. Glacial eyes shot towards me, hard like ice. They melted in a lazuli river upon realizing who had called him.

"Sixteen," He smiled warmly, "What are you doing out of bed? It's almost curfew."

"Yes, I know that," I said dismissively, sparing one last glance behind us just to make sure we were alone. "Are you busy right now? I know you have patrol and... I mean, no offense, but I don't think that's the most important job in the world and I need to talk to you."

"Why? Is something wrong?" He furrowed his eyebrows.

"Sort of," I replied, "I need your help interpreting this... problem I've been having. You're smart, right? You know lots of words."

He smiled at the bluntness of my question, "Hm, that depends. What is it you want me to interpret?"

I made a show of glancing around and leaning closer. My voice lowered into a conspiratorial whisper, "We need to go somewhere private first. Prying eyes and all. Can you follow me?"

He, too, leaned closer, mimicking my whisper, "You do realize you're supposed to be in your bedroom, right? I can't imagine how you'll be able to get my advice and go to sleep in the next two minutes."

"Hm, maybe you're not as smart as I thought," I frowned, "We're staying up past curfew, Peter. This is a matter of utmost importance."

"I think you're forgetting that as an orderly, I'm supposed to enforce curfew. Not break it."

"I think you're forgetting that, as me, I really truly don't care. We won't get caught, I promise. I can shut off the cameras so we won't be seen." My voice returned to its normal volume, "Besides, I need emotional support. Isn't it your job to provide emotional support?"

"I'm not a therapist," He frowned. I narrowed my eyes, figuring I could glare him into compliance. A beat of silence passed between us, broken only by the rattling of the a/c overhead. After a few moments, his impassive expression shift. It was nothing but a brief protrusion beneath his skin as he clenched his jaw. Eventually he breathed out the word, "Fine."

I grinned, "Great, follow me."

We spent the nexts several minutes zig zagging down hall after hall. Sometimes, the lab was easy to maneuver. Other times, not so much. At night time especially, the hallways blurred into one endless warren. Surrounded by identical white hallways and indiscernible grey doors, it wasn't long before I found myself completely overwhelmed. That was until we came upon the Rainbow Room. Although he didn't say anything, Peter knew I was lost. The mocking smile on his lips told me what his voice didn't.

"Where are we supposed to be going?" His breath was warm against my ear as he fell in step with me.

"I'll tell you when we get there."

"If we get there," He murmured.

"You think you're so funny, don't you?" I spat, directing him down yet another hall.

"That's because I am, Sixteen," He frowned, as though I insulted him. I couldn't help the exasperated sigh that fell past my lips. "Why are you being so vague, anyways?"

"Annoying, isn't it?" I asked, "Kind of reminds me of someone." He narrowed his eyes at my jab, to which I grinned and gestured for him to follow me down one last hall. The kitchen's unmarked double doors were a welcome sight, causing my pace to pick up just a bit. Although I couldn't see him any longer, I could hear Peter's footfalls behind me, growing slower as he realized where we were headed.

Just as I was about to reach for the door handle, warm fingers wrapped around my wrist, pulling me back. His smile was long gone, pink lips tilted downward with worry. "Sixteen, we shouldn't go in there. I've allowed this misadventure to go on long enough, you really should be getting to your room... I could walk you back, if you'd like."

"Scared?" I asked. When his expression remained unchanged, I took my freehand and dug my fingers beneath his, freeing my wrist. Although I tried not to show it, my heart rate picked up at the contact. Our hands remained intertwined long enough for me to offer a reassuring squeeze, and then I let him go. "Seriously, Peter. I promised you we wouldn't get caught. I meant it."

He was soundless for a moment, scrutinizing me through apprehensive eyes. He sighed, "You're infuriating."

I smiled, "Great. You can be infuriated in the kitchen, let's go."

I yanked open the kitchen door, venturing a few steps inside. Although neither of us said anything, I couldn't deny the unmistakeable weight of tension which layered upon my skin. Peter and I never properly addressed what happened in my room, and so a peculiar sort of energy had followed all of our exchanges since. Even the most insignificant moments cloyed the air around us, making my blood run slow and syrupy as though it had turned to honey. I was nauseatingly wound up, desperate for an answer which I knew Peter would never give me. One more brush of our shoulders or word whispered into my ear was going to send me over the edge.

The roar of ventilation was a welcome respite from my racing thoughts. The irony of that was not lost on me

Blaring white lights shined down on us, glinting off of the industrial sized ovens, refrigerators, and sinks. The only indication that Peter had followed me into the kitchen was the soft tap of his shoes against the tiled floor.

I made a beeline for the refrigerator, it's contents clattering against one another as I pulled it open. A cool breath of air fanned my feverish skin, soothing my nerves while I scanned the shelves for soda.

"Seems like you're quite familiar with this place," Peter hummed from the other side of the room, "Which is odd, considering it's strictly prohibited to patients."

I spared a passing glance over my should as I placed our sodas on the counter. "Yeah, well you make skipping lessons far too easy and, in my defense, Coke is really good." I turned back to our sodas and took the first one in my mouth. My teeth latched onto the metal cap before I bit down, earning a satisfactory 'pop' as the top gave way.

Peter tsked, "Sometimes I wonder if you think I'm stupid. Do you really think I can't tell when you lie to get out of training? You're not nearly as sneaky as you think you are."

My breath caught in my throat. Just when I finished opening the second bottle, my hands froze and a sickening sense of Deja vu ripped through me. 'Sometimes I wonder if you think I'm stupid,' the exact words he uttered to me in that dream. I recalled the feeling of his fingers running over my chest, venturing inside of me for brief, scathing moments.

When I turned to cast Peter a weary glance, his head was tilted ever so slightly. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the expression he wore almost looked mocking, masked beneath a face alike to caring. I cleared my throat and grasped at the remains of my composure. "And yet you've never said anything about it."

He smiled down at me, "You're not my prisoner, Sixteen. Believe it or not, I try to give you a modicum of freedom when I can."

"Not like you have a choice," I mused as I made a show of dropping one of the bottle caps. After positioning my body sideways, I bent down to pick it up and subtly dug my hand into my pocket. Palming the three pills, I turned back to the counter.

"I suppose that's true," A quiet edge of amusement snuck into Peter's tone, "You've always had a difficult time listening to authority figures, haven't you?"

My hands were slick with sweat as I dropped the pills through the mouth of his drink. The first two disappeared rather quickly, going up in fizz with an audible hiss. Guilt hammered at the back of my head as I debated the necessity of the third pill. Two should be enough, right? I didn't want to hurt him. That was the last thing I'd ever dream of doing.

An unsteady exhale fell from my lips as I pocketed the final pill. "I guess," I shrugged, clearing all hints of perturbance from my face before I turned to face Peter, "But I can listen when I want to."

I held out his drink, barely keeping my arm steady long enough to distribute it from my hand to his. He glanced down at his Coke, then back at me. "Oh, I don't doubt it, Sixteen," Peter rasped, raising his drink to his lips. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, unintentionally catching my attention.

Good lord.

My skin was flushed with fever when I turned back to the counter, hoisting myself up. If I were wearing my hospital gown, the coolness would've bit into my legs, but thanks to my lovely new pants, there was hardly a difference. "Okay. Are you ready to hear about my top-secret problem?" I asked.

Peter situated himself opposite me, leaning against the island in the center of the kitchen. The three feet of space between us was somehow far too much and far too little at the same time. It was easy to forget exactly how tall Peter was. Sitting in front of him, my feet fluttering back and forth under the counter, that fact was made abundantly clear. I had to incline my head just to make eye contact.

"So, basically, I take this, um," I cleared my throat, "I take this pill. It helps me sleep, but it also gives me really vivid dreams. Usually they're... tolerable... but I keep having these really realistic nightmares, too."

"Alright. Well, what usually happens in your dreams?" He questioned, polite curiosity toying with his expression.

I hesitated for a moment, desperately scrambling for a reasonable answer. It was as though every single thought ran screaming from my head. I hadn't planned on Peter asking me about the dreams themselves. "Nothing of note," I murmured, "Usually I see, um, people. And we talk."

"Which people in particular?"

"Just people. You know, guards and stuff," I shrugged, "It's actually not relevant at all though, so we don't have to talk about it."

Peter narrowed his eyes. A strand of blonde hair fell onto his face when he tilted his head. I was overcome by the familiar feeling that he could see inside my skull and each thought that swam through it. "Are you keeping something from me, Sixteen?"

"No," I replied, narrowing my eyes.

"Hm," He smiled lazily, "You really are a bad liar."

"And you're a smug little shit," I spat defensively, "Anyways, moving on--."

"--Language, Sixteen."

I rolled my eyes amusedly, taking yet another sip of my drink in a desperate attempt to calm my nerves. My skin felt as though it were boiling. "Sorry, I didn't mean that. Well maybe a little. Anyway, so I keep having nightmares. Usually they're... tolerable, but they've been getting worse recently."

"How so?"

"Well, I don't really know," I murmured, "More graphic, I guess. You have to promise me you won't judge before I tell you about it."

Peter furrowed his eyebrows as though I'd just suggested something outlandish. "Judge you?" Eyes like the Aegean Sea bore into mine, so immersive I could almost smell salt in the air, feel sand giving way beneath my feet. "Come now, you know better than that."

I wrung my hands, trying my hardest not to linger on his eyes for too long, for fear I'd lose my train of thought all over again. "I just don't want you to think I'm crazy," I elaborated, "It's pretty brutal, probably worse than you're picturing right now."

"Go on," He said coaxingly.

"Alright," I sighed, taking one final sip of my drink before I began. "Basically, it always starts as a normal dream. I'm having a conversation with someone, and then the entire room suddenly fizzles out. I get this-- I don't really know how to describe it-- this sinking feeling in my gut, like I'm in danger, and then I'm in the lab."

I swallowed thickly, nails biting into my palms with growing force, "I find myself in the hallway near Papa's office, and it's really dark. Most of the lights are broken, like falling from the ceiling or ripped out entirely. The few that aren't broken flicker on and off super fast." I paused for a moment. "This is where it gets bad, Peter."

"That's alright," His tone was soft, "Keep going."

I hadn't even realized how truly awful the nightmares were until I had to put them into words. The carnage, the destruction, it flashed before my eyes all at once, vivid enough to make me gag. Even there, amidst perfectly kept kitchenware and soft ventilation, the smell of death seeped into my nose. It decayed my lungs with every inhale, corrupting my innards until they were black and rotten.

"And there's blood everywhere," My voice lowered, just above a whisper as though I were telling him some horrible secret. I suppose, in one way, it was. "On the walls, the floor. Everywhere. There are bodies, too. They're all bent up, like something broke all their bones. Some of them don't have any eyes and others don't even really have faces anymore. It's just red and bloody with bits of hair sticking up in some places." I paused, feeling my nails cut through the skin of my palm. The pain was sharp, cutting, but a welcome distraction from the ball of panic which had suddenly crawled up my throat.

When I looked up at Peter, his reaction was the opposite of what I expected. Instead of looking sympathetic or even the last bit worried, he looked engrossed. Like I was telling him some grand story and he just couldn't wait for the next page. An unsettling cord strummed through me as I pulled my eyes away from his.

"And it's the patients. My siblings... They're all dead."

A tense silence followed. Slowly, I opened the palm of my hand, glancing down at the crescent-shaped bloodstains which now marred my skin. A wavering breath fell from my lips. Peter stepped closer, although I hadn't even noticed until the tips of his shoes reached my peripheral vision.

His steps stuttered when he noticed the blood on my hand. "Sixteen..." He murmured worriedly, reaching for my wrist. I pulled it away with a glare.

"It's fine," I assured him.

His eyes darkened, bright blue turning navy as though a blanket composed of the midnight sky had settled over his irises. He reached for my wrist once more, careful not to squeeze it too harshly while also making sure I couldn't yank it away again. I narrowed my eyes.

His thumb brushed over the marks on my palm, warm to the touch and ever so gentle. I don't think he even meant for the gesture to be intimate, and yet it felt more visceral than his fingers dipping inside of me. A shuddered breath fell from my lips. I was finding it increasingly difficult to stop my thoughts from taking an indecent turn.

"I think your dreams are stress induced," His voice was so quiet, like he expected me to shatter into a million pieces if he spoke too loudly, "I also think you've gone through so much in the past few months, and you don't have anyone to talk about it with. Feelings like that always have a way of coming to the surface, Sixteen. Even if you think you're handling it, you're not."

His eyes traveled from my palm to my eyes with agonizing slowness. I could physically feel them crawling up my skin, ghosting over each nerve. "You deserve something better. I wish you never ended up here."

"Well, it's not all bad," I murmured, meaning all things.

He tilted his head, whispering the words, "Is that so?"

I nodded. My mouth went dry. Moments like these, I could swear he felt the same way. How could he not? We peered at one another as though we were laid bare, naked to the bone. I could practically feel him peeling back my skin, cracking open my skull, staring inside. His fingerprints stamped into my brain-- twisted, ovular mazes, full of dead ends and sloping curves. I could navigate them forever. "Peter?"

"Yes?"

I don't know what drove me to say the words or why the truth behind them scared me so badly. "I think I like you better than I've ever liked anyone else."

A grin captured his flushed pink lips. Butterflies fluttered around in my gut, slamming against my skin with growing vigor as though they were trying to break through their flesh enclosure. Peter's eyes dipped low, catching on my lips before they returned to my eyes. He was so close. So fucking close, I could see my own reflection in his crystalline stare. He found solace standing between my legs, which had long since ceased their kicking beneath the counter.

"We should go back," He whispered after a few moments, pulling away from me. The tension died as soon as the words fell rom his mouth. I sat there, too stunned to speak.

Rejection was a never-ending free fall of my stomach, plummeting farther and farther with no end in sight. A humiliated blush rosed my cheeks. I tried to speak, but I must've forgotten how to talk. Every word I ever knew was a memory from a very distant past, beyond out of reach. A simple nod was the best I could manage.

The walk to my bedroom was a nightmare. Peter said it was best he escorted me back, in case I ran into another orderly and got myself in trouble. I just nodded along, caught in a haze of 'what the fuck just happened' and 'fuck, I'm such an idiot.' He didn't want to kiss me before, why would he want to kiss me now?

I trailed after him like some sort of puppy dog led on an invisible leash. How would I face him after this? How would I just go back to training? Part of me still didn't understand what had happened. Why did he pull away so quickly? Had I done something wrong? Or maybe I misread the situation entirely and somehow managed to convince myself myself that our connection extended beyond the hallowed depths of dreams. My face was hot, eyes blurred with unshed tears I would no doubt release once I was alone in my room. Fuck, I was so stupid.

By the time we were passing the Rainbow Room, my embarrassment gave way to anger. This wasn't the first time Peter had looked at me like that, touched me in a way a friend wouldn't ever touch another friend. He was toying with me. It was a cruel game, one where I was an unwilling participant, oblivious to any of the rules. Peter, however, was a master-- able to pull full body slight-of-hand while I watched, entranced and perplexed, too distracted to notice him stealing cards away from me.

It seemed our game of war, king versus queen, had extended beyond the Rainbow Room. We were locked in a battle I wasn't even aware of until then. Suit and hospital gown traded for armor, passing glances traded for swords. He called in the cavalry before I could so much as think of a battle plan. Locked in my castle, I had no choice but to watch as he threw canon balls into my city.

Fuck, this wasn't fair. None of this was fair.

When we reached my room, Peter turned to face me. He smiled gently, a gesture meant to be comforting but it was the exact opposite. There was a stab of pain beneath the scar on my arm, bone-deep and I could do nothing to soothe it.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked. My voice echoed softly down the hall.

His face was obscured by darkness. It was unsettling, how at home he looked drowned in shadows. Not even the glow of blue floodlights running down the hall could illuminate his midnight eyes. What a moonless night it was.

Peter frowned, but he didn't look incredibly sorry. "Doing what, Sixteen?" There he went again, playing dumb.

A spark of anger flared up inside me, "This is the second time you've done this," I exclaimed, nearly shaking with morose rage. "You can't... You can't get all close like that and then just walk away. It's not fair."

In the darkness, something sinister emerged. His voice dipped lower, and I was reminded of that beast which peeked out between the buttons of his suit. "What makes you think I care about what you deem fair, Sixteen?"

"You're such an asshole, you know that?" I narrowed my eyes, glaring up at him with all the anger that had been building up inside of me for days and weeks on end. "You showed up in my room that night. You almost kissed me. Then you have the fucking nerve to walk away and pretend like it never happened. Are you kidding me?" I took a deep breath, "And then today, you got all close and you grabbed my wrist. Fuck, stop messing with my head, Peter! I have enough to deal with already without your bullshit mixed messages. You can't--."

"--Be quiet, Sixteen."

"Are you fucking joking? Don't you ever tell me to be quiet. What the fuck is wrong with you--."

"--Be..." His hand caught one wrist, then the other. Before I could fully comprehend what was happening, my back was pressed against the wall, "...Quiet." I opened my mouth to tell him off, but nothing came out. Every single thought ran screaming from my mind.

"What are you doing, Peter?" I whispered, struggling to pull my wrists from his grasp. He did not let me go, applying just the right amount of force to cease my efforts. It was something of a warning, 'don't do that again.' Trapped between Peter and the wall, a feeling dark and teeth-achingly ominous twisted in the air. "Am I dreaming?" I asked unevenly.

"Not this time," He whispered, bending downwards, leveling his mouth with my ear, "You always look otherworldly, Sixteen, but like this..." His breath was warm against my skin, more real than it had even felt before, "...you look nothing short of divine." The words rumbled down my neck, my torso, my stomach, burrowing between my legs in the form of a soft, thundering pulse. This was far, far too perfect to be real.

"Is this actually happening? Like... in real life?" The words were breathless, saturated with distrust. Either answer, yes or no, seemed equally horrifying, "Peter. Answer me."

"I really mixed up that little mind of yours, didn't I?" His hips pressed against mine, and suddenly the gravity of the situation latched onto my ankles and dragged me beneath the earth. I nodded. Yes, he had, in every single way a mind could possibly be mixed up. A tsk fell from his lips as he tilted his head, "Perfect."

A moment later, he was pushing the small of my back, shutting my bedroom door behind us. The blue lights made his eyes so devastatingly picturesque. I could feel myself drowning in them, water pouring from my mouth with every shaking inhale. My mind shuttered to a halt when I fell against my mattress. This was real. Holy fuck, this was real. Just that thought made every single little problem spill from my brain and evaporate into thin air. I watched him, too shocked to speak, too frightened to move.

I found myself alternating between praying it would stop and praying it would never end.

I was in the presence of an angel, I realized. This was the type of passion the poets wrote about. A feeling so deep, so gut-wrenching, it made me sick. Surely there'd be sculptures of this moment one day. Clay and silt archives of a legacy we had crafted all on our own, placed in a museum for all to see. People would travel from every corner of the Earth just to lay eyes upon our greyed skin. Nothing could compare to the cathartic, destructive rush which filled my entire body with angelic fever.

When Peter crawled over me, I barely restrained the urge to scream. His touch was a symphony, his gaze the composer. I had pictured this moment for months, mapped out every single word I would whisper in his ear. But laying there, looking up at him, I couldn't even remember my own name.

Peter took my hands in his, guiding them above my head until they made contact with the metal bars on the headboard. He curled my fingers around the bars, lingering his hands on mine for one moment longer. They were shockingly cold, sobering and not. He traced the length of my arms with his lips, beginning at my my wrists and ending at my shoulders. When he reached my face, his hands abandoned mine, leaving my fingers wrapped around the bars. "Keep them there, alright?"

I nodded. The possibility of forming a sentence had never felt so daunting. Peter's fingers moved swiftly, pulling at the string which secured my sweatpants against my waist. When the bow was undone, it didn't take him long to slide them down my legs. Cool air enticed goosebumps to rise along my legs. I'd never felt so exposed.

Peter sat back for a moment, devouring me with dark, starving eyes. I watched him apprehensively, dreading and yearning for whatever he planned to do next. When his fingers brushed against my underwear, I mindlessly pressed my hips toward him. What I hoped to accomplish, I didn't know.

Embarrassment rushed over me, but Peter looked proud as ever. He cocked his head to the side and grinned, meeting my eyes with the most profound, bottomless stare. I could feel myself falling into him, stomach dropping and dropping and dropping.

A single thought cut like a knife through my mind. "Peter," I called out. My voice wavered. "Peter, the cameras. I didn't shut off the cameras."

"That's a shame," He hummed, though he didn't seem very worried. Kneeling over me, there was no shame in the way his gaze roamed my body. He admired the work he'd made of me with the occasional low, resounding sigh. Shattered and fragmented beneath him, I couldn't bring myself to mind. "Be quiet for me now, alright?" Peter's hair brushed against my skin as he lowered himself, peppering kisses on my thighs.

When his lips pressed against my center, a gasp fell from my throat. I slapped a hand over my mouth, wide-eyed. "Peter... Peter, seriously. I don't want either of us to get in trouble for--," another feigning kiss in the same place derailed my train of thought. Through my underwear, I could feel his tongue darting out between his lips, "--f-for this. Seriously."

"Let's worry about that later, hm?" He took my jaw in his musical hands, moving to be face to face with me. His orchestra swelled as he kissed down my jaw, the corners of my lips, my neck. I tried to sit up, to kiss him too, but he pushed me back down. "Stay still," Peter commanded. When he directed my eyes to his, all went quiet.

I felt his fingers pulling at the sides of my underwear, trailing down my legs until the lower half of my body was completely exposed. Before his fingers could brush between his legs, I whispered, "Peter, I can make you feel good, too."

A laugh bubbled from his throat, low and rasping. "Oh, I don't doubt it," he pressed his lips against mine for just a moment. I pushed my upper body off the bed, chasing after the contact he had denied me. I was halted my his hand wrapping around my throat, pushing me back into the mattress, "But right now, I just want you to sit still for me. Do you think you can do that?"

I nodded without any hesitation.

Peter watched my face as his fingers delved between my legs. I stared up at him through swarmed vision and a dizzy, rushing pounding in the back of my head. My voice was broken and nearly incomprehensible when I asked, "Are you sure this is real?"

He laughed, barely pressing his fingertips into me as he asked, "Do you want it to be?"

"More than anything."

He took my jaw in his hand once more, turning my face to the side so that he could whisper in my ear, "Then it's real... And even if it's not, I can make you feel so good that it won't matter." I was overwhelmed by the singular goal to do anything he wanted-- it was pleasure and surrender all at once. His fingers curled inside me, "So rest your pretty head, alright?"

I leaned forward, pressing my lips to his. Lips over teeth over tongue, colliding until I was certain we had become the very same being. "I want you to..." I paused, eyes briefly flitting down to his pants, "Please."

"I know you're a little preoccupied," He hummed, sloppily kissing the corner of my mouth as he inserted another finger, drawing circles with his thumb, "But I think you're asking me to go further. Is that right?"

My hands clenched as I turned my gaze to the ceiling, trying to process what was happening all while my brain couldn't muster a thought. There were no words to describe the feeling, no rhyme or reason for any of it. All I knew was the ballad Peter composed all around and the sound of a buckle coming undone.

Peter's fingers trailed down my sides. His nails were short, and yet they still burrowed into my skin, painting me white and then red. Another shameful sound left my throat, muffled this time. Those prepossessing blue eyes burned into mine, "Answer me, Sixteen. Surely you're capable of that... I couldn't have ruined you so quickly, we've only just begun." He grinned against my lips. I could feel his mouth forming the words, "Do you want me to go further, my love?"

"Yes, that's right," I breathed, "If you're okay with that." I gave up trying to hold onto the bars, letting my hands roam free. They laced themselves in Peter's hair, brushing it out of his face. I always wondered what it would feel like, those vanilla strands which circled his head like a halo. They were the finest texture I'd ever had the honor of touching, silk and clouds woven into one. "You're the most beautiful person I've ever met," I told him, and I meant every word. He was a work of art, I realized. Each fleck in his eye was a brushstroke, so close I could count them. I never liked arithmetic, but for him-- for him-- I would learn to love it.

Peter held me through a bright, sharp spark of pain between my legs. His hips bucked forward, painful and intoxicating all at once. It was akin to being stabbed, a divine knife stabbing into me.

"Fucking christ," His words were whispered into my ear almost carelessly. Gone was the civil, impersonal manner in which he conducted himself. I could feel him coming undone, his eyelashes fluttering shut against my flesh. His hips reeled back and pushed forward once more, allowing me time to adjust before he started all over again. Peter grunted softly into my skin, pace gradually growing faster as the pain began to subside. With his free hand, he rubbed circles between my legs. I arched my back off the bed, pleasure and pain coming together to make my mind run slow and liquid.

"That's it," Peter hummed encouragingly as he wrapped his other hand around my throat. He held me still through the dizzying cycle. Euphoria bursted though my entire body, undeniable in its intensity. "There you go, you're doing so well." His fingers dug into either side of my neck, drawing a whimper deep from within me.

He grinned, dipping low to press his lips against mine, "There's my good girl."

He fell asleep with my body entangled in his arms. I focused on the rhythmic ebbing and flowing of his chest against my back. His breath was warm, fanning over my face as he pulled me closer. Being in his arms was the equivalent of every single piece falling in place, though it was difficult to truly bask in when I knew what I had to do.

With sleeping pills circling through his system and relaxing his mind, I had only a short window to venture inside of it. I needed answers about One's death, answers only Peter could provide.

Our garden was a blooming, luxuriant thing. Carnations and wisteria peeked up from beneath the soil, ripening the air around me. A soft summer's breeze caressed their petals, whistling like a susurrus through viridescent leaves. The sky was blue, yawning overhead, spotted with downy clouds and blue jays. Bees landed daintily on coffee-colored pistils, cultivating nectar with sweet-tempered care. The winter snow had melted and the spring showers had dried up. Our garden was teeming with life, a harbinger of the evergreen months that were sure to follow.

I just had to pick a few weeds first.

Chapter Text

I mutely paced my bedroom, careful to keep my steps light and my breathing even. Peter didn't stir once. Thirty minutes passed, then an hour, then two. Guilt fell like snow in my body, piling up higher and higher as the moments passed. Now I stood ankle deep in it. My body had long since been numbed by the icy cold wind that blew over me whenever I looked at him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I already fucking drugged him, I couldn't go back now.

I knew I had to go into his mind, invading his privacy and possibly obliterating any fondness that he held for me in the process. It took me a long while to gather up the courage to look at him, let alone begin sifting through his memories in search of answers. He looked so fucking idyllic laying there, it was as though my bed were made just for him. Just for this moment. His hair was a lovely mess around his head, coral lips drawing in soft, feigning breaths. He held a pillow against his chest, one which had taken my place in his arms after I managed to wriggle away.

I felt sick. Somehow, he managed to touch every single inch of my bedroom in just a few hours. I couldn't think clearly when I caught sight of my underwear on the floor, where Peter had callously thrown it aside. He was fucking inescapable.

I couldn't allow myself to be spineless. Not when I had him exactly where I wanted him. Beauty alone couldn't clear Peter's name, and I refused to disrespect Henry by allowing his possible killer to slip through my fingers.

I remembered that little boy once more, strapped down to a chair while Papa cut into his skin. How afraid he had looked, how helpless. If Peter had really killed him, he was no better than Papa. For the millionth time, I tried to tell myself he wasn't capable of such an atrocity, but then logic broke through my rose colored glasses and slapped me in the face-- reminding me that Peter was, indeed, capable of such a thing.

He wielded beauty and cruelty like golden knives perpetually strapped to his side.

I knew he could be calculated. I knew he could be unfeeling. I knew I needed answers as desperately I needed the air in my lungs, but I also needed him. I walked a fine line, teetering side to side, narrowly avoiding a fall into the abyss below. How much longer could I keep this up?

I cast my adoration for Peter aside as I collapsed on my knees beside him. Still, he didn't stir, unperturbed and lovely as always. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "Focus," I scolded under my breath. My fingers wound themselves up in Peter's hair as I desperately tried not to think about how silky it was, or how perfect he looked, or--

An irritated sigh fell from my throat. What the fuck was wrong with me?

Before I could talk myself out of it, I closed my eyes and turned my attention to my abilities. They uncoiled themselves from a pit deep in my stomach, gradually seeping into my veins. My cheeks rosed with the sudden warmth which overcame me. I could feel my fingertips heating up where they met Peter's head, the epicenter of my focus. The blue floodlights flickered on and off, a clear indicator that whatever I was doing, it was working.

A feeling akin to falling made my skin prickle uncomfortably. I could feel my stomach dropping to my feet as I plummeted through intangible depths. Electricity coursed through me until I feared lightning would strike in my veins, burning me from the inside out. Just when it became too much to bare, my feet landed on solid ground and the feeling disappeared.

I felt weightless and leaden at the same time, a dizzying contrast that was difficult to adjust to as I opened my eyes and padded a few steps forward. Like I was just learning to walk, I stumbled to my left, then my right. My surroundings had changed but I was too focused on not falling over to pay them any mind.

A few more moments passed before I was able to stand properly. Even then, I swayed, veering this way and that.

The first thing I noticed was the scent of freshly mowed grass. It encircled me, pleasantly sweet, flowery and not. The sun casted my surroundings in a dewy, golden haze. I stood in a river of green which brushed lightly against my skin, stopping just below my ankles. A house sat proudly a few dozen yards away, painted deep blue with white accents.

A boy ran by me, though I didn't really get time to see him before he ducked behind a bush. I followed after him, struggling to remain upright as I staggered closer.

On the other side of the bush, a bunny and it's earth-toned fur caught my attention. It struggled against a transparent string wrapped around its leg-- maybe fishing line-- which held the bunny steadfast to a stick lodged into the grass. Its struggles grew in intensity when the boy kneeled beside it.

The boy's face was completely blurred out. I recalled the last time I searched for Henry and how the faces of his parents had been in a similar condition. This time, it was different. The boy's face was nothing more than an anamorphous blob, taking form and splitting apart over and over. Nothing above his shoulders was solid, making it difficult to differentiate his neck from his shoulders. His chest down was the complete opposite, crisp and definitive in form.

It looked bizarre. Unease strummed its disquieting chords, echoing around my head with furious vehemence.

It only got worse when the boy extended a hand, ever-changing eyes fixated on the bunny. Something peculiar filled the air, a voltaic sensation making my every movement feel charged up. The bunny fell to its side, a single squeal falling from its mouth. As the boy focused, the force of his abilities became more and more noticeable. I almost expected it to start electrocuting me.

Was this Henry? I assumed it was, because who else had abilities such as his? Although, the deformed entity kneeling in front of me made it difficult to be sure.

The boy pushed with growing effort, outstretched hand beginning to tremble as the bunny's body did the same. The frown on my face grew deeper and deeper as the animal's cries crescendoed. It shrieked, kicking fruitlessly at the air around it as crimson tears began falling from its eyes. I staggered back, too horrified to look away.

The boy's shapeless head tilted to the side, a pained cry falling from his lips as he pressed even harder. Power practically oozed from his pores, settling over me like a shockwave. I hadn't ever felt anything so forceful.

The bunny jerked to the side as one of its bones broke. The cries grew more agonized, more panicked as the kicking of its leg grew faster. Limb by limb, the boy shattered the creature until its eyes were emptied-out husks and its screaming had ceased. Bones jutted out at unnatural angles, mangled beyond repair.

I turned away. A gag made tears come to my eyes.

I very nearly threw up before a woman pulled my attention away from the bunny. She marched from the royal blue house, making a beeline for the boy. For a moment I thought she was looking at me, storming closer and closer until I had to sidestep just to get out of her way. Instead of stopping, she stormed behind the bush.

Unlike the boy, the woman's face was entirely in focus. She had bright blue eyes and honey blonde hair, reaching about shoulder level before curling upwards. She'd be pretty if it weren't for the intimidating twist on her face, a mixture of disgust and anger as she caught sight of the bunny.

I felt like I was eavesdropping on a conversation I had no place in as I peeked curiously over her shoulder.

The formless boy hurriedly stood from his place beside the bunny, peering up at the woman. "I found it like this," He said, staggering a few steps back, "I was looking for Alice, and I just happened upon it. Do you want me to clean it up?"

The woman stared at the boy for a few moments, soundless. It seemed she didn't believe the bunny-murderer's poor attempt at covering up his crime. Did she know about his abilities? Surely she had to, otherwise his excuse would be a perfectly adequate explanation for the state of the poor creature.

The distinctive sound of slap filled my ears as the woman leered down at her son, "Foolish boy," She spat, "Do you think I'm stupid, Henry? Your father might not see it, but I can tell something is wrong with you. I don't know exactly what, but mark my words, I'll figure it out."

The structureless boy had an angry red mark growing across his flesh. I could feel his panic, feel his anger as though it were my own. The two emotions mixed together to create something quite ugly, but Henry masked it pretty well. "I didn't do anything," Fear made his tone waver, "I swear. I really didn't."

"How can you expect me to believe that?" She demanded, "It's always you. Finding the rabbits before anyone else, being around when the lights flicker on and off, standing outside our bedroom when your father has his nightmares. How many passes do you expect me to give you?"

"How come it's only me you get mad at like this?" Henry demanded, taking a slow step forward, "You never hit Alice. Never. Do you really think I'm coming out here, finding animals and twisting them up? You saw me ten minutes ago. Is that enough time to do something like this?"

The woman's anger gave way to hopelessness. Her face visibly fell as a hand came up and brushed over her temple. "I don't know what to think, Henry," Her eyes fell shut. She sighed, "Clean up this mess. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

And then the woman was making her way back inside the house, leaving Henry and I alone.

Suddenly, the memory began glitching out. The grass became static and the sun overhead began to dim. As the wind picked up, leaves scattered away from their oaken homes, falling like green and yellow snow all around. The earth trembled, omitting an almighty roar as I was thrown off my feet. I closed my eyes, bracing to hit the ground, but the impact never came.

I fell and fell and fell, unable to open my eyes until my feet met something solid.

When they did, a jolt went through my entire body. Harsh, white lights spilled through my closed eyelids, and though I hadn't opened them, I knew I was somewhere new. Another moment passed before I was able to pull myself together enough to assess my surroundings. Dizziness warped the room, making it ebb and flow to either side as I tried to will it into focus. Was I going to be sick?

My thoughts came to a halt as a yell echoed around the room.

My vision sharpened, gaze cutting through the room and landing on a group of four people. Immediately, I knew where I was. Although the awful florescent lighting was enough of an indicator by itself, the distinctive clicking of tasers made it painfully clear. I was back in the lab, watching Papa, two orderlies, and a teenage boy. The orderlies stood beside the boy, armed with tasers, back-breaking posture, and cold, calculated indifference.

At Papa's command, they tased the boy. His tattoo reading '001' trembled in pace with the rest of his body, the numbers blurring together as he struggled to keep himself still. Henry's face was still shapeless, but it somehow looked less bizarre beneath the white-hot glare of the lab's lights. He sat in a heap on the floor, backing himself up against a wall as he desperately tried to escape the relentless, electrifying pulse of the tasers.

"Please," His voice was a like a flightless bird, desperately trying to soar into the air before crashing right back to the ground. It broke off in a whimper, but his desperation wouldn't allow him to stop. "Please, I'm sorry. I won't try again, I'm sorry. Please!"

Papa regarded Henry's pleas with an empty, impersonal stare. There was no anger, no sadness, nothing. Brenner was shallowed out, a husk of a human being. Scraped clean of empathy, he towered over Henry as though he were some kind of God. I felt as though I could be sick as he gestured at the orderlies with two fingers.

Henry's momentary calm disappeared as he kicked fruitlessly at the floor, pushing himself against the wall as though that would save him. "No, no, no," The word was a litany washing over the room, growing louder as the orderlies drew near, "Please. Papa, please! Don't let them do this. Please--." His begging was cut off by a taser clicking through the room. Henry's entire body seized up, anamorphous head being thrown backwards as a deep, guttural cry fell from his lips.

After the Orderlies pulled away, Henry slouched over. He tried to stay silent as though making himself insignificant would prevent another attack. His hand clasped over his mouth, trying to suppress whimpers and chocked-back sobs. His ever-paling flesh was damp with tears.

"Let this be a lesson to you, One," Papa took a few steps closer to the boy. Henry flinched away from Brenner's hand as it gripped his chin. There was a feigning effort to free himself from his grasp, but Henry conceded rather quickly.

It was all about power. Grabbing One's chin, reminding him that there was no getting away from him. Henry didn't even have sovereignty over his own trembling body, a fact Papa would make abundantly clear time and time again-- if only to remind him that he was no more than an animal here, locked in a cage of tile, white lights, and glaring cameras. No longer 'Henry.' No longer a person. Just three numbers, '001.'

My gaze flitted to my own tattoo. It was nothing more than unassuming black ink, glancing back at me with onyx eyes. Right then, it felt like it was burning me, boiling my flesh and seeping into my bloodstream. The '016' wasn't just a number on my skin, it was a blotch on my soul. A tear that would no doubt hang inside of me for the rest of my life.

What had become of me?

"What number escape attempt is this, One?" Papa's grip on Henry's skin looked almost bruising as the sides of his fingers turned white. Henry's shapeless eyes dipped low, brimming with a mixture of shame and humiliation. The lights in the room flickered on and off. "I asked you a question. What number?"

The boy stayed silent, clinging on to whatever bits of his dignity remained. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, gauging Papa's face for a reaction. Brenner's eyes narrowed at his defiance. Once again, he raised Two fingers, prepared to hurt Henry all over again before he cried out, "Wait! Wait, I'm sorry. Please don't."

"Then answer my question."

"Five," He bit out, "Attempt number five."

"See? You can listen. Sometimes we just need a little persuasion, hm?" Papa relaxed his grip on Henry's chin, "I gave you a warning last time, One. Didn't I? Do you remember what I warned you about?"

Henry hesitantly shook his head, terrified to make even the slightest misstep.

"Come now. Surely you remember," Brenner tilted his head.

"I don't. I'm sorry."

"Hm. Well, do try to pay more attention in the future," He mused, "After your last escape attempt, I told you there would be repercussions. Not just a punishment, as it's clear tasers aren't as efficient at keeping you in line as I would hope--."

"--You can't mean..." Henry interrupted him, panic leaking into his voice.

"--Oh, so you do remember," Papa said, reaching into his pocket, "And, please, don't interrupt. As I was saying, you're not going to get off so easily this time. You're out of control, Son, you have been for a long time now. I've given you chance after chance to conform and make this easier on yourself, but you insist on being impertinent... I just can't allow it any longer."

With that, Brenner produced a syringe. Henry shot up from his seat, crossing to the other side of the room in three long strides. His breaths were sharp and shallow. "I won't let you," He seethed, "You brought me here because of my abilities. You can't just take them away."

"Oh, but I can," Brenner took careful steps towards him. The lights shuddered on and off, growing faster as the distance between the two of them got smaller. Papa faced the orderlies, "Grab him, please."

In a moment, they were upon Henry. I could see him pausing, trying to gather his abilities, but after hours of being punished he was far too drained to do any more than flicker the lights. It wasn't long until he gave in to brute strength. He turned to the closest orderly and made a fist, hitting him square in the jaw with as much force as he could manage. The man stumbled back, wide eyed, but the other one continued towards Henry.

Henry fought them off for a considerably long while. By the time they managed to hold him still, their faces were bloodied and beaten. Henry still wouldn't resign himself to Brenner's will, bucking and kicking at the air with growing desperation.

Unfortunately, Henry was only a boy now. Though he was older and taller than he had been in the last memory, there was no way he'd be able to defend himself against two full grown men. I could see the hope in his eyes slowly give way to helplessness. It wasn't long before he resorted to begging.

"Don't do this," He pleaded, "I'll be better. Please, please. Let me do better."

Brenner shook his head. The sound of a syringe being uncapped made a twinge of terror shoot through me. The point of the needle glinted lullingly, coming in and out of view as the lights flickered. "I'm doing what's best for you, Henry," Papa tilted his head, "You might not see it now, but one day you will. You'll thank for this, I know it."

"No, no, no," Henry's terror reached new depths. His voice was so raw, so loud, it was like a bomb going off in my head, obliterating my brain matter. "I need my abilities. I need them. Please don't take them away. They're all I have left, Papa, please!"

Brenner shushed the boy, briefly pulling away his focus before the point of the needle was driven into One's neck. Henry shouted, shapeless face beginning to sputter in and out of focus. His struggles gave way until, slowly but surely, he fell limp in the orderly's arms. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he fought to whisper the words, "please, please... Please no."

The lights ceased their flashing.

"It's alright. Hush now," Papa almost lovingly touched Henry's face, "It'll be easier this way."

Once again, the memory began falling apart. Everything went blurry as the ground shook beneath me. I tried to cast one final glance at Henry, but he was gone. They all were. Alone in that trembling room, I watched as the tile cracked and blistered and clattered to the floor. I closed my eyes, bracing for that sinking feeling I knew awaited me.

It wasn't so jarring this time. I welcomed a plummeting respite from the horror I had just experienced. My heart thumped dully in my chest. I wanted to leave. So desperately, I wanted to leave, but I didn't know how. My physical body felt worlds away as I tumbled through intangible depths, accompanied only by the fogginess of memories and my own racing thoughts.

When my feet met solid ground, it didn't take me long to adapt to the change. I snapped my eyes open, taking in every bleached-white inch of the room which now surrounded me. The ever-so-grating sound of the air conditioner billowed above, a surprisingly welcome reminder that this wasn't my reality.

I stood in some kind of bathroom. There was a single mirror on the wall, overlooking a porcelain sink. The counter surrounding it was white, too, housing a grey toothbrush and a few other hygiene products. Henry was there, indiscernible face taking shape and splitting apart over and over. He turned on the sink, jutting his hands beneath the water and splashing it over his face. Once he dried it off, he took a moment to glance at his reflection-- a reflection I couldn't see form the angle I stood at.

His clothing caught my attention first. An eerily familiar pair of freshly-pressed white pants encompassed his legs, stopping just in time to meet a pair of inky black work shoes. My vision sharpened as a thought came to life in the back of my head. No, no. No.

No. There was no way.

I almost laughed at my own idiocy. White pants weren't rare. So many people wore white pants. Black shoes, too. Who didn't own a pair of black shoes? There was a perfectly rational explanation for all of this. Even that memory about Henry and his mom that Peter somehow knew about.

Maybe he was acquainted with Henry prior to arriving at the lab. That made sense. That was possible.

It made lots of sense.

Or maybe I was misinterpreting this whole thing. After all, I saw Henry just by touching a tape. That didn't mean he was the tape, it just meant he was connected to it. It must've been the same for Peter. The two of them must have been linked together somehow.

Henry stepped away from the mirror and rolled back his shoulders. That fucking posture... I knew that posture.

No. Plenty of people had good posture. This meant nothing.

I followed Henry out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Maybe we were still in the past. Perhaps Papa had allowed One to wear orderly clothing as he got older. After all, hospital gowns and sleeping attire were hardly suitable for an adult. It made sense.

Henry paused right outside the Rainbow Room. One beat passed, then another. He took a moment to run a hand over the back of his misshapen neck, breath hitching when his fingers collided with a certain spot. Anything above his shoulders was far too deformed for me to make out, but I knew whatever he'd made contact with had to be pretty bad. A low, rumbling sigh fell from his lips.

There was a defeated lowering of his head, and then he rolled back his shoulders and pushed open the door.

I followed him into the Rainbow Room. A few of the patients regarded him as he stepped into the room before their heads ducked down and their attention returned to whatever they had been doing. My siblings went about their typical morning routine, though some looked younger than before. Four and Two moved a marble through a wooden maze, Eleven sat in front of a Plinko board and Ten hunched in front of poorly-made origami. He looked different, shorter by two or three inches compared to the last time I saw him.

I almost screamed in relief. The memory was from before I arrived at the lab, meaning my suspicions were void and there was simply no way Peter and Henry were connected. Or-- as I feared-- the same person.

Henry made a beeline for the side entrance of the Rainbow Room. Once there, he stood exactly one foot away from the wall and watched the scene unfolding around him. It was odd how closely his mannerisms resembled Peter's... but, no. No. Henry was much older than the other patients, it made sense that Papa would have him oversee free time. Or maybe he simply outgrew all the attractions the Rainbow Room had to offer. After all, over a decade of playing with the same old games must have gotten quite tiresome.

It made sense. All of this had a perfectly rational explanation.

And then the set of double doors opened once again. In walked Papa and a girl half-shielded by his body. All of the patients went quiet. The clattering of toys ceased as the patients faced the man who had just entered.

Deja vu shot up my spine. I remembered this moment. How loud the silence was, how everyone's attention turned to the center of the room. I could almost feel the dozens of eyes boring into my skin, picking me apart piece by piece like they had on my first day here. My steps were featherlight as I passed Papa, trying to get a better look at the girl standing behind him. Everything down from the positioning of my siblings to the ambient noise surrounding us was teeth-achingly familiar.

A gasp tore from my throat when I saw her.

Her hair fell past her shoulders, wonderfully uncut, having not yet been buzzed down to her scalp. She had more color in her face, the facility hadn't managed to steal that either. Though, that wasn't to say she looked healthy. Her skin clung tightly to her body like she had been starving for a long, long time.

I almost forgot what I looked like when I first came here. The hope in my eyes, the naive confidence that used to make me believe the facility was only a temporary problem, one I would be able to solve rather quickly. I knew it was only a memory, and yet I still reached my hand towards her, desperate to feel the hair which had been stolen from me. My fingers went right through it.

My disappointment was short lived as my eyes fell to her left wrist. The skin was empty. So, blissfully empty, unmarred by the black ink labelling her '016.' The sight made me stumble back, overcome by an inexplicable current of emotions. The girl I was looking at was me, prior to being processed and broken down time after time.

And then I remembered where I was.

Peter's head.

'Henry' stood directly where Peter had on that first day, in the exact same clothes with the exact same posture. The only difference was the indistinguishable way in which Henry's head spilled down his neck. But... that made sense, too. If Peter and Henry were the same person, then they wouldn't know what their face looked like during these exchanges. There were no mirrors to look at, at least not from where they stood. Of course Henry's head would be messed up, the memories showed only what he was able to see while they took place-- his face wasn't on that list.

My head pounded with the realization. That would mean...

"It's not quite time for lessons yet, children," Papa's voice pulled me from my thoughts. I could hardly process the words. My mind buzzed with rampant confusion and, most of all, anger. "I wanted to introduce you to your newest siblings, Sixteen."

He motioned to me. Well, younger me. She said nothing and waved, careful not to show how anxious she truly was. But she couldn't hide it, at least not from me. I had been her, I had stood in her exact spot and felt her panic surrounded by children with powers she hadn't ever seen.

"Now, I expect you to treat her with all the respect and kindness that you would show someone who has been here their whole life," Papa chattered on, but younger me wasn't paying attention. Her eyes were hawk-like, canvasing the room, sizing up each patient. She took inventory of every little idiosyncrasy she could, desperate for any weapons she could get, even if they weren't palpable. I suppose that hadn't changed. "That is all. You may continue your free time before lessons begin."

With that, the children turned away. Younger me and Papa faced one another. Her fingers dug into the palm of her hand as they spoke in a low voices. I couldn't hear what Papa was saying, but I did remember it. 'That wasn't too bad, was it?' I could practically see the thoughts crossing her mind as he spoke the words into existence. How foolish he was for asking a question like that when she knew he didn't care.

My gaze cut to Henry once more, standing idly, sparing a single glance in our direction... Or was he Peter?

To think, younger me hadn't even met him yet. If only she knew.

And, fuck, I should've known. All those times Peter somehow knew where I was or how I was feeling. How he was so tuned into my abilities, able to pinpoint exactly where I was lacking and exactly how to fix it. And those dreams... How many times had he uttered words from my sleep verbatim, only for me to write it off as a coincidence? I told myself I was being crazy all while Peter knew the truth, knew that it wasn't me deluding myself. I should've known. The answer was right fucking in front of me.

Still, I clung onto the ever-fading hope that this was a mistake. Maybe I was just misinterpreting the memory. Maybe I still had plenty more to go, and this would all clear itself up. Maybe everything didn't have to change.

When Papa and younger me began making their way towards Peter, my heart sank. Each step they took felt like a nail in my already considerably sealed-off coffin, splitting through wood and metal until I had no hopes of getting out. This day, this moment, was when Papa first introduced Peter and I. Meaning our next exchange would either confirm my suspicions or make me feel like a complete fool.

And, judging by the events taking place right in front of me, it was the former.

I wrung my hands, wide-eyed, watching Papa and young me stop right in front of Henry. Or Peter. Or whoever the fuck he was. I eyed the three of them with such intensity, half expecting them to split in two beneath my cutting gaze.

"There's someone I want you to meet," Papa said once he had reached Henry. Young me kept her eyes downcast, not daring to look up at the man clad in white, standing just a few feet away. I held my breath, bit my tongue, prayed to anything with ears that this was all some grand mistake. That Peter was just an orderly working a particularly fucked up job, and he knew nothing at all. Hell, him being One's murderer as I originally thought would be far, far better than this.

The words slipped from Papa's mouth unceremoniously. Like they were nothing. Like they weren't everything. "This is Peter. He's an orderly."

It was like a physical force had knocked into me, sending me stumbling back. I don't know why tears blurred my vision or why it felt like this whole ordeal was rotting on the vine. Every memory of Peter and I suddenly became moth-eaten, like a dusty pair of curtains left to wither in the tarnished remains of an abandoned home. Maggots ate away at my idea of him, at everything I thought I knew. The feeling was unlike anything else. A macabre amalgamation of anger, confusion, dread, and ever-decaying denial twisted in my gut, debilitating enough to cast the air from my lungs.

How blind I had been, how stupid. It all made sense now. The way him and Papa spoke of each other. That murderous glint in Peter's eyes whenever he had to speak with him. That day of my escape, when Peter had caught me in the hallway and let me go. How destroyed he had looked bathed in blood red lights. Of course he fucking understood, he had been me before. A child brought to a place that treated him with such cruelty, desperate to leave, and blissfully unaware that it was impossible. Inconceivable.

I should've known.

I almost screamed when I felt a tap on my shoulder. My thoughts came to a halt as my entire body whirled around to face Henry. His shapeless face was rather horrifying up close. Confusion lurched through me, how could he touch me? This was a memory. He shouldn't even be able to look in my direction.

That was unless Peter-- real Peter-- was waking up.

"Oh, fuck," I whispered.

"What are you doing here, Sixteen?" Henry asked. His steps were careful, ghostly, I partially expected to look down and see him gliding across the floor. I didn't know what to other than put as much distance between the two of us as possible. Desperately, I tried to wake myself up, to free my body from Peter's mind before he caught me.

My back collided with someone else. I turned around to see Ten. I should've just fell through him. For fucks sake, this was a memory. He shouldn't have been able to look at me, rise from his seat and say, "You're not supposed to be here."

"How can you see me?" I demanded. Ten stepped closer, an origami dragon clasped in his little fist. I mirrored his foot falls. As he walked forward, I walked back, somehow horrified of a boy who was half my size.

My back hit someone else. Papa. I almost screamed when he grabbed either of my shoulders, holding me still, "How did you get in my head, Sixteen?" My mouth opened and closed as I soundlessly searched for an answer. Was this even real? Did he actually expect me to reply?

"I know words are a little difficult for you," Henry's formless mouth whispered in my ear, "but surely you know what privacy is, hm? I think you're invading mine." His breath was impossibly cold, melting like snow on my flesh before it ran down my neck.

"Make him let me go," I demanded, trying and failing to pull myself from Papa's grasp. If anything he held on tighter, most definitely painting my shoulders black and blue. "What's happening? How are you doing this?"

By now, everyone in the room had circled me. No matter where I looked, there was another face. Their voices joined together like some discordant choir, demanding to know why I was there, telling me I had to leave, circling around with predatory glares. It was a dizzying cycle, one that promised to make me throw up if it went on much longer. Henry watched me through the madness, gauging every gasp that fell from my throat, every horrified widening of my eyes.

"You're in my head," A voice said on my left, belonging to Number Two.

"I can do just about anything I'd like," This time it was Four talking.

"How long have you been planning this?" Another person asked. I whipped my head around to face them.

"Sneaking into my head... It's quite ingenious, Sixteen. In one way I'm proud." Just when I nailed them down, a new sentence came from the other side of the room.

"How--," My voice was weaker than intended, "--How are you doing this?"

They all laughed. Every single child or guard or orderly threw their head back, somehow finding amusement in the panic I displayed. Laughing at me. Their wails were enough to destroy my eardrums.

"Oh, my. You look so confused," Six spoke this time.

"How precious," another person hummed, humor evident in their tone.

"They're all me, if that clears anything up," the words came from Seven. I helplessly shook my head, having no idea what to say in a situation such as this.

"What? Still confused?" Papa asked me, "That's okay. I can dumb things down for you."

Even though the chaos, I narrowed my eyes and spat, "I'm not dumb."

Someone laughed. "You're right. That was mean of me, I'm sorry." The other orderly chimed in, "It's not incredibly complicated, though. I'm controlling them."

"They're like puppets to me," Six was speaking.

"Dancing on my strings," The voice belonged to Henry again. Papa finally released my shoulders, but it wasn't long before Henry took his place. His fingers sought refuge beneath my chin, "And with the way you're looking around, searching for every new voice, it seems like you're a puppet, too."

Then the lights began flashing. Every single child, every single voice, disappeared all at once. Until all the remained was Henry glaring down at me. His tone was warm, horrifically inviting when he whispered the words, "My very own puppet."

Then he was gone, too. The memory fell apart as his words echoed all around the room 'my very own puppet.' The same phrase, overlapping, ricochetting off the walls. It surrounded me, latched onto my wrists and ankles until I almost expected to find myself suspended by strings in the air. A puppet if there ever was one.

I was falling again. Faster and faster, wind biting at every single exposed piece of flesh. The words didn't stop. If anything, they grew louder. My eyes squeezed shut as I plummeted with no end in sight. I couldn't endure this madness a moment longer. Surely, my mind had ruptured, brain matter spilling from my ears, mouth, and nose until my body was a hallowed out shell.

When I met the ground, I met it hard.

I was back in my bedroom again. Back in my physical body, panicked breaths echoing off every flat surface. My heart hammered, my stomach lurched, my vocal cords felt like they'd been rubbed raw. A disorienting rush flooded every inch of my body, replacing blood with adrenaline as the lights flashed overhead.

I met Peter's eyes with a start. He was sitting up in my bed now, watching me. The entire world came to a pause as our eyes bored into the other's. His were so blue. So lovely. So angry. I could practically see his waves crashing against the surface, turning into a whirlpool, devouring everything in sight. The sky over the ocean had turned an unrelenting, brushed shade of black that demolished any light that remained. It was apocalyptic. He was apocalyptic.

And it scared me. Holy fuck, it scared me.

In a flash, I rose from beside the bed, off of my knees. They ached. Everything fucking ached. I stood there for a moment longer. Peter's head tilted in morbid curiosity, egging me on. His eyes felt like they were mocking me 'where do you think you're going?'

I didn't know.

And still, I rushed for the door, desperate to escape the stifling diminutiveness of my room. My feet slammed into the tile with such force, I expected it to crack beneath me. The metallic handle of the door was cool beneath my palm, beautifully sobering and hideously not. I wrenched it open. And for one perfect moment, I saw the hallway. It welcomed me, growing bigger as the door yawned wider.

Then a hand slammed beside my head and the opaque grayness of the bedroom door stole away my view of the hall. My only hope of escape disappeared with it.

Peter's breath was heavy against my neck. I felt horribly exposed with his chest to my back, caging me against the door. We'd been in this position before, hadn't we? That moment felt worlds away as a terror I hadn't ever known Peter capable of eliciting ran through me. I opened my mouth to yell at him or scream for help-- I wasn't quite sure which one to choose. Hell, I wasn't even sure why I was so scared.

Either way it didn't matter as his hand came up and covered my mouth. I turned to face him, shouting curse after curse but it was far too muffled to have any effect. He was always so gentle with me, I managed to forget that he could be the polar opposite if he pleased. Staring up at him then, unable to free myself, that fact had never been so agonizingly clear.

"I can't let you leave," His eyes were so soft. Almost enough to make me doubt that they'd held so much anger in the first place, "You have to talk to me, first."

Chapter Text

The silence was all encompassing.

Henry practically had to pry Sixteen away from the door. She cursed and threatened him with all manners of vulgar language, until she eventually tired herself out and collapsed on her bed. For a long while she sat there, soundless, gaze on her lap. The quiet was broken only by her intermittent muttering. Henry watched her wordlessly, eyes catching on every twitch of her hand, every shuddering breath in a futile attempt to see inside her mind. As nonchalantly as possible he stood in front of the door, creating a buffer between Sixteen and the exit should she prove herself less... agreeable. Though, truth be told she wasn't incredibly agreeable to begin with. The crest-shaped cuts on her palms reopened soon after she sat down. Part of Henry wanted to walk up to Sixteen, take her hands in his until she had no choice but to stop cutting into her own skin.

The other part was fascinated.

He dreamt of this moment for a long, long while. Dreamt of confessing his truth with a sugar-coated tongue. It would be a saccharine type of lie, easy to swallow, sweet enough for her to believe but not so sweet that it became cloying. He would paint himself as a valiant nonconformist, victimized and beaten down by Papa. 'Oh, it was terrible' he'd say, 'that's why you can't trust anyone else here. That's why we have to leave.'

Henry had grown accustomed to predictability. Having no choice but to sit and observe for the past decade, he learned to notice patterns. Everything and everyone had a tell. Whether it was rosed cheeks, avoidance of eye contact, or something as obvious as a stutter, Henry knew exactly what someone was thinking just by looking at them. That particular tool was quite helpful when it came to anticipating people like Brenner, but it also meant everyday interactions were predictable. Boring.

Sixteen was a welcome respite from the tedious monotony that was his everyday life. There was no telling what she would do next, a fact which deeply unsettled and invigorated Henry at the same time. And despite all of that, he still couldn't shake that particularly destructive habit of underestimating her. He knew she was powerful beyond words and much too smart for her own good, but her tenacity was unexpected. He wouldn't have ever anticipated something like this.

He almost laughed as he watched her. Sixteen sat with sloppy posture and ever-fidgeting hands, the very picture of unassuming. If he didn't know her so well, he would go as far as to call the girl meager. He'd learned his lesson, though. He knew better. Beneath enchanting features and a lovely smile, she was a viper. Coiled up, fangs dripping venom like acid rain, prepared to bite at any sudden movement. If he was smart, he would've cut off her head by now.

Oh, god, but it was all so exhilarating. Never in a million years would he expect her to be so conniving. Breaking into his head-- it was a stimulating sort of betrayal, one he probably should've been more upset about, but he just couldn't bring himself to be angry. After all, he was finally being rivaled, offered a real, genuine problem that he hadn't predicted beforehand. How unprepared he was, how electrified. If he weren't trying to maintain his composure, he'd be grinning ear to ear and showering Sixteen with praise. What a force she was. What a gift. For once in his life, Henry could almost call himself blessed.

"I knew it," Sixteen's voice pulled Henry from his thoughts. Her eyes didn't meet his as she shook her head and muttered, "The dreams. They were you, weren't they?"

Henry faltered for a moment. He supposed he could grace her with at least one truth, "Most of them, yes. Look at you catching on so quickly."

"I knew it... Well, I mean, I didn't 'know it' but I had a feeling." She spat out the words like they'd been burning her tongue. "And then I talked myself out of it because I thought it was insane. How could boring, dull Peter get into my dreams? Honestly, I'm impressed, who knew you were capable of tricking me not once, but twice?"

Henry's stomach sank with an unfamiliar feeling. Her words were spoken with so much conviction it almost stung. He'd never been incredibly sensitive, but somehow judgement from her held a new type of import. Just those few words elicited a discomfort that Brenner's lectures never could, even after a decade of being subjected to them.

"It was never my goal to trick you, Sixteen."

"No?" She finally met his eyes, "Then how did we get here? I can understand why you kept being Number One to yourself. Hell, I'm not even angry about it. It's the fact that you used my lack of knowledge for your own ends. The dreams were to... what? Manipulate me into liking you? What did you hope to accomplish?"

"No, Sixteen. You're far too smart to be manipulated," Henry took a few careful steps closer. He knew how Sixteen worked, he knew her weaknesses. If he could just get close enough, he could melt her like some blazing inferno. Her mind would turn slow and liquid just for him, and then he would whisper whatever pretty words he wanted to make her fall into him again. That's not to say his flattery was devoid of truth, though. Most of the time it was just a matter of putting his preconceived thoughts into words.

And he was being entirely truthful when he uttered the words, "The first time I visited you in your dreams there were no ulterior motives. You just... caught my attention. You have power, Sixteen. Genuine power that I haven't seen in a long time." He took another step forward. Her gaze narrowed but before she could say anything, he continued, "I visited you because I was intrigued. Touching you like that was never part of my plan."

"You can't seriously expect me to believe that," her eyes hardened even more, if that was possible. "Why would you continue to visit me afterwards, anyway? I just don't understand the motive for any of this."

"Is it truly so hard to believe I enjoy your company?" He frowned, "You really should give yourself more credit."

Her head fell into her hands and a twinge of guilt shot through Henry. She looked so defeated. "And all those times you used the same words that you used in my dreams... Was that purposeful, too? You wanted to toy with me?"

His guilt was fleeting, disappearing as quickly as a breath of air in freezing cold weather. It was a relief that Sixteen couldn't see him then. Henry couldn't even try to prevent the grin that came upon his face. She was right, of course. He loved to watch her falter. How could he not? It was a precious sight, the way her muscles tensed and her breathing halted when she recalled the moments they shared in her sleep. She could be quite skilled at hiding her emotions when she tried, but when he got her flustered it was impossible for her to keep herself together. So he'd push and he'd push, using the same phrases as much as he could without seeming too suspicious. Just enough for her to wonder. To drive herself crazy with 'what-ifs.'

Henry loved to watch that brilliant mind of hers whir. He just couldn't help himself.

Though, it seemed he pushed her too far this time.

"No, it wasn't purposeful," His tone was tooth-achingly earnest as the lie fell from his lips. "Can I ask you a question?"

She scoffed.

He took that as a yes. "How did you manage to get into my head?"

"I drugged you." There was no hesitance to the words, no attempt to justify her actions. She met his eyes without a hint of remorse, stoic as ever. A shocked sort of laugh fell from Henry's mouth.

"You drugged me," He repeated, disbelief twisting up his face, "Oh, my. It seems I'm not the only deceitful one, am I?"

"I made you sleep longer," She replied, "You lied to me about your identity for five months, toyed with me, and fabricated our entire relationship for a reason I still don't understand. I'd say my deceit is on a very, very different level than yours."

His lips pressed into a line. Perhaps getting her back on his side wouldn't be so simple this time around. Everything she said was true, of course, but that didn't mean he was willing to let her know that. There were still so many pieces of the story missing-- pieces that he could warp and manipulate until she understood why he did what he did.

Although he couldn't be honest now, Henry really did plan on telling Sixteen the truth one day. About his family, about the lab, about his desire for a world where they could flourish. Before knowing her, he thought he would be alone in that world, sitting atop a throne built from the desecrated remains of civilization. But now he had Sixteen to consider. And oh, how glad he was, to have someone as powerful as her by his side. One day they would live unbound by trivial human conventions, great parriarchs of a society built upon their backs.

She'd be worshiped.

Of course, no one would ever be capable of worshipping her quite as much he did, but he'd certainly let them try.

The two of them just had to get out of the woods, first. Afterwards, Sixteen would need some... gentle guidance, but she'd see things as he did eventually. The world had to be fixed, and only deities like them could provide the proper rehabilitation.

Henry was convinced, without a shadow of a doubt, that all of their qualms would be eased in due time. With a renewed sense of purpose, he closed off the distance between himself and Sixteen, finding his place beside her on the bed.

She flinched at the suddenness of his movements. Henry's heart sank... Maybe winning her trust wouldn't be as easy as he thought.

The entire situation gave him a headache.

"Are you just gonna stay quiet?" She asked, pulling him from his thoughts. "You're not even going to try and deny it, Peter? Or One, or whatever the fuck--."

"--Henry. I want you to call me Henry," Came his firm response. "And no, I'm not going to deny it. That would be an exercise in futility, Sixteen, wouldn't you agree? I lied to you and that was wrong of me, but I can be honest now. I'll tell you everything."

"I can't trust you not to lie to me again and I don't..." The words fell into an uncertain silence. Her gaze fell to the bloodied palms of her hands. "This is just really disappointing."

"I know." Henry's thoughts made no real sense. He wanted to steal away every ounce of sadness from her, take it on himself even if it meant he would buckle beneath the weight. Then again, he had to lie to her. There was no other choice.

"How can I know this isn't all some test from Papa?" She narrowed her eyes, "How do I know you haven't been working with him this whole time? Is this another trick, Peter?" Confusion and paranoia made her mind run wild with all sorts of baseless theories and explanations for what she'd seen.

"No, no, no," Henry moved from his seat, knees colliding with the hard ground in front of her. He shook his head, repeating the word 'no' over and over as he took her hands in his. "No more tricks," He swore, tilting his head up to meet her eyes. "I'm not working with him. I wouldn't. Can't you see? I'm all yours, Sixteen, there isn't anybody else."

She stared down at him, lips separated ever so slightly. She sucked in sharp, shallow breaths which heated Henry's skin. He could see the conflict in her eyes as clear as day, a silent battle waged only for him. He opened his mouth, having half a mind to tell Sixteen how bewitching she looked in that moment.

"Promise?" She breathed.

"Promise."

"Okay then," She sunk to the floor beside him, maintaining eye contact the entire way down. There was still so much hesitance in the way she regarded him. Perhaps Sixteen had calmed down, but splinters of fear still lingered inside of her. "So you'll answer any question I ask you?"

"Within reason, yes."

"Okay," She muttered, eyes falling to the floor. "I saw your mom in your head. Or, I'm assuming she was your mom. She had blonde hair and blue eyes like yours. And she, uh, she slapped you. Did she do that often?"

Henry's eyes sparkled. Sixteen was more concerned about his mother slapping him than his mutilation of a bunny. It didn't take him long to realize the game she was playing. She wanted to know why he was the way he was-- maybe all his scheming could be traced back to his childhood. Even after all she had seen, she was searching for a reason to defend him.

Henry's heart warmed. To say he adored her would be an understatement.

"Only when she was angry," He replied, lips captured in a faux frown, "It wasn't a frequent occurrence and it was never all that hard, either."

She shook her head, "That doesn't make it right, though... Who is Alice?"

"She was my sister," Henry replied.

He didn't quite remember killing her. The night he laid his mother and sister to rest blurred together over the years, infected with growing vagueness. He was never particularly close with Alice, nor did he feel a great deal of fondness for her. She could be quite annoying, if he recalled correctly. Like a gnat incessantly buzzing around his head, he had no reservations about crushing her once the time came.

"Was?" Sixteen questioned.

"She died," Henry elaborated, "As did my mother a few nights before I first met 'Papa'. For months prior, my parents began to notice my abilities affecting our home, so they called an expert. Of course, my father didn't think I was behind any of it, but my mother knew otherwise... Their fates were sealed as soon as the call to Brenner was made."

"He killed them?" Her eyes went wide. Henry offered her a single nod of his head, averting his gaze. Like a dog led on a leash, she felt exactly what he wanted her to feel. Guilt for making him recount the story, anger for what 'Brenner' had done. Her empathy would be her undoing if she wasn't careful. One day, he'd help her overcome that, too.

"Oh, my god," Instinctually, she reached froward, taking his hand in hers. Her skin was soft against his and intimate beyond words. Sixteen's eyes went wide at her own actions. She knew she should've been angry at him in that moment, that she shouldn't cave so easily, but here Henry was. So fragmented in front of her, she couldn't help but to try and piece him back together. "I don't know what to say. I'm just so sorry. That's... awful."

His lip twitched into a weak smile, "Yes, well, what's done is done. Time makes things like this easier, and I've had a decade of it."

She shook her head, having no idea how else to respond. Eventually, she asked "Your abilities... were they strong?"

"Stronger than your siblings', yes," He answered, "And nearly as strong as yours. Why?"

"Well, don't you want Papa dead?" She inched closer, "Don't you hate him? If we're equally powerful, then you know how easy it would be to kill him. All you have to do is... focus."

Her tone dipped low as her words took a darker, more calamitous turn. Henry watched Sixteen, utterly enraptured. This was the side of her that eluded and interested him most. Henry knew she had it within herself to be cruel. How could he forget the shape Two had been in after her attack? Beaten and bloodied with a knife composed of glass buried into his side. And despite all that, Two never uttered a word about who had attacked him. How had Sixteen managed to frighten him that badly? What else had she done?

Sixteen was a queen in her own right, but if he pressed all the right spots, he was certain she could become a God. She just needed a little coaching and some concentrated fury. Henry doted on that thought, nurturing it with all the sweet-tempered care he could manage. She just had to surrender a few selective parts of herself for him, and then she'd be perfect.

The thought filled him with a kind of euphoria he couldn't possibly describe.

"Of course I want him dead," He muttered. The words cut like a knife through the silence, ricochetting off the walls and shooting right back at them. "But he had ways of keeping me in line when I was younger. I'm no stranger to punishments, as you well know, but his manipulations went far beyond the physical. Or, at least they used to."

Sixteen winced at the implication, "So he tricked you into loving him. You were in a vulnerable spot after your mother and sister died and he exploited that. Is that it?"

"Partly, yes." Henry replied, "But he knew I had a difficult time getting close to others, so he developed a few different options aside from punishments. Conditions in the lab have never been particularly humane for patients, Sixteen, but they were far worse when I was little. If I misbehaved, I'd be locked in my room. Sometimes only for a few hours, but other times it could be days. However long Brenner saw fit."

"My god," A mixture of horror and disgust mixed up Sixteen's face, "So he'd leave you in there with nothing?" Henry nodded.

"And then I grew up and keeping me in line wasn't so simple anymore," He explained, "I tried to escape... a lot. Just like you, I killed my fair share of guards. Sometimes it was accidental, other times not so much. Regulating my emotions was never difficult, but keeping my abilities in check was a challenge. They tended to overwhelm me. Eventually, Brenner got tired of my insubordination and took them away entirely."

Sixteens's eyes went wide. The light over her head flickered. "He can do that?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Henry watched a new brand of panic seep into her eyes. "Don't be frightened, Sixteen. You're the last person he would chip. He flourishes when he has powers like yours under his belt, he wouldn't throw that away. It's the only thing that gives his tedious life any purpose."

"No, you don't understand," her voice was quiet and her eyes were unfocused. He could practically see the gears in her mind moving faster and faster. Machinery whirring as though it had encountered something especially ponderous.

She stood from her spot on the ground and began pacing. Her feet padded quietly on the floor as she walked five steps in one direction, turned, and then walked five in the other. There was a slight limp impeding upon her movements, likely a result of the night's more physical demands. Despite himself, Henry grinned.

He stayed quiet for a short while, unsure of how to respond to her manic change in attitude. Eventually, his brows knitted together and he asked, "Why don't you sit down and tell me what's bothering you, Sweetheart. Hm?"

"I just--," She didn't look in his direction, "--I mean, Papa called me into his office yesterday. I thought he was just gonna talk to me about challenging his authority in front of the other kids, you know? Because how dare I have a mind of my own. But then he told me it was the last straw and he had something other than a punishment in mind. With everything that's been happening I kind of forgot about it, but he said I had seven more days until some procedure."

Henry's heart dropped. "Procedure?"

"Yeah. He told me that I was a threat to you, Six, Gloria, and basically everyone else here. Of course, I didn't wanna hurt anyone, so I kind of figured it would be for the best. He told me he was gonna put a chip in my neck to reduce my powers and keep me in line," She stopped walking and turned to Henry, "Oh, my god, he's gonna take away my abilities entirely, isn't he? Oh, fuck. I can't stay here my whole life. Can you talk him out of it, Henry? Please?"

He didn't even have time to bask in finally hearing Sixteen call him by the correct name. It sounded just as lovely as he always imagined it would, like liquid diamonds pouring into his ears, turning his mind to crystal. But it shattered into a million pieces as soon as the realization dawned on him. If she lost her powers, neither of them would ever be able to leave. She'd be placed in a white outfit just like his, forced to undergo the same unendurable life which he had lived for years on end. It was an exquisite type of torture, having no choice but to watch others like him be manipulated and used just as he had, only to wind up broken and blue on the wrong end of Papa's leash.

Henry would not ever allow Sixteen to live in the hell that he did. Not until his heart had stopped beating and his bones were reduced to ash.

"You have to leave," He told her, standing from his spot. A renewed sense of desperation came over him and he gripped her shoulders, "You have to leave, Sixteen."

"Leave?" She stared up at him in bewilderment.

"I won't be able to talk Brenner out of this," He said, eyes boring into hers with all the intensity he could manage, "I won't. He knows about the fondness I hold for you, and he would know that I was protecting you. You cannot allow him to chip you. You have to leave and you have to do it now."

"What about you?" Her voice came out in a wavering, terrified whisper.

"That's not important," He shook his head, "You have to--."

"I'm not going anywhere without you," She shook her head incredulously. "Sure, I'm mad that you lied but it doesn't change anything, Henry. I wouldn't ever be able to forgive myself if I just left you here. Why do you think that's even an option?"

Even through the graveness of their situation, Henry felt a surge of warmth shoot through him. The words were spoken with so little thought, like adoring him came as easily as breathing. How fortunate he was to take up occupancy in the grand castle that was her heart. In there, he sat amongst golden pillars and beauty touched only by the honored few. Labyrinthine stained glass windows, radiant mosaics, peerless works of art all perfectly kept in that muscle beating rhythmically beneath her ribs. Henry fought the urge to fall to his knees and worship the very ground she walked on.

"I can't leave, Sixteen," His face softened, smile as warm as a summer night's breeze, "Not without putting you in danger, too."

"I don't understand," She breathed.

He took her hand in his, guiding it to the back of his neck. He barely suppressed a shudder as the delicate touch of her finger met his flesh. He directed her hand against the protrusion, sending a spark of discomfort down his spine. When he released her, she looked even more horrified than before.

"That's..."

"It's called Soteria," He explained. The word was like a curse falling from his lips. "Not only does it steal away my abilities, it tracks me. No matter where I go, Brenner will know." Cool, collected anger seeped into his tone, "It may as well be a ball and chain. There's no escaping this place for me. But you... You can still leave. You can still save yourself."

"It's out of the question," She spat.

"Don't be naive, Sixteen. This doesn't have a happy ending either way," Henry pressed his palm against her cheek. It was impossibly soft, almost cloud-like. He'd be a liar if he said he couldn't stand there holding her for the rest of his days. "I could sleep soundly at night knowing that you're fine out there, living a life far better than this one even if I'm not a part of it."

"Well, I couldn't." She replied, eyes briefly fluttering shut as she leaned into his touch. Henry wanted time to stop right then. For the world to cease its spinning and allow them this moment. Even if it meant the tides would come rolling back in and calamity would devastate the Earth, he figured it was a small price to pay for absolution.

Of course, that wasn't possible.

And so her eyes opened and she pushed Henry's hand away, "It's not attached to any major arteries, right? Soteria?"

"Not that I know of."

"Great," She replied, "On the bed. Now."

He frowned, "I hardly think now is the time--."

"--That's not what I was implying. Stop being a whore and just get on the bed."

Henry watched her for a few moments, not knowing whether to feel threatened or offended. He opted for both, but did as he was told without another complaint.

Henry sat down on the stiff mattress and faced her, expression twisted up in faux confusion. Truth be told, he knew exactly what was about to unfold. He'd been gently coaxing her towards it all night. He tried taking out Soteria on his own a number of times, but it always ended up in blood running down his neck and the wrong side of a taser buried in his flesh. With Sixteen, it would be easier. Like ripping off a considerably painful bandaid.

"Try to be quiet for me, okay?" Sixteen staggered back a few steps, "I can take it out, but you have to try not to make any noise. This will probably hurt, but I'll be a quick as I can. If you want me to stop, just say it."

She took a deep breath and extended her fingers towards him. "Ready?"

Henry clasped a hand over his mouth and nodded. "I'm ready." Immediately, the lights began to flicker. Sixteen's eyes dashed back and forth beneath her eyelids. At first, the pain was nothing more than a lurching of his skin. A nuisance, a pressure, but nothing more. As the seconds ticked by, it began to burn. He felt the skin around his neck growing taut as it was pulled towards her. Then the burning began to sear, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Suddenly he couldn't breathe very well. It felt like he was choking in his own skin as the pain became unfathomable. There was no distracting himself from it. His body began to tremble as his stomach lurched forward and he felt warm fingers of blood pooling down his neck. He jerked forward, a whimper escaping his mouth when the pain became blinding. He gritted his teeth, desperate to stay quite as the pressure grew and grew and grew.

Finally, he felt something come rocketing out of his neck, and the pressure disappeared. Sixteen broke with a cry. The lights ceased their flashing as a soft clatter announced Soteria falling to the floor.

Blood pooled freely down his neck. Whenever he twisted his head, a hallow sort of pain shot down his spine.

Oh, but he was too elated to care. He stared down at that insignificant little device, no bigger than a beetle and felt like he was sitting amongst the stars. This was all he had wanted for years and years on end. Returned to his formal glory, Henry felt like a god again. He could almost cry as he felt a familiar current of warmth pool through his veins. That electricity which he had been denied for so long thundered beneath his skin, striking like lightning at the air around them. It was Biblical, it was religion. His hands trembled by his side as a happiness so monumental stole away every logical thought.

And Sixteen was there, too, watching him.

He turned towards her and grinned. A real, genuine grin that must've looked psychotic. "Thank you," He whispered, taking a few steps towards her. He felt like saying it once didn't accurately represent how truly blessed he felt in that moment. She was a gift, a sweet sort of poison that burnt through his veins like a fire. Who knew burning alive could be so rapturous?

Sixteen furrowed her eyebrows like she was confused. A beat of silence passed, then another. He could see a debate going on her eyes, a wanting to say something and a not knowing if she should. Eventually, she made up her mind and asked, "Can I kiss you?"

Henry laughed. The noise ricochetted through the room before it eventually disappeared. He stared down at her with the type of tenderness he swore only existed between worn pages of a book. Paper and ink brought to life in something as simple as a meeting of their eyes. "Oh, Sixteen," He breathed, the words quieting into something eruditely poetic, "Whenever you want."

She smiled and leaned forward, kissing his chapped lips to life. Her touch was agonizingly gentle as her hands wound themselves in his hair, like she was worried he would splinter in two. Any thoughts of manipulation were temporarily cast from his mind as his hands settled on her waist. Her skin was warm. She was warm. Everything about her was tender and loving and mild. Some days he worried that warmth would kill him, but right then he supposed he could die happy, sacrificed and bludgeoned beneath her almighty hands.

When she pulled away, Henry realized something. It rose as the sun did in the east, dawning upon his mind like golden sunlight. It spilled through every dark corner of his being, almost blinding in its intensity.

"Sixteen?"

"Yes?" She appeared to be in a daze, voice far away, eyes unfocused.

He almost felt sick as the words tumbled from his mouth. There was no lie for him to detect, no hidden motive or trick. For the first time in a long time, he was honest. "I'm worried that I might love y--."

She shushed him, raising her finger to his mouth and making the words die in his throat. "Later," She whispered, "Once we're on the other side of this."

He reached up, taking her hand in his. Touching her fingertips to his lips. The kiss was feigning, there and then gone.

"Later," He promised.

Chapter Text

Every few moments, I spared a glance at Henry over my shoulder. He stood with his back to me, utterly silent as he eyed the blood-red remains of Soteria grasped between his thumb and forefinger. He'd been like that for quite some time now, head craned forward as little clovers of blood stained the once-immaculate collar of his shirt. 

My entire body hummed with nervous energy. A million thoughts ran through my head as I crouched next to my dresser, stuffing a few pairs of socks and slippers into a pillowcase. I had no idea where civilization was, no concept of the outside world, and yet here I was on my second escape attempt. This time, I'd have Henry to accompany me. Henry who was 'Peter' only hours before. Henry who I didn't know half as well as I thought I did. 

No matter how hard I tried to wash away my doubts, they remained obstinate. They layered upon my skin like dirt, forcibly making me question the man who stood on the other side of the room. How unassuming he looked... I had no real reason to doubt him as much as I did. Sure, he lied, but he had also been honest with me as soon as I called him out for it. Henry was nothing but kind, and lovely, and patient. And I understood why he kept his identity from me. I could only imagine the punishment Papa would implement should something like that come out. It all made perfect sense. 

So why did my gut-instinct tell me something was wrong?

I cursed the thought as it passed through my head. Henry was a victim, too, and here I was judging him as though I were any better. He loved me. No one had ever loved me. And now he stood only feet away, willing-- no, eager-- to offer me a place in his heart. The same place that I'd been longing to occupy since that day in the pool. There wasn't one thing I didn't adore about him, so what other choice did I have but to love Henry back? 

And I did love him.

The word was so daunting as it passed through my mind. How could four letters hold so much weight? How could they be so mystifying? I suppose I didn't have any real idea of what 'love' was supposed to be, but in my very narrow point of view, I imagined there would be far more clarity where it was involved.  Whenever I spared a glance at Henry from across the room, my mind went blank as though I were looking at a stranger. With each new question I had, three more followed until I was drowning in my own doubts. The surface that was my esteemed clarity never felt farther away.

It's like I was seeing him through the broken lense of a camera. He was a mess of jagged lines and shattered glass, warped beyond recognition. If I squinted, I could piece him together, making sense of at least some of his fractured intricacies. Henry had always been something of a mystery to me, but watching him now, I began to wonder if I'd ever be able to solve it.

How could I love someone and have so little trust in them at the same time?

"Henry?" I called out to him, "Can I ask you another question?"

When he turned to me, another realization came upon me. All this mistrust I placed in him was quite pointless, wasn't it? Why stress myself out with inquiries when I could just lock eyes with him and forget all about them? An irritated breath fell from my lips. Henry put me in a uniquely vulnerable position. I could only ever think clearly when we were apart, or at the very least not speaking to one another, but here we were, in close quarters, making plans for an escape that could very well change my life. This entire situation was fucking impossible. 

He wanted to leave, though. Of that I was sure. There would be plenty of time to piece him together once we were out of there. I figured it was imperative that I put aside my doubts for the time being, lest my distrust sabotage our escape attempt. I suppose the one thing that remained steadfast through this all was my desire to keep him out of harm's way. 

"The drugs that I put in your drink," I began, turning to face him, "They're called Benzodiazepines. Benzos for short, and I take them for my insomnia. I guess you probably already knew that. Anyway, how did they not... keep you asleep? Just one can knock me out cold, let alone two."

"Differing body composition," came his short reply. 

"You know I don't know what that means," I said.

 A small smile came upon his face. I had to wonder if he enjoyed confusing me. "I'm taller than you, and I weigh more, meaning a single pill would be more effective on you than it would be on me," He said before adding, "I suppose I've also built up something of a tolerance to them."

I nodded, "Oh, I see, you're snorting pills between lessons. Is that it?"

"Close, but no," He mused, taking a few steps closer, "I had a condition similar to yours when I first arrived at the lab. It disappeared with age, but I remember it kept me up most nights. The pills helped."

"Curious," I murmured.

"Quite." His eyes fell to the pillowcase fisted in my hand, "Are you... bringing clothes?"

"Yes," I opened the bag and showed him its contents, "September is usually cold, right? I don't know how far we are from civilization, and I think it would be best if the three of us kept all our toes, don't you agree?"

"The three of us?"

"You, Six, and I," I elaborated.

I could feel the change in his temperance like a physical force pushing on my body. Warning strikes of lightning sparked up his eyes as Henry took one, two, three steps closer. "That wasn't part of the plan, Sixteen." His voice was the type of calm that came before a cataclysm. "It's supposed to be you and I. We can't trust an outsider not to thwart our escape."

"She's not an outsider, she's Six," I narrowed my eyes, "And she's coming with us."

"She's been here her whole life, Sweetheart," Henry's voice turned earnest. Coaxing. "I know it might be difficult to accept, but she can't be trusted. Brenner's indoctrinated her since birth, there's no telling what she'll do. What if she gets cold feet at the gate and turns us in?" His stare was unblinking, eyes boring into mine with azure-colored severity.

I shrugged, "Then I guess that's a risk we'll have to take."

"You're not thinking clearly."

"I am," came my firm response, "Leaving without her would be just as bad as leaving without you. Six is smart-- if anything, she'll be an asset."

Henry opened his mouth to reply, but then he paused. A single clench of his jaw accompanied the word, "Fine..."

"Though, I suggest you leave the bag here," He said, nodding towards my pillowcase, "It won't be too cold, and I think a pillowcase full of socks might draw some suspicion from the guards."

"Good point," I murmured.

"If Six is coming with us, we'll need to adjust the plan," Henry hummed, "It would be best if I retrieved her from her room. I'm supposed to be on night patrol, after all. I doubt anyone else will notice if I disappear for a little while longer. We can split up and rendezvous in the movie room."

I furrowed my eyebrows, "I have two questions."

"Which are..?"

"First, what does rendezvous mean? Quick side note, if you keep using words I don't know, I'm going to wring your neck."

"How romantic," He hummed sarcastically, "It's the place where we're going reconvene once we're finished with our respective tasks."

"Great. Maybe start with that next time, hm?" I cleared my throat, "Okay, question two, why are we splitting up? Sorry to question your judgement but that seems like a really awful idea."

"It's more time efficient," He replied, "We have to be out of the lab before the patients start waking up. Security is tighter during the day, meaning we have narrow window before the guards begin their rounds. You find my room, get my key card, and I'll find Six. Alright?"

"Alright," I replied. The pillowcase fell to the ground with a resounding thud. 

An uneasy silence fell over Henry and I. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily upon our backs, compressing our bodies until it became difficult to breathe. I'd dreamt of escape too many times to count, but now it was real. No longer a silent prayer uttered before I went to sleep or a thought crossing through my mind like a meteor crosses the night sky. The stakes had never been so high. This was quite literally my last chance. 

"Let's make this count, okay?" I muttered, "For both of our sakes."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Sixteen."

I proceeded into the hall with bated breath and feather-light steps. The endless breeze of the air conditioner felt like a balm against my feverish skin. If Henry was nervous, he didn't show it. His pace was brisk and purposeful, heedless of my requests for him to 'slow down' and 'walk quieter.' 

We turned down hallway after hallway, with him always in the lead. The walk from my bedroom the that stupid little storage-closet-turned-movie-room had never felt so long. Tiled walls watched our every step with cold, senseless eyes. The sound of our shoes ricochetting all around stabbed like a knife into my eardrums. 

The labyrinthian maze that was the lab had a disquieting energy about it. There was always a camera watching or a ghost lingering at the end of a hall, prepared to jump out and shriek in my face. Tonight, the sheer colorlessness was enough to make me sick. How had I not frozen to death in a place so devoid of warmth?

Henry's arm jutted out, distracting me from my thoughts. "Someone's coming."

I fell quiet for a moment, listening to the silence which surrounded us. At first, I couldn't hear anything through the endless billowing of the a/c. After a few more moments, there it was. The distinctive tap of shoes against tile, coming closer and closer. 

"Oh, fuck." I grabbed Henry's wrist and tried to pull him back the way we had come. 

He didn't budge.

"What the hell are you doing?" I pulled once more, "We have to turn around. Come on, Henry, you're going to get us caught!"

"Be quiet," His eyes snapped to mine as he wrenched his wrist out of my hands. "I need you to put your hands behind your back."

"Henry..."

"Just trust me. Do it." Urgency crept into his voice as the footsteps grew louder. I stayed still, horrified to make the slightest misstep and risk the entire operation before it had even begun. When he saw my unwillingness, Henry spared one last glance over his shoulder and cried, "Please, Sixteen."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I chanted under my breath. Henry's eyes remained glued to mine as our window to run in the other direction disappeared. Anger simmered inside of me at the sheer idiocy of whatever 'plan' he had, but I obliged nonetheless. The moment my hands were behind my back, he reached forward and secured them.

He pressed his lips against the curve of my ear and breathed, "Just stay quiet for me, alright?"

I shook my head in disbelief, "If we get caught I'm going to fucking murder you."

"If we get caught, Brenner will do that himself."

"Very reassuring," I seethed.

"A little less sarcasm would be greatly appreciated, Sixteen."

"Bite me."

Henry's rebuttal died in his throat when a guard appeared around the corner. My lips pressed into a line as the man halted, eyes widening with momentary surprise. "What is she doing out of her room?" He demanded, skipping right over me and locking eyes with Henry. As though I weren't standing right there. I gritted my teeth.

Henry's hands tightened around my arms, "I found her roaming the halls and figured I would return her to her room. Brenner will know about this little misadventure come morning." His attention turned to me, warm breath fanning over my face as he spoke, "I'm sure a punishment will set you straight. Isn't that right?" 

I feigned a widening of my eyes and a struggle to escape Henry's grip. "Please, I'm sorry."

"You will be," He replied as his grip became bruising. I barely restrained the urge to cuss him out. 

"I see..." The guard didn't move for a while. His eyes scanned over our faces with a look akin to suspicion. He took a few steps closer, and my heart sunk. "Where have you been all night, Ballard? I didn't see you when I was making my rounds."

I could feel Henry drawing himself up as my back pressed against his chest. I didn't need to turn around to know the look he wore on his face. Disapproving, judgmental, enough to make even the strongest people falter. Even a man as pompous as McLaughlin had flinched at the icy breeze of his glacial eyes. "I didn't realize I was required to inform you of my whereabouts. Tell me, why did a patient slip out under your watch? I don't supervise the patient's wing, that's your job."

The man opened his mouth to reply, but Henry cut him off, "Brenner would be incredibly disappointed to hear one of his guards was incompetent enough to let a subject wander around the lab. You're lucky I caught her when I did, otherwise who knows what kind of trouble she could've stirred up? Then you'd be getting a punishment by her side."

A tense silence fell between us. The man seemed conflicted for a few moments, before he ultimately dropped his head, muttered, "I'm sorry," and stepped aside. Henry didn't reply, offering nothing but his icy cold stare. We continued past the man and turned the corner.

My shoulders relaxed when he disappeared from sight. Henry's grip loosened and a sigh spilled past his lips. I didn't know whether to slap him or thank him for making such a risky-- and overall  brilliant-- move. Just as I turned to speak my mind, someone cut me off. 

"What happened to your neck, Ballard?" 

Before either of us could reply, the man was barreling down the hall, taser in hand. Having no time to think, I wrenched my wrists out of Henry's grip and whirled around to face him. The guard devoured the space between us as I desperately called upon my the lightning in my veins. Utterly unprepared, I lurched my hand forward in a sad attempt to send him back in the direction from which he came. Instead, he merely stumbled. It didn't take him long to recover.

His eyes almost looked black as he raised the taser towards me. The thundering of my heart drowned out the lightning in my veins until I was too disoriented to focus. Just as my skin heated with the familiar warmth of power, he pressed the device onto my shoulder. A gasp tore through my throat as the dreadful click of a taser sounded through the hall. Before I could step aside, volts of electricity were slicing through my nerves. The pain was debilitating enough to knock me off balance as my surroundings turned a blinding shade of white. 

The pain disappeared as soon as it came. In the distance, tile cracked and spilled across the floor.

I leaned against the wall for support, my breaths escaping me in weak, desperate gasps. The lights flickered harder than they had before, plunging the world in darkness over and over. Instead of fear, I only felt confusion. This wasn't me.

When I finally managed to face the source of the chaos, my heart shuddered to a stop. 

Henry's right hand was outstretched, fingers splayed towards the guard on the other side of the room. The man was practically crushed into the wall, struggling against the invisible force which pinned him there. Shattered tile rained over his head and onto the floor, sharp enough to cut through the green cloth of his uniform. Henry watched the man with cold, empty eyes. As he took a step forward, the man began shaking. Blood spilled from his ears and indiscernible pleas for mercy stabbed into mine. Still, Henry wasn't satisfied. He pressed and he pressed until the man's struggles crescendoed. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Only blood. 

The power was everywhere. My every inhale burned with electricity. I'd never felt anything so all-encompassing, so omnipresent. It lingered in the air, the purr of the ventilation, the glaring lights overhead. His powers were like a physical force filling up the room, leaving no space for the three of us to exist all at once. 

Henry broke with a grunt. 

I didn't have to look at the man to know he was dead.

Henry's chest heaved up and down. A stillness settled over us in that moment. I watched him, palm pressed against the freezing cold wall as though it could possibly steady me. I opened my mouth to speak, but all words evaded me. I was robbed of any other conceivable option but to stare in perfect silence. He looked so different in that moment. There was no pacifistic mask painted over his face, no attempt to pull himself from the precipice. When his head turned, those flaming blue eyes seared me to the very bone. They were dark and angry and almost cataclysmic in their beauty. 

A grin crawled like a spider upon his face. He didn't say a word.

"I just--," I tried to form a sentence, but I could not. "Woah."

I went to meet him in the center of the room. My eyes didn't leave his once. I feared if I looked away, that glint in his eyes would disappear. He looked like a God then, staring at me with a look so boundless I almost couldn't take it. Everything in my body hummed with dark, wondrous fascination. 

I didn't know exactly what I planned to do once I reached him. My feet led me closer and closer until there was no more than a foot of space between us. I breathed him in with every inhale until I was certain my lungs would collapse from the sheer intensity of him. Henry lowered his head to meet my eyes, so radiant he was glowing.

I kissed him like it was the last time I ever would. He was tense, at first, as though my lips were poison and there was no antidote. 'Kiss me whenever you want' he had said, and so I would. I would until my lungs collapsed and I couldn't breathe any longer. I would with the last of my heartbeats dying in my chest as I suffocated against him. And, even then, I'd crawl out of my casket, dig through six feet of dirt, and wander through the dark of every town just so I could do it all over again. 

He melted soon after. There was severity in the way he kissed me, the way he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me into him. Everything ran slow and liquid until we became parallel beings. I could hear his thoughts as though they were my own. His heartbeat thundered in pace with mine, and I had to wonder if he felt as nauseatingly indisposed as I did. 

Like a match burned to the end of its handle, his skin seared my fingertips. His voice was blackened and charred when he murmured, "We really should--," he paused, pressing his lips against mine and cutting himself off, "--focus on the task at hand."

I breathlessly replied, "Yes. Yes, that's a good idea."

"Okay, let's stop," He said. And I had every intention of doing so, but then his back pressed against the wall and I couldn't think anymore. His lips were the type of softness clouds were made of. I could touch them every day for the rest of my life, rest my fingertips on his tongue and    feel them wrapped like silk around my skin.

"Okay, okay. That's enough," I breathed, pressing my palm against his chest. 

When I pulled away, he frowned. His eyebrows knitted together with the words, "It wouldn't hurt to wait just a little bit longer, would it?"

"You were the one who said we had to focus."

"What if I changed my mind?" 

I laughed and took a few steps back, hoping the distance would help both of our heads clear. "Then I'd have to remind you that we have a time limit, and there will plenty of time to do that later."

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, "You're right, of course."

"Always am."

He sent me a pointed look. 

"Don't pout, you know it's true."

"It most definitely is not," He replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Alright, let's focus, hm?  I'll go and find Six, but it may take a little more time to convince her to come with me. Chances are, you'll be at the rendezvous point before I am. Do not leave the room until I come and get you. Understand?" 

I nodded, "Quick question; where exactly is your keycard? Like do you keep it under your pillow or something?"

"It should be in my nightstand. Don't waste your time checking the bottom drawer, I only use the top."

"Understood." I grasped his hand in mine and spoke with all the urgency I could manage, "Please don't do anything stupid. No risks, no cutting corners, no drawing unnecessary attention." I nodded towards the guard, "And no murder unless it's unavoidable."

 "When have you ever known me to be careless?" He gave my hand a gentle squeeze before letting it go. "I won't do anything to jeopardize this. Just be careful, alright? Some people have a way of sneaking up on you."

I furrowed my eyebrows as an unsettling chord strummed within me. "Same to you."

He pressed his lips against mine for a single moment. My nerves were immediately calmed as blonde hair brushed against my forehead and he whispered, "Good luck." His mouth formed a delicate smile. 

Before I could reply, he had turned away and begun down the hallway.

Henry's room was significantly cooler than the rest of the facility. The air conditioning was louder, too, drawing an annoyed huff from my lips as my eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. Those blue floodlights seemed so much brighter in the hallway. 

I scanned my new-found surroundings with one purpose in mind. His room was similar to mine in almost every aspect, save the small adjoining bathroom on the far left side. His bed was perfectly made without so much as a single crease in the thin, white comforter. I had to wonder if he really slept in there. It looked so devoid of... well, anything.

There were no clothes on the floor, no laundry in the basket, not even a drawer left partially open. If my room had little personality, then his was barren of it entirely. I couldn't even begin to imagine a decade in a place like this.

When my eyes caught on his nightstand, I made a beeline for that side of the room. My knees groaned in protest as they met the frigid, unrelenting ground, but I paid them little mind. The nightstand was a rather unassuming piece of furniture. It was no more than three feet tall, bare of any engravings or detail aside from the white knobs of the drawers. 

The top drawer whined as I pulled it open, the noise echoing around the hollowness of Henry's room. There was nothing all that interesting inside. Two dusty old books caught my attention first; 'Lord of the Flies,' and 'The Count of Monte Cristo.' I took one in my hand, flipping through its contents. The pages were yellowed and the covers were partially destroyed, a clear indication that the books were well-used. A few pages were dog-eared while others were torn out entirely. Dark blotches of ink lined the margins, bleeding into some of the printed words until they were indecipherable. 

I carefully placed the book back in its original position, searching the contents of the drawer once more. Once I found Henry's keycard, I took the plastic between my fingers and scanned the text sprawled across the front. At the top in big, bold letters, it read 'HNL.' In a slightly smaller font just below, there were the words 'Hawkins National Laboratory, U.S Department of Energy.' A picture of Henry took up a majority of the space. His face was flaccid, devoid of any emotion at all. The last words on the card were 'Ballard, Peter,' and then his familiar neat, cursive scrawl underneath. There was a collection of black lines after that, differing in width and height. 

I palmed the card and stuck it in my pocket, careful to dig it as deep as a could, lest I risk dropping it on my walk to the movie room. When I pushed the top drawer closed, a clatter sounded as something shifted in the drawer below. 

I paused, furrowing my eyebrows in confusion. 'Don't waste your time checking the bottom drawer, I only use the top' Henry had said. Maybe he just put something in there and forgot. I suppose it was a little odd that he felt the need to clarify which drawer he used and which he did not. He could've just told me to check his nightstand and left it at that. But we were on a time crunch, so it made perfect sense that he'd want to conserve that time by giving me explicit instructions.

 Still, my curiosity got the best of me. 

As my hand latched onto the bottom knob, I felt a spring of guilt. Just because he let me in his room didn't mean I had permission to search through it, thus invading his privacy. On the other hand, though, he did lie to me about his identity for five months. Perhaps a little bit of snooping would be okay... deserved, even. After all, someone had to level the playing field. 

Before I could talk myself out of it, I wrenched open the bottom drawer. This one didn't whine nearly as much when it opened. In fact, it was practically silent. 

The first thing I noticed was a pair of folded up clothes. A tan pair of slacks and a plaid, brown dress shirt occupied the right side of the drawer. Both were rather small, seemingly child sized. I had to assume those were the clothes he'd been wearing when Brenner captured him. A frown tugged at my face... He kept them all this time, the last remaining archives of his old life. God, it really wasn't my place to disturb them.

Then I noticed something else. 

There was a small protrusion between the pants and the shirt, almost like something was stashed in between. At first, I figured it could've just been a poor folding job on Henry's part, but upon further inspection, I realized that couldn't be the case. With careful, deliberate fingers, I pulled up the dress shirt. I didn't want to mess up the folding or disturb it in any way. My fingers clasped onto something hard and plastic, which I quickly removed before dropping the shirt back in its designated place. 

It took me a few moments longer to understand what I was looking at, and the implication that came with it. The tape was bland and white, featureless aside from something written on the spine. 

'04/01/79.'

No matter how many times I blinked, the numbers didn't change. I urged them to disappear, to rearrange themselves, to do anything that would change the fact that Henry had my tape this entire fucking time. How many nights had I spent in that black void, tirelessly searching for the object I now held in my hands, only for a blinding headache to break my focus?

Oh.

Oh.

That was him, too, wasn't it? I felt impossibly stupid in that moment, kneeling on the dirty floor, staring at the most obvious mystery I never managed to solve. I should've pieced it all together the moment Henry confessed who he truly was. I suppose I didn't have any time to really process the fact that he was the one behind all of my dreams. Swept up in the anxiety of escape, the intoxication of his presence, it all but slipped my mind the moment he pressed his palm to my cheek. Now, I had no choice but to remember. For every saccharine, intimate dream I shared with him, there was a rather dreadful one to follow. That was him mocking me, laughing at me, hurting me all those times. 

I recalled the dream after he caught me in Papa's office, where I was buckled to a chair, unable to escape his icy-cold stare. 'I don't want you to know too much so early on,' he had said. Fuck. He made it so fucking obvious. He dangled the truth right in front of me, and like a fool, I couldn't even see it. 

He was keeping something from me. Something big. Something I would find more treacherous than lying about his identity for months on end. His plan was to leave it in the lab, let it be washed away by the bleached-white walls which enclosed it. To bury the sins of his past beneath plaid shirts like he would a hatchet. 

I clasped the tape between trembling hands, anger practically radiating off of me. 

I wouldn't allow him to make a fool out of me again. I wouldn't.

The storage closet was so quiet. There was no air-conditioning to pound against my ear drums, making me want to slam my brains into the wall rather than endure another moment of it. All I could hear were the soft, seething breaths which fell from my parted lips. My nails dug ferociously into the palm of my hand, reopening wounds which had only just scabbed over. The pain wasn't nearly as grounding as I hoped it would be. 

The tape was heavier than it should've been. Perhaps it was the gravity of the situation latching onto the plastic, trying to pull it into the Earth's molten core. I fought its influence with weary limbs, holding the tape securely between sweating palms. I'd be damned if I ever let the thing out of my sight again. 

I fumbled around with the television for quite a while before I managed to turn it on. The first time I'd been in that room, Six was by my side. I couldn't help but think about how simpler everything had been back then. When we were able to watch movies and laugh like the world wasn't about to cave in around us. Though, that wasn't really the case, was it? There was still the risk of getting caught, of losing our right to walk of the halls, of getting punished. Things had never been simple. They just got worse. 

Everything could always get worse. 

That single phrase played on repeat in my mind as the television crackled to life. It was relentless, growing louder and louder as my heart sank into the deepest depths of my stomach. I tried to pull at the strings of my composure and get my wits about me. No matter what I discovered, I still had to leave. And I still couldn't abandon Henry. 

I could've cried right then. How many times would he fuck me over before I finally grew a spine? My cheeks burned red with a mixture of anger and humiliation. Maybe I deserved all of this for being so weak.

Blood marred my palm in the shape of crescent-moons. It clung to the cover of the tape, staining it red. With an aggravated huff, I dried the blood on my shirt and turned back towards the television. I felt around the cold, black screen for the little slot Six had put 'JAWS' in last time. When I eventually found it, I had to pause and gather the courage to actually put the tape in its designated place.

I'd all but given up my search for tape weeks ago, but now here I was. Standing in front of the television with it grasped in my hand. I wouldn't have ever found it if Henry hadn't confessed to me, if Henry hadn't stayed with me the night prior. I suppose, in one way, he was the one I had to thank for this discovery. I could almost laugh at the irony. All that effort Henry put in to hide it from me, all so he could ultimately lead me to it.

A click sounded as I pressed the tape into its designated spot. The letters '04/01/79' stared back at me as I clicked 'play.' Six warned me that standing too close to the television could ruin my eyes, but in that moment, I didn't really mind the prospect. The static flickered for a few moments longer before it eventually faded into a full picture. 

Occupying the top left corner of the screen were the numbers '12:00am, 04/01/79.' The security camera footage was too dark to be discernible. There were a few dim, silhouetted outlines of a room, but nothing of any significance. I searched around for the fast forward button, accidentally pausing the image a few times before I finally found the right one. 

The picture began to speed up. I watched as light seeped in, growing brighter and brighter as the time in the corner of the screen reached midday. I couldn't be sure what room I was looking in on, but it seemed to be a part of the hospital wing. There was an elevated, grey slab of metal in the center, surrounded by cabinets and medical equipment of all sorts. Dangling off of the metal table were a few restraints, meant to keep whoever had the misfortune of laying upon it in place.  There was another room in the back, separated from the main area by plexiglass. It seemed to be some kind of observatory for whoever wanted an up-close viewing of the horror show that no doubt occurred in the room ahead. 

An uncomfortable chill ran up my spine. 

Finally, around 3:00pm, someone entered the room. I clicked the 'play' button located on the bottom of the television, and then time resumed as normal. A guard dressed in that familiar green suit walked in, dragging another person along with him. Her back was to the camera as she fought to escape the man's grip, a myriad of curses falling from her mouth in the process. 

The guard released her after a few moments. In a harsh, low tone, he told her off for something I couldn't quite hear. The girl turned away from him, a scowl crawling upon her face. When she was fully in view, it didn't take me more than a second to realize who she was. Me, but a few months younger. Just like in Henry's memories, she was skinnier than I was now. The bags beneath her eyes were comically dark, a mixture of black and purple which stood out almost painfully in that colorless room. 

Her face burned red with rage, chest heaving up and down vehemently. 

The guard found his place on the other side of the room. I could scarcely make out a bleeding wound on his cheek composed of three separate lines. Nail marks, I realized. Young me immediately began pacing the room, mumbling incoherently under her breath. She scanned her surroundings with growing desperation, most definitely searching for a way out. 

The guard's sovereign gaze tracked her as she began towards the cabinets in the corner of the room. She didn't even try to hide her intentions as she ripped one of them open, scouring its insides for something to use against the guard. She made a point to throw the contents around the room, dropping glass containers of gauze, cotton balls, and bandaids onto the floor. They shattered upon impact, glinting with razor-sharp, bloodthirsty promise.

The guard murmured a curse under his breath and shouted, "Stop that!"

She merely glanced over her shoulder and sent him a white-hot glare before moving onto the next cabinet. In there, she discovered some new equipment. Stethoscopes were on the ground next, then thermometers, then needles. She took a moment to remove the caps, at first, but ultimately gave up and just threw them, plastic-cover and all. The guard shouted a few more times, but Young Me was heedless of his each and every demand. 

After a few more moments, it was clear being civil wouldn't deter her. He'd have to make her stop himself. And so that's exactly what he intended to do as he crossed the room, gaining on her with every passing second. Splinters of glass were crushed to dust beneath his boot as he navigated the mess of medical equipment on the floor. 

Young Me gave up throwing the tools one by one, instead curling her arm to the back of the cabinet and sweeping them out all at once. She didn't even stop when the guard came upon her, grabbing her wrist in a futile attempt to control the endless mess she created all around them. Eventually, he was forced to pull her back, far enough away from the cabinets that she had no choice but to stop. 

Before I could even process what she happening, she whirled around and dug a scalpel into his neck. The man paused, eyes growing wide as she dragged the blade down his flesh. Blood pooled out of the wound, dark crimson staining both her hands and the guard's uniform. He released her wrist and stumbled back, desperately clutching at the free-flowing wound on his throat. The girl watched him, face devoid of any emotion. The grip on the scalpel turned her knuckles white as her eyes trailed after the man, brimming with rabid desperation. Like an animal backed into a corner, she had no choice but to lash out.

I peeled my eyes from the screen, unable to watch yet another person die today. My breaths echoed heavily through the room as I spared a glance at the door. Any moment now, Henry could barge in and see exactly what I was up to. How would I explain any of this to him? Was this all there was to see? Did he keep the tape from me solely to make sure I didn't see myself so untethered, placing so little value on another person's life?

The sound of a thud from the television pulled my attention back to the screen. The man was on the floor, now, surrounded by a pool of his own blood. Young Me watched him for a few moments longer, having to be sure he was indisposed before she stepped over him and proceeded into the next room. When she was satisfied with his condition, she did exactly that, crossing the floor in a few bounds before she reached the door to that plexiglass room. She jiggled the doorknob a few times, only to discover it was locked. 

A whispered, "Fuck," fell from her lips, and then she ran a hand through her hair and produced a bobby pin. She unfolded it, twisting the metal into a ninety degree angle before she shoved it into lock. She wrestled with the knob for a little while, grunts of annoyance falling from her lips ever so often. Finally, after a minute or two, she pushed the door open. Young Me grinned at the accomplishment, stuffing the ruined bobby pin into her bra before she proceeded into the room. 

The victory was short lived, though, as the door to the main room was pushed open and in walked a small group of people. They froze upon seeing the state of the room, glass shattered like knives of crystal upon the floor. Leading the group was Papa, whose skin paled as those empty eyes caught sight of the guard. After turning to one of the people behind him and whispering a command, his gaze made a beeline for the plexiglass room. Young Me made eye contact with Papa, shuddered breath falling from her lips.

The world froze for a moment. She stared at him in perfect, soundless terror. Her hands, grasped around the doorknob, trembled so violently I expected the room to begin doing the same. It took her quite a while to shake from that mortified haze, but once she had, that panic was replaced by the cold, collected instinct to save herself. She slammed the door closed, locked it, and turned her back to the group on the other side of the room.

She turned towards her surroundings, desperately searching for anything that could save her. Then, her gaze zeroed in on a bright, red phone sitting atop the table. My eyes narrowed in confusion-- it was practically a carbon copy of that red phone from my nightmare. She scrambled towards it, hastily turning the dial three different times. Her hands ceased their trembling long enough for her to reach for the phone. Deja vu ripped through me as the cord connecting the phone and dial went taut and she brought it to her ear. 

My fears were confirmed when the phone began to ring. 

I nearly felt sick as I heard the blaring, high pitched chime. It was indiscernible from the one I dreamt of only nights prior. I recalled the shallow waters of my sleep, going from my bedroom with Peter to the lab, surrounded by broken bodies and the devastated remains of a hallway. At the other end, there had been that exact same phone, bright red, glinting back at me. How could I possibly forget the sound of those chimes? They stabbed into my ears, melted my nerves, eradicated my brain. 

If the phone and the chimes had been merely a coincidence, then the next occurrence confirmed  it was more than that. She began begging, using the same exact words that the woman on the other end of the phone had used in my dream.

Young Me began screaming into the phone, her calm facade disappearing with every trembling word that fell from her mouth. "Help!" She cried to whoever had picked up, throwing a glance over her shoulder. Papa began towards the door, trailed by four guards, a doctor, and Henry. The girl's eyes went wide when she saw them coming closer. Her fingers turned white around the phone, "I'm at some lab, I don't know where I am. They're about to do something bad to me. I know they are. Please, help me! Please--."

Papa watched her with furious, hollowed out eyes as he fumbled with a pair of keys. Realizing he intended to unlock the door, she momentarily set aside the phone and grabbed the metal chair situated under the table. She made brief, scalding eye contact with Papa as she barricaded the door.

A moment later, she was back by the phone. The door was unlocked now, and the group on the other end was making quick work of the chair. The guards threw their entire body weight against the door, pushing it back inch by inch. Sensing her imminent defeat, her panic soared to new heights. Tears mixed with the sweat on her face as she screamed into the receiver, "Please! Please, I don't have long! No, no, no, no, you can't let them do this. I'll do anything, please!"

With that, the door slammed open. The sheer force of the doorknob slamming into the wall created a dent in the tile, sending bits of it clattering to the floor. 

It wasn't long before two of the guards seized her arms and dragged her out into the main room. The receiver was left abandoned on the table, phone dangling just above the floor. She screamed and kicked and bucked like a wild animal, desperately trying to escape the guards' crushing grip. 

"Get the fuck off me!" She screamed that same phrase over and over until her vocal cords had surely been rubbed raw. The words echoed around the entire room. Even Henry, perpetually composed, flinched at the raw hysteria which saturated each and every syllable. 

A moment later, she was forced onto the table. She managed to kick one of the guards before they could restrain her ankle, but it was all for not. No matter how much she screamed or cried or begged, by the time her wrist was forced into one of the cuffs all hope was lost. Still, she arched her back away from the table and cursed every single person who dared to look in her direction. 

Papa watched the scene from a safe distance as her other hand was strapped down. The look on his face was smug and self-confident as ever, narcissism buried beneath the guise of fatherly altruism. It almost made me sick. 

When Young Me was held steadfast to the table, restrained by both her wrists and ankles, the panic slowly gave way to helplessness. Sapphire tears poured down her face with no foreseeable end. She glanced at the guards who stood over her, all watching with stern, judgmental eyes.  I could practically see her caving in on herself, desperate to escape the fate she now had no choice but to resign to.

"I can take her from here," Papa said to the guards. He gestured for them to leave, and just like the mindless little bitches they were, they filed out of the room. Only Henry, Papa, myself, and the doctor remained.

"Henry, please come here," Papa called. Henry glanced at the girl restrained on the table, eyes brimming with a current of emotions I couldn't possibly decipher. Eventually, he tore his gaze away and walked towards Papa. The steps were careful, practiced, just as robotic as 'Peter Ballard' had always been.

Without a word, Henry turned his back to Papa. He took his hand and brushed a few strands of hair away from his neck. I watched as Brenner removed some sort of tool from his pocket. It glinted beneath the lights overhead as he positioned it near Henry's neck-- near Soteria.

"I'm sure I don't have to remind you of the punishment you'll face should you not do exactly as instructed," Papa's voice was cold, a winter's breeze settling around the room. Henry simply nodded. As the tool met his neck, his eyes fluttered shut a painted exhale escaped his lips. "Good. Now, do be careful not to kill her, Henry. She might be... obstinate, but she can still improve," He punctuated the words with a twist of the tool against Henry's flesh, drawing a muffled whimper from his throat. 

"Kill me!?" The girl demanded, tugging at the restraints securing her wrists to the table. "What the fuck do you mean 'kill me'? I swear to god, if you let that blonde little bitch anywhere near me--."

"--You'll what, Sixteen?"

"That's not my fucking name. Stop calling me that!"

Papa merely sighed, rounding the table to reach the girl's face. The empty husks that were his eyes pooled with that familiar 'fatherly love' he claimed to have for us. With all the sweet-tempered tenderness he could manage, Papa rested a palm against Young Me's cheek. "You display such potential, Daughter. I truly do believe that you can flourish here, so long as we remove a few... undesirable predispositions. I can fix you, all you need is a different outlook. I'm doing this for your benefit."

In the blink of an eye, her face turned and she caught Brenner's fingers between her teeth. A gasp fell from his lips as she bit down with enough force to draw blood. He ripped his hand away from her. Blood married his pointer and middle finger after no more than ten seconds. 

"Fuck you," She seethed. For good measure, she spat it in his direction. It fell harmlessly at his feet, but her message was clear. Papa took one more moment to collect himself. His rage was silently but unspeakably murderous as he patted down his suit. 

"You may begin," He addressed Henry.

"No," The girl's furious disposition immediately shifted into one of panic. It was unprecedented this time, a mess of whimpers and pleas as she struggled with renewed strength. Her restraints merely clattered against the table, not at all perturbed by her greatest efforts. 

"Please," She begged Henry, "Please, please, don't do this." He watched her, soundless. The lights began to flicker above their heads. Whether it was her or Henry behind it, I couldn't be sure. "I don't know what I did wrong, please! I'm sorry, please, just let me go!"

"Henry..." Brenner's tone was authoritative as ever, a warning if there ever was one. 

"Don't listen to him," She urged, trying to sit up once more only to be tugged down by her wrists, "I know you don't want to do this. Please, please. I never wanted to hurt anyone, I swear. I'm sorry, okay, I'm sorry!"

Henry closed his eyes for a moment. One moment passed, then another. The conflict inside of him was as clear as daylight. A wanting to do what was right a knowing he didn't have a choice the matter. Eventually, his eyes opened. He straightened his spine, assuming that rigid posture that made me wonder how his spine hadn't given out by now. "I am, too," He breathed. Slowly, he extended his hand. The tattoo on his wrist was nothing but a few blurry pixels on the screen, but now that I knew who he was, it was impossible not to notice. 

"No," Her boundless terror somehow reached a climax when she realized what he intended to do to her. "No, no, no, no. Please, please don't hurt me! I'm sorry. My god, I'm so fucking sorry--."

She was cut off by the doctor, who moved from her place and shoved a rag in her mouth. Before Young Me could process what was happening, her muscles seized up. Her eyes went wide and rolled into the back of her head until nothing but white remained. Her entire body began seizing. It trembled violently enough to make the entire world do the same. The restraints binding her to the table clattered uselessly as each and every limb was overcome by tumultuous fits, an endless onslaught which promised to kill her if it went on for much longer.

Henry watched, arm outstretched as the light exploded over his head. 

The sound of a door opening pulled my attention away from the television. I gasped, mind running rampant as I searched for any possible excuse I could give Henry, lest he realize I knew of his treachery. Would that put our escape in danger? Perhaps he would do to me what he did to that guard, crush me into the wall until my brain spilled from my ears and my eyeballs caved in on themselves.

However, when I turned my head to the door, it wasn't him who stared back at me. There were two different guards poised at the entrance, still as could be. Instead of tasers grasped in their hands, they held guns. I stumbled back, putting as much distance between the three of us as I could manage. The cold, black barrels of their fire arms were almost hypnotizing. Not even the muffled sounds of screams from somewhere in the distance could shake me from my frozen haze. 

Behind their heads, the tiles in the hallway were stained with blood. 

Chapter Text

When I finally managed to open my eyes, the entire world was a mess of blurred lines and shapeless walls. My surroundings were too bleary to discern, and the incessant weight pushing on my eyelids hardly did me any favors. The lulling pull of sleep whispered its siren's song in my ear and I knew that to fight it would be equivalent to fighting the pull of gravity.

The odds were so impossibly out of my favor, and yet I managed to defy them.

Though, I couldn't give myself too much credit. I wasn't consciously trying to stay awake. In fact, I didn't want to, but the unendurable nuisance that was the pounding in my head took away my choice in the matter. Consciousness returned to me as slowly as syrup dripping down a bottle. With each passing moment, I felt a new nerve being activated, a new bruise being pressed on. Still, my head was the worst by far. I could hear my own heartbeat as though I were holding a stethoscope to my chest. It boomed in my ears and echoed around my skull like gunfire. The pain was endless.

Moving my arm was a surprisingly difficult task. The first time I tried, it flopped uselessly by my side. The second, it didn't so much as move. I ceased my efforts and felt the cool, sobering kiss of tile against my cheek. I relished in it's brisk embrace, though that's not to say it did much to calm the raging headache splitting apart my brain.

It did, however, wake me enough to wonder why the hell I was on the floor.

When I tried to sit up, a ringing filled my ears. High pitched, cutting, quite possibly the worst noise I'd ever had the displeasure of hearing. I cursed beneath my breath and returned to my place on the floor. One moment passed, then another. My entire body felt as though it would give out at a moment's notice.

This time, when I went to move my arm, I actually made some progress. The task of bringing it to my head in search of whatever ailed me, however, was extraordinarily trying. I persisted, and after a few annoyed huffs, some light cursing, and a considerable amount of pain, I managed to touch my fingertips against the base of my skull. There, my flesh dampened with something liquid and warm. A little ways above it was a deep, searing gash spanning a few inches along my head. My body jolted when I pressed the wound a little bit too hard, and I hastily pulled away my hand.

Blood stained my fingertips. Or, at least, I thought it was blood. Regardless of how many times I tried to blink away the fogginess in my eyes, my fingers remained a blurred mess of crimson and flesh. I couldn't see where one began and the other ended.

That was, until, I let my hand drop back onto the floor. Instead of connecting with hard tile like I anticipated, it fell onto something warm and damp.

A gasp tore from my throat when I saw a face not even three feet away from me. Instinctually, I sat up and jerked away, too shocked to remember the state of my head. As soon as I moved, I regretted it. A pressure grew behind my eyes, debilitating enough to rid any and all thoughts from my head.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I pounded my fist against the floor, hoping to alleviate the pain and shock myself back into reality. Like a tide rolling out, the ache in my head slowly but surely ebbed away. Though, that's not to say I couldn't feel the relentless pounding in the back of my head. Another groan slipped from my lips.

"They were like this when I got here," A voice suddenly murmured by my side. Another bolt of pain shot through my skull as I whipped my head to face the speaker. Their voice was high-pitched, likely that of a child, and fell into the arms of an uneasy silence

When my vision eventually sharpened and the person was discernible, I wished I had just gone back to sleep.

I didn't know Eleven all that well. Hell, the only time I ever noticed her, she was knelt beside a plinko board with Henry. Her eyes reminded me of sunflower pistils, big and brown, typically brimming with childlike innocence. Today, she looked different. Today, those eyes brimmed not with innocence, but with tears. Her entire body trembled as she watched me like I was active bomb on the verge of detonating.

Now, if Eleven was the worst of what the movie room had to behold, then I wouldn't have been nearly as frightened. It was the bodies which surrounded her that garnered the widening of my eyes, the chilling of my bones. I recalled those two guards who had caught me, guns drawn like an accusation. It was impossible to forget the homicidal glint in their eyes and how it intermingled with panic until I was certain they'd shoot me down right there. Now, they were a heap of shattered bone and bleeding wounds, guns cast uselessly by their side.

My breathing picked up. "Who did this?" The words were hoarse as they fell from my lips. I desperately tried to recall what had happened, but anything beyond the guards' entrance was concealed behind the veil of sleep. I swallowed thickly, knowing and fearing the answer at the same time. Only I was capable of doing something quite as gruesome as this. Who could forget those four guards I'd killed after being caught in Papa's office?

The girl stared at me for a short while after. She seemed to be thinking of the correct words, eyes flitting up to the ceiling as she tried to piece together a sentence. Eleven hugged her knees to her chest, a gesture no doubt meant to garner comfort. "Hallway," She said unevenly.

"Hallway?" I repeated, careful to keep my voice soft as to avoid frightening her further. When she didn't elaborate and instead just nodded, I figured pressing her further wouldn't be of much use. With a sidelong glance her way, I crawled towards the door and wrenched it open. I didn't try to stand on my two feet, knowing full well the pain in my head would send me crashing right back down to the floor.

I wasn't prepared for the sight that would greet me in the hallway. I glanced without thought, without hesitance, without sense. And good fucking god, did I regret it.

An alarm blared in the distance. From where, I couldn't be sure. All I knew was its endless wailing as it fell in pace with my thundering heart.

My entire body went numb when I first saw them. A person, a child, laid no more than three feet from the door. Just like the guards, his body was mangled. Skin stretched unnaturally over the broken bones of his legs. The gown covering his body was ripping at the seams. Peaking out from the thin material was an ivory-colored thing-- another bone, to be sure--- but I couldn't tell which one. He was too broken apart, like a priceless vase shattered into a million pieces. His eyes were wholly removed. The body stared at me through red and black sockets. It took me a long while to recognize who it was, and then I noticed his head. This was number Seventeen, a sweet boy who's shockingly blonde hair was now dyed red, pigmented by his own blood.

It didn't end there.

In fact, the carnage didn't seem to end anywhere.

Both sides of the hallway, left and right, were littered with bodies. Crimson handprints stamped the walls, a testament to the agony their owners had surely endured before collapsing for one final time. The sirens faded into nothing more than background noise as the beating of my heart took their place. Staring at the massacre ahead, all I could hear was the pitter-pattering of my pulse like a machine gun, drowning out the entire world. I sat there for a long while, silent, cataloguing each person.

They were all dead.

When I inhaled, I gave myself life again. My hearing tuned back in, and suddenly the alarms fit perfectly into place. They were an endless parade of the exact name note, though they seemed weaker this time around. No longer alarms, but a whimpers, desperate and broken like they were pleading with the silence that they filled. For mercy? For relief? For death? I couldn't be sure.

I slammed the door closed and turned to Eleven. She watched me with wide eyes, growing wider still as I neared her.

My hands trembled. I tried not to show just how terrified I was, but my voice gave me away. "I know you're scared, but I need you to tell me if Henry is alright. He was out in the hallway when..." I paused, bringing my hand over my mouth to stifle a cry. The girl never replied, she just stared. I let my panic get the best of me and grabbed her arms. My grip was tight, perhaps even bruising. "Don't just look at me, Eleven, I need an answer. The orderly with the blonde hair, Peter. You need to tell me if he's alright."

Guilt washed over me when those eyes filled with tears. Her skin was clammy to the touch, pale as a ghost. The expression she wore was almost bizarre-- no child should've been able to hold terror so violent in something as simple as a twisting of her face.

"I'm sorry. Please, I'm sorry, don't look at me like that." My hands dropped from her arms as I fell to my knees beside her. I pulled her into my embrace, gentle as I could possibly manage. It wasn't long before her shoulders were heaving up and down, little body wracked with sobs so powerful I expected her to shatter.

I didn't quite know what to say. All I could do was shush the girl, whisper comfort in her ear and pray that it would be enough. But how could I comfort someone in a situation like this? What words could I possibly say to take away her memories of mangled bodies and empty eye sockets?

"Him," The word was barely audible, nothing more than a whimper falling from her mouth.

I pulled away from the embrace. Tears bleached her cheeks when I furrowed my eyebrows and said, "Him? I don't know what you mean, Eleven."

"It was him."

Everything in me came to a screeching halt. I opened my mouth to ask a question, but no words came out. Him. Him as in Henry. Him as in the man who ripped my past away from me and lied about it. Him as in the man who broke his promise. "Are you saying--," my voice broke, too. A few beats of silence passed before I was able to speak again. "Are you saying Peter did this?"

She nodded.

And suddenly the world went quiet.

Something inside of me rattled its lungs for one final time, and then it died. There, beneath my ribcage, it withered and decayed and fell to ash at the bottom of my stomach. I recalled each inch of flesh that Henry's fingertips had grazed, and when I looked down, they were blackened. It was a terrible sort of strangeness, a feeling I couldn't understand because it was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. Deeper than hurt, deeper than betrayal. How does one explain what it is to burn alive when they're on fire?

In my mind, Henry unravelled. Smooth, glowing skin shriveled up and died. I remembered the feeling of his hair between my fingers one final time, and it thinned and fell away. The sound of his laugh turned slow and haunting. Henry's eyes were the last thing to come undone. Their ghost was unspeakably blue, flickering in front of me before it dimmed and faded away. When his layers were peeled away, nothing more than a mess of beauty on the bloodied floor of my mind, all that remained was his soul.

I saw him clearly for the first time. Beyond stolen kisses, beyond illicit affairs.

It was a hideous sight. It was a beautiful one. My mind reeled trying to understand what that meant.

When I met Eleven's eyes, a coldness swept over the room. My blood became glacial and my fingertips painted themselves blue. The spit in my mouth turned to ice crystals and pierced through my tongue. "Okay," I breathed, "I need you to do something for me."

The words didn't feel like my own when they fell from my lips. I reached into my pocket, refusing to look at Henry's face as I handed his keycard to Eleven. "Right now, I need you to take this and I need you to leave." I gestured towards the hallway, "This will open the doors. Your job is simple, okay? You're going to run and you're not going to stop until you're beyond the lab fence."

She took the keycard and glanced at the picture it displayed. A grimace passed over her face, and then she looked back at me. "Are you going to go, too?"

"Yes," The smile which came across my lips felt so, completely wrong. I hoped she was too naive to know that it was insincere. To know that I was lying to her face when I replied, "Yes, I am. You go first, and I'll be right behind you. Don't wait for me. Right now, you need to worry about yourself, alright?"

She stared at me in perfect silence.

"Promise me," I held out my pinky finger. "Promise me you'll go and you won't look back."

Her voice was meek as ever when she whispered, "But what about you--."

"No buts. Promise me."

She stayed still for a few moments longer. I could see the conflict on her face. It occurred to me that no child was equipped to make such a monumental decision. Then, I realized she didn't have a choice. Today, she'd have to grow up. I doubt she'd ever be able to return to childhood again. Not after this.

Her pinky finger was a fraction of the size, and yet it bore so much weight when it fell in place with mine. "Promise," she breathed.

"Good girl," I smiled again, and my hand fell to my side. Once more, I grabbed the doorknob. "To the left, there's a clear path in the middle of the hallway. The people are off to the side. I want you to stare at the floor until you reach the middle, and then close your eyes and walk down. Don't open them until you're at the end."

She looked even more terrified than before, "Why?"

I took one of her hands in mine, eyes as earnest as can be. "I'm not going to lie to you, Eleven. It's scary out there. Just close your eyes. If you have to open them, don't look up. Keep looking at your feet to make sure you don't trip. You don't wanna scrape your knees, do you?"

"No. No, I don't."

"Good, I didn't think so," I pulled the door open and blocked her view of the hallway. "Alright. Now, just look down."

She did so. I pushed gently on the small of her back, sending her into the hallway. "You'll be alright," I told her, "I won't let anything happen to you. Go on, go. If you see anyone awake, take them with you. Okay? And if you hear Peter, find somewhere to hide. I'll come and find you."

"Can you please come with me?" Her voice shook, "Please?"

"I can't," I breathed, "But I'll be right behind you."

I watched Eleven as she made her way down the hallway. Her gaze stayed on her feet the entire time, protecting her from the massacre she stumbled her way through. When I was certain she was going in the right direction, certain she was out of harm's way, I allowed my shoulders to fall.

And then I turned back towards the guards. I fished my way through pools of blood until my fingers eventually found the onyx handle of a gun. I stared at the weapon for a long while before I gathered the courage to pull it into my hands. It was denser than I would've imagined, such a small thing and yet so, incredibly heavy. It gleamed beneath the lights overhead.

The was a little notch on the side. I pressed it forward, and a click echoed through the room. I assumed it would be best if I figured out how to use it, with my rationale being 'just in case'. My hands trembled when I raised the gun towards the television. I could see my reflection in the little box. It was warped, making my face appear longer than it was. Blood poured from my head and all the way down my neck, staining the collar of my once perfectly white t-shirt. My cheeks held no warmth. My eyes sagged with tiredness.

A loud, booming shot rang through the room, and then the TV shattered into a million pieces. Glass fell both inside of its metal frame and onto the floor. It's circuited innards stared at me for a few moments longer, and then I tucked the gun into the waistband of my sweatpants and turned away.

I knew what I had to do.

My head pounded when I pulled myself to my feet. I swayed back and forth, barely restraining the urge to throw up as I ventured into the hallway. The sounds of screams echoed somewhere in the distance. I set my gaze ahead and my feet began walking.

I entered an odd sort of limbo after that. Each step I took didn't feel like my own. My feet were hitting the floor-- the soft 'click' of my slippers proved it-- and yet I couldn't feel my own legs. My brain and my body felt like two entirely different entities operating of their own accord. Part of me hated it, but the other part appreciated the buffer between consciousness and reality. If I could just focus, I was certain I'd be able to disappear entirely.

There was an eternal silence which came with walking through the dead. No words could be said to save them, no cries could bring them back. Most of their faces were still drawn up in horror. Mouths left open in soundless screams, ones that would fall from their mouths long after they were gone. For each new body I walked by, I had the same reaction; a stuttering of my steps when I tripped over my own feet. Their cries lingered where they had died, a faint whisper coming from behind the halls.

The brutality seemed to worsen as I got closer to the source of the chaos. Doors were thrown off their hinges, dented beyond repair. Past their emptied out frames were bodies. Not a single person was spared. Guards, orderlies, nurses, and patients were reduced to a mess of broken bones. Blood flowed freely down the walls like crimson waterfalls. Cracked tile littered the ground and crunched beneath my slippers. The sound of electricity buzzing had never been quite so loud.

I found Papa next.

At first, I wasn't certain if it was him at all. The lights flickered too violently for me to recognize the body laying on the training room floor. His clothes, however, were distinctive as ever. Even in death, the freshly-ironed creases in his pants were impossibly neat, sharp enough to cut through skin.

Too many thoughts ran through my head. I feared I would drown beneath them.

The irony was laughable. In a gloomy, macabre sort of way. Papa-- or Brenner, I suppose-- had once seemed so unshakeable. He'd been erudite, intelligent, and powerful beyond measure, especially in the lab. Now, I could see him clearly. Now, he was nothing more than a man. One who tricked the world into believing he was something great, only to be struck down by his very own creation. A creation which had been manipulated and abused beneath the veil of fatherly love. I wondered what his last thoughts must have been. How foolish he must have felt.

And despite myself, a sadistic sort of happiness ran through me.

It immediately disappeared when I heard a cry. Not one of the distant ones, either. This was only a hallway away and far weaker than a scream. It was a low, desperate whimper which broke off at the end and fell into silence. I didn't have to see the person's face to know they were in pain.

Peeling my eyes from Papa was surprisingly difficult. When I finally managed to do so, to turn my back on him for good, I was stunned at the grief which overcame me. It came from nowhere, without any real logic or reason, and yet it was overpowering enough for my face to turn hot with the threat of tears. I blinked them back and pressed myself to go further.

Maybe five second passed before I turned the corner, but they felt much longer than that. Much more tiring.

When I saw the source of the cries, my heart stopped. If it had been broken by Henry's betrayal, then it was shattered entirely-- irreparably-- by the sight of Six laying on the floor. Like the others before her, she was a mess of fractured limbs. I had grown so used to seeing her fingers wrapped around a pencil, scribbling away at her next masterpiece each morning in the Rainbow Room. I wouldn't have ever imagined them bent and broken, curled upwards in all the wrong directions. At that moment, all I could think was 'how would she ever draw again? '

Though, what separated her from the others was the slow, labored rising of her chest.

She was alive, but barely.

"No, no, no." The word fell uselessly from my lips as my knees met the tile beside her. She was slumped against the wall, legs outstretched. Near her knees, the skin was discolored and torn. It looked as though someone had broken her legs and tried to set them back in place. My stomach twisted as the tears I'd been holding back finally poured from my eyes. "This is all my fault. Oh, Six, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

She inhaled slowly. It was more of a wheeze. "It's that bad, huh?"

"No, no, it's okay," I desperately glanced around for help. A realization came upon me, bringing with it a hopelessness I hadn't ever known -- we were entirely on our own. I turned back to her, "I'll figure this out. We can leave, okay? We can leave. There are plenty of guards who--," I cleared my throat, "We can steal their IDs and find you help. How about that?"

The look in her eyes was enough to kill me. Six opened her mouth to speak, but she thought better. I knew what she was going to say, anyways. That, perhaps, we wouldn't be able to get around things this time. Perhaps we'd run out of good luck.

Perhaps we'd lost.

"There's just so much I didn't get to do," She told me. Tears mixed with the blood on her cheeks until they ran red.

I shook my head, "Don't say that. Once we leave, you'll be able to do whatever you want. We'll find a way around this. We always do, right?"

She looked up at me and tried to smile. Instead, she just grimaced, and another chocked sob fell from her mouth. "I don't think we will, Sixteen."

I tried to tell her no, "Six--."

"I can feel it," She shuddered as she spoke, "I think I'm dying."

'I think I'm dying'. The words ricochetted around in my skull endlessly. They had no beginning or end, no real value, and yet the mental weight they carried was enough to make my knees buckle beneath me. There was no reality in which this went how I wanted it to. For once, I decided I would be honest. My voice was so soft, it almost wasn't there when I asked, "Does it hurt?"

"No," Her breaths were becoming weaker, "At first it did, but now I'm just really tried."

"Tired?" I asked, slumping against the wall beside her, "Can you stay awake just a little longer?" She sent me a sidelong glance.

"I'll try," She hummed. A moment passed, then another. I don't think either of us really knew what to say. "You know, I figured this was how it was going to end. One way or the other."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been here my whole life, Sixteen," Through her tears, she paused to take a deep breath, "If I left, I never would've adjusted to the outside world. I'm never going to be normal. It only ever could've ended one way."

My eyes fell to my lap. I suppose it made sense. She'd spent her entire life in the arms of a nurturing terror. One that called her 'daughter' and gave her candy, but wouldn't ever hesitate to bleed electricity into her skin or exploit her for his own ends. How does one acclimate to life after being raised by someone who didn't value theirs?

My voice was quiet when I breathed, "Papa's dead."

She fell silent, eyes on the roof. A conscious effort was made not to look at the fractured remains of her body. I couldn't imagine what she was thinking. The lights flickered more violently now, and it was a 50/50 guess as to whether Six or Henry was behind it.

Eventually, she whispered, "Good."

I nodded. The blinking of her eyes was a slow, steady thing. Throughout our conversation, I could see them drooping further and further. Her exhaustion was evident, growing stronger with each minute the passed us by.

"Are you scared?" I asked.

"Terrified," She made a sound that almost sounded like a laugh, "I knew I was probably gonna die here, but I didn't think it would be like this." She paused and took another deep, wheezing breath, "I feel guilty."

I furrowed my eyebrows and looked to her, "You have nothing to be guilty for."

"No, I do." She shook her head, "I feel guilty because I wish he had just killed me." She was a mess of sobs, now. Her composure began to rip at the seams as death creeped closer. "But he didn't, and now I have to sit here and I have to think about it. That's the scariest part."

She didn't give me any time to reply. In one way, I was thankful. I had no idea what to say.

"You should've seen him," Six murmured, "Peter."

"I'm lucky that I didn't," I replied after a short while, "I should've listened to you, Six. I knew there was something wrong with him. I could've prevented this."

The words hurt as they fell from my throat. I wanted to lie to myself, say that I couldn't have possibly known, but there were signs. I knew he had it within him to be dangerous, to be cruel, but I never assumed he would do anything like this. Loving someone like I loved him was foolish, I realized. Fatal.

"It's his fault, not yours. All of it," Six replied. "He killed the guards and the orderlies without much thought, but our siblings were different. He ripped them apart. Each one he killed, it was like he got stronger. I could feel him... drawing from me. I'm worried that if I die now, he'll take what I have left."

I pictured Henry in front of her. Lovely blue eyes burning with Shakespearean rage. Like an angel of death, he tore through everyone and everything in his way. Just the image of it in my head was enough to rip me in two.

"I want you to do it," Six told me.

My heart dropped, "What? "

She spoke with her eyes closed, now. Clearly, it was getting more and more difficult to string together sentences. "I know you, Sixteen. You're not leaving until you get back at him for this."

I considered denying it, but she was right. "That's true."

"Hm, you're predictable," She huffed in amusement. I couldn't begin to understand how she could joke at a time like this. "If I'm going to go, and someone's going to kill me, I'd rather it be you than him."

Anger sparked up inside of me, "Are you kidding?" I demanded, spitting out the words like poison, "I'm not gonna fucking kill you, Six."

She stared at me for a few moments, silent. "If I die like this, he gets my abilities. He gets the strength. I deserve some grace, and dying by his hands would take that all away. If you do it, I can go knowing that my abilities will make you stronger when you face him. That way... Maybe going will be a little easier."

All words abandoned me. I could only stare at her.

The corner of her lip tilted up when we made eye contact, "I think I've earned some rest. Don't you?"

I wanted to tell her no. I wanted to laugh in her face and swear that she was insane if she thought I would ever hurt her. But then, a little voice in the back of my head told me that maybe she was right. Maybe this wasn't up to me, and if she had a final wish then I had no choice but to fulfill it. Six was the one person here who had cherished me since the beginning. When Henry didn't visit me in the hospital wing, she had. She was constant and understanding and lovely beyond words. How could I possibly deny her?

By the time I made up my mind, her breaths were few and far between. Her eyes had closed and I doubt they would ever open again. "You're sure this is what you want?"

One beat passed. Then another. "Yes."

"Okay," I breathed. I moved from my spot against the wall and placed my hand on her forearm, the one part of her body that was partially intact. If she felt the touch, she didn't show it. I feared she was too far gone to register much at all.

Our borrowed time had begun ticking out. I stared up at her from the wrong end of an hourglass, my entire body buried beneath sand. The grains were still falling all around, trapping me deeper and deeper until I had to tilt my neck up just to get air. Sand collected in my eyes, but I feared wiping it away was a pointless task. It just kept coming.

"Keep your eyes closed, okay?" I told her. My voice was low as I readied myself for the task at hand, "It's gonna be peaceful. Like falling asleep." All she did was nod. She was running out of strength to do much else. "Thank you for being my friend," I whispered, "I love you."

She shushed me, "None of that. I'll see you again. This is just bye for now."

"Okay," My voice broke, "Bye for now."

She briefly opened her eyes, letting them run over me one final time as she echoed, "Bye for now."

With that, they fell closed.

I nodded, and mine did the same. Where my flesh met hers, it was warm. My abilities didn't take long to come to the surface. I think, somehow, they sensed the danger we were in, and so they knew it was only a matter of time before they were called upon. Selfishly, I wished they hadn't. I wished they would disappear and never come back so that Six and I could sit there and talk for a little while longer. If it were up to me, the world would stop turning and time itself would come to a halt. That way, I could pretend everything wasn't changing. Like life as I knew it wasn't coming to a tragic sort of end.

Of course, I didn't have a say in the matter. I never really had.

And so her heart began to beat slower. With my hands on her flesh and my abilities intermingling with hers, I could feel her slipping away more clearly now. Each breath she breathed was weaker, a step closer to a precipice neither of us fully understood. I didn't know how to go about her request, but the electricity which began flooding my veins told me it didn't matter. Like a parasite, I stole away what little of her remained.

I could only describe it as warmth. Drawing from her was a slow, gradual process. It started at my fingertips, then spread to my arms. Each moment that passed, a new part of my body went up in a cathartic sort of flame. She overcame me, and I overcame her. It wasn't long before her chest had all but stopped its heaving. Somehow, I could feel her fading away. Like falling asleep, it happened slowly, then all at once. She flew further and further from reach, until the connection between the two of us began to change. It didn't feel mutual or warm. It grew ice cold, until that cathartic rush began to hurt. I held on tighter, trying to fight against the mental hypothermia. It was as though my entire body had been dunked in ice-cold water. My head began to pound, worse and worse and worse, but I couldn't let her go.

Then the pain became blinding. White flashed before my eyes, and then my hands were trembling. Where my skin met hers, it was frigid. I was certain my fingertips had turned blue as the blood froze in my veins.

When I finally let go, I didn't have to feel her pulse to know she was gone.

And still, I pressed, "Six?"

No response.

"Six?"

Everything felt wrong. My brain swelled out of my skull, desperately trying to process the enormity of what had just happened. My insides cried out to break past my ribcage and spill onto the floor. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the pain in my head never went away. It only got worse. Each moment that passed was a lifetime. Cold, unrelenting metal began tying up my wrists like it had so many times in the past, and I almost couldn't believe that it ever went away. Misery felt so right against my skin. Innate, even. Who was I to deny nature?

When I finally gathered the courage to open my eyes, a stillness took over me. Six didn't move. She never would again. Someone's kid was dead.

I turned my eyes away. I knew I had to leave her side, to face a monster who whispered sweetness in my ear and breathed life into my lungs, but I didn't know if I had the strength. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, no happy ending for me to look forward to. I had this terrible, sinking feeling that no matter how bad things were now, they would only get worse. It was a kind of defeat I couldn't quite explain. Rain after a tsunami, sun after a forest fire.

The distant screaming had gone quiet. The lights had stopped fluttering. If I squinted just right, I could almost pretend everything wasn't slipping through my fingers. That it was still yesterday, and Six was alive and Henry was holding me in his arms. That all felt so long ago, now. Part of me wondered if I made it all up.

I spared one last glance at Six. She looked peaceful, almost like she was sleeping. Then I saw the rest of her body, the bones peaking out from her skin, and I remembered there was no peace for her. No peace for any of those bodies laying in the hallway, warm skin growing colder and colder by the second.

"Bye for now," I whispered.

With that, I set my gaze forward. Towards the Rainbow Room at the end of the hall. The unmarked double doors looked so, impossibly sinister. Like an open grave calling me towards it, prepared to bury me beneath the earth. Whether it was bravery that compelled me forward or whether it was foolishness, I pressed on regardless.

When my hands met the cold, metal panels on the door, I felt no relief. The coldness didn't soothe my skin and the lack of air-conditioning didn't bless my ears. I could feel him on the other side of the door. His presence surrounded and suffocated. Every part of him was on every part of me. All at once, his hair brushed my forehead, his fingertips pressed into me, his breath fanned down my neck, and his voice rumbled against my skin. I drowned beneath the sensations, so vivid in my memory it was as though I were reliving them.

I forgot nothing, I remembered everything. At that moment, it felt like a curse.

There was no point in standing there any longer. Waiting was torture. Though, I suppose the alternative was just as agonizing.

The doors were impossibly quiet when I pushed them open. If it weren't for the tap of my shoes against the tile, I doubt Henry would've noticed that I entered.

The Rainbow Room was destroyed in the same way as the rest of the facility. Bodies were everywhere. Standing there, gazing upon the tattered remains of my siblings, I understood exactly what Six had meant. The orderlies and the guards were dead, yes, but it wasn't quite as brutal. Either their heads were smashed into walls or their necks were broken. The patients-- the children-- were different. Their eyes were pulled from their sockets, their skin was bruised and bleeding. Some of them were unrecognizable, a mess of reddish pulp and bits of skin. He didn't just kill them, he pulverized them.

There was something distinctly more melancholic about the massacre in the Rainbow Room. The bodies looked so out of place among toy cars, crayons, board games, and puzzles. A terribly strange sense of familiarity twisted in the air. Dead children in the Rainbow Room-- a contradiction of itself, and yet so fitting at the same time. I knew this room was never safe. I knew these toys were all a front. This entire time, I knew it. And now I stood and watched as that gut feeling came to pass, a metaphor brought to life right in front of my eyes.

The sound of my own heavy breathing sharpened my focus. It felt like there was no air in the room, and so I gasped and panted but still, I could hardly breathe.

Looking at Henry was akin to looking at the sun. It burned. I could feel my pupils shrink into nothing as they tried to adjust to the luminosity that was him. My corneas were the next to go. It wasn't long before they melted and poured down my face in the form of salty tears bleaching my skin.

I saw him clearly for the first time.

His suit was always so immaculate. There was never a fraying cuff or a blotch of dirt, only the razor-sharp creases and a freshly ironed collar. Now, he looked different. Now, red painted the empty canvas of his clothing. He was turned away from me, displaying splatters of blood all along his back. And it certainly wasn't his-- all except for the insignificant little slit in his neck where Soteria had once been. The wound stained his collar, but it wasn't at all difficult to tell where his blood ended and the others' began.

Dread wrapped around my throat like a noose when he began to turn towards me. It pressed and it pressed until I couldn't breathe any longer, and I was certain I would suffocate before he could face me. But then his eyes met mine, and I was proven so, terribly wrong. The whites of Henry's eyes were bloodshot, but the precise blue of his irises stuck out more than ever. They posed a stark contrast to everything else in the room. Where the rainbows along the floor were dull and lifeless, his gaze was vivid and almost supernatural in its sapphire intensity.

And then he smiled at me. A genuine smile as though we were still wrapped up in my bedsheets, as though bodies didn't litter every feasible surface. "I was waiting for you," His eyes only ever left mine to trail the length of my body, before they snapped back up, "Oh, my. Don't you look pretty?"

I opened my mouth, but I forgot how to talk. The compliment didn't warm my skin or cause butterflies to dance around in my stomach, it just hurt. Everything about him hurt. His footfalls were the only sound in the entire room-- in the entire world-- as he made his way towards me. The way he walked was slow and predatory, and I couldn't shake the feeling that he was about to swallow me whole.

When he saw the tears on my face, the blood pooling on the back of my neck, his eyes practically turned black. Everything inside of me was screaming to back away, but I would not let him move me. I'd be a mountain if I had to.

It was easy to forget how tall he was. I used to adore the way his legs seemed to stretch into heaven, but now it felt different. It was imposing, a testament to the physical strength he possessed and the physical strength that I did not. When he stood only two feet away, I had to tilt my head up just to meet his eyes. And I hated it. I hated how small he made me feel and the way he stared down at me like I was his lesser.

His voice was a dangerous sort of calm. A snake coiled up, seconds away from striking when he asked, "Who did this to you?" I didn't reply. That look in eyes of utter fixation, of insanity, it stole each word away from my lips.

But then his hand was coming towards me and trying to grasp at my skin. My entire body curled in on itself when he caught my jaw. "Don't--," I slapped his hand away like it was white-hot. For the millionth time, I tried to come up with the correct words, but I fell short. All that I could do was repeat a shaking, seething, "Don't."

His flushed pink lips twitched into frown. The look on his face was one of surprise, perhaps even hurt. And, for a reason that was far, far beyond me, I felt guilty. 

Then I saw the blood on his cheekbone, his temple, his jaw, and the guilt all but disappeared. What if it was Six's?

"This is about your friend, isn't it?" He spat out the word 'friend' like it was a bad taste in his mouth, "Trust me, Sixteen, I wanted to keep her safe for you. I wouldn't have hurt her if she just listened... But I tried to fix her. Didn't you see?"

For a moment, I thought I really would get sick. "Her legs."

He nodded as though he'd done me a favor. Like sticking her legs back in place after breaking them was charitable.

Before I could fully understand what was happening, my hand was raised from my side, and he was stumbling back. My abilities acted upon my every impulse. I didn't have time to think things through before I was gesturing in the air, and Henry was doubling over in pain. "You lied to me," I spat, and then an invisible force shoved him back. "You manipulated me." His head snapped to the side. My fury was a desert expanding in every single direction. The sun beat down upon our backs. Unrelenting, without mercy, boiling the very air which surrounded us. My voice rose until each word hurt my ears, "You took everything from me!"

It wasn't long before Henry had composed himself. He stared at me in perfect silence while my sobs filled the entire room. My dignity was gone, washed away in a flood of my own emotions. "I lied to protect you," He told me. When he walked closer, I stumbled away as though he were the plague. "You're so frightened of me, and yet I did this all for you. So that you could reach your full potential."

"You didn't do shit for me," I seethed. He took another step closer, and I barely restrained the urge to scream. My entire body was trembling when I shouted, "Stay the fuck away from me!"

He regarded me for a few moments longer. I could see those terrible eyes drinking in the tears on my cheeks, the sheer terror on my face. He was calm. Somehow, I would've preferred his rage to the hallowed out look in his eyes. "No," he said after a few moments, "No, I don't think I will."

He watched me as his wrist left his side. Before I could so much as think of stopping him, he gestured in my direction and I was knocked off my feet. Like a rag doll, my body tumbled through the air until I met the wall. The breath in my lungs disappeared. When I tried to step forward, I couldn't. It was as though my limbs had fused with the tile behind me.

The entire room was drowned out by a loud, high pitched ringing that stabbed into my ears. My head pounded incessantly as I squeezed my eyes shut in hopes of alleviating the pain. It didn't work. All I knew was the endless parade of raw, aching nerves in the back of my mind.

Henry was standing in front of me by the time my hearing had returned. I hadn't even noticed him creeping closer, but I opened my eyes and there he was. This time, when his hand caught my jaw, I couldn't fight it. I tried to call upon my abilities but the pain in my head broke my focus. Helplessness was a wave pushing my body beneath the surface. I fruitlessly struggled, desperate to get a gulp of air, but all I managed to do was sink deeper and deeper.

"Stop fighting it," Henry murmured, tilting my head up to meet his eyes, "You're only going to hurt yourself."

By some miracle, I managed to wrench my jaw out of his grasp. Each movement I made sent a fresh wave of pain through my skull, but I figured it was a better alternative than doing what Henry wanted. "Six warned me about you," I spat, "And like a fucking idiot, I ignored her. For you, I ignored her."

"Can't you see she's trying to poison you against me?" His eyes never left mine. Not even for a second. "Six can't keep you safe." His fingers were unbelievably gentle, almost loving, as they brushed against the gash on the back of my head. When I winced, he immediately pulled away. "This is why you need me, Sweetheart. I wouldn't ever let someone hurt you like this."

"I have never needed you," I pulled at my invisible restraints, but they wouldn't let up. "I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," He whispered. His thumb was cold to the touch as he wiped away my tears. It was a useless effort. They just kept coming. "But, sometimes, people sneak up on you. You trust too easily, Sixteen, that's your problem. You become blind sighted, and you pay for it."

"Like how you're making me pay for it now?" I hissed.

He looked at me like I was a mindless little lamb. Unable to think for myself, led on a leash towards the slaughter. I didn't know what was worse; his cruelty or his pity. Either way, it didn't really matter, because he ignored my remark altogether, "I hope they're dead, at the very least. The person who did... that." His eyes flitted to the cut on my head, then right back to mine.

"Of course they're dead," I spat.

"That's my girl," He mused, lips twitching into a smile. He opened his mouth to speak, but I wouldn't let him.

"Stop it. You have no right to call me that." Even if I couldn't physically hurt him, my voice may as well have been a whip lashing his back. Unfortunately, his words had the same effect. They stung like salt rubbed into a wound. It burned, but the nicknames and the faux-tenderness was enough to melt the skin from my bones. It felt so wrong.

"Is that so?" Henry's head tilted to the side. He watched me with such attentiveness, but he spoke with such condescension. "I think I'll call you whatever I like. Can't you see, Sixteen? This--us -- it's fate. Imagine all we could do together."

"All we could do together?" My gaze trailed over his shoulder, towards the bodies laying on the ground. I'd only just recognized the smell rising into the air. Blood. "I can hardly look at you, Henry. You're insane if you think we'll ever do anything 'together' again."

My guts shriveled up at the words. They felt so final. I never wanted things to end this way.

I stumbled along an endless, winding trail. I tried to retrace my footsteps and find the very place where this all had gone wrong, but when I turned, they were gone. Swept away by the wind whistling through my ears. All I had left was the image of footprints stamped upon the sands of my mind and the settling dust of what once had been. I couldn't help but wonder where I misstepped. What could I have done to change this? To save Henry from himself and, in doing so, save everyone else?

"Did I do something wrong?" I found myself choking out. When I met his eyes again, he was already looking at me. I doubt he ever looked away. "I understand why you wanted to hurt Papa. You have every right to be angry, but this..." I rested my head against the tile, "they were kids, Henry. I don't understand."

On the other side of the room I heard a grunt. It was quiet, almost impossible to discern from the ambient noise in the room. A few louder ones followed in quick succession. Henry didn't look at all surprised. "Perfect timing, Two." He called over his shoulder. His hand curled around my forearm, "Let me make you understand, my love."

I didn't have time to object before he was pulling me with him. I tried to yank my arm free, but all I managed to do was earn a sharp glare from Henry. As much as I hated to admit, he scared me. The blood on his face, the glint in his eye. He had come entirely undone.

I'd comply for as long as it took me to regain my energy. Then, I'd strike at any possible chance

He pulled me along with him, stepping over bodies as though they were nothing more than puddles on a sidewalk. I tried to keep up with him, but I wasn't so eager to walk over murdered children. I stumbled over my own feet as terror took control of my limbs. In response, Henry tightened his grip on my arm and slowed his pace. "Watch your step," Henry hummed. I didn't miss the mockery in his voice.

We came to a halt in front of Two. He stared up at his from his place on the ground as he cradled a bleeding wound on his head. One of his legs was broken, but aside from that he looked unharmed. A foreboding ache twisted up my stomach. Henry wouldn't spare Two just to kill him in front of me. It seemed impossible, but I knew this was about to get worse.

When I tried to step back, Henry wouldn't let me.

"Let me go," I demanded. Panic began seeping into my bloodstream, "Henry, please." All of my body weight was put into pulling away from him, "Just let me go."

Instead of listening to my commands, he pulled me closer. Soon enough my back was flush against his chest and both of my forearms were caught in his grasp. "Stay still," He murmured in my ear, "I'm only trying to help you. You're making this more difficult than it has to be."

I gave struggling one more go, throwing my entire body forward to no avail. By the time I gave up, my breath has abandoned me. "Fuck you."

Henry's laugh was warm against my ear. He took my jaw and directed it towards Two, heedless of my protests. From the ground, Two stared up at us. He already looked dead. His skin was pale enough to match the tile he sat upon, growing whiter by the second. His entire body trembled from what I could only assume was a mixture of fear and pain. In that moment, laying our differences aside was as easy as breathing. "I'm sorry," I called to him, "I'm so sorry."

In response, he shook his head and closed his eyes. My entire body ran cold with the type of guilt that made people swan dive off a building.

"Now, now, Sixteen," Henry chastised, "You have no reason to be sorry. He should be apologizing to you."

"He and I are even, Henry. Please, just let him go."

I could feel Henry's demeanor change. His anger burned brighter than a thousand suns, and it came from a place deeper than the pacific ocean. "You should've killed him in the bathroom. You're too merciful, Sixteen. Don't you remember how he hurt you?" His finger ran over the scar tissue on my arm, sending chills down my spine, "Don't you remember how scared you were? You told me you wanted to hurt him. Now you can."

I shook my head. Fresh tears poured down my face. "This isn't what I wanted. I won't hurt him."

Henry sighed. I felt it run down my neck and disappear along the columns of my spine. Everything inside of me was screaming to get out. "You want to understand, Sixteen? This is the only way," His hair brushed against my temple as he bent down and leveled his head with mine, "He is not like us. Yes, he posses abilities like ours, but he can't do what we can." His voice became more urgent, more manic, "We are better than he is. Him and the rest of your siblings... they're nothing but lapdogs on Brenner's leash. We are something far, far more than that."

"What the hell are you talking about?" My voice was hardly above a whisper. A million thoughts ran through my mind, all making less sense than the one before.

"Don't play dumb, Sweetheart. It's unbecoming," He hummed, "The only way to reach your full potential is to let go of your inhibitions," I shuddered when his lips brushed my ear, "Kill them, if you must."

"You're insane." My voice shook with each work, "You are fucking insane."

"Maybe so," He drew circles on my arm with his thumb. Each touch was like acid eating through my skin. "But I'm right. He has no place in our future. No place in the world I'm going to make for you." He glanced at the bodies surrounding us, "None of them do. Their use-- their purpose-- is to die by our hands so their abilities can become ours. It's a sacrifice, yes, but it's necessary. I'd go as far as to call it an honor."

I trembled so violently I expected the walls to collapse in on themselves.

"So go on, Sweetheart," He rasped, "Kill him."

When Two locked eyes with me, I felt like I was dying too. He was so afraid I could smell it. Fear lingered in the air around him, in the shuddering of his breaths, the trembling of his lips. An abysmal sense of dread settled over the room. A million words passed between the meeting of our eyes, but also something more than that. Understanding. I wasn't alone in my hopelessness. He sat with me and felt as it seeped into his pores and poisoned his insides.

"Please," The word was nothing more than a gasp of air leaving my lips.

"Please what..?" Henry chided.

"Don't make me do this."

One moment passed, then another. His grip on my arms remained steadfast until he stepped aside. As soon as I was freed I tried to run in the other direction, but intangible bars held me in place. "What are you doing?" I cried. My eyes snapped shut as I tried to call upon my abilities. There was a spark beneath my skin, a flare, but it burnt out far too quickly

"What's the matter, my love?" He tilted his head and stepped away. "Powers not working?"

"What did you do?" I seethed.

He smiled, "Oh, come now. I didn't do anything. Head injuries make it quite difficult to focus, though. Don't they?"

He watched me for a short while after. His blue eyes devoured each inch of skin, all the way from my sedentary limbs to the savagery painted across my face. When he was satisfied with himself, he closed off the distance between us. "If you won't kill him, I will." His fingertips brushed against my cheek. They were freezing. Everything about him was hardened like ice. "And you'll watch."

"No," My eyes went wide. I tried to do something-- anything-- but all I managed to accomplish was a flickering of the light above my head. "Henry, please. Don't do this. He didn't do anything. No one else has to die today."

"Oh, Sixteen," When he stared down at me, I'd almost describe the look in his eyes as love, "They all do."

His gaze lingered on mine for a moment longer and then he turned away, heedless of my pleading for him to stop.

Two looked upon Henry with wide, terrified eyes as he pressed his body into the wall. As though that would save him. Henry regarded his efforts with a deep, rattling chuckle. In the silence of the room, it was so incredibly loud.

There wasn't much preparation before Henry raised his hand. No ceremonious speech, no buildup. Just a deranged man and the power he possessed. At that moment, time slowed to a halt. The first sign of what was to come was a flickering of the lights above. One stuttered, then two, then all of them at once. My cries fell on deaf ears as I fought with renewed strength to escape. Here I was, running out of time all over again.

Two hit the wall with a resounding crash. His broken leg curled unnaturally to the side as a cry fell from his lips. He hung there, suspended by nothing as Henry closed his eyes. No more than five seconds after, Two began to tremble. A thick, gurgling sound erupted from his mouth. The crescendo of lights overhead announced a new surge of power just as my begging filled the air.

Veins popped out of Two's arms, temples, and wrists like worms curling beneath his skin. I felt a wave of energy wash over me, growing stronger with each moment that passed us by. The familiar electric current of our powers caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. A bolt of lighting struck through the room and lit up my bones. I could feel them fighting each other. It was a battle of wills, now; desperation versus senseless, unfeeling power. Two's muscles went tense as he pushed himself harder and harder, desperate to get a foothold in the ever-fleeting war waged between him and Henry.

It was pointless, though.

Henry was too strong. I could see the fight begin to shift in his direction. Two's trembling increased with a vengeance until it looked like he was having a seizure in midair. A sicking sort of crack filled the room as Henry pressed even harder. The only sign of the strain Two put him under was a slight tremor in his arm, and the tilting of his head as he gathered his focus. A rush ran over me like a gust of wind, powerful enough to knock me off my feet. Again, I tried to move, but somehow Henry managed to hold me firmly in place.

Blood poured from Two's eyes like tears. When the power in the room grew too overbearing, as though it would explode at any moment, a final snap echoed in all directions.

Immediately, the lights ceased flashing.

Two dropped into a heap on the floor, dead.

Henry waved in my direction, and suddenly my feet could move again. I stumbled backwards like my life depended on it. For all I knew, it did. My trembling hands covered my mouth, but not even that could stifle my cries. Grief closed in on me from all directions, and all he could do was stand there and watch.

"Don't waste your tears, Sixteen. His fate was sealed the moment he hurt you." Worry filled Henry's eyes, but somehow that was worse. The man I'd known, 'Peter,' showed himself in slivers. In soothing touches, passing glances. How could I have possibly misjudged someone so terribly? A day ago, I could've sworn I knew him like the back of my hand.

I ran my fingers beneath my eyes and wiped away my tears, trying my very hardest to tighten the strings of my composure. "When I first met you I thought you were a carbon copy of Brenner," I told him, "But now I see it. You are so much worse."

Henry's shoulders tensed. His eyes turned dark as a storm cloud blew through them, blue morphing into the type of blackness that could steal the sun from the sky. "Careful, Sixteen." He warned. The threat was clear. Careful or I'll make you be careful.

I came upon him slowly, eyes glued to his the entire time. He watched me with such anger, but somewhere in his gaze there was amusement, too. Like this was all some joke and I'd taken it too far.

"Or what, Henry?" A dry, bitter sort of laugh fell from my lips. It held no humor. "You'll kill me? Like you killed Two, and Six, and everyone else who you deem 'inferior?'" He narrowed his eyes, but I kept pushing. "I am exactly like them. So go on, Henry, kill me. Look me in the eyes and kill me."

A silence passed.

In his eyes, I saw a memory. A flicker of what once had been, trapped beneath glacial irises. Suddenly there we were, wrapped up beneath my bedsheets. I remember how big he'd felt, like the entire galaxy-- stars, planets, fates-- had been poured into one person. The sound of his laughter and the distinct blue of his eyes. Yesterday, he had been mine. I had touched my lips to his until the universe aligned and we were cosmic. I wondered if I could ever forget the smiles we shared in the dead of night, the way he whispered sweetness into my ear until my mind was honey. Back then, we had the a/c overhead, the press of his fingertips on my skin. But most importantly, we had time.

I had little else, but I would always have yesterday.

The problem with yesterday, though, is how it faded away with each passing moment. In another universe, perhaps he still held me. Perhaps he didn't stare at me like he did now, sapphire eyes full of dread.

"I'm not going to kill you, Sixteen," He murmured. For a moment, I swear he almost seemed honest. "I wasn't lying, you know. When I told you I loved you--."

"--Please don't," I shook my head, "Don't say that."

"It's the truth," There was such certainty in the words, "I haven't felt fondness for anyone. Not even my own parents. But you... you... showed me that it's possible. This isn't a manipulation or a lie. Think of the world we could create together. Just you and I, Sixteen. We could do anything."

"Do you realize how cruel you're being?" It was growing more and more difficult to speak. Rational thought abandoned me until all I was left with was an ocean of desolation spilling through my insides. I gestured to the room around us, "This isn't love. Lying and manipulating isn't love." I met his eyes, "I don't think you're capable of love, Henry. And it kills you, doesn't it?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but I silenced him, "I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me." I took a few steps closer. His breath was warm against my face, but not even that could thaw me. "If I wasn't as powerful as I am, would I be dead right now?"

One beat of silence passed, then two. His silence was the only confirmation I needed. My eyes flitted to the ground. Oh.

"No, sweetheart. You wouldn't be dead," He fingers grasped my chin, "If you need honesty, then that's what I'll give you. That, and whatever else you could possibly want."

I told myself it was muscle memory, the urge to lean into his embrace. Each and every nerve demanded I give in to him. But I'd played the fool one too many times, and I refused to be tricked ever again. "Brenner didn't actually kill your parents, did he?"

That look filled his eyes again, a sadistic sort of excitement. His lips twitched into a smile, and I realized I wasn't ever going to get 'Peter' back. Maybe in a different reality, I'd be able to love him in spite of it. Perhaps even because of it. The universe had never been on my side, though, and so this reality was all I had.

"No, he didn't."

My lungs collapsed in on themselves and my eyes fluttered shut. I nodded.

"My parents weren't good people," His grip on my jaw tightened and my eyes snapped back open. Our closeness made my skin crawl. "I showed them who they were... The deaths they were responsible for. They hated me for it. They were going to lock me away, Sixteen, give me to Brenner so I could be poked and prodded for the rest of my life. But I wouldn't allow it. I had to act."

"You killed them," I whispered, "Your sister, too."

"That's what I love about you," His thumb traced my jaw as a smile came upon his lips, "So much more than a pretty face."

"Don't patronize me." I yanked my head out of his grip. There were so many things he'd done wrong, so many questions I had left. I didn't even know where to begin. "You did this because... what? Everyone's evil and they're out to get you? So you lie and you manipulate and you murder and, somehow, that doesn't make you just as bad as everyone else." I shook my head in disbelief, "Is that right, Henry? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"Yes, it is," His eyes bore into mine with such intensity. He wanted to make me understand with every fiber of his aching soul. When Henry leaned closer, I saw each fleck of color in his eyes and each dash of red on his cheek. I could smell the blood running down his neck. "I'm not good, Sixteen, but I'm also not evil. I just am. There's no reason behind any of it, so don't waste your energy searching for one. I just want what I'm owed."

I arched my back away from him, but not even that worked. He was inescapable. "What's that?" I whispered, "What are you owed?"

"Anything," He rasped, "Everything... Including you."

I began to wonder if there was a use in any of this. Nothing I could say would change his mind. His hands were tied, but so were mine. "There's no talking you down, is there?" My voice was so quiet it almost wasn't there. Somehow, Henry heard it, and he nodded. His decision was made. I leaned closer, lips right in front of his when I spat, "Mark my words, Henry. One day, you're gonna look back and you're gonna see that instead of getting what you wanted, you just lost what you had... And I hope the regret fucking eats you alive."

"'What I had?'" He repeated, eyebrows knitting together, "I've been stuck here for over a decade, Sixteen. There's nothing left for me to lose. I have nothing. I 'had ' nothing."

"You had me!" The words filled up the silence of the room all at once. I sat shoulder to shoulder with my all-consuming misery. I nurtured it with sweet-tempered care until it crept through my every vein, every organ, every bone. Tears poured freely down my face. The words were nothing more than a whimper when I repeated, "You had me."

Henry's face softened. Regret poured into his eyes as he wiped the tears from beneath mine. Like that would fix things. Like the entire world hadn't slipped through our fingers. "Don't cry. Please don't cry, Sixteen, I'm sorry." The sincerity in his voice made me ill. When his fingers pulled away, they didn't touch me. 

But they were too close, bringing with them a danger.

I drew my shoulders up and tried not to fall apart. The battle of maintaining my composure had long since been lost. As had mine and Henry's, I suppose. Our game of cards seemed to have reached its inevitable ending. The results were in, and here we stood. The king didn't beat the queen like he'd said. We just cancelled each other out.

"I'm going to leave, Henry," My eyes flittered from his, to the door, then back. "And you're going to stand there and you're going to let me. I don't want to hurt you, but make no mistake, I will." My glare was vicious, biting into him with bloody teeth. 

When I turned away from him, a tiredness overcame me. It hallowed out my insides and pushed me closer and closer to collapse with each step I took towards the door. I couldn't shake the terrible, aching feeling that I wouldn't stop feeling tired for as long as I lived. No amount of rest would ever erase the precise blue of his eyes or the symphony of Six's laugh. How was I supposed to exist after this? Did it makes me selfish if I didn't want to?

"Come here, Sixteen." Henry's voice was calm as ever, like he fully believed I would do as he said.  When I persisted and wrapped my hand around the door handle, he tried again, "You're a fool if you think I'm going to let you leave." A coldness slipped into his tone. 

The kiss of metal was welcome against my skin. "It's not your choice to make," I sent him one last glance over my shoulder. His eyes were sharp enough to pierce through bone. "I never wanted power, Henry. I just wanted you. That's love." 

One moment passed, then another. I felt everything. So very deeply. My heart was cracked right open, a mess of red and blue on display just for him. I wonder if he could smell how rotten it had become. When he looked at my face, could he see the mess that he'd made of me? I didn't think I'd ever be able to wash myself clean. Not even by peeling my own skin off. He was in my bones, after all. The deepest parts of my brain.

I broke eye contact after what felt like forever. I didn't give myself time to second guess or give into my anger before I pulled the door open. The hallway yawned in front of me, showcasing broken bodies and blood-splattered walls. My stomach dropped even further. I didn't think that was possible.

"You're not leaving my side, Sixteen. Willingly or not, I'll make sure of it." He spat, the words brimming with fatalistic promise. It wanted to shout at him or scream all the obscenities I could think of, but I never got the chance. In the blink of an eye, his powers pressed against me and I hit the ground on the other side of the room. The gun in my waistband pressed painfully into my stomach, drawing a muffled cry from my lips. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I whispered under my breath. I knew I had to act, but the exploding pain in the back of my head promised to kill me if this went on much longer. The most I could do was rise to my knees before I had to pause and cradle my head in my hands. 

This time, when Henry caught my jaw, there was no tenderness. His grip painted my skin blue. The fight to escape it didn't last long. I hadn't even seen him coming until his belt was at eye-level. "You never learn, do you?" He wrenched my chin up, either forgetting about the state of my head or not caring. He glared down at me with eyes that gleamed like the serrated blade of a knife. "There's no getting away, sweetheart. You know that, and yet you continue to prove obstinate. Why is that, hm?"

I didn't reply. A helpless sort of anger took away my ability to speak. 

In response to my silence, Henry tilted his head mockingly. His lips curled into a cruel, unfeeling smile, "Come now, use your words."

Stone cold finality ripped through me. I couldn't keep lying to myself. He wouldn't ever let me leave of my own volition. For all I knew, he was willing to give me an ending terrible enough to make the ceiling weep crimson tears. This wouldn't go peacefully. He denied me grace, he denied me dignity. Looking at him, I knew there was no choice but to lower myself to his level. 

And so I would.

The suddenness of my hand lurching forward caught Henry by surprise. His eyes went wide, and before he could even think of responding, he was slammed against the Rainbow Room doors. Adrenaline rushed through me, and suddenly I could stand again. My gaze fell down to my palms, unassuming as always. By some miracle, my powers had returned. 'Use your emotions ' Henry had said. A morbid sort of irony settled over me. His advice would be his undoing. 

Henry's low, rasping breaths pulled my attention back to him. He pulled himself off the ground ever so slowly, eyes glued to mine the entire time. 'Traitor' they said, looking upon me as though I had stabbed a knife into his back. Perhaps I had. But what's one knife to a dozen?

We stood maybe twenty feel apart. At that moment, his eyes were blue and fiery, brighter than I'd ever seen them. A new gash spanned along his cheekbone and weeped down his face. His hair no longer look perfect. Blonde curls fell onto his forehead, nearly long enough to reach his eyes. When he rose to his full height, my fingers trembled by my side. I hid them behind my back. I wouldn't show him just how scared I was. Not even if it killed me.

"Stupid girl," He spat, wiping a hand over his blood stained cheek. I hadn't ever heard him speak to me like that. It wasn't cold or indifferent, it was hateful. Words spoken into existence with the singular goal of hurting me. And they did. Perhaps he never thought I was smart to begin with. Perhaps he'd been coaxing my ego this entire time. "You could be perfect, Sixteen. You could be a god."

"I never wanted to be a god," I told him. Neither of us dared move closer. "I'm not like you, Peter. I kill when I'm backed into a corner and it's the only way out... You kill because you think having abilities makes us superior."

"It does," He lifted his chin, speaking with all the coldness of a raging blizzard, "You think their lives are worth more than our strength. In time, I'll fix that state of mind. I'll fix you."

"I shouldn't have to be 'fixed' to make you love me," I told him. Watering dead roses was an unimaginably tiring task. All it did was dirty my hands and cut my skin. There was no questioning it... I'd be picking thorns out of my side for years to come. "I should've been enough for you as I was... This should've been enough for you."

"I know it's confusing, my love. One day you'll understand." Henry stepped closer, "And that's why you can't leave. I suppose, in one way, you brought this on yourself."

I blew a breath of air from my lungs. I knew what was coming. "For what it's worth, I never wanted to hurt you. You just left me with no choice."

He didn't reply. 

The moment his hand pushed towards me, mine did the same. All at once, the lights resumed their flickering overhead.

His strength was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. It was all consuming, wrapping around my bones as soon as it touched me. There was something distinctly alive about them. Rabid, feral, starving. Just like the look in his eyes. They clawed at my skin, bit at every piece of exposed flesh. I hadn't ever known such viciousness. They were without relent, without beginning or end. Nothing more than a thoughtless, abysmal force given to him by nature.

I was still far too weak. The blood spilling from my nose and into my mouth told me so. 

Henry, on the other hand, was completely composed. His hand stretched towards me '001' on display like a battle cry. Not once did his arm tremble or brace underneath my power. It just pressed and pressed and pressed. The only indication that he was putting in any effort at all was the low, shuddering grunts which fell from his mouth in quickening succession. 

I was not nearly as composed. My hands trembled, my head ached, my face twisted up with the effort. I tried to step forward and gain a little bit of leverage, but nothing worked. He was everywhere. The place my soul and my body became intertwined, he was there. Each nerve he invaded, each atom just the same. 

This was fight or fight when flying wasn't a conceivable option. When my wings were shattered and my ankles were chained to the earth. There was no thought or morality or goodness, only self-preservation. That, and the animalistic instinct to press forward, to hurt him before he could hurt me.

When I felt him begin to overcome me, my eyes fell shut. Finding a memory with enough emotion wasn't nearly as difficult this time. 

First, I saw Peter as I had known him. Composed, polite, dressed in that sterile white suit. One that was now stained with blood. Then I saw him in the hallway, bathed in red lights. Memories flashed before my eyes all at once. Training sessions. The pool. Dreams with his fingers on my skin. His hands grasped in mine. Dread, dread, dread. It was everywhere. I knew what was coming.

The word 'sweetheart' whispered against my ear. A man on the floor, sputtering as tasers ripped into him. Begging, crying. Blue eyes meeting mine from across a room. Turning blood to ice when I met them in Papa's office. Traitor, traitor. Tied down while he mocked me. 'King beats queen, Sixteen.' Peter visiting me in the hospital. His warm fingers splayed across my back, guiding me away from McLaughlin. A bruising grip on my forearm. He missed me, he said. Always. Another dream, the first time his fingers ever dipped inside me. 'You're safe, I've got you.' Not safe. I've never been safe. Lips touching the tips of my fingers. Gentle caresses in the middle of the night, smiles exchanged without thoughts of the future. 

The memories worsened after that. Everything inside of me buzzed, red and angry and endless.

A mother slapping her son. A boy who wasn't what I thought. Hands closing over my mouth, keeping me silent. Broken promises. A red chip falling from a wound. I was only trying to help. I didn't know this was going to happen. His mouth on mine, lips over teeth over tongue. 'I'm worried that I might love you.' Liar. Hands pushing me onto a table, Henry stretching his arm towards me. Seizing, foaming, eyes rolling into my skull. Bodies. I'm sorry. Blood everywhere. I'm sorry. Empty eyes sockets, broken limbs. I'm sorry. Six on the ground, fading and fading and fading. This is all my fault.

When my eyes opened, Henry wasn't so collected anymore. His body trembled with effort, chin dipped low as he looked up at me through hooded eyes. My lips twitched into a scowl. Electricity hissed all around, high-pitched and biting. Six's face flashed before me, bloodied beyond recognition. I took one step forward. Henry grunted under his breath, and then he slid back. He tried to brace against me, against the force pushing him further and further into the arms of defeat, but I refused to let up.

Then I felt it. An invisible hand wrapping around my throat, pushing on my airways. At the same time, something pressed against the gash on the back of my head. I gasped, briefly losing focus as white flashed before my eyes. A whimper escaped from my parted lips, but I wasn't going to give up so easily. 

The moment my vision cleared and I could see Henry again, I knew that he was behind it. That he was playing dirty. I tried to gather my focus and regain control of the energy which had wavered inside of me, but it was getting harder and harder to focus. I couldn't breathe. The pain in my head was debilitating. 

"Stop it," I bit out, squeezing my eyes shut as yet another bolt of pain shot towards me.

"I don't think I will," His voice was breathless and trembling, just like mine. "This was only going to end one way. I told you we were going to leave together, and so we are. Even if that means I have to carry you out."

"Not..." I paused, gasping at the air, dark spots dancing across my vision, "That's not fair."

"Maybe you're right," He replied. I could feel my powers dwindling, and I knew he was going easy on me. I could barely push him at my full power, let alone like this. "But that doesn't really matter, does it? Tell me... is it difficult to breathe?"

As if on cue, the intangible grip around my throat tightened. My fingertips trembled with growing vigor. I could feel my consciousness slipping away. I was going to lose. Terror ripped through me. Oh, my god, I was going to lose. There'd be no getting away from him after this. He was smart-- he wouldn't give me the chance. 

Just when the world began to black out entirely, when the final remnants of my breath had abandoned me one final time, I heard him laugh. My knees met the solid ground soon after. Desperate hands clawed at my throat, searching for something to loosen or fight off, but of course, it wasn't there. Another searing jab at the back of my head, and suddenly tears were spilling down my face and onto my knuckles. Henry's shoes entered my field of vision soon after. Black like I'd never seen before, without color or vitality of any kind. 

A bang echoed through the room. 

Air rushed into my lungs.

Then I paused. I think everything did the same. 

Henry and I stared at one another as a stillness fell over the room. It turned our skin grey and statuesque. My trembling ceased. The desperate rise and fall of my chest followed in its wake. Time had come to a halt for Henry, too. Clocks ceased their ticking. The earth stopped its turning. I could see him turning to stone right before me. For once, his eyes didn't hold a million thoughts. They were frozen.

The only thing that eluded the impossible motionlessness was the red on his suit. Scarlet infected the surrounding area, crawling further and further from its epicenter; the bullet wound in his stomach.

The sound of my gun clattering to the ground was so loud it hurt. 

Henry collapsed soon after. 

My sense came back to me all at once. Tears poured down my face like a tsunami, prepared to devastate everything and anything in sight. "Henry!" My scream came from every direction. There was no discernible origin point, and yet it still came back to me with furious vehemence. "Oh, no. No, no, no." 

I placed his head on my lap, trembling fingers running through his hair as I whispered, "Oh, my god. I'm so sorry. I should've-- I don't--," Panic exploded through me, "I don't know why I did that. Oh, god."

His reached up and took his hands in mine. They were weak, trembling. Tears poured down his face, too. His skin was pale, growing paler by the second. "Don't hate me," He choked out, pressing his lips against my knuckles, desperation seeping into every syllable of every word. "Please, don't hate me. I'm sorry. Just please."

That's when I realized he was no God. Gods didn't bleed, gods didn't fall to their knees and beg for forgiveness. But Peter would. Henry would. The man that I once loved with every inch of my aching soul would. It had never been so glaringly obvious before-- he was still in there. Buried beneath decades of anger, bitterness, helplessness and vengeance, he shuddered and gasped and cried for salvation. Who was I to deny him?

"I could never hate you, Henry." I whispered, brushing the tears from his cheeks. The truth behind the words made me sick. How spineless could a person be, to love someone so cruel? I stared down at the very embodiment of evil with all the tenderness of a lover. I hated him. Hated who he became. But then... his hair felt exactly as I remembered it. Nothing had truly changed. I felt like the world had ended, but it didn't. The sun would rise again in the morning as though everything hadn't changed. Time was cruel. It would press on in spite of me, and I'd be cursed to remember everything. But I had right now. Right now and the feigning breaths slipping from Henry's lips, growing weaker and weaker. "I'm scared that I'll love you until I stop breathing."

That was evil, too. Now I understood why the universe toyed with me as it did. I was wicked. Irredeemable.

"You love me?" Henry choked out the words, back arching off the ground as he struggled not to cry out. The hopeful desperation in his voice shattered my heart into pieces. I nodded. He stared at me for a short while after. Melancholia filled his eyes like I'd never seen before. "I thought you were going to tell me that when we got out."

I tried to laugh, but it broke off into a sob. I shook my head and allowed my eyes to travel to the ceiling, "I guess that means we're both liars, doesn't it?"

Our garden had died. Poppies and roses weakened and withered, curling in on themselves until they were nothing but dust on our worm-ridden soil. The air was filled with thick, black smoke. It wasn't long before that very smoke killed all of the birds which once pirched in our trees. They littered the ground, reduced to masses of decaying organs and nothing more. The drought had taken the wisteria with it. Everything was dry and coarse and lifeless. The sky was falling, faster and faster, crushing us beneath it until we were a pulp of broken bones and flattened insides. The bees starved to death. Without any flowers, there was no nectar to collect or orange-colored pollen to fill the air. Our garden was devoid of life, and it was clear the evergreen months I had anticipated would never come to pass.

"You were always enough, Sixteen," Henry told me. His eyes met mine, "I'm selfish. I think I always have been. I'm sorry." I shook my head, tears dripping down my chin and onto his face. I didn't think I was strong enough to listen to the musing of a dying man, running out of words to say and time to say them. No other sadness in the world had ever felt so bottomless.

"Be quiet, okay?" This was a winless fight. We both lost. "Save your energy."

"I hope I was better to you in a different life," He closed his eyes and leaned into my palm. "I'm sorry I'm not a good person. I don't think I ever could be. Some people are beyond saving."

I didn't fully believe the words as they fell from my lips, but I figured a little white lie wouldn't hurt anyone. Things had already gone so wrong. Our kingdom had shattered into nothing. Our thrones were cracked and ruined. All that was left was this. Us. "You tried, Henry. Now you can close your eyes and get some rest, hm?"

He nodded. The tears never stopped falling from his eyes. I could feel him him decaying right in front of me, skin rotting off until the earth wrapped his bones. Who knew I could be envious of soil?

"Can you stay?" His voice was nothing more than a whimper, there and then gone. "Five more minutes?"

I ran my thumb over his cheek.

"Five more minutes," I echoed.

He was still alive when I left him there. One of us had to leave first. I decided it would be me.

The lab was larger than I thought it would be. The gate was less of a gate and more of a fence. My legs hurt. Everything hurt.

I stood at the gate for a long while, staring back at the remainders of life as I knew it. Here I was, the sole survivor of a massacre that was half my fault. There wasn't any sign of perturbance from the outside. It almost looked peaceful. But death had fallen like inky black snow, and even if I couldn't see it, I could feel it. In my bones, the ache of my joints, the shuddering of my breaths. There was no denying it.

I wondered how long it would be before someone found them. No more a day or two, surely. And then they'd be dumped into nameless graves to be forgotten by the entire world. There was no justice here. Not for the victims, not for me. Not even for Henry, though he was the least deserving of all. 

This was... it. This was all there was. A dreary end to a dreary story. 

I couldn't shake a lingering feeling of familiarity. Here I was all over again, looking ahead at a life I couldn't possibly understand. Not knowing what this meant for me or how I was supposed to survive in a world I hadn't ever known. Forced to start all over again when I really didn't want to. At that moment, the prospect of Papa's tasers felt less threatening than navigating the world on the other end of the fence. 

I'd never be eighteen again. I'd never spend my days in bleached white hallways. I'd never meet eyes as blue as his and I'd never feel what it is to be hugged my him again. 'It's time to go' I told myself, but looking upon the lab, I didn't know if I had the strength. My resolve had been shattered.

Things had always been this way. They probably always would.