Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

    Lieutenant Commander Renée Minkowski had never been quite able to kick the habits of her time in the Air Force, even as those times seemed, now, so terribly far away. One of those particular habits being, of course, her sleep schedule. She did not quite remember what it had even been like, before her enlistment-- though she couldn’t imagine it was that different from the rest of the high schoolers in her age group. That was, staying up far too late and making a fuss in the morning.

    Of course, the Air Force had no time for such nonsense. Sleeping hours were from ten to six-- exactly eight, enough for a healthy human to get going. Those in the force rose with the sun, every morning, right on time with the sound of the blaring trumpet. 

    That particular habit had stuck with her, sans the part regarding the trumpet. Six in the morning, every morning, the Lieutenant Commander opened her eyes and sat up, no alarm clock necessary.

    On this particular morning, there was some issue with that-- unfortunately, the whims of the spinning sun and the Earth’s axis had no care for human timekeeping systems. When Commander Minkowski sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes and peering through the curtain-shielded window, there was no hint of sun to be seen. Despite the clock upon her bedside table clearly flashing the numbers 6:00, the outside was still plastered in shroud.

    It had been like that for a while now, she pondered. The long winter had yet to give its way to spring, even when the dates on the calendar indicated that it very much should have, some time ago. Just another machination of the spinning planets, beyond Minkowski’s influence or care.

    Sun or not, her training still hung heavy. She wasn’t going to be going back to sleep, not until 10 PM that night. Tossing her covers from her bed, she climbed to her feet, tucking neatly the sheets back under the mattress, just as she had been trained.

    She wondered, sometimes, if everyone’s time in the military stuck to them like this, or if she simply had some unnatural affinity for the lifestyle. Heck, she barely even remembered the Air Force. Yet, here she was, getting up on their time table, right in sync with tens of thousands of others across the country.

    The rest of her morning routine was just as rigid as her mental wakeup call. Showering in less than five minutes, brushing her teeth in exactly two. She had never much cared for coffee before, but now found herself making a cup as a force of habit. Bitter and black, real coffee.

    For some reason, the flavored and sweetened stuff seemed to rub her the wrong way. The first time she had tried a fancy, flavored cup of sweetened mocha, a chill had run up her spine, and she had had to excuse herself to the restroom to vomit.

    Minkowski wondered sometimes if she had an allergy to whatever they put in the stuff, but had never cared to find out. The coffee maker let out a beep, calling her from her thoughts and presenting her with a steaming cup of black liquid. The first sip was taken gratefully.

    “Thank you.” She muttered to the coffee maker. Of course, it wasn’t listening. She knew that, she wasn’t stupid. Force of habit, she supposed as she went over to the island in the middle of her kitchen, sitting to drink her coffee and scroll on her phone.

    It was a Saturday. She hated Saturdays, an opinion she did not share with most. Yet, she had a clear enough reason: The lack of reliable structure from her work tended to make the hours drag on.

    More than that, Saturdays were when she had to worry about maintaining her home, something she didn’t particularly enjoy. The place was far too big for her, and she had always hated that fact-- hated that it was the smallest home she could find in the area. There were plenty of apartments, certainly, but she had never been very keen on those, especially since her salary did not force her to live in one. 

    The thought of so many people, living in such a small space, unnerved her. More than anything, the fear of fire made her jumpy. How could one get out in time, if they were on the very highest floor? What if they became trapped?

    Trapped in an enclosed room with a ball of flame-- It was a common nightmare of hers, despite the fact that, as far as she knew, she had never had an incident with fire in her life. Just a basic fact of being human, she guessed. Something deeply embedded in the most primitive parts of her mind.

    Given said fear, having her own stand-alone home had been the natural option. Minkowski had finally settled upon a three-bedroom, even though she only needed one. She blamed Floridian opulence for that one.

    Then again, most single people did not live in homes of their own. Most had a partner, or a kid, or a friend.

    She was lucky to not need any of those, but it made dusting and vacuuming the useless rooms a chore. Not to mention, she would need to go grocery shopping today. She was almost out of coffee.

    Those particular tasks of day to day life had never much appealed to her. She was not the kind of woman to have any interest in keeping house. 

    Standing up, coffee in one hand, Minkowski moved over to the window, brushing the curtains aside. Was anyone awake at this hour? Any other early risers like her? She often looked, but never found a single face in the streets.

    Not that she would have recognized them, anyways. In her own neighborhood, she was more of an alien than a community member. That was what happened when you were transplanted by the military, she supposed.

    She was never sure what, exactly, her neighbors thought of her. How much gossip had surfaced regarding her arrival. It was far from a traditional move, of course, with black government vans always moving in and out of her driveway. Lawyers and doctors and militarymen, being as formal as they could manage while seated at her kitchen table. 

    Did they think she was a spy? A member of the witness protection program? Or, worse, did they know about her accident?

    Minkowski wasn’t sure. Luckily, she didn’t care too much, either. 

    After ensuring, like a watchful guard dog, that the outside streets were empty, she pulled the curtains back and turned. Looking down in her coffee cup, she swirled around the last sip. 

    The last drink of her morning coffee was always used to wash down her medicine. Still moving with a rather absent sense about her, Minkowski ambled to the cupboard, taking down her pill caddy and popping open the capsule for Saturday morning. She wondered if she should have felt something, looking down at the sectioned container, seeing each space barely able to hold all the pills and capsules within. 

    So many prescriptions. So many names, so many bottles. Meperidine, Phenergan, Adlarity, and plenty of others with names far too long and confusing to keep track of. One by one, in a methodical performance, she picked up the pills and placed them in her palm, preparing to swallow them all at once, before washing them down with her last sip of caffeine.

    Lieutenant Commander Minkowski didn’t get the chance. As though on cue, as the last pill fell into her palm, her world shattered.

    A horrible slamming sound echoed throughout the open-plan kitchen interior, bouncing off cupboards and walls. Letting out a sharp yelp, she jumped back, pills flying and scattering with a cacophony of hollow bounces.

    When the sound came again, its source became immediately clear: The door. Someone was slamming on her front door. Not a knock, no-- There was a desperation to the sound, a repeated pounding, like a character in a zombie film.

    Any reasonable person likely would have immediately panicked, hid behind furniture, called the police. Yet, there was a reason Minkowski’s coworkers thought of her as fearless, and, more than that, strange.

    With wide, stupefied eyes and ajar jaws, she turned towards the door, staring at it for a long time. Hearing the bangs, one after the other, bang bang bang bang .

    Was someone trying to knock her door down? Well, that was awfully strange, wasn’t it. After a few more seconds of standing dumbly in the middle of her kitchen, her wispy gaze cast over the counter. It landed upon her two-pronged meat carving fork, likely the most dangerous item she had in her home. The doctors had advised her not to keep large knives or firearms, given her impairment.

    She supposed it was better than nothing, though. She certainly wouldn’t want to be stabbed by it. Grasping it by the handle, she held the item at her side as he, against her better judgment, walked straight towards the door.

    Another bang. Minkowski’s heart lurched, but her mind did not, staying as placid as undisturbed water.

    “Minkowski!” A voice cried on the other side of the door. Not a robbery, then. She stored that away as helpful information.

    Yet, something more important came of the voice than its content of speech. Rather, the tone of it was concerning, to say the least.

    A woman’s voice. A desperate woman’s voice.    

    “I know you’re in there, Minkowski!”

    Keeping her fork securely at her side, Minkowski raised a hand, placing it on the doorknob. Should she let this person in? Probably not, right?

    She wasn’t sure. She was getting lightheaded again.

    “Minkowski, please! We need you.”

    Minkowski.

    We need you .

    It felt as though a cold bucket of water had just been dumped on the Lieutenant Commander’s head, running down her spine. She let out a miserable little gasp, and opened the door.

    The moment after she did so, she immediately came to her senses. Why had she just done that? Minkowski shook her head, trying to blink herself awake. Dammit, she needed her pills. Her pills always made her feel better. 

    But, now, the door was open. There wasn’t much she could do about that. Yet, looking out over the empty streets beyond she, paradoxically, saw nothing at all.

    Until she glanced downwards.

    Her guess had been right, it was a woman who was screaming. A woman who was, now, on her knees, trembling for all she was worth. She looked absolutely terrible, having clearly collapsed, right where she was, right on Minkowski’s doorstep.

    Yet, she wasn’t unconscious. Not yet.

    When Minkowski looked down, the stranger returned the favor by looking up. Immediately, Minkowski was flooded by a horrid nausea, one that threatened to make her expel the coffee she had just drank, all over the driveway. Yet, swallowing, she was able to keep it down-- though it didn’t make her look any less pale.

    The woman in question had warm, sepia skin, contrasted by hair the color of dark-finished wood, glistening with varnish and tied in a tight, military-style ponytail that drooped down the back of her neck and over one shoulder. Once, Minkowski assumed that her shirt had been a light blue color, but it was now stained much darker, as were her jeans.

    She paled when she realized exactly what substance had resulted in the color change. The stranger on Minkowski’s doorstep was bleeding, and heavily. If the holes in her clothing had not made it clear enough, the scent of gunpowder residue most certainly did:

    The stranger had been shot. At least once, if not more than that.

    Had she stumbled onto any other doorstep in the neighborhood, the home’s residence would’ve likely immediately called the ambulance at once. Yet, the thought did not so much as once cross Minkowski’s mind. 

    “Come.” She spoke under her breath, words still slow, almost slurred. Leaning down, she wrapped one of the stranger’s arms over her shoulders, supporting her as she moved inside.

    The stranger closed the door behind the two of them. Minkowski didn’t mind.

    With scarlet dripping thickly across her hardwood kitchen floors, the two moved to the adjoining living room, where Minkowski aided the stranger in sitting on a couch. Sitting, the stranger let out a few exhausted, harrowed breaths.

    “You’re shot.” Minkowski spoke monotonously.

    The stranger on her couch hunched over, letting out a barking laugh as she raised her head.

    “I never thought you were one to state the obvious, Commander-- Maybe Eiffel has rubbed off on you?”

    The words sent another wave of sickness through her chest, one that she was able to withstand. Rather than addressing the confusing string of nonsense, thus prompting more discussion on the topic, Minkowski changed the subject:

    “Are you okay?”

    “I dunno, Minkowski, I was shot . Not sure how many times, to be completely honest.” She gave a wide grin as she sat up straight, revealing the bloody mess that was her torso. “But that doesn’t matter, huh? No, not really.

    What matters is that, holy shit , you’re here! We found you! Oh, Minkowski, it’s been ages .”

    Minkowski stared on with wide, dumb eyes.

    “Who are you?”

    The stranger’s eyes widened, jaw dropping. She seemed to take a few moments to collect herself.

    “M-Minkowski, it’s me . Lovelace! Captain Isabel Lovelace!”

    “Oh. Well, I’m Lieutenant Commander Minkowski. Would you like me to take you to the hospital?”

    Captain Lovelace had refused the offer for professional medical care.

    “Are you certain?” Minkowski questioned, perched upon the ottoman next to the couch, squeezing her knees with her hands.

    “Absolutely.”

    The Captain had seemed to find a comfortable position upon the couch, one that at least minimized the utter agony she must’ve been in from the multitude of bullet wounds, firmly settled in her chest.

    Come to think of it, how was the woman even alive? Unless she was wearing some sort of bulletproof vest, the bullet holes evident in her shirt should’ve been almost immediately fatal.

    Minkowski pursed her lips together.

    “You’re military, aren’t you?” She questioned at last. 

    The Captain let out a small laugh-- Likely the best she could do in her condition. Had her lungs been punctured? The positioning of the bullet holes would make it at least halfway likely.

    “Only as military as you are, Mink.”

    The nickname made her furrow her brows.

    “Please don’t call me that.” It made her uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t quite pinpoint. “You’re Air Force, then?”

    “Air Force? No.”

    “But you’re military?”

    “Not in the way you’re probably thinking.”

    Minkowski felt like she was talking in circles. It was enough to make her grit her teeth, balling her fists and digging her knuckles into her thighs.

    “If you’re here to talk about my case, then…” She wasn’t sure where her train of thought was going on that one, and allowed her words to trail off. “Why are you here?”

    Captain Lovelace raised an inquisitive brow. 

    “Come on, Mink.” She urged. “Don’t make me Renée you.”

    Minkowski paused. 

    “How do you know my first name?”

    The Captain’s facial expression squinched into one moreso resembling a grimace. With an intense gaze, she shifted her head, so as to better scrutinize Minkowski. She didn’t exactly seem keen to answer the particular question, so the Commander tried another:

    “You’re shot, aren’t you? I have a first aid kit.”

    “Later.” The Captain insisted, shaking her head. “The doctor can deal with that.”

    “The doctor?”

    Captain Lovelace gave Minkowski a look that the latter assumed to have some deeper implication, though she was clueless as to what it might have been. As though they shared some secret, a secret that Minkowski was, quite obviously, utterly clueless as to.

    “Come on.” The Captain shifted into an upright sitting position, letting out a pained grumble as she did so. “How about a walk?”

    “A walk?”

    “Around the neighborhood. Get our blood pumping.”

    Every word the baffling, bloodied woman spoke seemed to hide a paragraph behind it.

    “Blood.” Minkowski repeated. “You’re bleeding all over my couch. If you’re so intent upon leaving, then at the very least, let me staunch your wounds. It’s a miracle you’re still breathing, don’t test your luck.”

    Captain Lovelace lifted her gaze. 

    The pain in her eyes had nothing at all to do with the bullets embedded in her chest cavity.

    “ Don’t test your luck .” She repeated, hazily, under her breath, before closing her eyes. “Mink, I’m done with this. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that it took us so long. I don’t care- I’m done with his games. I refuse to be your opponent in this one.”

    If a tear had truly beaded in the corner of the Captain’s eye, as Minkowski thought she had seen, it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

    “If we could’ve, we would have been here ages ago. We couldn’t find you, Mink. But now we have. So no more games. Come on.”

    With a feat of strength that merited becoming its own war story, the bloodied and shot woman stood, ever so shakily, to her feet.

    “You keep saying ‘we’.” Minkowski rose as well, though with far more hesitance than tenacity. “You aren’t alone, are you?”

    “Alone? No.” 

    The Captain’s steps were heavy, plodding, pained as she limped towards the front door. Minkowski followed her, pace for pace.

    “Who are you with?”

    “Come with me, and you can meet them.”

    “I can’t come with you.”

    “Why not?”

    “Wh- Because you’re a stranger! I have no idea who you are!”

    “I told you. Captain Isabel Lovelace. I won’t hide that fact. You’ve kept your name, too.”

    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

    “Of course you don’t.” The Captain shook her head. Her heavy steps brought her, at last, to the front door. “Come on. Let’s go walk.”

    “Are you leaving?” Minkowski stopped, three paces back from the doorway.

    “We’re leaving.”

    “No. I’m not going anywhere. I have things to do! I need to vacuum, go to the store, and probably get a new couch, now…”

    Captain Lovelace stopped and turned. Her expression could be described only as amusement.

    “Mink, the game’s over. The timer’s up. Come on.”

    “I’m not going anywhere with you. Leave, or-” She wasn’t sure how the thought hadn’t occurred to her before. “Or I’ll call the police.”

    Some cord seemed to snap within the Captain as her eyes widened, pinning the tip of her tongue between her teeth. Her shoulders slumped.

    “Are you coming with me, Commander?”

    It was a ridiculous question.

    “No.”

    Sympathy. Why was the strange woman’s face painted with sympathy ?

    Or perhaps it was just another hue of guilt.

    “If you aren’t coming with me, then I’m not going anywhere.” Captain Lovelace spoke firmly. “You said you had a first aid kit, didn’t you? Let’s see what we can do with that.”

    “Laying naked on Renée Minkowski’s bed. I always thought it might happen, but maybe not in these particular circumstances.” Captain Lovelace laughed playfully as she stretched out on her back upon the queen-sized bed, which had been stripped down to its sheets.

    “Gross.” Minkowski, standing over the other woman, muttered. “And you aren’t naked.”

    Both facts were true. After helping Lovelace up the stairs and to her bedroom, the two had collectively performed the great feat of removing the injured woman’s shirt-- It had been practically glued to her torso by the torrents of red. Yet, eventually, it had been done, though not without reducing the garment to shreds of soiled fabric that had gone directly in the trash.

    Now, torso uncovered, Lovelace’s wounds were plain to be seen, in all their horrific gore. It was nonetheless difficult to distinguish where the blood spatter of one wound ended and the next began, but the three bullet holes were distinct enough to be seen among the red.

    One of them did not appear fatal, having landed in her side, in a location that Minkowski knew to be mostly muscle. 

    The other two, however? One had embedded itself nearly in the exact middle of one lung, the other in her stomach. 

    “How…” Minkowski muttered as she ghosted one hand over the wound in her upper chest. How was Captain Lovelace still breathing?

    “Ow!” The Captain exclaimed, squirming about in an attempt at protest. “Just because it didn’t kill me doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt!”

    “Sorry, sorry.” She apologized as she withdrew her hand. “You- You should be dead.”

    “What, I didn’t think you were a doctor, Mink.”

    “Don’t call me- I’m not a doctor, but I know where the lungs are.”

    “Maybe I just got lucky.”

    “No one’s this lucky.”

    “Looks like I am.” Another sting of agony struck her, causing Lovelace to contort. “Can you- Can you just help me?”

    Minkowski hesitated, biting her lower lip.

    “I don’t know what I can do, Captain.”

    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean that these wounds should be fatal! I could just bandage you up, but what good would that do? The bleeding has already stopped, somehow.” She touched the red-stained flesh once more. “This is dry.”

    “Take the bullets out.” Lovelace groaned.

    Minkowski’s brows raised in shock.

    “Take them out? Are you out of your mind? What if I mess up, and you bleed out? Those bullets are probably the only thing keeping you alive right now!”

    A dribble of sweat ran from her forehead into her eyes. She swiftly wiped it away.

    “It’s not, Mink.” 

    “How do you know?”

    “Do you trust me?”

    The answer to the question should have been obvious, and Minkowski knew that. Of course she did not trust this strange woman who had wandered into her home, bloodied and beaten. She had no reason to. In fact, she had no reason to be helping her at all! What this stranger needed was modern medical attention, a hospital.

    Yet, despite that, the next word that came from her lips was:

    “Yes.”

    “Then take the bullets out. Don’t stop if I scream.”

    “If you scream? ”

    “Trust me, Minkowski.” Captain Lovelace implored. “Just get them out. I’ll be fine.”

    The Commander could not help but feel that she was committing murder, here, in her own bedroom, killing a stranger. Yet, what else was there to do? If the Captain wouldn’t go to the hospital…

    “Okay.” She sighed. “Okay.”

    With paradoxically steady hands, Minkowski reached for the first hand kit that she had left on the bedside table, cracking open the red plastic. Quite immediately, she selected a pair of tweezers, as well as a sterile towelette, with which she wiped down the first.

    “Do you want something to bite down on, or…?”

    “I’ll be fine. You’ve done this before.”

    You’ve done this before . Furrowing her brow, Minkowski felt another seed of headache sprout in the center of her forehead. She shook it away with a shake of her head. She hadn’t done this before-- Captain Lovelace had simply lost too much blood. She certainly meant ‘ I’ve done this before.’ She was merely stumbling over her own words.

    Tweezers clutched between her fingers, she moved back to the bed, placing one knee down to steady herself as she located the first of the bullet wounds, the one least likely to cause significant danger-- the one embedded in Captain Lovelace’s side.

    With one hand, index finger and thumb splayed, she stretched open the wound, causing the Captain to squirm and groan. With the other, she carefully aimed the tweezers, moving them down, down, into the wound and around the lead piece embedded there. That was the easy part, grabbing hold of the bullet.

    Then came the removal. 

    Lovelace’s breathing grew shallow and quick as, millimeter by millimeter, the bullet was withdrawn, fresh scarlet welling in its wake. By the time that the bullet had been entirely removed, Minkowski’s bangs had been plastered to her forehead with sweat, and the hole in Lovelace’s side had been entirely refilled with blood.

    Prying the bullet at last free from flesh, Minkowski felt a mountain of tension dissipate from her shoulders. She was finally able to breathe. After marveling a moment at the sheer size of the object she had removed, she dropped it in a trash bin.

    “Are you alright?” Minkowski questioned.

    “Two more.” Lovelace spoke in a shuddery voice. Minkowski got the message-- She wanted this over as soon as possible.

    The next bullet she chose to remove was the one in her abdomen, which was very likely embedded in Lovelace’s intestines, or worse. Cleaning the tweezers with another sterile wipe, Minkowski opted to close her eyes, this time, relying entirely upon her sense of touch to guide her. With her tweezers so deep in another woman’s flesh, sight didn’t do her much good, anyways.

    It came out cleanly, and with only minimal pained cries from Captain Lovelace. The horrid stench that filled the room was a likely sign that, yes, said lead piece had been embedded in her entrails.

    “Last one.” Lovelace exhaled. “Last one.”

    “Are you going to be okay?” Minkowski questioned, voice taut with worry as she cleaned the tweezers for the final time. It was lucky that Lovelace had only three wounds-- The first aid kit had only three sterile wipes.

    “I’m fine. Ya’ already got two out, didn’t you? Just… Get the last one.”

    “It’s in your lung. If I take it out…”

    “I’ll be just fine. Just take it out!”

    Minkowski wondered if the steadiness in her hands was on account of some sort of shock. How was she not having a meltdown, right about now? 

    Then again, how wasn’t Captain Lovelace dead?

    “Okay.” She exhaled, tossing the last sterile wipe away. 

    Okay. How was any of this okay?

    She should’ve been running, screaming to the police, racing this woman to the nearest hospital, doing anything other than performing amateur surgery on her own bed! 

    Yet, halfway against her own will, her legs carried her to the other side of the bed. Minkowski took a deep breath, feeling the movement shudder throughout her whole body.

    As steady as a surgeon, she leaned over Lovelace’s bleeding and shuddering form. She worked slowly, with agonizing care, as the tweezers found the embedded bullet and tugged it out. All the while, the Captain shook and whimpered, biting down on her own tongue until it bled.

    Commander Minkowski was not certain what she expected to happen when the lead piece was removed from the Captain’s lung. Halfway, she wondered if she would simply shudder and suffocate, there and then.

    Yet, the wound did not bleed, and Lovelace did not gasp. The bullet was tossed into the trash, just as the others, as though the punctured lung had not been there at all.

    The other wounds, too, having been flowing scarlet a mere moment ago, had ceased entirely. The only evidence of any fresh blood were the stains in Minkowski’s sheets.

    The Commander was no doctor, but she knew that that was far from normal.

    “Bandage me up, Commander.” Lovelace called, that same, playful tone returning to her voice, as though she had not just had three bullets amateurly removed from her torso.

    Minkowski felt numb. She did as ordered, if only because, in some back part of her mind, she knew that Captain was a higher rank than Commander , even if she was unsure in which army.

    By the time that Lovelace was bandaged on the bed, she looked beyond exhausted, eyes barely managing to keep open. Her head had slumped all the way back onto the pillow, gaze fixed on the blank ceiling above. It seemed as though all tension had evaporated from her body, not because she had relaxed, but simply because tension required energy, energy that she did not have.

    “I’m about ready for my off-rotation.” She muttered, sounding dazed.

    “You want to sleep?” Minkowski did her best to interpret.

    “Yes.” Lovelace breathed. “Please.”

    There was clearly no chance of moving the woman off the bed, and no cause to try-- She was already at least half asleep. With a sigh, Minkowski hauled the blankets from the floor of the room, draping them one by one over Lovelace’s bloodied form.

    By the time she was done, the woman was soundly asleep and snoring quite loudly.

    Still feeling as utterly numb as she had during the operation, Minkowski took automatically to the task of cleaning up. She washed her own stained hands, closed up the first aid kit and put it back where it had been before, and began the messy job of washing her couch of bloodstains.

    She had hardly retrieved the bleach from her closet when the screaming from her bedroom began.

    “Fisher! Fisher, please , Officer Fisher, stay with me! You can’t die, I order you- Stay with me! You aren’t allowed to leave me, not now, not yet!” 

    The words flooded from Captain Lovelace’s mouth with feverish fervor, only accented by her pained and panicked twisting upon the bed. The bandages around her midsection had already been re-stained, indicative of the reopening of her various wounds. 

    For a moment, Minkowski found herself frozen in the doorway. Of course, she was no fool, she recognized a nightmare when she saw one. 

    After all, she had had a fair share of her own, the first few days she was out of the hospital. A visit from her medical team and a new prescription had fixed all that, of course-- Ever since, her nights had been blissfully dreamless.

    It was apparent that the Captain did not have the same luxury. What in the world was Minkowski meant to do? Wake her up? Let her snap out of it on her own time?

    “Please, doctor, there has to be something you can do! Please! I can’t lose another one, please, please, Sam’s funeral was just last week, please- Please!”

    The last, pleading word tore at Lovelace’s throat, a bloodied sob. Any more of this, Minkowski was quite sure, and she would tear her gunshot wounds even wider.

    Whatever the proper thing to do for a nightmare was, she knew full well what she was going to do. Hands crossed nervously in front of herself, the Commander raced to the Captain’s bedside. She wasn’t entirely sure why she made the decision to shake Lovelace by the shoulders, yet, it seemed the most natural thing to do. Not that Minkowski was exactly thinking, in that moment.

    Lovelace screamed.

    The noise was deafening, startling Minkowski enough to make her stumble backwards, nearly tripping over her own bedside table. By the time she had managed to regain her bearings, the injured woman on the bed before her had sat bolt upright, eyes bulging like those of a prey animal.

    “Um- Captain Lovelace?” Minkowski tried. The woman’s head immediately snapped to look at her, the look in her eyes making her heart quiver. 

    “What did you do to them, what did you-” All at once, in the breath between her words, the Captain seemed to snap out of her trance, pupils shrinking to match. “Oh.”

    “It’s alright.” She did her best to comfort, albeit she wasn’t the best at that particular feat. “You’re still at my place. Are you alright?”

    Turning back around, relieving Minkowski of her terrified stare, Lovelace held up her own hands and stared at them, turning from back to palm a few times.

    “Fine.” She at last spoke. “I’m fine. How long was I asleep for?”

    “About ten minutes?”

    An exhausted sigh.

    “Would you like to try to go back to sleep? I can leave you alone.”

    “No.” Lovelace exhaled sharply. “Absolutely not.”

    With that, and her face contorted to an expression halfway through rage and exhaustion, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, sucking in a pained breath as she did so.

    “Are you sure you should be up and moving so soon-”

    “I’m fine. I need to get out of this room.”

    “Oh. Of course.”

    “Do you have any coffee?”

    “Only black.”

    “All the better.”

    It was with a surprisingly minimal amount of difficulty that the Captain pushed herself up off the bed, though her gait was noticeably pained as she moved into the hallway and down the stairs, back onto the main floor of the house. 

    Said floor could be classified, more than anything, as ‘a huge mess.’ Far too great an amount of Lovelace’s blood dribbled across the hardwood of the kitchen, with even more soaking the couch. 

    “You can sit on the armchair, over there.” Minkowski offered as they arrived in the living room.

    “I don’t need to sit.” Lovelace challenged.

    Minkowski raised an incredulous brow at the woman whose body was littered with bullet holes. The Captain seemed to quite quickly get the message.

    “Fine.” She conceded without much of a fight, limping off to the oversized plush chair and more or less collapsing into it. Hunching over forwards, she placed her elbows on her knees, gaze fixed on the floor.

    About five minutes later, a steaming mug of black coffee was placed into the Captain’s shaking hands.

    “Thank you, Renée.” She spoke gratefully before tipping a great deal of the boiling liquid into her mouth. Not flinching at the temperature, she took several large sips before putting the mug back down. 

    “No problem.” Minkowski replied, hovering awkwardly nearby. “Do you need anything else?”

    “Just a breather.”

    “Alright. Is it alright if I clean things up a bit? I’ll leave you be.”

    Movements labored, Lovelace sat up, tired eyes meeting Minkowski’s.

    “Clean? Do you need help?”

    “I’m afraid I don’t take help from women riddled with bullet holes, try again.”

    Lovelace’s mouth cracked open in a grin.

    “I knew you were still around, Mink. You’ve got me this time, I’ll behave myself.”

    The Commander was not sure what the words meant, but gave a nod of acknowledgement nonetheless. Turning around, and taking one last glance at her house guest, she took to cleaning.

    The couch was first. The blood was still somewhat wet, giving a much better chance of it coming off. A mountain of paper towels later and the look of it had at least somewhat improved, though Minkowski was well aware that she would need to drag the seat cushions out onto the deck at some point to drench them in bleach. 

    After perhaps half an hour of that drudgery, she gave up, moving onto the kitchen floor. At the very least, it was far easier to clean liquid off hardwood. Wadding up another paper towel, she got to work, scrubbing away at the red liquid.

    That was, until she noticed something solid, caught on the towel. Plucking it off to examine it, Minkowski found herself holding one of her pills.

    Oh, damn it. She had dropped them earlier, now she remembered. She could already feel the headache creeping up in the back of her skull.

    Tossing the ruined pill in the trash, she briefly abandoned her task of cleaning to return to the cabinet, removing her caddy of pills, all arranged by day and time-- AM or PM. She could just take from another day, she supposed, given that today’s batch had been ruined, but doing so would utterly mess up her system. No, she may as well just refill the thing now.

    Doing so was always a task in and of itself, but at least it would be a nice respite from cleaning bodily fluids off of her own kitchen floor. 

    Most households had a medicine cabinet, a location to store cough drops, antacids, and all other remedies for routine ailments. Minkowski’s home contained one as well, though with a slightly different purpose. 

    After all, all of her medications were plenty to fill an entire cabinet.

    Opening the door to the raised little box, the Commander was presented with dozens of bottles. Some of a great neon orange, others blue, green, or white with a rounded shape. A helpful note on the inside of the door, written by her head physician, described the names and the dosages.

    Once a day, twice a day, in the morning, the evening, once a week, every other day, chop in half, take with food, take on an empty stomach, chew, swallow dry. 

    “What’s all that, Mink?”

    The Commander tensed at the voice, having been so consumed in her task as to nearly forget the unexpected guest that had settled in her home.

    Thinking of how to answer the question, she bit the tip of her tongue. She did not like to speak about her condition, something that her coworkers and spattering of friends had long since learned. Her health, her business.

    “Medicine.” She eventually conceded to curtly reply. 

    Before she knew it, her houseguest had risen from her chair and come to stand next to her, sharply observing the cabinet’s contents.

    “What in the world is any of this?” Lovelace’s voice took on a harsher cadence as she snapped one of the bottles from the bottom shelf, examining the label.

    “Hey! Give that back!”

    Yet, the Captain deftly dodged the Commander’s grabbing hands.

    “Gaba- Gaba-what-now? Gabapentin? What the hell does this do?”

    “Does it matter? It’s mine!” She made another fruitless attempt at retrieving her stolen bottle. “Give it back!”

    “Hey!” The Captain turned, holding up the bottle, seemingly to nothing and no one at all. “Effects of Gabapentin?”

    It was at that moment that Lieutenant Commander Renée Minkowski swore that she had gone completely and utterly off the deep end.

    She was hearing voices.

    “Gabapentin.” Said nothing at all. “Generic name for Neurontin, a medication used to prevent seizures in epileptic patients.”

    The bottle was completely and utterly forgotten. Stumbling backwards, Minkowski slammed into her kitchen counter, barely managing to keep her balance. Head on a swivel, she nearly gave herself a spinning vertigo in an attempt to find the source of the voice. Yet, none presented itself. No additional intruder, no television screen.

    “Since when,” Lovelace’s voice had taken on a new harshness, like sharpened flint. “Have you had epilepsy, Minkowski?”

    Taking a nervous step back, Minkowski held her hands up in front of her chest in a defensive position, already feeling her heart beginning to pound. She needed her pills, and soon.

    “Not epilepsy.” Perhaps if she gave an honest answer, the crazy woman would leave her alone. “It’s off-label, for migraines.”

    The answer, at the very least, stopped Lovelace’s advance, though she still kept a death grip on the bottle in hand.

    “And all this,” Moving backwards, the Captain stopped at the medicine cabinet, at long last returning the Gabapentin to its proper place in Minkowski’s very proper organizational system. “Is that for seizures too?”

    The Commander, even with her headache, even with the terrible sense of impending dread that followed her recent audio hallucination, found the strength and sense to stumble forwards, slamming closed the door of the medicine cabinet with a shaky hand.

    “I was in an accident.” She snarled. “I need my medication for a great multitude of conditions. Now, if you would, I need to take the pills that keep me alive. Unless there’s anything else I can help you with?”

    Looking to Lovelace’s face displayed a great conflict. At long last, the Captain sighed, giving a disappointed shake of the head.

    “Sure thing. Are you sure you don’t need any help cleaning, Mink?”

    “Do not call me that. And, no. I do not. Sit now, please .”

    The smile on the Captain’s face that time was far more slight, far less genuine.

    “Good to have you back, Commander…”

    She didn’t take the pills.

    The only casualty of that morning was Commander Minkowski’s couch. She had been meaning to replace it anyways, with how the color clashed with the rest of her living room, and after a great deal of paper towels and bleach, she had decided that the effort wasn’t worth it. What mattered was that the kitchen floor was only minimally stained-- Besides, the effort of dragging the ruined couch out to the backyard made her sweat, helped her think. 

    The pills were kicking in, now. She felt better.

    With the cleaning done, however, there was something else to face. Something she had to stop ignoring, at least at some point. Now would be best, she supposed, with the buzzing of her medication still fresh and at the front of her mind.

    Closing the door to the outside, Minkowski moved across her living room, which now felt terribly bare, perching on the ottoman across from the chair in which Lovelace was hunched.

    The Captain looked oh, so tired. Not in a physical way, no, she was undeniably fit and had been at least halfway taking care of herself (or had someone else doing it for her.) No, it was the same mental exhaustion that Minkowski had glimpsed in her own eyes, the first few months after the accident, before the doctors had found the right balance of medication for her. The kind of look associated with not having a good night’s rest in a very, very long time.

    “Captain.” Minkowski’s voice was soft as she attempted to attract the other woman’s attention, a feat in which she was successful. Rubbing her eyes with one hand, Lovelace sat up.

    “Sorry, Mink, I promise I’m not ignoring you. Just tired.”

    “Maybe some food will wake you up.” She offered as cheerfully as she could manage. “Are you hungry?”

    “I… I could eat.”

    “How about noodles?”

    “Ramen?”

    “Mhm.”

    “To be completely honest with you, Mink? I would kill for a bowl of ramen, right about now.”

    “Agreed. Alright, just give me a minute. Do you need more coffee? Water?”

    “I can manage myself.” Lovelace gave a nod as she hauled herself out of the chair, legs protesting against the new weight.

    “It’s only coffee.”

    Lovelace shook her head.

    “You make the ramen, I’ve got the coffee.” 

    Minkowski had the clear feeling that she wouldn’t get Lovelace to budge on this, and gave a tentative nod. 

    “Just water for me, please. I can only have so much coffee in a day, the doctor said.”

    Lovelace gave a suspicious glance, but said nothing more on the topic. The two moved to the newly-cleaned kitchen, Minkowski keeping her gait slow, just in case the injured woman were to fall. Yet, no such thing happened, and the two went to work in silence.

    Before long, Minkowski had produced two heaping bowls of ramen noodles, topped with sliced hard-boiled eggs and finely diced vegetables. During her time in the military, she had not had much time to practice her culinary skills. Recently, however, she had found her footing in the field again. 

    For Lovelace, on the other hand, preparing the drinks was quite the struggle, though the clumsiness of her hands caused by her wounded state could at least halfway be blamed. Either way, she produced two cups, placing them upon Minkowski’s round dinner table, not meant to sit more than four, though it only ever generally sat one. The rest of the chairs had, even, a thin film of dust upon them-- Since her doctors and case managers had stopped visiting, she had not exactly had many guests.

    Now, the dust was brushed away, and the two women seated themselves across from each other. Something still seemed terribly odd about the situation, for Minkowski. She had been in the military, of course, and even if she had never gone overseas, she had seen her fair share of gunshot wounds. 

    She thought, perhaps, she had once been shot herself, too-- A perfectly sized and shaped wound, right in her midsection-- but her doctors had assured her that it was merely from a small piece of flying debris.

    Either way, she knew what gunshots looked like, knew the smell of sulfur. Knew just how life-threatening even a single shot to a non-fatal location could be. Three, to the midsection? Lovelace should’ve been dead on her doorstep. Given the lack of gunshot sounds, as well, the attack had clearly occurred somewhere else. Hemorrhaging from three wounds in her vital organs, Lovelace had walked .

    Something was going on that was yet to be understood. Accident or not, Renée Minkowski wasn’t an idiot.

    The food would fix Lovelace in place, at least for a while, giving her some time for a makeshift interrogation. If she was lucky, perhaps she could even get half of her questions answered.

    It was for a handful of minutes that the two worked through their food and drink, the warm food settling comfortably in Minkowski’s stomach and anchoring her thoughts. When the silence had gone on for just long enough (something that the damaged Commander was never actually that good at sensing, admittedly), she placed her fork back in her bowl, raising her head to speak:

    “You must be hungry.” She commented, hoping to broach more pertinent subjects but first bringing up ones more present. “You’re almost done with that.”

    Lovelace looked up, a strand of noodles still hanging from her lips. She slurped it up unceremoniously, swallowing.

    “Haven’t eaten in a while, that’s all. Recovery takes it out of ya’.”

    “Have you traveled a long ways?”

    “You could say that.” Now, Lovelace placed down her own fork, leaving the two at an impasse, a challenge of eye contact. Neither backed down-- Yet. Still, Minkowski could feel her own heart fluttering in her chest.

    “And… Are you planning on explaining the gunshot wounds?” She tried. “Look, if this is some kind of domestic dispute, I’m sure I can help you get somewhere safe. Those rounds, they were from a handgun, not buckshot, so don’t try to tell me you were in a hunting accident.”

    Lovelace cracked a wry smile.

    “No, no, none of that. Any man upset with me should be running, not shooting.”

    Picking up her fork, the Captain tapped it against the side of her dish.

    “Well… Whatever happened to you, I’m happy to help, but I’m no doctor, and I clearly don’t know you. I don’t have a car, but I can call one. Do you have a friend you can go to? Or… You could go to the authorities?”

    A chuckle.

    “I have friends, alright.”

    “I can get a car to bring you back there? Some bus tickets? Surely, you’d be more comfortable with them than with a stranger.”

    Lovelace let out a sigh, placing one elbow on the table and resting her cheek in her hand. 

    “You’re no stranger, Mink.”

    “If you know me, then I certainly don’t know you.” She dipped her head. “Look, Captain, I was in… An accident. A plane crash. There’s a lot of things I don’t remember.”

    A brief, dejected expression flashed across Lovelace’s countenance, before it settled to that same, resting smirk.

    “Of course, Minkowski.” As though they were both in on some little joke. 

    Minkowski was not in the mood for jokes. She narrowed her eyes.

    “How can I help you? I may be military, but I was never a medic. We both have lives to get back to.”

    “You have a life to get back to.” Lovelace enunciated as she raised her fork, waving it in gesture. “So come with me.”

    That was it, the same thing the strange woman had demanded upon her arrival. Come with me . Trusting as she was, Minkowski wasn’t an idiot.

    She didn’t answer the request directly.

    “How do you know me?” She asked instead, raising an inquisitive brow.

    Lovelace didn’t give a direct answer either. She put her fork down, crossing her arms on the table and leaning forward.

    “You have a scar in your stomach, just above your navel. It’s from an M11 Pistol, firing 9mm Luger rounds. The bullet ruptured your large intestine.”

    Minkowski gritted her teeth. Was this woman really a lunatic, or…

    “How do you know that?”

    A perfect bullet hole, just above her navel. A piece of flying debris .

    Lovelace grinned once more, reaching to her side. When she pulled out a weapon, a chrome black, steel-finished sidearm, Minkowski felt her heart skip a beat. 

    “Empty.” Lovelace explained, unclipping the magazine and showing the empty slots within. “Ran out of ammo two states back.” She snapped the clip back in.

    “What’s your point?”

    “This.” She waved the weapon haphazardly. Empty or not, Minkowski cringed at the blatant disregard for firearm discipline. “Is the same weapon that shot you.”

    “Why do you have it?”

    “Who do you think shot you?”

    Minkowski bit her tongue. This was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. She was having dinner with a woman who had most likely escaped a local prison, or, perhaps more likely, a psych ward. Yet, she felt her diaphragm spasm as her breathing quickened.

    Ever since she had awoken in that hospital room, she had never stopped trying to remember. Even as the doctors had said that it was impossible, that there was no reason to frustrate herself over it, she still tried . 

    Yet, try as she might, Minkowski had never been able to remember a single thing about the plane crash. Sure, they’d described it to her-- An engine failure had caused her plane to fall out of the sky, debris piercing her body and leaving her with barely a pulse to be remembered by-- but never once had her mind’s eye glimpsed the event. 

    This, however? Why could she-

    Minkowski was floating, as though completely and utterly absent from gravity, from Earth . Yet, in her memory, the fact was far from frightening-- In fact, it wasn’t even uncomfortable. 

    The stranger’s face, what was it doing in her mind? And, someone else, too…

    The Commander inhaled sharply, nearly choking on her own spittle. Her coughing subsided after a few moments, but the burning behind her eyes did not. Oh, gods above, she felt like she’d just been pepper sprayed! Calm breaths turned to hyperventilation as she opened her eyes-- When had she closed them? And when had she slammed her hands over her temples, as though trying to suffocate her own thoughts, to choke them into submission?

    Across the table, Captain Isabel Lovelace had at long last allowed her facade to fall, appearing now like a deer in the headlights of a semi truck.

    “Renée-”

    Minkowski stood up so fast as to knock her own chair over, leaving a hollow clatter against the hardwood floor of the kitchen.

    “Get out of my house.” The Commander snarled, hands clenched to fists at her sides. “Get the hell out of my house, right now, or I’m going to call the police.”

    “Renée!” Lovelace gasped as she stumbled to her feet, for once showing her injuries in her lurching gait.

    Minkowski found herself reaching to her hip for a holster that had not been there in a long, long time. 

    “Get out!” 

    “ Renée, it’s okay! Calm down, please!”

    Yet, the Commander was already backing up, yanking open her silverware drawer and futilely grasping for something, anything, that might get this intruder in her home to back off.

    “Get out !” She snapped once more, brandishing before her a kitchen knife. Lovelace stumbled a few steps back, eyes widening.

    “Renée, I’m sorry, I-” 

    Utter terror mixing meekly with determination, Lovelace clenched her fists at her side.

    “I’m so, so sorry.”

    With that, the Captain turned, addressing… the wall? A wall in the living room, where a nondescript painting hung.

    “Hera, could you please initiate Scena Protocol O?”

Chapter Text

    Lieutenant Commander Renée Minkowski awoke in a moving vehicle. She was clued into this fact by two things-- For one, her stomach was already churning from the rumble of the seat beneath her, and, for two, a sign had just whipped by, outside the window, reading Atlanta, 170 miles .

    Unless there was an Atlanta, Florida that she didn’t know about, that meant…

    How far was it from Cape Canaveral to Georgia? If it was three-something hours to the border, then- The very thought was enough to make the Commander sit bolt-upright, a single thud sounding within her chest, the mark of her rapidly increasing heart rate.

The instincts of a soldier had never left her, and they wouldn’t now. Commander Minkowski was not going to panic. Certainly, there was a rational explanation for all of this. Once that explanation could be secured, the same could be done for a solution to her current predicament.

    Having already seen all she cared to of the vehicle’s surroundings, the next logical step would be to look inside the vehicle. Who was driving, who else was inside, were there any weapons, any pieces of cargo-- All these questions and more immediately came to mind. Yet, her attention was drawn away, the instant she felt an odd tug around her wrists.

    Minkowski’s gaze shot downwards.

    The gravity of the situation took a moment to dawn on her as she examined the sight. Her hands, noticeably already shaking, had been bound together by a pair of black, zip tie handcuffs, plastic ratcheted tight around her wrists. Not tight enough to cut off circulation, nor even be truly uncomfortable, but she wasnt getting out of them anytime soon. A second pair of cuffs had been attached to the first, around the connector piece, securing her wrists ultimately to a plain belt about her waist. 

    Her hands were shaking.

    Minkowski’s hands would not stop shaking.

    The fact of the restraints gave her two new clues. For one, whoever had taken her had no intent on allowing her to leave, whether or not she wanted to. For another, whosoever vehicle she was currently inside, they did not represent a military or otherwise official entity. Military and government had protocols, metal cuffs with safety catches, sleek rings all in their place. 

    It was only then that the word ‘kidnapped’ truly entered the Commander’s mind. 

    “Lieutenant?” 

    The voice snapped her from her trance. She knew that voice, knew enough to jerk her head to the side, to look upon the face of Captain Isabel Lovelace with an expression resembling that of a deer about to be run down by headlights.

    The eyes that turned to look at her were far more placid. The Captain allowed her gaze to remain on her for only a second, before turning back to the road.

    Memories of that morning-- assuming it was still the same day-- hung cautiously at the back of her mind, circling and threatening to bite, but never quite gathering the courage.

    Instead, Minkowski decided to look forwards, wide eyes and slightly ajar mouth turned to the windshield. Undulating hills on either side flowed like the gentle rise-and-fall of an animal’s breathing. She always forgot just how empty things got out here, once the bustling cityscape was left behind. It was a wonder that there were paved roads at all.

    She found herself breathing in synchronization with the hilltops, watching in her peripheral vision as they moved, flowing in, then out, a beautiful dance of allusion to the ebbing tides.

    “Lieutenant?” The second time was slightly more forceful, and just enough to break the Commander from her trance. Blinking a few times, she shook her head.

    A woman had broken into her home, bleeding profusely and claiming to know her, to know a thousand personal details that no criminal ever could, before… What had happened? There had been noodles, a terrible terse attempt at dinner. Now, she was here, the mallet of a gong slamming against the inside of her skull.

    Commander Minkowski had been kidnapped by Captain Lovelace.

    It was only then that the fact struck her fully, doing so like a physical blow to her sternum. At once, the formerly serene vehicle exploded into a firestorm as Minkowski threw her body weight forwards, against the seatbelt, struggling in vain to free her wrists from their shackles.

    “Let me go! I said, let me go!” She howled, throat terribly raspy and voice threatening to crack. “This is- This is unlawful imprisonment, you can’t do this! I knew I should’ve called the police on you when I had the chance, whoever you are!”

    The tirade continued with Minkowski practicing surprising restraint on her use of inappropriate language. At her side, Lovelace raised a brow, but spoke not a word. Instead, she took to gently drifting the car onto the shoulder of the road. The dozing breath of the engine was hardly audible beneath the free-flowing rant.

    “Lieutenant.” That was the only thing Lovelace had said, merely in multiple different inflections. Now that her hands were no longer occupied by the steering wheel, the gesture took on a physical component as well.

    Minkowski tensed up as she felt a hand on her shoulder. Yet, her mind did not tell her to fight the presence.

    At last, Lovelace continued with more than that single word:

    “Lieutenant. It’s okay. No one is listening to us, see?” She lifted her head, as though about to make a demonstration. Instead, she simply continued with, in a mocking air: “I think Scottish history is boring, no one on that dumb little island does anything but drink and herd sheep.”

    An awkward moment of silence. Even Minkowski herself felt paradoxically to be waiting for something, something that never came.

    “See?” Lovelace eventually spoke up. “Even she can’t hear us. Last time I said something like that, she went on about the Hundred Years War for an hour , don’t you remember that?”

    Minkowski did remember. 

    The fact struck her like a rail spike to the forehead, threatening to make her lose what little food she had consumed in the last day. When her vision at last cleared, it was to unveil the face of Isabel Lovelace, staring back at her.

    “I don’t-” Minkowski stammered, refusing to give this stranger an inch of concession, whether she was lying or not. “Get away from me!”

    It was a rather ridiculous demand, given the fact that the both of them were currently within an enclosed vehicle. Yet, it was all she could think to say. Really, what Minkowski wanted was to start her day all over again, to wake up again, to brew her coffee, go grocery shopping, and not perform amateur surgery in her bedroom.

    She couldn’t turn back time, but she could turn around. Her mind was entirely absent from thoughts of justice or calling the authorities. She had no care for whether or not this dangerous stranger continued to roam free-- She only cared about returning to her home in her suburban neighborhood and taking a nice, long nap. 

    “Hey, hey.” Lovelace’s voice cut through the fog, followed by her hands, snapping outwards and attaching onto Minkowski’s shoulders.

    At once, she tensed, but her restrained hands left her powerless to do anything but stare.

    “It’s going to be okay.” That same firm voice insisted again. “I promise, no one can hear us here. You’re safe. You can drop the act, now.”

    “The act?” The words sounded numb on her tongue, prompting her to repeat them, if only in an attempt to be taken seriously. “You think any of this is any act? You think I’ve been pretending? Why would I be pretending? Pretending to, what, be a stranger? To not know you? Pretending to not want to be kidnapped? 

    Accident or not, I’m still a soldier! Don’t make me hurt you!”

    The last part was added as an afterthought, a desperate scramble to find the right words to turn the expression on the Captain’s face away from the horrid pity that had for so long seemed to mark it. 

    Those, so it seemed, had not been the right words.

    Wordlessly, Lovelace reached across the central console, seeming to have no issue at all with invading Minkowski’s personal space-- if she recognized it as an invasion at all. Helpless to do much more than squirm and snarl in her seat, hands firmly affixed in place, the Commander had no avenue through which to prevent the Captain from removing her seatbelt.

    “What are you doing ?” She snapped, gaze following her perceived attacker with such acuity that she threatened to give herself a headache.

    Isabel Lovelace did not reply. At least, not with her speech. Instead, removing the keys from the ignition, she exited the vehicle, crossing in front of the hood and around.

    For a sparse few moments, Minkowski was alone. Safe, in a manner of speaking. Those moments were likely the best chance she would get at any sort of escape. 

    Her hands clearly were not an option, but her feet had not been bound.

    For once, she bemoaned not being more active these past few months, since her accident. Of course, at first, exercise hadn’t been much of a possibility-- Unless you counted those humiliating marches up and down the hallway of the hospital ward, escorted by nothing but the pitying gazes of those nurses aiding her. Yet, those attempts she had made afterwards, attempts at morning runs and free weeks at the gym, had always ended up with her collapsing onto a bench, mind spinning into a migraine.

    She had admitted as such to her doctor, in their first checkup after her final stage of discharge. Sitting in that office, bent over in a metal chair trying desperately to appear as wood, Minkowski had tried to explain.

    Running had once been her love, her routine, her daily opportunity to halt her thoughts and focus solely on the thrumming of her feet on the ground. Never much a fan of alcohol, it had been her well-earned intoxication.

    The Commander recalled clearly how the doctor had replied.

    She informed her, simply, that she would never again be able to run. That her exercise would eternally be limited to short walks about the neighborhood. Her brain had been damaged, to such an extent, that it could no longer handle increased rates of blood flow, not to mention periods of increased activity. 

    The doctor’s words had been simple. Minkowski’s reaction had been, too. She thanked the woman, returned home, and, for the first time since her accident, she had cried.

    Skull pounding only half with panic, Renée Minkowski twisted about in her seat, swinging her legs up and bracting her back against the central console. With a well-placed kick, the window should shatter, giving her an exit. If that didn’t work, she could certainly beat the locking mechanism until it surrendered to her.

    Gritting her teeth against the inevitable recoil, she bent her knees, and struck.

    The window did not give way. In fact, her feet did not strike anything at all. In the exact moment that she would have made contact, the car door was swung open. It was only by a narrow margin that she avoided striking Isabel Lovelace.

    “Woah, there!” Lovelace balked, stumbling back, before regaining her composure. Seemingly unflapped, she pushed Minkowski’s legs down, before more or less hauling her out of the car. Her touch was not rough, certainly not, but it was firm enough to inform Minkowski that she had no choice in the matter. “You’re alright, you’re alright.”

    She certainly didn’t feel alright, a feeling that only became more acute as the Commander scanned her surroundings.

    The two-lane highway was coated in a fine, seemingly impenetrable layer of dust, baked on by the sweltering light overhead, a light that was only barely filtered by the endless web of thin-trunked trees, stretching out on either side, the kind plentiful in the lowlands.

    Yet, it was not the blazing climate that concerned her, as she looked first before herself, then behind, finding nothing but endless road either way.

    She could handle the heat, but she did not much care for being alone. 

    Here, there was no hope of a good Samaritan aiding her. Not the slightest chance that a passing vehicle would spot her. There was likely nothing but woodland for miles in any direction.

    If that was the case, though, then why was Lovelace removing her from the vehicle? The thought threatened to make her collapse, a reality that was not far off, given just how much her legs were already shaking beneath her.

    “We’re going to go somewhere where you’ll feel safer.” 

    Safer? The only place she was going to feel safer was as far away from Isabel Lovelace as physically possible! Again, Minkowski made an attempt at escaping her captor’s grasp, but found it untenable.

    All she got in reply was a look of pity. 

    “Here.” Lovelace spoke, as though making an offer. She moved behind Minkowski, who immediately attempted to spin on a heel, but found herself stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder.

    Now, the woman was behind her, touching her , a fact which made her eyes snap open, breaths quickening along with the spiking of hairs on the back of her neck.

    Lovelace’s hands moved to her waist, to the cinch of the belt keeping her cuffed hands anchored. Within a few moments of manipulation, the belt was undone. 

    Moving back in front of her, Lovelace formed the belt again into a loop, securing its buckle now around nothing, forming an empty loop, still attached to Minkowski’s wrists, which were now considerably freer.

    Lovelace seized the end of the loop in hand, moving in front of her captive, and giving a light tug.

    What had once served to restrict Minkowski now served as a lead.

    On instinct more than anything, she dug her heels into the gravel of the road’s shoulder, a feeble attempt at keeping herself in place. Yet, the situation was more than hopeless. Even if she did manage to break free of the bindings, something that her physical state made nearly impossible, she would still be in the middle of nowhere. She had seen Lovelace take the keys to the only possible getaway vehicle, and even if she tried to run, she would certainly be recaptured before she made it any significant distance.

    As paradoxical as it seemed, the most logical step was to obey her captor. Wherever they were going, it was bound to be less open than the road-- And therefore more feasible in which to make her escape.

    Up the slight scarp on the side of the street Lovelace led her, into the thicket of trees. The further they grew into the woodland, the quicker Minkowski’s heart raced. Had this all been a stupid mistake? What purpose could Lovelace possibly have for bringing her so deep into the woods if her intentions were anything but violent?

    After a lengthy march through the scorching heat, they came to a rest area. A long-forgotten development, consisting of little more than a rusted bike rack, picnic table, and a map far too obscured by bird feces to be of much use to anyone. Lovelace led Minkowski to the table, waiting for her to reluctantly sit on one side before releasing her makeshift lead and moving herself to the other side, where she too was seated.

    Minkowski took a moment to gasp for breath, the headache she had already known to be present reminding her sharply of its existence. By now, the source was untraceable. Perhaps it had something to do with her missing dose of medication that morning, or whatever had caused her to spend the last four hours unconscious, or perhaps simply the heat. Whatever it was, the pain wasn’t going away anytime soon.

    Neither was the sun. She glanced up for a split second, finding the shining white ball nearly directly above her, at its highest point in the sky. Was it nearly noon already?

    “Renée.” Lovelace’s voice drew her back to the present, prompting her to look down.

    The expression on the other woman’s face could only be described as desperation.

    “Please.” Her words echoed her countenance. “Nothing can hear us, not out here. There’s not another living soul for a mile, human or Sensus. 

    You can drop it, now. You’re safe, now. They can’t get you, not out here. I’m so, so sorry that it took us so long to find you. Now, though-- Now, it’s going to be okay.

    So, Renée, please . We can start this over, and I’ll explain everything.”

    The heartfelt plea did nothing but make Minkowski’s headache worse.

    “Can you explain why you dragged me out in the middle of the woods in Georgia?”

    The corner of Lovelace’s lips tipped upwards in the very barest hint of a smile. A moment later, she had burst out laughing, covering her mouth with one hand. Yet, when she at last managed to catch her breath, she found that Minkowski shared none of her amusement.

    The change in demeanor of Captain Isabel Lovelace played out moment by moment on her face. From laughter, to sorrow, to a grit-teethed determination.

    Minkowski felt her heart skip a beat in her chest. Never before had she seen the woman truly upset, not since she had appeared on her doorstep.

    “Commander.” The Captain spoke, joviality banished from her voice and replaced entirely with stoicism. “You know how well I can play this game. There’s a reason you always gave me the job of interrogator. I want to help you, but if you want to play, then…” She trailed off for a moment, before shaking her head, refocusing. “Then let’s play.”

    The words were enough to make Minkowski stand from her seat. As far into the woods as they were, there was decent cover on all sides, enough to hide her for at least a few scarce moments as she attempted to outrun her kidnapper.

    Yet, so it appeared, Lovelace was already a half dozen steps ahead of her. 

    She stood, appearing at Minkowski’s side with a speed that seemed nearly nonhuman. Seizing the belt which had been, to that point, dangling loosely from Minkowski’s wrists, she once more redid the loop, fastening it to the support bar beneath the picnic table’s surface.

    With that, Minkowski’s interrogator returned to her seat.

    It wasn’t as though removing the restraint would be impossible. Yet, it didn’t need to be impossible, it merely needed to be both obvious and time-consuming, both of which it most certainly would be.

    Again, she was stuck. Again, Lovelace was moving.

    From over her shoulder, the woman removed a sort of messenger bag that Minkowski had not noticed beforehand. For a moment, she froze, fearing that her captor was about to produce a gun.

    Instead, she produced a bottle of pills, then another, and another. Before long, sixteen bottles had been lined up in a neat row, surrounding Lovelace like castle walls.

    Minkowski’s pills-- She recognized the size and shape of the bottles, the prescription names on the labels. The perfect little capsules that made life bearable, that made the headache go away.

    “It was nice of you to make that little cheat-sheet.” Lovelace began. “Now I know that you need all of these for your morning dosage.”

    She couldn’t stop herself from jerking forward, against her makeshift handcuffs.

    “Give them to me!”

    Lovelace raised a careful brow, one that made Minkowski’s heart sink.

    “I will.” Her voice was slow, methodical, a tone that was clearly well-practiced. “In exchange for answers.

    If you want to play, then here’s how the game works. Every question you answer for me, you get a pill. There’s sixteen bottles here, that means sixteen questions you’re going to answer for me.”

    The prospect made Minkowski’s expression twist. The cruelty of it distressed her most of all. Yet, she was at the mercy of the gamemaster, as far as she could tell. Equally, she was at the mercy of her increasingly throbbing headache. Even if the pills didn’t eliminate it entirely, they would at the very least make it bearable.

    “Fine.” She snapped, plenty more irritated than Lovelace herself. “Ask away. Whoever you think I am, though, I’m not. I’m a veteran with a desk job living in the suburbs.”

    Lovelace’s mouth twitched.

    “Your name is Lieutenant Commander Renée Minkowski. You only drink white wine, never red, you hate the way it tastes. Your father's name is Marek, and you spent most of your youth in the woods with him, when you weren't out watching planes at the tiny airport that you had to drive an hour to get to. 

         You cook, even when you hardly have the time, you love to cook, it's how you show affection. You won a cooking competition in grade school— Your parents still have the medal. 

    When you came to the states, you discovered musicals. You were in Oklahoma, back when you could hardly read the script. You directed a production of Fiddler on the Roof in high school.

    Commander , please."

    There was a pause. A pause during which Commander Minkowski felt as though her head were about to shatter to shards. This stranger, this stalker, had no way of knowing about her life. The words coming from her mouth were impossible.

    Yet, every last one of them was true. Had she ever told those things to anyone? Her parents, certainly, but they would never tell some stranger such information. Hell, they would never talk to a stranger, not even one who claimed to know their daughter. They were too smart for that, too wary.

    Weren’t they?

    If the Captain had thought the spilling of such information would convince the Commander to have an ounce of trust for her, she was, unfortunately, quite mistaken.

    “What do you want from me?” Minkowski growled.

    She just wanted to go home. Just wanted to curl up in bed, under her covers, close her eyes, and pretend that none of this had ever happened. She wanted to go to work on Monday morning, to banter mindlessly with coworkers over bitter coffee.

    She didn’t want to be here.

    Any vulnerability that Lovelace had previously bared was now well hidden beneath a mask of gritted teeth and knitted brows.

    “What do I want from you?” Lovelace echoed. “I want a lot of things from you, Commander. I want for you to come with me willingly, for one. I want for you to trust me.”

    “Not a chance.”

    Lovelace gave a firm nod. The rules of the game had been set, and the pieces-- the pill bottles-- were arranged just right.

    “Then, let’s play.” She reached forward, plucking the first bottle from the lineup. Phenergan. Little blue pills, barely the size of her pinky nail. Tiny, and yet, strong enough to turn her whirl of thoughts into a single, steady stream.

    First round. First question.

    “Where did you grow up?”

    The stalker had to know that, didn’t she? As resistant as Minkowski intended on being, she felt no harm in answering that particular query.

    “Warsaw, Poland.”

    The pills were passed. Hands bound as they were, Minkowski couldn’t very well place them on her own tongue, and was forced to allow the stranger to perform the humiliating task for her. She minded, certainly, but considered the mortification worthwhile if it calmed her migraine.

    “Good. Alright, when did you join the military?”

    “I was nineteen. Just out of highschool.”

    Again, easy. Any official record would show as such. It was something so simple that it might come up in simple small talk, even.

    Another dose. Two down, fourteen to go.

    “What is the highest rank you achieved in the air force?”

    “Lieutenant Commander.”

    Two pink pills, choked down dry.

    “When was your accident?”

    That was the first question on which Minkowski paused. Of course, it always had to come around to this. It always did, didn’t it? The incident that had turned a promising career to a tale that brought about only pitying glances. Oh, how she hated those glances.

    “Fourteen months ago.”

    Adlarity. Little rectangular, tan colored ones. They made the nausea easier.

    “What is the first thing you remember, when you woke up afterwards?”

    The hesitation here was longer.

    Certainly, there would be records of such, the first time she regained consciousness. They had called it a miracle, a true display of the wonders of modern medicine. 

    They said she never should have lived. Sometimes, she agreed.

    “I was in a hospital.”

    The white walls and sterile steel surfaces remained fuzzy in her mind, yet evident. The pill placed on her tongue, which she at once swallowed, made her recall those times even more intensely.

    “What hospital?”

    Minkowski paused. She supposed she hadn’t truly considered that point beforehand. She had never asked, not that she could remember.

    “I don’t know.”

    Lovelace raised a curious eyebrow.

    “You don’t know?”

    “I suppose I never considered that I might have been in a civilian institution. I assumed it was a military facility, of some sort.”

    “And you don’t know where?”

    “I’ve never looked.”

    Getting impatient, she was finally given a pair of yellow pills for her answer.

    “How long were you in the hospital?”

    “Four months.”

    Blue tablets.

    Eight bottles had been pushed to the side-- Halfway done.

    “Then what?”

    “What?”

    “What happened after?”

    “That seems like a broad question.” Minkowski scanned the row of bottles. “All for one bottle?”

    Lovelace’s expression creased.

    “Fine. Where did you live after your discharge?”

    “A house.”

    Lovelace didn’t look satisfied.

    “The team working my case aided me in acquiring a mortgage.”

    That got her her reward. Nine down.

    “Do you work?”

    “Yes.”

    The Captain was being lenient. One more down the hatch, six to go.

    “Where?”

    “A contract administration company. Running payroll and HR for smaller companies.”

    Five.

    “They didn’t mind your past?”

    “The job placement was arranged by my case worker. Most of the employees at the company are disabled veterans. Some kind of contract.”

    “Huh.” 

    Four.

    “Alright.” Lovelace seemed to already be rearing up to leave, placing used pill bottles back in her satchel.

    “Commander Minkowski, are you married?”

    That one came out of left field. She furrowed her brow, which didn’t help her headache, though it was subsiding by now. 

    “No.”

    “No?”

    Lovelace’s expression was marked again by twitching. Minkowski found herself wishing that her opponent had less of a Poker face.

    “Not anymore. I’m divorced.”

    That was all this woman had any need of knowing.

    “Divorced. Okay…”

    The next batch of pills was handed over more hesitantly, but, nonetheless, it was given.

    Three left.

    “Have you ever been to space?”

    “Have I ever been to space? ”

    “Yes.”

    “I flew airplanes. Jets. I’ve never been above 50,000 meters.”

    “Right.”

    Two.

    “Have you ever applied for a job at NASA?”

    Minkowski had to stop her leg from bouncing.

    “Yes. I never got further than the first interview.”

    “Alright.”

    One more pill bottle on the picnic table. Minkowski fixated her gaze upon it. Gabapentin.

    Lovelace paused, for the first time looking down, breaking their matched gaze.

    “Have you ever met Marcus Cutter?”

    Minkowski bit her tongue until her mouth tasted of iron.

    “No.”

    Minkowski was fidgeting.

    Her fingers, interlocked, tensing, providing a staticky sort of pressure along her knuckles. That was the way that the medicine often made her feel, feeling coming in little bursts on her digits. She supposed it was a fair trade for lessening the terrible ache inside her skull.

    Right now, too, it was serving as a distraction.

    The windows did quite the job of that as well. Traveling on the dusty highway, she had begun to feel a sort of camaraderie with the passing street signs, green and shimmering, informing her of the ever so slow advance of Atlanta. Is that where they were headed? Had she had a better knowledge of geography, or math, or anything at all, perhaps Minkowski would have been able to find her approximate location on a map.

    Yet, for the moment, she didn’t have a map. All she did have was the lead, rapidly settling to the bottom of her stomach. Though perhaps she could count the handcuffs in that list.

    After the last question was answered, the last pill swallowed, Lovelace had made quick work of the belt attached to the zip-ties, hauling the Lieutenant back to the car. Few words had been exchanged thus far. Yet, as was to be expected, she had been restrained in the exact same manner as before. 

    According to the little green, segmented clock of the dashboard, it had only been about an hour. Yet, already, the silence was weighing to the point of suffocation.

    Minkowski had never received any sort of training in terms of what to do if captured, such would be ridiculous-- She had never even been trained to go overseas. Her work was well confined to the mainland. 

    Yet, she could assume one thing that would likely have been the basis of her training-- Give nothing to the enemy. She had conceded some information earlier, while under threat, but now, she was under no such duress. In fact, the Captain wasn’t even looking at her, much less requesting information.

    Minkowski knew she shouldn’t talk. Any word uttered was a piece of information given. Why would she try to make conversation with her captor?

    Yet, the desire was quickly growing overwhelming. Was it nerves? Social anxiety? Something she’d been injected with? She didn’t know the answer to that, but she knew her own emotions well.

    To her fortune, Lovelace seemed to solve the dilemma for her.

    “-alright?”

    “Huh?” Minkowski interjected, having lost the first part of Lovelace’s sentence to the rolling landscape out the window.

    “Are you doing alright?” Lovelace repeated.

    Minkowski’s reaction must have been quite clearly baffled, as the Captain responded with a laugh and an addition:

    “You weren’t expecting me to care, huh?”

    Minkowski gave a grit-toothed smile.

    “I’m fine.”

    “You’re sure?”

    Minkowski gave an ornery snort.

    “How far is it?”

    “Hm?”

    “Wherever you’re bringing me, how far is it?”

    They were still in Georgia, right? Maybe Lovelace was bringing her to the coast? What would be the point of that, though? Was there a boat, moored somewhere, waiting for them?

    Another street sign. They were closer to Atlanta than ever.

    “Far.”

    “How far? An hour? Two?”

    Lovelace shook her head.

    “It’ll be a multi-day trip.”

    “Well, where are we stopping for the night?” If they were in a hotel…

    “We’ll be sleeping in the car.”

    And there went that hope.

    “Right.”

    “Are you tired? You’re welcome to sleep whenever.”

    As though Minkowski could sleep in this situation. Whatever had happened earlier, that black period between her time in her home and waking up in this vehicle, that was a fluke. She wouldn’t abandon consciousness again. 

    She had to use her mind, think tactically. She had spent the last hour turning over possible escape plans in her mind. She couldn’t tuck and roll-- The door was visibly child-locked, and even if she could wrench it open, her hands were fixed firmly in place. The only thing an attempted jump would get her was a broken wrist or two.

    When they stopped. She would have to wait until they stopped. Certainly they had to, to gather supplies and, well, relieve themselves. 

    More small towns were sprouting, now, on either side of the interstate. Still, they were tiny. Police response would be slow. No, she had to wait. If she made a ruckus in the middle of Atlanta, Lovelace would have no hope of avoiding it.

    Patiently, she watched the signs. The numbers were going down, yet frustratingly slowly. Come on, come on.

    She watched an exit sign, informing them to exit for Atlanta.

    Lovelace didn’t take the exit.

    Of course she would be avoiding a major city, any major city. Stalking the backroads would keep them out of sight of anyone who could aid Minkowski’s situation.

    When the numbers next to Atlanta upon the signs began to once more increase, Minkowski gave up. She let out a little frustrated huff-- There went one plan, and the boredom was starting to wear on both her and her constant headache.

    “I’m hungry.”

    “You’re hungry?”

    She wasn’t sure if she really was or not. Sure, she was just trying to get the car to stop off somewhere where she could stage an escape. However, she couldn’t deny that the idea might’ve been sparked by a slight pang in her abdomen.

    “Yes.”

    “Alright.”

    Lovelace pointed to something speeding by on the side of the highway-- A large, green sign with its trademark text font. There was a rest stop in ten miles, advertising food and gas.

    “We’ll stop off there.”

    Minkowski gave a firm nod that she hoped looked professional, or at least somewhat military. The scratching of her throat, she told herself, was only from the pills. 

    She wasn’t nervous. That would be ridiculous. Though, this did require some tactical planning.

    The most important thing was to get away from Captain Lovelace. Once they were somewhere public, she could make a scene of things, call the police. This nightmare of a day would all be over.

    Getting away from the Captain, though, that would be the hard part.

    She had one chance. She’d have to play it smart.

    Interlacing her fingers, Minkowski leaned forward, even as it caused the zip ties to dig into her wrists. From the side of her vision, she watched the green highway signs, tracking the number of miles from the rest stop as it steadily decreased.

    Before she knew it, and far before she was ready, Lovelace’s turn signal began blinking, and they were rolling down an exit. The area was still thickly wooded by spindly birch whose canopies weren’t quite wide enough to keep the undergrowth from being parched by the bearing sun. Sticking out on a patch of artificially cleared ground was the rest stop in question; a stern, modern building with paneled sides, a gray exterior, and no real windows to speak of. Minkowski made particular note of the last detail.

    Lovelace, however, did not turn in at the rest stop. Instead, she kept going, parking at a nearby picnic area that had seen a few too many bad storms, off to the side of the parking lot.

    “Rest stops have security cameras.” The Captain explained offhandedly as she undid her seatbelt, fussing in the door pocket for her wallet. 

    “Right.”

    “Stay here. I won’t be gone long. What do you want?”

    Minkowski barely heard the question, her eyebrows shooting up. If Lovelace was going to leave her in the car, she’d have no luck in her plans.

    “Uh- A sandwich. Look, I-”

    Dammit, dammit-

    “I have to piss.”

    Lovelace gave an indignant expression, before letting out a small giggle, covering her full lips with one hand. 

    Why did Minkowski keep looking at her lips?

    “Alright, alright.” The Captain conceded, leaning across the central console and, with a quick jerk, snapped the zip ties. Minkowski pulled her hands from the restraints, rubbing her wrists even as they weren’t all that sore. 

    She could feel her heart rate picking up as the two of them exited the vehicle, turning towards the rest stop. She only made it a few paces before she felt a firm hand on her wrist.

    “Where are you off to?”

    “I said, I have to go.”

    “Uh-huh.”

    Using her grip on Minkowski’s wrist, she turned her around, raising her hand to point out into the woodland beyond.

    “Nature’s bathroom. I don’t want you on camera.”

    Of course she didn’t. Minkowski couldn’t help but flush at the indignity of the situation, but she was in no position to protest. She pulled her hand free.

    “Come back to the car as soon as you’re done, alright? I’ll be back soon. What do you want me to get?”

    “Uh…” Minkowski was already ambling towards the woods. “A sandwich.”

    “A sandwich. Got it, be back in a sec.”

    She didn’t turn around as she continued forward, past the picnic tables and deep into the wooded area. For once, leaning against a tree, she closed her eyes and felt as though she could finally breathe.

    After a few breaths, after she at last had some oxygen in her brain, she felt as though she could think again. She had accomplished one of her goals, at the very least-- She was away from Captain Isabel Lovelace. No restraints bound her, she wasn’t being watched.

    Yet, she was restrained in an entirely other way. They were in the middle of nowhere in what she assumed was Georgia, miles away from any major human habitation. She could start walking in any direction, deep into the woods, and thirst would likely take her before she found anyone to help her.

    She was as stuck as she was free.

    After waiting for a few moments in the wooded area, she built up the courage to move back to the car. Another plan began to idly form in her mind as she lay eyes on the rest stop in the distance. 

    There had to be somewhere in there, right? If she could…

    Minkowski jumped as the bells above the door jingled, Lovelace exiting with a plastic grocery bag in one hand. Out of impulse more than prior planning, she stumbled forward, throwing herself behind the only other car in the parking lot. To her own luck, it was a low-built light truck, the chassis of the thing able to hide her as she caught her breath.

    In another stroke of luck, something that she hadn’t had in abundance recently, it seemed that the Captain had not noticed her panicked escape, continuing her unimpeded trek towards the car. 

    As far as she knew, she was still in the woods. How long before she went looking? How long before she noticed? 

    How long would it take for her to run to the rest stop? How long would it take for the police to arrive? Would Lovelace make a scene if there was a stranger around?

    More importantly, would Minkowski ever get another chance like this?

    Heart pounding, she got up on her knees, peering through the windows of the truck in order to get a better view. Lovelace was back near the car, now, and the rest stop was so close…

    She wouldn’t get another break. God only knows how much longer she would be in that car, how much longer Lovelace even intended on keeping her alive for. 

    Steadying her breaths, she watched Lovelace’s movements, watched as she approached the car and moved around to the driver’s side door. 

    She laid her hand on the car door handle.

    That was when Minkowski took her chance. Leaping to her feet, taking a few stumbling steps to gain her balance, she dashed towards the rest stop. The parking lot felt longer than a football field, but she did not allow herself to stop running. 

    Her pounding footsteps drowned out the tinkling bells as she raced to the front desk, startling the female employee sitting behind.

    “I need help.” Minkowski gasped, nearly breathless. “I’ve been kidnapped. The woman who was just in here, tall, black, um, she’s got a lot of dark hair, and brown eyes, and-” What had she been wearing? She couldn’t remember. “She was just in here. She bought food, and- And you need to help me!”

    The sole other occupant of the store was the employee behind the counter, a middle aged woman, slightly older than Minkowski, with a kindly, wrinkled face, and pale lips. Minkowski could imagine that she had kids.

    She expected the woman to panic, to immediately run to the phone, to call the police, the proper response! Instead, her eyes widened, and she gave a nervous nod.

    “Alright, Ma’am. You said she was just in here?”

    “Yes! I just saw her walk out the front door. There’s only one door, isn’t there?” Wide-eyed, she scanned the building’s structure, verifying that, yes, there was only one main door, the same door from which Lovelace had just exited.

    “Yes, there’s only one door from the customer area.”

    “Then you must’ve seen her! Someone was just in here, you saw her, right?”

    “Ma’am.” The woman’s voice was slow, even. Minkowski could barely hear her over her pounding heartbeat. Lovelace could enter through that door at any moment! “The only person who has been here for hours was an older man.”

    Had the shopkeeper just forgotten? Had she not seen Lovelace? She must’ve, right?

    “When was he in? How long ago?”

    “Just a minute or so ago, before you.”

    “You must not have seen her.” Minkowski rationalized. “Look, I- She was here! I saw her go in, I saw her come out, she’s kidnapped me, she took me from my home, I’m from Florida! I need you to call the police!”

    “Okay.” The cashier took a deep breath, gave a smile, and a nod. “Alright. I’m going to call the police, okay? How about you come behind the counter here, I’ve got a chair where you can sit. Do you want some water? I’ve got some water.”

    Minkowski nodded, letting out a relieved breath. This was the end. She was going to be done with this, all of this. She was going to go home and see her therapist. 

    Everything was going to be okay.

    “Everything is going to be okay.” The cashier coaxed, placing a hand on Minkowski’s shoulder as she led her to a metal folding chair, where she sat down. A cold bottle of water was placed into her shaking hands.

    “You just sit there and wait, alright? I’ll call some people to help you.”

    Minkowski gave a grateful nod, laying her hands on her knees and allowing herself to slump forward, closing her eyes.

    Already she was imagining what she would do when she returned home. She couldn’t wait to take a nap in her own bed, to go to the grocery store, to listen to her coworkers and their gossip. Maybe, for once, she would actually pay attention.

    Speaking of paying attention, she lifted her head, catching the shopkeeper’s first words to the dispatcher. She was whispering. Why was she whispering? Miinkowski could barely hear her.

    “Hi, I’m out at the 6th station off the 33, there’s a woman here, um, I think she’s having some kind of mental-something episode. Says she’s been kidnapped, she’s hallucinating, I think. She doesn’t seem dangerous, but…”

    Minkowski clenched her hands in her lap.

    Whatever was going on, this woman certainly thought she was crazy. Whoever responded to the call wouldn’t be here to save her from Lovelace, they’d be here to take her off to some psych ward. She’d be labeled a psycho, talking about a disappearing kidnapper.

    The blood all over her home, the shells she had removed from the Captain, her disappearance from her home-- All of that, on top of losing her mind at some poor shop employee?

    She’d be back in the hospital before she knew it. She couldn’t go back to the hospital.

    Minkowski glanced at the shopkeep, then the door, then the shopkeep.

    “If you could send an ambulance-”

    She shot to her feet, and tore out the door, water bottle still gripped tightly in her hand. Her flight from the store was no less frantic than her flight into it. By the time she made it to the side of the car, she was gasping for breath.

    Pulling at the handle, she found the door unlocked as she slid into the passenger seat. Lovelace was already in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel.

    There was a brief pause before the engine rumbled to life. Lovelace made no effort to restrain her as the car pulled out of the picnic area. By the time they were back on the road, there was no sign of any imminent police presence. Thank goodness for slow sheriffs. 

    The silence in the vehicle for about a minute or two before the Captain broke it. Her pitch was low, tone more serious that Minkowski had yet heard it.

    “Please, don’t do that again. You’re going to get yourself hurt.”

    As though that was what her captor was worried about. When she got access to a dictionary again, she intended to look up the word ‘gaslighting.’

    “I’m going to get hurt.” Minkowski replied. “By staying with you.”

    Lovelace sighed, gaze briefly turning to the passenger’s seat before she returned her focus to the road.

    “If I wanted to hurt you, wouldn’t I have done it already?”

    Minkowski briefly considered the notion. It was true, in a way. Lovelace had had her unconscious earlier, and alone in the woods after that. Now, they were locked in a car together. If she wanted to hurt her, there would have been little resistance.

    She had no intention of admitting it, however.

    “You’ll hurt me when we get to… Wherever we’re going.”

    “No.” Lovelace gave a light shake of the head. “I’m taking you somewhere to get help.”

    At least that was somewhat more of an explanation that she had given prior.

    “Can you tell me where?”

    “No.”

    “Why not?”

    Lovelace’s hands tightened their grip on the steering wheel.

    “Because of this. Because you could run away, and you could tell-” She cut herself off. “I’m taking you somewhere safe, where you’re going to get help.”

    “I already have doctors.”

    “And do they make you feel better?”

    Minkowski opened her mouth, but found her words dead on arrival. Instead, she defiantly looked out the window until Lovelace spoke again.

    “You said you were hungry.” Accompanying the words was a gesture with Lovelace’s head, indicating to the backseat. The Commander turned to look, spotting a plastic grocery sack, which she hesitantly grabbed and placed on her lap.

    Digging through the contents, she had somehow expected something horrific, like cat food. Something for her captor to try and torment her with. 

    Instead, she found a plastic-wrapped sandwich, labeled as peanut butter and jelly, about with the quality one would expect from a little roadside stop. Alongside it was a bag of chips-- her favorite kind, somehow--, a little thing of grapes, a soda, a water, and a cookie. She couldn’t help but be reminded of pre-packed school lunches as she began to unwrap the sandwich.

    Eating couldn’t hurt, could it? After all, she had all but seen Lovelace make the purchase, and everything was wrapped. Besides, if she did try to drug her later, having food in her stomach would make the attempt less fruitful.

    As she shoved the wrapper into the doorside pocket and opened her mouth to take a bite, she paused. Minkowski lowered the sandwich, looked over to the driver’s seat, and lowly spoke:

    “Thanks.”

    “Yeah.”

    Atlanta came and went without their vehicle ever passing through it. Instead, Captain Lovelace took the car on a roundabout route, dodging about the interstates to keep from entering the city’s direct circle of influence.

    By the time they had readjusted to a more direct route down a single highway, they were only about 70 miles from the crossing into Tennessee.

    Finishing her meal, Minkowski had made a point of neatly packing away all of the wrappers and empty bottles, tying them back in the grocery sack. At the very least, it ate up some time.

    Despite the amount of time that she spent alone in her own home, the Commander had never had much patience for simply sitting. Perhaps it was how she kept such a clean house. She wanted to keep moving, keep occupied, keep something in her hands to keep the rest from her mind. 

    Suffice it to say, the car trip was making her more than a bit antsy. She kept checking the clock, staring at the street signs flashing by. 

    Continuously echoing in her mind, despite stubborn attempts, was a news broadcast that she had sat through, though she couldn’t quite remember when. It was a report on a woman kidnapped in the area, with an expert speaking on the matter. She couldn’t remember the exact statistics, but there was something about a 24 hour period. If one was not found within a 24 hour period, their survival chances dropped from likely to slim.

    Was anyone even looking for her? She lived alone. She had had had no opportunity to contact the police. She had no plans until she was meant to show up at work on Monday.

    Would her coworkers report her missing, then? Would one day concern them enough? Two? It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to miss work for her condition, and for a company that specialized in hiring disabled vets, this was to be expected. She had an appointment with her therapist on Tuesday, would it be then?

    How long until someone entered her home? How long until they saw the blood-stained bed sheets, the couch she’d dragged into the backyard, the bullet shells in her trash can? Had Lovelace cleaned the place? Certainly, she wouldn’t have had time, right?

    If it was Tuesday-- Hell, even if it was Monday-- she would have no chance left. She didn’t have security cameras, there would be no evidence there. Had Lovelace left behind anything identifying? Her blood would be useless without something to compare it to-- She had watched enough Dateline to know that. And with all the bleach Minkowski had poured everywhere in an attempt to get it off…

    Even with blood samples. Even if someone happened to check her home on Monday. Even if, would she have any chance? With the pace they were driving at, they could be out of the country by then.

    She was already far outside state lines.

    Secondary location. Twenty four hours.

    In a psychology course, once, she remembered learning about the stages of stress. Particularly, the final stage: Exhaustion. After being frightened for a great period of time, the body simply lost the ability to panic any longer. Fear could only snowball to such an extent before it lost momentum. 

    Had she reached that stage?

    Either way, she was quite certain that if she didn’t say or do something soon, she would go nuts. It was funny-- The last aspect of a kidnapping that one would expect would be boredom. 

    Yet, here she was.

    For a brief moment, she reconsidered. If she did make it out of this, how would she reflect? How would she tell the story? Oh, yes, she was bored, so she played buddy-buddy with the woman who had kidnapped her. It seemed weak, and yet, in the moment, it seemed like the only option.

    Hell, if she was going to die, she should at least allow her final moments to be entertaining.

    Clearing her throat, Minkowski raised her head.

    “So, where are you from?”

    Lovelace blinked in surprise, glancing over.

    “I can’t tell you where we’re going.”

    Minkowski shook her head.

    “No, I mean, where did you grow up?”

    “Oh.” There was a pause. “Brooklyn.”

    “Brooklyn?” She raised a brow. “You don’t have the accent.”

    “I haven’t been home in a long time.” The corners of her lips turned upwards. “And we don’t have that much of an accent.”

    “I suppose I’ve never been. Only seen the movies.” She replied. “Have you ever seen Newsies?”

    She regretted the statement as soon as she made it. Why would she say something like that? That was stupid! Was that the only thing she knew about Brooklyn?

    “Haven’t heard of it. It’s a movie?”

    “Uh, started as a movie. Then it was a stage musical.”

    “Oh. I’ve never seen it, no.”

    “There’s uh, a song in it, about Brooklyn.”

    Lovelace gave a smile at that. “Huh.”

    “I guess you already know where I grew up, then.” Minkowski bit the tip of her tongue, voice low. “Since you know everything about me.”

    “Doesn’t mean you can’t tell me again.”

    And yet, it was there that that line of conversation died. Commander Minkowski glanced out the window and noted that they were now 45 miles from the Tennessee border.

    Renée Minkowski was bossy. As a child, she had gotten used to that epithet. Not that she would ever dare to act that way around her school peers-- One wrong twitch of her tongue, allowing her accent to show through, and she would have been done for. No, she had learned to keep her head down there.

    At home, however, she had no issue pushing her cousins into line. As her tongue gradually relaxed into an appropriate American shape, she had learned assertiveness outside of the classroom, too. Privates and kids fresh from Basic tended to quiet themselves when she passed, knowing full well that she would not tolerate their nonsense.

    It wasn’t malice with which she acted, but rules were rules, and someone had to follow them. That may have made her the butt of jokes, but it hardly bothered her.

    Sitting in the vehicle, now, Renée could not help but wonder where that assertiveness had gone. Was it that she feared her captor? Sure, Captain Lovelace could no doubt beat her in a physical match, but she had yet to so much as try to lay a hand on her. She had considered the possibility of the Captain having a weapon more than once, but was quite sure that if she did, she would have made that known by now. 

    What had turned her weak? At first, she could have blamed it on her lack of medication, but that issue had been cleared, now. Then, she could have pointed towards hunger. Now, she had a full stomach.

    So what was it?

    Whatever the issue was, it did not show any sign of letting up, soon. 

    The next several hours of the trip were occupied by more attempts at conversation, most of which had been aborted quite quickly. Lovelace always seemed to be lost in her own head, only breaking loose when Minkowski initiated it.

    The Captain had no interest in speaking about herself, but chatted pleasantly about whatever inane topics Minkowski could come up with. After a few tries, she had mostly given up.

    By the time that they stopped again, Nashville, Tennessee had come and gone. This time, their journey paused at a nondescript fast food joint, one which she had forgotten the name of as soon as she had left the building. Instead of the drive-thru, they had entered the building to order, stretch their legs, and use the restroom.

    Within, they were hardly alone. Yet, Minkowski kept her head down and did not say a word. 

    Did that mean she was accepting her fate? She wasn’t sure. But, she felt better after the burger and fries. 

    When Minkowski fell asleep that night, Captain Lovelace had yet to once rest.

    Minkowski’s eyes had last drifted closed to the sight of a modest Tennessee city known as Oak Grove and a sign indicating that the two were entering Kentucky. 

    When they again opened, she could find no road signs to indicate the whereabouts of the endless expanse of farmland, undulating in both directions from the highway. Not that she would have been able to read any signs, given the complete lack of light-- It must’ve been midnight, or later. However, that was far from the most notable sensory information her sleep-addled brain took in.

    No, that title belonged to the stench that was already invading her mouth and soaking her tongue like a paper towel in mud. By the time the sensation had expanded to her throat, singing it, she had identified the source.

    Smoke. 

    Not long after she had made her realization, the car door at her side was yanked open, and she was all but dragged out. Minkowski barely managed to get her lungs under her in time.

    Adrenaline shook the sleep from her eyes quickly. 

    The source of the smoke wasn’t hard to see once the car came fully into view. From beneath a shivering hood, a sputtering of gray smoke overboiled, lifting up and clouding the sky. The vehicle resembled a kettle about to blow its top.

    Lovelace had already vacated the vehicle, as evidenced by her position behind Minkowski, from which she kept a firm hand on her captive’s arm.

    “What the-” The Commander tried to wake her tongue.

    “Not a clue.” The Captain’s voice was tinged with nerves. “Know anything about cars.”

    “Not a clue.” Minkowski repeated. She knew someone who did, but he- She stopped the train of thought in its tracks.

    Her gaze flicked over the car. Regardless of what was happening under the hood, if the pressure built up too high, they would have an explosion on their hands. She knew that well, even though she did not know how. The moment her car started to make an odd noise, she took it straight to the shop. But, given their surroundings, she could imagine there would be a gas station for miles, much less a shop.

    “We need to get the hood open.”

    “What?”

    “That smoke’s building up like a powder keg. It’s gonna blow if we don’t do something.”

    “Makes sense.” Lovelace nodded, awfully quick to trust someone who really had no clue what she was talking about. Without an ounce of hesitation, she moved to the front of the car, reaching out to touch the hood. The very instant her fingers made contact, she yelped, stumbling backwards.

    “Hot?” Minkowski guessed.

    “Hot.”

    “Okay, um- Um-”

    Dammit, why had she never bothered to take those aircraft repair courses? What in the world was she supposed to do?

    Something strong enough to open the hood, something long enough to keep them away from the smoke…

    An idea struck her. Yet, she stood, biting her tongue for perhaps ten seconds before she trotted to the back of the car. Thankfully, the back was unlocked, and she had little issue in throwing open the hatch. From there, she leaned in, digging under the carpeting until she found what she was looking for.

    Triumphantly, Minkowski pulled out an axle wrench. 

    Taking a moment to glance at Lovelace, who, luckily, understood her plan, she moved to the hood of the car. She stood back as far as the wrench would allow before jigging its end under the lip of the hood. The smoke and pressure practically did the rest of the work, launching the hood open and spitting gray plumes into the night sky.

    “There.” Minkowski kept her grip on the wrench as she gasped for air, taking a few steps back. “Okay.”

    “You’re still a genius, huh?” Lovelace commented with a smile that was hard to see in the shroud. “Still, looks like we’re gonna be stuck here. I’ll call roadside assistance, get a tow.”

    Glancing around the landscape, the Commander could not help but wonder how long, exactly, a tow truck would take to arrive.

    “Where are we?”’

    “Western Illinois. An hour from the Iowa border.”

    “So… The middle of nowhere?”

    “Even calling it nowhere is pretty generous.”

    With a tiny twitch of her lips, one that could just barely be called a smile, Minkowski moved to the side of the road, sitting down and bringing her knees close to her chest. Mentally, she tried to imagine where, exactly, they were.

    Iowa. That was straight in the middle of the country. How far was that from Florida? Had she ever even been to Iowa? 

    Where in the world was this crazy woman taking her?

    Minkowski first glanced down at the axle wrench in her hands, before her gaze drifted up and behind herself. At the edge of the nearest farm field, endless soybean flowers gave way to a dense, forested area. How far was it? Perhaps a thousand feet, she estimated. Maybe just over a minute, she could run it in. 

    So long as she could stave off the migraine, that was. How long did it usually take for it to set in? That, she had never calculated.

    Yet, when would she ever get another chance like this? Minkowski had never much believed in a god, even with her Polish roots bombarding her with the influences of Catholicism. Now, however, she sent a silent thanks to whoever was up there. How lucky could she be, for the vehicle to break down in the middle of the night?

    Soon enough, roadside assistance would appear. The Captain would pull whatever nonsense she had last time, making the Commander look like the crazy one. Then, they’d get back on the road, and they’d grow ever closer to wherever in the world Lovelace was taking her.

    Minkowski took one last glance at her axle wrench. She didn’t want to hurt Lovelace, not really. As of yet, the woman had truly done nothing to harm her. There was no need to cause her any serious wounds. She only had to hit her once, disorient her enough.

    She looked up. Lovelace was still on the phone.

    Her legs felt numb as she stood from the roadside, gripping her weapon like a baseball bat as she silently crept up behind her distracted kidnapper.

    Taking a deep, steadying breath, Commander Minkowski raised her wrench.

    The world flashed before her eyes. One moment, she was on the side of the road, in rural Illinois, aiming her weapon at a plume of black hair. The next, the world around her had transformed to a metallic corrugation, the air in her lungs scarce and stale. Rather than black coils, she found herself staring at spiraling red curls. 

    Minkowski dropped the wrench. 

    Lovelace jumped in surprise, but her captive had no time to notice. Rather, Minkowski spun on her heels, bearing her head down and dashing forth until she was crushing soybeans underfoot.

    “Wait!” A cry echoed. Yet, she had no intent of slowing down. Once she had gotten well into her rhythm, one foot in front of the next, she allowed herself to raise her head, focusing on the trees in front of her.

    Bile bubbled in her throat. She coughed, forcing breath into her lungs and shaking her vision.

    One foot fell wrong. She was barely able to recover her vision. Minkowski swore she could hear her own heartbeat, echoing against the glass sky. Her tongue filled her mouth and threatened to choke her.

    When she fell, in the middle of the field, the Commander was drenched in sweat. She dropped to her knees and, at once, began to vomit. Her vision was blurry enough so as to be no use to her.

    She barely registered the hand on her shoulder, the words in her ear. When her mind at last cleared, vision stabilizing into something that did not give her a horrid vertigo, she was in a vehicle. A different vehicle.

    A tow truck.

    Captain Lovelace’s car was fixed by morning.

    Renée Minkowski was going to die.

    She was certain of that. That was why she had dreamed about it, of course. Why she had dreamed of facing down Captain Lovelace. Why she had dreamed of being shot in the side. Why she had dreamed of darkness.

    Where was the line drawn between dream, nightmare, and omen?

    When she had fallen asleep last, in the Captain’s newly-fixed vehicle, they were just leaving a city labeled as Davenport. Now, waking up with a mouth full of cotton, she blearily spotted a billboard, worn with age, advertising an approaching location called Okoboji, Iowa. At least that solidified their location was still within the same state.

    That didn’t give Minkowski much of a greater sense of control. 

    Her dream still felt heavy. Even as the outcome of her life was guaranteed…

    Why wasn’t she afraid? That thought was the worst of all, perhaps. In the dream, in the moment, certainly she was afraid. Yet, glancing back, considering her own death, there was no fear. No heart-wrenching anxiety. 

    Why? What was wrong with her?

    Reorienting herself in her seat, she gave a half-lidded glance to her soon-to-be killer. The woman in life was stronger, leaner than in her mind. She tried to imagine her with a gun, or a knife, or a club-- Whatever she would care to use. It wasn’t hard.

    Again, the concept did not conjure up nerves.

    Staring down the barrel…

    Minkowski had often heard the term ‘it’s their time.’ It’s his time, it’s her time. Most of the time, the placating words were accompanied by pats on the back and the news of a deceased grandparent or pet. 

    It’s their time. They were meant to die. They’d been suffering. Now they’re free.

    Was she suffering? Was it her time?

    It wasn’t the first time, far from it, that the Commander had been faced with her own mortality. The past year or so of her life was an almost textbook example.

    The doctors had not known whether or not she would “make it,” as was their favorite euphemism. Severe brain damage, a collapsed lung, broken limbs. A pinch of salt and it would be the perfect recipe for a woman in a body bag. 

    They’d sent in a priest, once. She’d never really been religious, but the talk was nice. 

    Dead women didn’t spend half their waking hours worrying over prescriptions and medications. Dead women could sleep through the night. Dead women didn’t puke after a glass of wine.

    Dead women could run.

    Was that what she was basing her quality of life on, now? How ridiculous. Who cared whether or not the pilot could run? As though she’d ever fly again.

    The line of thought was threatening to bring her back to sleep. If she was going to have that same dream again, she was nowhere near interested-- Even if the idea of death by a single bullet did strike her as awfully pleasant.

    Sleeping women and dead women alike could not, at the very least, see the sights and watch the world go by. Wasn’t the last day of someone’s life meant to be interesting? If she spent it all asleep, she wouldn’t be fulfilling that tradition very well.

    Angering a crik in her back, Minkowski got herself to a sitting position. 

    “Sleep well?” Captain Lovelace commented. When was she going to sleep? So far, they hadn’t stopped moving once.

    Was she on meth?

    “Not really.” Minkowski replied groggily, raising her hands to rub at her eyes. Ever since the rest stop, Lovelace hadn’t bothered to tie her hands, or restrain her in any other way, unless you counted a seatbelt.

    “Hungry?”

    “Not really hungry either.”

    She needed to stretch, but the car didn’t provide nearly enough room. Looking out the window, the last edges of her migraine were reignited by the daylight.

    Minkowski had run for less than a minute, and still felt the pain, nearly half a day later.

    She was far from home, in pain, unable to run, unable to get help. Would there be any point in fighting the inevitable? Really, she didn’t think so.

    “How far are we?” She asked again. Not where they were going. Really, she didn’t care. Wherever it was, her body would be buried in a shallow grave there. Wherever they went, the dirt would be the same.

    “Less than a day from the border.”

    “Less than a day from… The destination?”

    Lovelace considered for a moment, clearly thinking rather hard, as evidenced by the way she held the tip of her tongue up to her teeth. She always did that when she was thinking.

    How did Minkowski know that?

    “Less than 12 hours from the border.” She finally answered. “Less than 24 hours to the house.”

    The border in question was, of course, the Canadian border. Reaching the destination took the rest of the day, from early in the morning to around six in the afternoon, a duration which was pockmarked by fast food stops for both lunch and dinner, topped off with cookies from a gas station. Even as her stomach ached for something that didn’t come from a fryer, her relative inability to taste made Minkowski not really mind.

    She had expected to be afraid, but her Monday medications always made her feel terribly tired, which never made getting up for work any easier. At the very least, her medication made a rather convenient scapegoat for the issue.

    The closer they grew to the border, the more Minkowski felt like an old family pet, eyelids sagging and energy levels as low as they could be. She crossed her arms across her chest, leaning forward. The ride was far from silent; the women had what discussions they could, but their length was not much and their content was not worthwhile. Perhaps she would have been bored if she were not so tired, if she did not feel so terribly numb.

    They crossed the border from North Dakota to Sasketchawan via a miniscule crossing three miles outside of an equally miniscule town known as Ambrose, small enough to host nothing but a singular post office. 

    Minkowski had fully expected the crossing to be done through the wilderness, in a fly-by-night sort of operation. Instead, they crossed at a designated point, greeted by a man who seemed surprised to see anyone there at all.

    The Captain declared only a bag of half-eaten gas station snacks and Minkowski’s rather substantial collection of medication. There was something rather incredible about the way that she changed her manner from upstanding Illinoian to slow-talking farmer’s daughter in the matter of a day. Yet, whatever manner she needed to present, she did so.

    When the crossing guard requested documents for all passengers in the vehicle, Minkowski was certain that the scheme would fall apart.

    Instead, Isabel Lovelace produced two perfect-printed driver’s licenses, one for each of them. After a brief inspection, the crossing guard handed both back and waved them through.

    As it turned out, the rural parts of Canada were no different from those in America. Corn stalks stretched equally as high, cows lowing with no different accent. 

    From the border, they passed around ninety minutes through undulating farm fields before stopping at a town with at least four roads to its name. 

    After refilling the gas tank at a single pump station, the vehicle was left at a garage for an oil change. Suspicious eyes followed them and their oversized black SUV. Minkowski was well aware of what they looked like with their vehicle, their American license plates, their fresh-pressed currency exchange cash-- FBI. 

    Still, what mattered was that Lovelace had cash and an engine with oil far past its lifespan. With one last clever grin to the mechanic, Lovelace looped her hand around Minkowski wrist and headed off, into the chilly autumn streets. They paused at a small park area, just off of the town’s most distant and quietest road.

    For the first time in a long time, Minkowski felt like she wasn’t being watched.

    Lovelace’s expression was as placid as it could ever be as she sat across from her at a half-rusted picnic table. 

    Where had she heard this one before?

    An olive branch, the Captain reached her hand across the table. Was she asking for it to be held?

    Minkowski reeled back.

    The Captain’s expression twisted, then softened. She put her hand on her lap.

    “I’m sorry.” Lovelace whispered under her breath. Minkowski wondered if she had heard right, but she had-- The words were soon repeated, just slightly louder. “I’m sorry.”

    Minkowski hadn’t noticed that Lovelace was crying until the Captain raised a hand to wipe her tears.

    “I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry that we left you. I’m sorry that it took so long, I’ve missed you so, so much. We’ve been looking, I promise, we never stopped looking. They hid you, but-”

    Her voice broke. The tears were flowing more plentifully, now.

    “They hid you, but we found you. I’ve missed you so, so much, you have no idea, I-”

    The woman was clearly skilled at hiding her tears, as she swallowed them with a few sniffles and shakes of her head. Then, her voice was clear, though her face was still marked by tear stains as it ever was.

    “We’re going to get you help.” She swallowed one last time. “We’re going to get you help. You’re going to feel better. And everything is going to be okay again.”

    Lovelace gave a little snicker.

    “Well, as okay as it ever was.”

    With one last forlorn glance across the table, Lovelace produced the deli sandwiches that they had purchased for lunch. Minkowski found herself noting just how good turkey tasted when it hadn’t been freeze dried.

    The oil change only took fifteen minutes. Then, they were back on the road again.

    For once, when they passed the next cemetery, Minkowski did not consider whether or not it would soon contain her headstone.

    The final stretch of the drive took four hours.

    If the road signs here were anything to judge by, the major city in this area was Regina, but they did not get anywhere near it. Soon, those signs switched over to guide them towards Saskatoon, which they did quickly approach. However, they stopped around the 40 mile mark.

    They stopped.

    Minkowski had almost forgotten what it felt like to not be moving, had forgotten that there were roads other than highways and interstates. Yet, for once, the exit that Lovelace took did not lead to another freeway. Rather, they trundled for perhaps fifteen minutes along an unpaved road, until a few homes reared their heads in the distance.

    The sign on the roadside was almost too small to read. Minkowski was forced to squint as the little white letters, yellowed with age, shot by.

    Welcome to Wisby , Population: 89

    “Well?” Captain Lovelace smiled. “What do you think?”

Chapter Text

    By no means was the house small or ramshackle.

    Minkowski wasn’t certain what she had expected. The other houses in the area weren’t terribly small either. In fact, with such small populations, there was more room to expand.

    The white siding of the main house matched that of the attached two car garage, as did the dark-colored shingles on both structures. A long driveway led from the main road up to said garage, a small path branching off and leading to the front step.

    The grass was rather long, the front porch overrun with forgotten flowers. Though, overall, it wasn’t the worst place to be murdered. She had expected something seedier, something used to its bloody purpose. As a deathbed, this place may have even been virginal. Then again, she had yet to see the interior.

    Notably, every last blind was drawn.

    Lovelace parked in the driveway and turned off the car. Minkowski held her breath.

    Her captor rounded the vehicle. Minkowski made no attempt to run. The door was child-locked, anyways. 

    The Captain brought her out of the car without a fuss, placing one hand on her shoulder, the other gripping her hands together behind her back.

    It was a terribly vulnerable position to be in. One hand pushing her forward, one hand pulling her back. Instinct told her to bend over, to make the awkward position of her arms just a bit more comfortable, but she abstained. 

    If Minkowski was going to walk to her death, she was going to do it on her feet with her head as high as she could manage. She had little fight left, but she had saved just a little bit of dignity for this moment. 

    In that manner, Lovelace guided her to the front door. Briefly, she let go. Minkowski stayed put.

    There was nothing visually strange about the door itself. Two paneled, beige, with a brass handle, a keyhole, and a circle of metal indicating that there was a deadbolt on the inside.

    Instead of producing a key, Lovelace placed her thumb upon the latter. Oddly enough, like a button, the brass was able to be pushed inwards.

    A mechanical hiss and the door unlocked. Lovelace brought her captive’s hands back behind her, using her free hand to open the front door. Together, they stepped into the foyer.

    Lieutenant Commander Renée Minkowski was unsure of what she was expecting. It wasn’t… This.

    The front room certainly earned the title of a grand foyer. Wooden paneling covered the walls, broken only in a few places. First, in the very center, a set of stairs led up and away to the second floor. Then, on the left, an empty door frame ostensibly led to some sort of dining area, judging by the wooden flooring beyond. In the main room, however, the floor was covered in white shag carpeting.

    Minkowski couldn’t help but note just how much of a fire hazard it all was. Out of all the rooms to not have a fire door, the kitchen …

    The right side of the room was marked by a few couches, a coffee table, an oversized chair, a chimney, and a television set. On the left side, the only furniture was a decorative rug on the floor. 

    Really, though, nothing about the actual construction of the room was odd or out of place. The people inside, on the other hand?

    The first one she noticed was a woman, sitting on the floor on the right side of the room with her back against the wall, legs bent close to her chest. It was likely her head of bright red, curly hair that had caught Minkowski’s attention. Either that or the odd, metal sphere at her side, which she appeared to be… Petting? 

    On account of the headphones she wore, it took the redhead a moment to notice the intruders. Yet, as soon as she raised her head, her eyes bulged, face going notably pale.

    The people on the other side of the room were no less strange. In fact, they were largely odder.

    A man and a woman knelt on the floor, one across from the other. The man was older, taller, and bald, his forehead wrinkled. He was dressed in a stark white lab coat, a sight that made Minkowski’s heart rate notably rise. 

    The woman across from him was much younger… maybe. Telling her age proved nearly impossible. She was gaunt, but with wide, youthful eyes. The ends of her hair were dyed white, but the dye had clearly not been refreshed in quite a while, leaving her roots a deep black. Following the medical theme, she was dressed in a light blue matching set of a pajama top and pants. The top appeared to button up in the back, as well as over the shoulders. 

    Between the two of them lay what Minkowski thought at first was some sort of checkers set. Upon closer inspection, however, she found it to be some sort of toddler’s puzzle, consisting of only a few large pieces, each with handles. The woman had one such piece in her hand and was continuously missing wildly in its placement. 

    As soon as Minkowski entered, the man looked up, though the woman did not seem to notice. 

    “Doctor? Can you come help her?” Lovelace gave Minkowski a little shove forwards. Surprise made her stumble. 

    “And vat vill you be doing?” The bald man’s accent was apparent as he stood up, which the woman he sat with also did not seem to notice. 

    Lovelace only pointedly glanced in the direction of the redhead and her metal sphere. The woman had now come to stand, looking as though she had seen a ghost.

    The man in the lab coat seemed to understand her meaning, even as it was completely lost on Minkowski. Lovelace’s hands disappeared from her shoulder, her captor going to speak to the redhead while the lab coat came to speak to her.

    His demeanor was professional. Once he was close enough, he stuck out a stiff hand for a handshake.

    “Commander Minkowski.”

    On instinct, she reached out her hand, but stopped herself before contact was made. 

    “How do you know my name?”

    The man’s forehead wrinkled before his attention was drawn to the other side of the room. A shouting match had begun between Lovelace and the redhead, one loud enough to make Minkowski flinch.

    At the very least, it was over quickly, ending with the redhead storming up the stairs, bringing her gadgets with her.

    Lovelace returned once the ordeal was over, face considerably more flushed than before. The man in the lab coat looked up at her, speaking in a low voice:

    “This is bad, Captain.”

    “Who the hell are you?” Minkowski interrupted. “Any of you? If- If you’re going to kidnap me don’t I at least deserve an explanation?”

    “Kidnap?” The lab-coated man’s gaze snapped from Lovelace to Minkowski. 

    Lovelace cleared her throat.

    “Renée, this is Doctor Alexander Hilbert. He’s a doctor. He’s going to help you.”

    Minkowski took a step back. Lovelace’s hand around her wrist pulled her forwards again.

    “Doctor?” Lovelace prompted.

    “Ve… Need to bring her to zhe lab.” 

    “I do not need to go to a lab!”

    From one of the doors leading off of the room, another person appeared. How many of them were there? This one, a young man with hair pulled up in a ponytail, took one look at Minkowski and appeared as though he had seen a ghost.

    “Officer Eiffel?” Doctor Hilbert turned. “Put Miranda down for a nap.”

    Some instinct within Minkowski expected the man to let out a snarky retort. Instead, he only muttered under his breath before going to mind the woman still sitting on the floor. 

    The brief distraction was soon over, and the Commander took to struggling again against Lovelace’s grip around her wrist.

    “Do you think you can…?” The Captain’s words were hushed as she spoke to the doctor.

    “I cannot make any promises, Captain. Not until I know what is wrong. Bring her to lab.”

    Minkowski had expected a basement. Somewhere dark, somewhere secluded, maybe lined with plastic wrap to make the cleanup simpler. That would be the ideal place for a planned killing. Perhaps they were some sort of deep web moviemakers, seeking out those with nothing to lose and putting their suffering online for paying viewers. Or, perhaps, a cult needed a sacrifice.

    Or, maybe, they were just normal murderers with a very odd manner.

    But what could a lab and a doctor have to do with any of it? 

    “Whatever you’re going to do to me, just get it over with already! I don’t need a damn checkup along with it!”

    Doctor Hilbert cringed at the words before steadying himself.

    “Bring her to lab. Zen we see what I can do.”

    Lovelace paused, then gave a nod. She gently pulled Minkowski by the wrist, urging her forwards. The Commander utterly refused, digging in her heels.

    With an apologetic look, Lovelace changed her tactic. Before Minkowski knew it, she was on her back, being bridal carried in the Captain’s arms. Her captor had clearly expected her to struggle, given the tight grip on both her wrists and her ankles. Not uncomfortable, not painful, just tight.

    For an instant, Minkowski felt safe, before realizing how ridiculous that was.

    As Lovelace headed up the central staircase, following several paces behind Hilbert, Minkowski could just make out a few sparse words spoken by the doctor:

    “Hera? Could you make some tea for the Commander? The way Miranda takes it, please.”

    The lab was a lab.

    Well, somewhat. Minkowski had been expecting something nightmarish, covered in blood and the remnants of former victims. Instead, it was clean. White tiled floor, light blue wall paint. 

    Calling it a lab, though, was a bit inaccurate. The room had a more medical air about it, though that didn’t discount the racks of beakers and vials. 

    As for its size, she would perhaps compare it to a classroom, though with far more open floor space. On one side, nearer to the entrance, there were blue cupboards installed on the walls, along with counter surfaces. A metal exam table was somewhat shoved off to the side, in favor of a large, plush armchair. At its side stood medical equipment that Minkowski found rather familiar-- Blood pressure machines, racks of stethoscopes and otoscopes and thermometers and ophthalmoscopes. Though, she didn’t like the look of the ready-to-use blood draw equipment. 

    She took specific note of the computer on one of the flat surfaces. A normal, modern computer. If she could get into it, she could contact someone. Anyone. 

    On the other side of the room, away from the door, took on the air of more of a hospital room. There were two metal-framed beds with linens and fleece blankets, alongside what looked almost like a children’s playmat, complete with soft toys. Did they have a kid here?

    To most people, the environment would have been intimidating. Minkowski, however, was so very used to this. How many doctor’s offices had she been in, recently? In the past year? It must’ve been in the dozens. Surgery consultations, psychologists, anesthesiologists, hematologists, respiratory therapists, physical therapists, normal therapists. The dizzying array of white rooms was nothing new to her.

    Usually, though, she walked into those rooms of her own accord. This time, Lovelace entered the room first, followed by Hilbert, who made a note of locking the door.

    The only thing in the room that was somewhat surprising was a drink machine, near the back-- The kind in convenience stores that boasted a dizzying array of mediocre coffee and fruit beverages, all with the press of a button.

    In the dispenser space sat a steaming cup of tea. 

    She tried to ignore the weirdness of that particular facet. At the moment, the Commander had more important things to be worrying about. Mostly being carried around like a fussy child by the woman who had kidnapped her and brought her across country lines.

    “Put her in chair.” Hilbert instructed, gesturing towards the plush armchair. 

    Lovelace obliged, placing down her squirming burden. There were no restraints, nothing to keep her in place, but the gravity of her situation kept Minkowski still. If she were to run, she’d be grabbed and put right back down.

    She was in enemy territory.

    Hilbert searched through one of the room’s many cupboards, back to the Commander, as he asked:

    “Are you comfortable?”

    What a ridiculous question.

    “Why do I feel like a dog about to be lovingly put to sleep?” 

    A snort. Hilbert picked up a forehead thermometer and turned.

    “Captain, what has made her feel that we are going to kill her?”

    Lovelace shrugged. “I suppose I can understand her nerves.”

    “Alright.” The doctor muttered. That was never a good thing to hear. He turned to address Minkowski once more. “You will not be hurt or killed. You are safe here. This is safehouse.”

    Sure, maybe for her captors.

    “You kidnapped me.”

    “Was necessary precaution. Now you are safe.”

    The man was approaching her now, something that made the hairs on the back of Minkowski’s neck stand up. 

    “I vill take your temperature, then zhere vill be few questions.” He didn’t give her much time to answer or approve, given that he had already reached forward, brushing her hair from her forehead and placing the thermometer against it. After a moment, it beeped.

    Hilbert’s lips creased as he withdrew his hands and the instrument.

    “Temperature is normal. Do you feel unwell?”

    “I’m going to be pretty damn unwell in a few hours if you don’t bring me my medicine.”

    He considered again before departing, putting back the thermometer before exchanging a few quiet words with Lovelace, after which she left the room.

    When he returned, it was with a stool, upon which he perched in front of the Commander. If he had to sit, that meant that this was going to take a while.

    “Zhe Captain will retrieve your medication from zhe car. She says you have already taken it for today, zis is true?”

    Minkowski was almost taken aback by that.

    “You’re going to give it to me?”

    “It is medication, you need it, yes? Do you need it now, or later?”

    “Uh, later. I took some earlier. I don’t need the rest until before bed.”

    “Wonderful.” Something about the man’s smile made her feel uneasy for a reason she couldn’t quite place. “Now, I have some questions for you. Since we are already talking about your medication, can you tell me what it is for?”

    “What my medication is for?”

    “Yes.”

    “Different things.”

    “Can you give me some examples?”

    She supposed she wasn’t going to get out of this anytime soon if she didn’t play along.

    “Migraines, I guess. Pain. I had brain damage. Whatever the meds do, they keep my brain working. Keep it from turning to mush.”

    “Brain damage?”

    If Lovelace already knew, she figured that the information would be passed on soon enough.

    “I was in a plane crash. A military jet I was flying had a mechanical failure. I had brain damage.”

    “Interesting. And how long ago was this?”

    “Give or take a year.”

    That made the man furrow his brow, bald forehead wrinkling.

    “I see.” He stood and soon returned with the cup of tea from the dispenser. “Care for tea?”

    “You and I both know that that’s drugged.” Not that it didn’t sound tempting.

    “Caffeine is drug, yes.”

    “You know what I mean.”

    She thought about what she had heard the man say earlier, or at least what she thought she had heard. The way Miranda takes it. Miranda was the other woman, the one in the patient’s outfit. Whatever was in that tea, was that why she was acting so strangely?

    “Is not drugged.”

    “I don’t believe you. Is this your concoction that kills me so you can harvest my organs?”

    “...no.” The man proved his point by taking a sip of the tea himself before holding out the cup. 

    Minkowski didn’t trust him. For all she knew, he had just injured himself for the sake of killing her, but she found that unlikely. He could’ve stuck her with something at any time if he wanted to.

    She took the tea, taking a hesitant sip. She hadn’t had anything caffeinated since she had last been at home, drinking her bitter coffee on a normal Saturday morning.

    This drink was sweeter. It tasted like chamomile-- One of her doctors had recommended that to aid her sleep, once. It had helped, a bit, but the taste of decaffeinated tea before bed was less than pleasant. 

    “Okay. I have more questions.” Hilbert sat back down. 

    Minkowski gave him a leering look over the lip of the teacup as she drank.

    “You were in Air Force. You are no longer in Air Force, correct?”

    “I was discharged after my accident.”

    “Yes. That is what I thought. Then you live in Cape Canaveral?”

    “Yes.”

    “Why?”

    “Close to the hospital. They gave me a job and a cheap mortgage.”

    “Who did?”

    “The VA.”

    “Hm. Have you ever worked for anyone else? Any other company?”

    “Not counting teenage work in the summers? I was in the Air Force, then I worked at a payroll firm. Work at a payroll firm. Unless they’ve already fired me.”

    “Only those jobs?”

    “Yes.”

    “You have never worked for zhe company Goddard Futurisitcs?”

    She opened her mouth before snapping her teeth together again. She was done with this. Finishing her tea, Minkowski stood.

    “I don’t want to talk about it.”

    “...right. Certainly.” The man’s expression almost betrayed fear. He scooted his stool backwards on rattling caster wheels. “I have few more tests. Then break.”

    “Break? Break what?” Her voice tightened.

    “ A break. For you. You have been through lot. English is such pedantic language. First tests, then break.”

    “Fine.”

    To his credit, the doctor hadn’t been lying. The battery of tests was like a morning routine, comfortable in its predictability. He checked her eyes, her ears, shined a light down her throat. Her heart rate, blood pressure, and breathing rate were all recorded. With some hesitation, she allowed the doctor to look over the old wounds on her chest, which served only to make him hum and write down some notes. 

    As usual as it was, by the examination’s end, Minkowski felt how she always did: Ready for people to stop touching her. At least it was over rather quickly. With a decisive nod, the doctor concluded that, as far as he could tell, she was in good physical health.

    Again, Doctor Hilbert asked the same, odd question from before.

    “Are you comfortable?”

    “I’m… Fine.” 

    “Would you like to sleep?”

    “Yes. Please.” 

    Renée Minkowski was staring at the ceiling.

    The bed was comfortable, something aided by the pile of linens and blankets on top of her. After two nights and plenty of naps spent sleeping upright in a car, it was a relief for her back. 

    The somewhat unnerving atmosphere of the darkened lab was not lost on her, but she found it difficult to fret. After his examination, and repeated assurances that the Commander was not in any discomfort, Hilbert had turned off the lights and left her be.

    From across the room, she stared at the dim, blue light of the computer screen. A password screen stared back at her. Maybe the proper credentials were written down somewhere, or perhaps they were something she could figure out.

    Right now, though, she didn’t have much drive to try either method. Instead, she stared at the ceiling.

    What was she going to do? What the hell was she going to do?

    The reality of the situation was beginning to dawn on her in a way that made her stomach feel floaty and weird. It was easy to go numb when the threat of death had so solidly loomed. Now, that morbid comfort was no longer so certain.

    Renée Minkowski was not suicidal. She didn’t want to die. At Lovelace’s appearance, the idea had terrified her.

    She was meant to get out of here. That was the job of a prisoner. She had heard some anecdote about German law, once: It isn’t illegal to escape prison, because freedom is the natural desire of any human. She doubted that notion was true, but it seemed relevant. She was a prisoner. She was meant to escape.

    Now, she was alone. She had the chance to start planning, start trying to escape. 

    Why didn’t she want to?

    Had she given up hope? Given up on life? 

    Don’t jump, you have so much to live for!  

    Did she? Had anyone noticed that she was gone, besides the manager that always breathed down her neck? Her weekends were spent alone. Her evenings were spent alone. Any attempts at friendship always led to an invitation to the bar, followed by a series of awkward explanations as to why she couldn’t partake. 

    It was awfully difficult to make friends when spending too long on her feet sent her into a dizzying migraine.

    The medicine dismissed the pain as much as it dismissed any emotion Minkowski could hope to conjure up. In fact, she hadn’t felt much of anything up until she looked upon Lovelace’s face, her bright eyes and full lips and-

    She tried to focus on the alignment of the ceiling tiles instead. 

    These strangers had to have some kind of ulterior motive. It was the only possible explanation. That was what she had to figure out. Then, she could worry about escape. Then, she could worry about going home.

    First, though, a little sleep couldn’t hurt. She closed her eyes.

    That tea had most certainly been drugged.

Chapter Text

    When Minkowski awoke, she was crying.

    She had long gotten past the phase of choking sobs and lines of snot. She’d done plenty of that in the hospital. Rather, the tears rolled down her cheeks, silent and warm.

    There was no window in the lab. She opened her eyes and looked upwards, the room still as dim as it had been left. No one had bothered her through the night.

    She had not had a single nightmare. That was unusual. 

    Lieutenant Commander Renée Minkowski was a morning person. She usually had her coffee before the sun came up. She was never one to press snooze, never one to lay in bed on a Saturday morning.

    This particular morning, however, she had no desire at all to kick off the covers, to get up and start the day. In complete contrast, she rolled over onto her side, allowing the blankets to fall over her. 

    Tears began to pool on her pillow.

    She did not have long to lay and wallow. After perhaps five minutes, or perhaps ten, there was a gentle, rapping knock on the door. 

    “Minkowski?” She recognized Lovelace’s voice in an instant, but did not have the drive to respond. “Am I alright to come in?”

    She let out a low murmur. Lovelace waited a moment before gently pushing open the door. The lights were still dim, still easy on her eyes.

    Lovelace looked just as confident as ever, shoulders pulled back and smile effortless as it ever was. She carried in one hand a small bowl, in the other a steaming mug. The room was flooded with the scent of coffee in an instant. The smell alone was enough to make Minkowski perk up.

    The Captain pulled up Doctor Hilbert’s stool to Minkowski's bedside, sitting and placing down the two items she held on a bedside table.

    “Sleep well?”

    Minkowski lay, still, on her side, a lump covered by blankets, back facing Lovelace. Not wanting to have her back to the Captain, or perhaps just not wanting to be rude, she conceded to roll onto her back.

    “Mhm.” She murmured.

    Lovelace’s brow furrowed as soon as she peered upon Minkowski’s face, her cheeks now stained red and running with warm tears. 

    “Oh, Renée .” Her tone grew soft and sympathetic as she reached out, placing a hand on the Commander’s shoulder. For some reason, she didn’t flinch. “What’s wrong? 

    She realized, with a start, that she was crying in front of someone who was, more or less, a total stranger. Minkowski bolted to a sitting position, hastily drying her face with her sleeve.

    “I’m sorry, I-” She blabbered.

    “No, no.” Lovelace reassured. “It’s alright. No one’s mad at you.”

    The Captain gave a few comforting pats to her back as Minkowski wiped at her face. When was the last time she had been this vulnerable around another person?

    She didn’t know, and she was desperate to change the subject.

    “What’d you bring with you?” Minkowski muttered.

    Lovelace lingered on the comfort for a few more moments before leaning back, picking the items back up. She first held out the bowl. Minkowski peered over, rather surprised to see all of her morning pills, already mashed up and broken in half and prepared in all the ways they needed to be. One of the most stressful parts of her mornings and, here it was, all done for her. She took the bowl.

    “I brought coffee, but, um, if you’d rather some water for the pills-”

    “Coffee. Please.” She whispered. “I, um, I always take my pills with coffee.”

    Lovelace nodded, handing over the coffee cup as well. Minkowski took a sip without hesitation. It was deliciously black and bitter, just the way she liked it.

    She took the pills, washing them down with another drink of coffee. She was already feeling better, the warmth of the cup spreading to her hands.

    “There’s breakfast cooking downstairs.” Lovelace kept her voice low. “It’ll be ready soon.”
    “Okay.” Minkowski whispered, keeping her words concise. She was sure that speaking too much would prompt her voice to crack.

    She had yet to stop crying, yet to stop shaking. She felt like glass, about to shatter into a million pieces.

    “Hey.” Lovelace wiped a few tears away from Minkowski’s face with her thumb. “How about a bath? How does a bath sound?”

    Minkowski swallowed thickly, nodding. She never took baths, not back home. They took too long, forcing her to spend far too much time with her own thoughts. Showers were fast, heavy, the sound of pouring water drowning out her own thoughts.

    Now, however, the very idea of a showerhead beating down on her back made her crying all the worse. 

    “I’ll run you a bath.” Lovelace spoke, giving an encouraging pat to Minkowski’s knee as she stood. “You just stay and drink your coffee, alright? If you need anything, just say so, I won’t be far.”

    Minkowski nodded silently, taking another sip of her coffee as she watched Lovelace go. When was the last time anyone had taken care of her like this? In the mornings, she was meant to get up, to make her own coffee and start the day. She didn’t rest until the clock said so, until after she had been to the gym, gone for her evening run, made dinner, and done her online Spanish lessons. On a normal day, she would’ve already been gunning away at her job.

    Instead, she was here. Sipping on her coffee. The room was still dim, and she had no desire to turn the lights on.

    Distantly, she heard water running. After a few minutes, it turned off, and Lovelace reappeared.

“Hey, Renée.” She smiled as she reentered. “Are you ready?”

    Minkowski nodded, putting down her cup after finishing the last mouthful. She felt no trepidation as she got to her feet, even less when Lovelace gave her hand a gentle squeeze. The hallway had been left dim as well, as though the curtains had intentionally been covered. When they entered the bathroom, there was a candle burning. It smelled like freshly baked cookies.

    The bathtub had been filled rather high, letting off an inviting warmth into the room. From the door hung a fluffy towel. On the toilet seat, a fresh pile of folded clothes had been piled. 

    “You can take as long as you want to. There’s a towel here, and clothes for you there. Soap and shampoo is on the edge of the tub.” Lovelace gave a soft grin. “I’ll give you some alone time.”

    Minkowski frantically shook her head. She did not know how to express herself with her words, but the mere suggestion of being alone made her feel sick.

    “What’s wrong?”

    “Stay. Please.”

    “You’re sure? You’re gonna have to… Y’know, take your clothes off. I could try not to look-”

    “It’s okay.” She didn’t really mind being naked in front of other people. She’d lost most of her dignity in the hospital. Besides, Lovelace… Well, she’d already seen the Captain in a… vulnerable position. She flushed at the thought.

    “You don’t mind?”

    “Not really.”

    “Alright.”

    Lovelace closed the door behind them. Minkowski hesitated for a moment before pulling off her shirt. She folded it neatly before placing it on the floor, doing the same with the rest of her clothes. She hadn’t exactly had a chance to change since she had been taken from her home.

    She expected to feel at least somewhat exposed, somewhat uncomfortable, but couldn’t find either emotion. Instead, she could only focus upon the warm bath. Once she was undressed, she stepped into the water, sitting down.

    The warmth seemed to spread from her skin to her muscles and all the way to her bones. Long-held tension melted from her limbs and her back. 

    She watched as her tears continued to drip into the water.

    She wanted to move, wanted to get to work on washing her skin, her hair. However, she found herself completely frozen, as though the warm water had locked her in place.

    “Do you want some help?” Lovelace gently offered. Minkowski gave a numb nod in reply.

    The Captain moved to the side of the bath, kneeling down and taking a washcloth from a rod on the wall of the bath. After running it through the warm water, she washed it over Minkowski’s shoulders and along her back.

    Her tears only began to fall faster. What in the world was wrong with her?

    Next, Lovelace put a dollop of body wash on the washcloth, lathering it over Minkowski’s back, arms, and chest. She cringed as pressure was applied to her scars, something that made Lovelace immediately withdraw and whisper apologies.

    After the soap, she took a little cup from the bathroom counter and filled it with water, gently pouring it over the Commander’s skin. Soap washed off her body and into the bath, leaving a circle of bubbles around her torso.

    Next, she moved onto her hair. Lovelace pushed Minkowski’s hair back, keeping one hand on her forehead to catch any runoff as she gently wetted her hair. She lathered in the shampoo without the washcloth, fingers pressing against Minkowski’s scalp.

    The Commander’s face had grown completely red with sobs. She leaned into the touch, body threatening to fall back asleep as her head was massaged. The Captain had such strong fingers…

    Soon enough, her hair had been washed through, leaving the bath water even soapier than before. Her skin was clean, her hair was clean, and, yet, she felt nowhere near ready to get out of the water.

    “All done.” Lovelace softly praised. 

    “No.” Minkowski whispered. “Just… Just a few more minutes.”

    The Captain gave a small laugh, that beautiful grin appearing on her face. 

    “Alright. You deserve it, that’s for sure.”

    They stayed like that until the water began to grow cold. Lovelace’s strong fingers eventually found Minkowski’s shoulders, firmly massaging the taut muscles, moving up and down, all the way up to her neck, her jaw, her temples. With every touch, Minkowski could feel months of tension and pressure melting away into the tepid water. 

    “Okay.” Minkowski at last said, lifting her head. 

    “You’re ready?”

    “I think so.”

    “Alright.”

    Lovelace helped her to stand up. As Minkowski stood, water dripping off of her, the Captain took the towel from its rack and began to dry the Commander from head to toe. 

    “Do you want the hairdryer?”

    The word conjured up memories of agonizing sounds and terrible headaches.

    “No, it’s… It’s okay.”

    “Alright.”

    Instead, Lovelace did her best to dry the woman’s hair with just the towel, even as it was still a little damp at the end. Once she was dry, the Captain picked up the clean clothes. They were generic, basic blue pajamas, but they looked awfully soft. 

    She gestured for Minkowski to raise her arms above her head, which she did, allowing Lovelace to pull on the shirt. Minkowski put on the pajama pants on her own.

    She tried to rationalize, or even simply describe, how she was feeling. She felt like she was melting, like her limbs could barely hold her up. At the same time, she was so very warm, as though she were snuggled under a mountain of blankets.

    Lovelace placed a hand on her shoulder, giving her a wide grin before leading her out of the bathroom and back to the lab. Minkowski couldn’t even bring herself to be frightened at the display of medical equipment and blank, white tile. She was brought back to the bed, which she sat on the edge of.

    “Are you hungry?” Lovelace asked as she sat back down on the doctor’s stool.

    “Mhm.” Minkowski nodded. She hadn’t eaten since… Well, she supposed she wasn’t exactly certain as to the time, though that didn’t concern her terribly. It had been back when they were in the car, in some small town over the Canadian border. Her stomach felt terribly empty.

    “Alright. Breakfast should be ready downstairs, by now. Do you want to go down, and eat with everyone else? Or do you want me to bring you some food here?”

    Minkowski considered that. Eating alone, up here, would that seem pathetic? At the same time, going downstairs would mean seeing those other strangers, the ones that made her head spin, just by looking at them. She doubted she’d even be able to keep food down with that kind of vertigo.

    Lovelace waited patiently as the Commander’s sluggish brain turned, like taffy being pulled. 

    “I don’t think I’m ready to go downstairs.” She eventually rationalized, before adding: “I’m tired. I’m so tired.”

    Lovelace gave a worried frown.

    “Are you feeling alright?”

    “I’m fine. I’m just tired.” As though she hadn’t just slept for god knows how long. 

    “Do you have enough energy to eat?”

    Minkowski nodded.

    “I think so. Can I take a nap after?”

    “Of course you can. You can sleep as much as you need to. You’ve been through so much…” She shifted on the stool. “The doctor, he’s going to be coming back in later, alright?”

    “Why?”

    “Well…” Lovelace thought about her next words for a moment. “He wants to make sure you’re alright. He’s worried about the brain damage you’ve sustained. He wants to make sure you’re well taken care of, here.”

    “What… What is he going to do?”

    “I… I don’t know. No matter what, I’ll be there, and you don’t have to go through anything that you don’t want. He understands that, and if he doesn’t, I’ll knock some sense into him.” 

    Lovelace gave a playful smile, which Minkowski halfway reciprocated.

    “Alright.” The Captain contained as she stood from her stool, caster wheels squealing. “I’m gonna go get you some breakfast, alright. Do you want another cup of coffee?”

    Minkowski shook her head.

    “I can only have one cup a day. The doctor said.”

    “Only one-” Lovelace quieted herself. “Alright, I’ll be right back. Feel free to lay down a little in the meantime, alright?”

    Then, she was out the door.

    Minkowski took the Captain’s advice, laying down on the bed that was starting to feel softer by the second. After a moment of consideration, she pulled the blankets over herself. It could take some time for breakfast to be brought up.

    Not to mention, her eyelids felt terribly heavy.

    She made herself comfortable, rolling in the blankets until they were just right. Of course, she would not be resting for long, only until the Captain returned. 

    Lieutenant Commander Renée Minkowski was asleep within moments. 

    The door to the lab opened softly, followed by two pairs of footsteps, both muffled by deliberate care. 

    “Hm. Zhe is asleep.” The accent was immediately identifiable.

    Minkowski closed her eyes tighter. Her back was facing the two, and the blankets were terribly comfortable. Had Lovelace really returned already? 

    If they thought she was asleep, however, perhaps they would simply allow her to rest. That line of thought would never have occurred to the Minkowski that existed just days ago. This Minkowski, however, was significantly more tired. 

    It was just the road trip, she was certain. All that time in the car had tired her.

    “Huh. Well, she did say she was tired. She was going to take a nap after breakfast.” Lovelace’s distinctive voice replied.

    “You are going to wake her up?” Doctor Hilbert questioned.

    “I don’t think so.”

    “What about breakfast? Zhe must eat.”

    “An hour won’t hurt, will it?”

    “I zuppose not. I worry. Zhe is very tired. Abnormally tired.”

    “Oh, buzz off, doc’. She’s been through a lot.”

    There was the sound of a refrigerator door opening and closing. Lovelace must’ve been putting away whatever food she had brought.

    “If zhe tired continues much longer…”

    “Then we can worry about it then. We don’t know what they did to her.”

    “...yes. I know.” Doctor Hilbert cleared his throat. The caster wheels on his stool clacked as he sat down. “How is zhe zhis morning?”

    “Well. I think. She had coffee and her pills.” By the sound of it, Lovelace sat down as well, in the armchair. “She was crying.”

    “Crying? Do you think it vas a nightmare?”

    “Probably. You know how she gets. She seemed to be having a terrible time of it, though. I ran a bath for her.”

    “Zhe wanted a bath?”

    “I offered. She said yes. It works with Miranda. Besides, I thought some alone time would do her good. She’s been stressed. But…”

    “But?”

    “She didn’t want me to leave. Something was wrong. I washed her instead.”

    “Zhe allowed that?”

    “Mhm. She’s having a rough morning. I hope it’s just the one. She seemed a bit better after the bath, at least. Then we came back here. I offered for her to eat back downstairs, but she opted to eat up here.

    She kept talking about being tired, though. Really tired. Then, y’know, I left and went downstairs.”

    “Hm. Zhe took zhe pills?”

    “Yep. With coffee.” Lovelace hesitated a moment. “Have you figured out what’s in that stuff yet, doc’? I know she needs it, but I don’t like giving her whatever crap Goddard wanted to feed her.”

    Minkowski struggled not to clench her teeth at the word. Goddard .

    “Zomewhat. Zhe medication zat zhe is taking is intended to treat… Various ailments.”

    “Like what?”

    “Epilepsy. Dementia. Zome are painkillers.”

    Lovelace paused.

    “God, I hate them! What’s all that crap doing to her?”

    “Vell, zhe majority are designed to… Diminish neural activity.”

    “Shut down her brain.”

    “No. Diminish. Zhey limit her mind. Epilepsy, seizures, zhey are caused by too much neural activity. Medication lowers neural activity. Dementia medications less simple. In theory, zhey help brain think. I do not know what they are doing to her.”

    “Then, that’s it? They’re giving her meds to slow her brain down?” Lovelace sounded almost eager, hopeful. “What, then we take her off of them and she goes back to normal.”

    From the pregnant pause, even Minkowski could tell that the assumption was false. What in the world could back to normal mean? From before her accident?

    “I zaid zhat I had figured it out zomewhat . Zome of zhe medication zhat she takes is normal. Widely prescribed.”

    “And the rest?”

    “Nonexistent medications sold through Goddard proprietary pharmaceutical company. Zhere could be anything in zhose pills.”

    “Then, that means…”

    “Most likely, zhe is being given zhe products of Doctor Pryce’s vork.”

    “Can’t you, like, crush them up and see what’s inside?”

    “Sure. For zhat I need lab. Currently, Commander is in lab.”

    “Well, I can bring her somewhere else. She can sleep in my bed.”

    “Hm. Fine. But virst, I vill need to talk to her more.”

    “About what?”

    Doctor Hilbert’s stool squeaked.

    “Ve must talk to her eventually. About…”

    “It’s too soon. We’ll scare her off.”

    “And if ve vait too long?”

    “We won’t. Just give her a few more days.”

    Doctor Hilbert sighed.

    “Okay. Yes, ve can vait. But I must examine her. I vill need to test her blood.”

    “Right… Look, just be gentle on her, alright? We don’t know what they did to her.”

    “I know. Ve vill know more once I can test zhe pills.”

    “I’ll move her once she gets up.”

    “Zhat is fair.”

    After a pause, Lovelace cleared her throat.

    “Y’know, if those pills are Goddard, you could…”

    “Miranda is in a mood today.”

    “Upset that things are different?”

    “Mostly. I vill need to take her eyes out today, as vell.” 

    At that, Minkowski could not help but feel her breath catch in her throat. Take out her eyes? Is that what these people did-- Blinded people?

    She should’ve known better than to trust them so unthinkingly! It took all of her self-restraint not to shift in the bed.

    “Great.” Lovelace sighed, as though Doctor Hilbert had said nothing at all. “Well, when Renée gets up, I’ll give her her breakfast, then she can sleep in my room. You can have your lab back.”

    “Good. Dank you, Captain.”

    “No prob’. You said you wanted a blood sample, too?”

    “If it is possible.”

    “I’ll see if I can talk her into it.”

    Minkowski wanted to get up. She wanted to scramble out of the bed, she wanted to scream. She wanted to holler about how insane all of this was, how she needed to get out, right that instant. 

    But she wasn’t stupid. If she got up just then, she would be immediately found out. They’d know what she had heard, and… Well, Minkowski didn’t want to think about what they would do next. For all she knew, they had some kind of mind-wipe device. 

    Instead, she stayed still.

    Eventually, her false sleep turned real, and Minkowski faded again to unconsciousness.

    As promised, Lovelace woke her up around an hour later. 

    The lights in the room, notably, had been brightened, ever so slightly. When Minkowski opened her eyes, her mind registered that it was daytime, rather than dawn, making her feel ever so slightly more awake.

    “Renée?” The woman’s trademark soft tone whispered. 

    Minkowski’s vision adjusted to the light as the Captain’s face came into focus.

    In a way, she wished that she had been asleep earlier. She wished that she hadn’t heard their words, about blood and eyes and Goddard. Now, however, there was no way to take it all back. She had heard what she had heard, and could not shake the glimmer of distrust from her eyes.

    Yet, she had to play it off, she knew she had to play it off. Who knew what they might do to her if they found out what she had heard.

    That was exactly where years of musical theater paid off.

    “Did I fall asleep?” She did her best to make her voice sound slow, groggy, which wasn’t too hard, given that that was exactly how her brain felt.

    Lovelace giggled.

    “Yeah, just for an hour. Are you hungry for breakfast, now?”

    Her reply, for once, wasn’t a lie.

    “Yes please.”

    “Alright.” Lovelace placed a hand on Minkowski’s back, something that at once made her flinch. The Captain withdrew her hand. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

    Minkowski did not give a response as she sat up on her own, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

    “The doctor is going to need to do some work in his lab.” Lovelace continued to explain. “Do you want to move to my room, so you can get some more rest?”

    Earlier, Minkowski would have said yes. She was still terribly exhausted, though the additional hour of rest had done some good in easing it. Now, however…

    She didn’t want to sleep. She didn’t know what they would do to her if she slept.

    “I’m fine right here.” She countered, a twinge more aggression in her tone than she intended. Lovelace and Minkowski were equally surprised at the fact.

    “It’s going to be loud. Are you sure? I don’t think you’ll be able to get any sleep.”

    “I don’t want to sleep. I’m not tired.”

    Lovelace furrowed her brow.

    “Right… Well, you said you were hungry. I put your breakfast in the fridge, I’ll heat it up for you. Do you want to eat in bed?”

    “Sure.”

    “Great.”

    Minkowski swung her legs over the side of the bed, watching as Lovelace moved to the fridge, removing a plate and sticking it into the lab’s microwave. Why did the lab have a microwave?

    By the time that the food was ready, Minkowski’s mouth was watering. She had almost forgotten that she hadn’t eaten since their last fast food stop on the road.

    Lovelace moved back to the bed, holding out a plate of food, which the Commander took just a twinge too eagerly.

    She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but the array of food presented to her was more than she could’ve imagined. The plate itself could barely be seen beneath piles of eggs, hashbrowns, biscuits and bacon. The eggs had even been sprinkled with a little bit of some green herb, maybe parsley or basil.

    Lovelace seemed to have no problem giving the Commander a fork, with which she began to readily devour her meal. The thought of poisoning did not so much as cross her mind. She was hungry, and right now, that took precedence over rational thought. 

    The Captain sat on the doctor’s stool, watching the Commander eat with what almost looked like an expression of relief. Minkowski finished in a hurry, wiping her mouth with her hand. A moment later, she let out a burp.

    At least the both of them laughed at that.

    “Excuse me.” Minkowski snorted with a smile.

    “You weren’t lying about being hungry.” Lovelace replied, taking the plate and silverware and putting them on the other side of the lab. Clearly, she didn’t want Minkowski to have them without supervision.

    “Well, then.” The Captain sat back down. “Is there anything else I can get you? I’ve gotta go talk to the doctor. You’re really sure you want to stay in here?”

    Of course Minkowski wasn’t. Whatever Doctor Hilbert was going to do, she most certainly didn’t want to be around to see it.

    Yet, for some odd reason, she would much rather see it than sleep through it, unaware of what was happening. Besides, if they really were planning on blinding Miranda…

    She wasn’t a hero, and she certainly wasn’t in the state for saving anyone, but Doctor Hilbert didn’t look all too formidable either.

    “Certain.” She replied firmly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

    “Uh… Right.” Lovelace cleared her throat. “Well, he wants to ask you a few questions, as well. For his examination. He’s going to try and help you.”

    “Fine. I don’t think ‘no’ is an option, regardless.”

    Lovelace cast a sympathetic glance towards her.

    “Is everything okay, Renée?”

    “Peachy. Just peachy.”

    Lieutenant Commander Renée Minkowski’s mind was spinning with thoughts of escape. Thoughts of how, in the world, she was going to get out of this mess-- Hopefully with all of her organs intact.

    There were no windows in the lab, that was a non-option. The lab was right at the top of the large staircase in the middle of the foyer. She’d have to make it down the stairs, and pray that she could make it out the front door.

    But where would she go? She had no idea where the nearest police station was. Even so, she couldn’t run. She’d never outpace the Captain.

    Everything felt hopeless.

    The door opening didn’t help.

    Like a child trying to pretend that they weren’t up past their bedtime, Minkowski squeezed her eyes closed, perking her ears to inform her about the world around her.

    She heard two distinct sets of footsteps. The first, she believed to be that of Doctor Hilbert, heavy and careful. The second, however, was quieter, socks trotting along gently on the tile floor.

    Someone sat down in the plush armchair.

    “Miranda.” Doctor Hilbert’s voice was firm, but with a notable softness. It was close to the same voice with which he had spoken to her, earlier. “You have been rubbing at your eyes a lot, recently.”

    That alone was enough to make Minkowski tense.

    There was no response from Miranda.

    “I am going to take them out. Please hold still.”

    “I do not want it.” That voice was one that Minkowski had yet to hear. Yet, it struck her with a frigid terror at the same, enough to make her toes go practically numb under the blankets. It was from a woman, Miranda, presumably, and had a quiet, almost wispy quality to it, as though its owner was somewhere very far away.

    “It will not hurt.”

    As though having your eyes taken out would be painless! Minkowski knew that she needed to do something, but felt powerless, numb. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, knowing that she could not stomach watching the proceedings.

    “I do not want it!” Miranda repeated, slightly more insistent this time.

    “It will not hurt. Please, hold still.”

    Minkowski’s stomach twisted in her abdomen as Miranda let out a whining sound. She was in pain, she was clearly in pain, whimpering and squirming, letting out small cries. Soon, the sound of running water filled the room, followed by an odd popping noise.

    “All done.”

    Had it been that quick? She wanted to look, but couldn’t bear it.

    “Would you like to go and listen to some music now, Miranda?”

    “Yes, please.”

    With little additional fanfare, the same footsteps exited the room, leaving Minkowski with countless questions. Once she was certain that the two would not return, she managed to roll over in bed, forcing herself to look at the sight that had been left behind.

    There was no blood. No medical tools. And, perhaps most importantly, no eyes.

    What in the world was going on?

    Minkowski knew one thing, though. She needed to get out of here. These people were maniacs, she knew it from the beginning. They were messing with her medication, and they had another woman held captive.

    She had to get out. She would get out.

    And, if her recent eavesdropping was any indicator, her first step in that direction would be talking to the mysterious Miranda. A prison break was always stronger in numbers.

Chapter Text

    At some point, Lovelace came to offer her lunch. 

    The Captain knocked on the door to the lab, the sound gentle and hollow. Minkowski only gave a low grumble in response, but she entered anyway, on soft footsteps.

    It had been only around half an hour since the doctor and his patient had left, as far as Minkowski’s less-than-perfect timekeeping skills could tell. She had since buried herself in blankets, making herself appear as a bulge of fabric to the entering Captain.

    “Hey, Renée.” Lovelace gave a soft smile.

    “Don’t call me that.” She mumbled in reply, pulling the blankets tighter around her head.

    “Alright.” Her voice turned more reluctant, sounding almost guilty. “How are you feeling?”

    “None of your business.” 

    Lovelace moved to her bedside, pulling back over Doctor Hilbert’s wheeled stool to sit down on. The wheels on the stool squeaked.

    “Eiffel is cooking lunch downstairs. Don’t worry, it’ll be edible. I think he’s making burgers. How does that sound?”

    Minkowski closed her eyes, rolling over onto her back.

    “I’m not hungry.”

    At least that was true. She was still full from breakfast, not to mention her appetite being ruined by what she had just heard, only a few feet from her. 

    “Alright. You’re sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

    Lovelace paused before giving a nod. She plucked something from her pocket-- An orange pill bottle. Two pills were produced from it and handed over. Minkowski had almost forgotten her afternoon pills. She hesitated, but swallowed them, taking a sip from a small water bottle that the Captain subsequently offered. She handed back the bottle.

    “Is there anything else that you need? Any water? More blankets? The bathroom?”

    Minkowski let out another negative hum.

    “I’m fine. I just want to be alone.”

    Lovelace sighed.

    “Alright.” She stood from her stool, pushing the seat away with a foot. “I’ll be back in a bit, alright? Are you gonna go back to bed?”

    “Yeah.”

    That made Lovelace smile, at least a tiny bit.

    “Alright. Goodnight, Commander. Sleep well.”

    Minkowski did not intend to sleep well. In fact, she didn’t intend to sleep at all. She wasn’t sure that she could, even if she tried.

    Lovelace’s appearance, however, had given her two valuable pieces of information: For one, she knew around what time it was. If they were following the instructions she had written for herself for her medication, then it was around noon-- She had just been given her noon pills. In addition, she now knew that Lovelace, as well as the others in the house, presumably, would be downstairs, eating lunch.

    They would be distracted. Too distracted to notice Minkowski getting out of bed. Would they bring Miranda to eat lunch with them? If not, she would have time alone with her. If so, then, at the very least, Minkowski would get a layout of the house.

    Perhaps, she could even find a back exit, and make a break for it. 

    Her plan wasn’t exactly well thought out, but, if she was being entirely honest, she was simply desperate to get out of that bed. Desperate to stop staring at that white tile ceiling. She was being useless, she couldn’t keep laying around, she couldn’t just be a sitting duck!

    She closed her eyes, perking her ears, listening as sharply as she could manage until her head began to ache. Lovelace’s footsteps slowly faded down the hallway. She waited for as long as she could stand before sitting up in her bed.

    Everyone else must have already been downstairs. If no one had been in the hallway yet, then she doubted they would appear later.

    Minkowski took a deep breath.

    She could do this. She had to do this.

    The Commander pushed the blankets off of herself, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She placed her feet on the tile floor as lightly as she could manage, flinching at the idea of making a single decibel of noise. She did her very best to quiet her breathing, although she knew full well that holding it altogether would make her faint.

    The world around her remained silent as she crept towards the door. She tried to ignore the way that her hand shook as she turned the doorknob.

    She flinched at the brightly lit hallway, a stinging assault on her corneas. 

    Miranda. Right. She had to find Miranda. She had to find Miranda, then an exit, then a police station. Then she would go home. Then… Then everything would be okay.

    The lab itself was at the top of the home’s central staircase. If she pricked her ears, she could just barely hear faint conversation on the level below. The hallway making up the top level stretched out in either direction. 

    Her mind drifted back to earlier that day, being gently led to the bathroom with dried tears staining her cheeks. She spotted the same door, now, to the right.

    Instead, she went left. 

    The first door she passed was open, revealing a pitch-black space, lit only with the hallway’s residual light, bleeding in through the doorway. The space shared two beds, one on each side of the room, each clearly occupied by different, feuding forces. Both beds were surrounded by all manner of belongings, jealously guarded from the center of the room, which was comparatively bare. 

    She spotted a box of ammunition, but no weapon to match. Minkowski briefly considered searching further, but decided against it. She wasn’t looking for a gun. She was looking for Miranda. That was her first step towards escape.

    She kept going, only to be nearly struck by a door, swinging open. The Commander stumbled back until her spine pressed into the wall.

    Doctor Hilbert stared back at her as he switched off the lights in the room he had just exited. The Commander didn’t manage to get a good look inside in the meantime, mind still addled with shock.  The doctor closed the door.

    “Commander Minkowski? Vat are you doing out of bed?”

    She felt her heart rate pick up in her chest.

    “The- The bathroom. I was looking for the bathroom.”

    “Ah.” The doctor replied, gesturing with his head for her to follow. Minkowski took a remorseful look down the rest of the hallway, but knew that resistance would only result in suspicion. So far, she had cooperated, and they had been lenient. She didn’t want to lose that advantage.

    Obediently, Minkowski followed the doctor to the bathroom. He stood back, making it very clear that he intended on waiting for her. Panic still making her palms sweat, she ducked into the bathroom, locking the door behind her and taking a moment to steady herself.

    God dammit, she blew it! Who knew when she would get another chance like that?

    In an effort to keep up her illusion of ignorance, she did her business. Washing her hands, the cold water seemed to help calm her racing heart. 

    She was fine. She was fine. Everything was going to be fine. 

    Deciding that she had taken long enough, Minkowski splashed cold water on her face before exiting the bathroom. As expected, Doctor Hilbert awaited her with crossed arms.

    “Do you need anything else?” He questioned.

    Minkowski shook her head.

    “Then let us go back to lab.”

    Keeping her head down, Minkowski followed to the lab, the stench of disinfectant now familiar to her. She couldn’t help but flinch as Doctor Hilbert turned on the blazing sterile lights overhead.

    “Last night, you vere very tired.” Doctor Hilbert began as he began to rifle through the medical supplies on the counter. “I performed short medical examination. I vould like to perform longer examination.”

    Minkowski bit her tongue as she watched the door to the lab drift shut behind her. Letting this doctor touch her was the last thing in the world that she wanted. Yet, somehow, she had the feeling that she had no choice. Unintimidating as his stature was, Doctor Hilbert had a manner of controlling a room, and those in it. At the very least, when he was in his element. In his lab, he was very much in his element.

    “Fine.” She replied, gaze flickering back and forth, as though some miraculous exit would present itself. Doctor Hilbert could most certainly sense the tension in her muscles, even from a distance.

    “Please, sit.” He gestured to the armchair. The same armchair she had sat in last night. The same armchair where Miranda…

    Minkowski sucked in a breath, barely able to force her feet to carry her up to the chair. She sat on it as though it were made of needles, back tense and straight, shoulders pulled back.

    “Ve vill start vith blood.” Doctor Hilbert announced as he pulled on a pair of blue medical gloves. If Minkowski really listened, she could almost hear some sort of cheer in his voice. He was eager, excited for this.

    “Blood?!” She exclaimed in protest, unable to stop herself. 

    “Blood, yes. Blood draw.” He turned, holding up a sterile, packaged IV kit. “Vill be over quickly. No vorry.”

    Minkowski shrunk back. She wasn’t sure she could even handle the doctor touching her, much less having him shove a needle in her arm.

    There was no choice. All she could do was close her eyes, breathing and shuddering as she tried not to listen to the doctor’s footsteps.

    At the very least, it was over quickly. It was far from the first time she had been through a blood draw. Still, she couldn’t help but squirm.

    “All done.” The doctor soon announced. 

    Minkowski was more than relieved to have the tube from her arm. She struggled to stand up, but Doctor Hilbert pushed her back down, a firm hand on her shoulder. He gave a small laugh.

    “Done with blood draw. Not done with examination.”

    Of course not. Minkowski bit her cheek, keeping her head down as the doctor put away the vial of drawn blood in the lab fridge. 

    “What are you going to do to me?” She sounded as though she were speaking to a torturer. In her mind, she was.

    Doctor Hilbert gave her a wide grin.

    “Medical examination, of course.”

    Minkowski felt her cheek begin to bleed.

    The night prior, she had had little problem allowing the doctor to examine her. After all, it wasn’t the first time that a stranger in a lab coat had poked and prodded at her. Far from it. In the past, however, those doctors had been professionals. Professionals who she trusted. 

    She had tried to trust Doctor Hilbert, strange as he was. What he had done to Miranda, however, had destroyed any of that trust. 

    He returned, placing a hand on the back of one of hers. She flinched back, as though she had been burned. His grin faltered. What was he doing?

    “It is okay.” He spoke. “You are okay. Zhe pain is over. Now, zhere is only examination, yes?”

    “Uh… Yeah.” 

    “All is okay.”

    “What are you going to do?” She asked again. This time, she received a more substantial explanation:

    “I vill look at mouth, ears, and eyes. Your wounds, are zey bothering you?”

    She shook her head. 

    “Not any more than usual.”

    “Zhen I vill not look at zhem. Open your mouth, please.”

    Mouth. That was okay. She could handle that. Minkowski opened her mouth, pulling her tongue back as far as she could manage. Doctor Hilbert procured a flashlight from the counter, pointing it to the back of her throat. After a few moments of humming, he withdrew it.

    “Good, good.” 

    Putting down the flashlight, he instead plucked an otoscope from a stand on the wall. Minkowski squirmed, just a bit, as the device was pressed into her ear, but did not try to flee. Ears. She could handle him looking at her ears.

    “Very good…”

    Mouth. Ears.

    Eyes .

    Doctor Hilbert placed a gloved hand on her face, attempting to stretch her right eye open wide.

    Minkowski, already coiled taut like a spring, at last snapped. She launched upwards from the chair, headbutting the doctor. Her world began to spin as she tried to step to the side, glancing around frantically for an exit, for a weapon, for anything.

    “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” She exclaimed, scrambling backwards, towards her bed. In a moment of panic, she yanked another otoscope from the stand on the wall. It wasn’t the best weapon, but it was something. If she hit him with the pointed segment, she could at least scare him off, she hoped.

    Doctor Hilbert rubbed his forehead, steading himself against the counter.

    “Commander-”

    “No, no! Don’t you ‘Commander’ me! You- You absolute monster! I’m not letting you hurt me! I’m not letting you take my eyes!”

    The doctor opened his eyes, screwing up his face in confusion.

    “Take your eyes ?”

    “I heard what you did to Miranda, I heard it! I know what you did!”

    He remained in place, looking baffled, as the door to the lab opened. Minkowski spun to face it, brandishing her otoscope as fiercely as she could manage.

    Captain Lovelace’s eyes shot open wide.

    “What in the-” She exclaimed, eyes snapping first towards Minkowski, then towards Hilbert. She let out a frustrated snarl. “What is going on here?”

    Minkowski knew full well that she should have taken the moment as an opportunity to flee. Perhaps, if she were quick enough, she could slip past Lovelace and make it out the door. Yet, for some reason, that was not her immediate instinct. Rather than viewing Lovelace as a threat, or, at best, a potential distraction, she sought her aid.

    “You’re going to take my eyes! You monsters! Don’t get any closer! He- He’s going to take my eyes!”

    Lovelace’s expression turned to one of bafflement as her gaze snapped to the doctor. He gave an equally confused shrug in reply.

    “What did you do ?” The sharp question was aimed at Doctor Hilbert, who appeared to be wilting under the Captain’s stare.

    “Nothing, Captain! I svear. Vas merely… Examining-”

    She did not reply, merely sharpening her glare. Doctor Hilbert let out a rather pathetic whine as he backed away, hands held up in a defensive position.

    Minkowski was now starting to feel the aftereffects of her sudden flight. A bruise was starting to form in the center of her forehead-- Her fault for using her skull as a weapon-- Not to mention her aching lungs from moving so quickly. Her weary body wasn’t built for it.

    Lovelace’s form stood blurrily before her.

    “Renée.” She spoke placatingly, her hands held up as well, palms out in a declaration of being unarmed. 

    “Don’t f-” She bit her tongue. “Don’t try that! Don’t you dare Renée me. I know what you did to Miranda! I heard you! I heard him!” She stabbed an accusatory finger at the doctor, who still looked as though he didn’t know what was going on. He knew what he had done.

    “Okay, okay.” That placating tone remained. “And what did you hear S- Hilbert do?”

    “He took her eyes. She was screaming!”

    “Okay. You did have Miranda in here earlier, yes?” She questioned Doctor Hilbert, who replied with a frantic nod. Lovelace turned back to Minkowski.

    “Renée, I know what you think you heard-”

    “I know what I heard.”

    “I know, I know.” She took a deep breath. “Miranda is okay. I promise. Let’s just…”

    Captain Lovelace continued facing the Commander as she walked backwards, up until she sat down on Doctor Hilbert’s stool, on the opposite side of the lab from the Commander. She shot a sharp glare at the doctor, who complied in an instant, sitting in the armchair where Minkowski had been, just a moment before.

    Minkowski paused, but got the memo, sitting down on the bed and its messy pile of blankets. 

    More than anything, she was glad that Lovelace did not ask about how, exactly, Minkowski knew it was Miranda’s eyes being removed, when she stated that she had only heard the ordeal, not seen it. She wasn’t quite ready to tell them that she had overheard their conversation that morning, not just yet.

    “Miranda is blind.” Lovelace began.

    “Miranda has alvays been blind.” Hilbert added.

    “She was born that way?” Minkowski questioned.

    Lovelace gave a shrug.

    “We think so. We don’t know.”

    “Then her eyes…”

    “Zhe eyes are fakes.” Hilbert finished her sentence for her. “Prosthetics. Made of glass and acrylic.”

    “Why take them out? She sounded… Scared.”

    “Prosthetic eyes become dirty. Cause irritation. Must be cleaned.”

    “She can’t do it herself?”

    Lovelace and Doctor Hilbert glanced at once another. Slowly, trying to keep Minkowski relaxed, she walked backwards, keeping her hands up and palms exposed. She moved to a small bookshelf, removing a glossy magazine. She got only close enough to Minkowski to hand over the magazine, practically tossing it into her lap. Immediately afterwards, Lovelace retreated to the stool.

    Minkowski kept her gaze firmly on the Captain for a moment, taking some time to decide that she was safe before looking down at the magazine in her lap.

    On the cover, distorted by zoom and motion blur, was Miranda. The picture appeared to have been taken from across the street-- A picture of someone who very much did not want to be photographed.

    ‘The Smartest Woman In the World-- Who is She?’ the tabloid’s cover begged, advertising ‘Exclusive Photos!’ and ‘Insight into her Mysterious Life, and Laboratory’. 

    The woman on the cover was, very clearly, Miranda, and that fact was confirmed by the title of the issue, splashed in white text: The Secret Life of Doctor Miranda Pryce .

    Now, the name even sounded familiar to Minkowski. Had she heard it on the news, once?

    Expression now one of pure bafflement, she looked up.

    “The world’s smartest woman.” Minkowski paused. “Is in your house?”

    This was all getting weirder by the second.

    “She had an accident.” Lovelace started.

    “A lab accident.” Doctor Hilbert filled in. “Her cognitive abilities have been… Diminished. Has difficulties vith many tings.”

    “And she has no memory of who the hell she is.” 

    They left Minkowski once more alone in the lab. Doctor Hilbert’s locking of the door did not escape her notice. Still, she had little intention of leaving anytime soon.

    If she did, though, she wouldn’t be able to use any more weaponized otoscopes-- He’d taken those too.

    Dinner came and went, pills along with it. She was starting to grow terribly bored. Still, when night came (something signified only by the arrival of more pills), she had no issue falling asleep.

    It was a light sleep, however. Light enough to be broken several hours in by the sound of shouting.

Chapter Text

    They left Minkowski once more alone in the lab. Doctor Hilbert’s locking of the door did not escape her notice. Still, she had little intention of leaving anytime soon.

    If she did, though, she wouldn’t be able to use any more weaponized otoscopes-- He’d taken those too.

    Dinner came and went, pills along with it. She was starting to grow terribly bored. Still, when night came (something signified only by the arrival of more pills), she had no issue falling asleep.

    It was a light sleep, however. Light enough to be broken several hours in by the sound of shouting.

    Two men, as far as she could tell from the sounds of their voices, though she could not make out a word that they spoke. It was curiosity that drove her to stand, that drove her to the door, pressing her ear to the door. Yet, thick, unyielding steel stood between her and nosiness.

    She tried the knob. Locked, of course, but this room had not been designed to lock from the outside. It had never been intended as a jail cell. Rather, if she could simply find the key…

    It took about three minutes of fishing through desk drawers and cabinets to find it, her little brass piece of freedom. 

    Then, she was at the top of the stairs, creeping on tip-toe in woolen socks. It made her realize quite starkly that she was still in the same clothes that Lovelace had given her after her bath. She always showered, every morning, crack of dawn. Yet, the lack of hygiene surprisingly did not seem to bother her, not in the visceral way that it often did.

    Two men. She could just barely make out their shapes below. One was large, broad-shouldered, with hair that he clearly cared far too much about. The other was smaller, wiry, with brown coils stringing from his scalp. 

    “Well if you hadn’t told me to take that turn-” The wiry one snapped.

    “Oh, so now it’s my fault? You were the one who couldn’t figure out the map! And now look, look what’s happened!” The broad-shouldered one snarled in reply. “You had one job!”

    “ We had one job. Don’t act like this wasn’t your fault, too.”

    “Just because you can’t do anything right-”

    “Woah-kay!”

    The emergence of a third voice surprised Minkowski, prompting her to look behind herself, as though there was going to be someone there. There wasn’t.

    She recognized the figure instantly as Isabel Lovelace, even from her rather odd vantage point. She, too, could not help but notice the way the two men stiffened as she approached, the way disobedient children may have upon being caught in their misbehavior.

    “You are going to stop yelling at him.” She pointed from the broad-shouldered one to the wiry one. “And you are going to stop yelling at him .” She pointed the other way around. “Got that?”

    The two men begrudgingly muttered their agreement.

    “I didn’t quite hear that. I said, got that? ”

    “Yes.”

    “Fine.”

    “Good. Now, first of all, I’m very glad that you both made it back alive. Mission accomplished.”

    “You got her?” The broad-shouldered man questioned.

    “Yes, which is exactly why we need to be quiet , because she is asleep upstairs. Now, what in the hell is all this yelling about?”

    At once, the two men devolved into muddled shouts, half at Lovelace and half at one another, stumbling over each other in an attempt to tell two wildly different stories. 

    “Quiet!” Lovelace snapped, and they were quiet.

    Why was Minkowski flushing? She shook her head.

    “One at a time. Kepler, you first.”

    “The mission was mostly a success.” The broad-shouldered man, who Minkowski supposed was called Kepler, began. “But we do not do mostly successful missions. That is what I was trying to tell Mr. Jacobi.”

    “Right. And the mission was only a partial success because…?”

    “Because you got shot!” The wiry man, Mr. Jacobi, interjected. 

    Lovelace didn’t seem particularly impressed. In fact, she snapped her fingers, quite loudly.

    “I did not tell you it was your turn to talk. But, yes, I was shot. I am fine. Is that all?”

    The men stared at her.

    “Oh, damn it all. Jacobi, talk. Is that all?”

    “We were meant to keep you safe.” Jacobi explained, slow and cautious, walking on a half-broken rope bridge. “And you were shot. That indicates a mission failure.”

    “Well, sure. I was shot. But did we accomplish our mission?”

    “Well-”

    “Yes”

    “Yes.”

    “And did anyone die ?”

    “No-”

    “No.”

    “So I see absolutely no valid reason for the two of you to be screaming your heads off in my living room. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get half of the people in this house to sleep ? 

    Tomorrow, I’m going to want a full mission report from both of you. For now, get some damn sleep.

    But first, how the hell did you find out I got shot in the first place?”

    “Doctor Hilbert told us. He was down here.” Jacobi deadpanned.

    Lovelace sighed. “Sounds like there’s yet another person I’m going to have to have a talk with about revealing information that doesn’t need to be revealed .

    Alright. Both of you, get some sleep. Oh, and, change the plates on the car before you do.”

    Grumbled agreement. Both men clearly wanted to go directly to bed, with no steps in between.

    It was Jacobi whose gaze wandered up the stairs, likely in longing to collapse in his bed. She wondered which room was his. 

    She met his gaze. He stiffened.

    “You’re sure about Minkowski being in bed?” He did not break eye contact as she spoke to Lovelace.

    Minkowski felt a panic rise in her chest, prompting her to duck around the corner as Lovelace moved over to look up the stairs. She let out a sigh.

    “It’s okay, Renée, you can come down.”

    She suddenly regretted leaving the room at all. Yet, she was stuck with her choice now, and nervously ducked out from around the corner. It was with tense shoulders that she made her way down the stairs, feeling all too gawked at from the men.

    Why did she recognize them?

    “Lieutenant!” Kepler exclaimed, putting on a broad smile and holding out a well-built arm for a handshake. She did not take his hand, looking instead at him blankly. He waited for a few awkward moments before putting his hand down. “It’s good to see you again.”

    She looked at him, then at his compatriot, Jacobi.

    “Uh, right. Nice to know you’re, uh, alive.”

    “Jacobi.” Kepler warned. Jacobi just let out a sigh, but did not correct his verbiage.

    “She’s, um.” Lovelace seemed unsure of how to explain it. “Well, she’s kind of like our other amnesiac.”

    What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was she talking about Miranda?

    The two men visibly grimaced.

    “They got her too, huh?” Jacobi muttered.

    “Well.” Kepler cleared his throat. “In that case, it is very nice to meet you , Renée. It’s still Renée, is it?”

    “Uh- Yeah.” She stammered.

    “Great! My name is Colonel Warren Kepler. And this .” He gave Jacobi a firm pat on the back that nearly seemed to knock the wind out of the smaller man. “Is Mr. Daniel Jacobi.”

    Jacobi gave a lazy wave.

    Renée paused. The question was likely inappropriate for the situation, and yet it refused to cease from burbling out through her lips.

    “If you’re a Colonel-” She looked to Lovelace. “And she’s a Captain… Then why-?”

    “Is she in charge?” Kepler asked the rest of the question for her. “Sometimes I ask myself that.”

    “ I’m in charge because I can make him sleep in the garage for the rest of the week.”

    Kepler seemed to pale at that.

    “Exactly what she said.” He muttered, before shaking his head. “Right, then. It’s late, isn’t it? Everyone’s on their off rotations?” He looked at Lovelace. “Who’s on tonight?”

    “I am.” She replied. “Doctor Maxwell is asleep, for once, so don’t you dare bother her.”

    Her tone immediately softened as her gaze turned to Minkowski.

    “Let’s get you back to bed.”

    Back in bed, it was where Minkowski always seemed to end up. Staring at the ceiling, she felt the pills begin, at last, to work their way through her system.

    Yet, she was awake for the moment, for a few more moments, at least, and her mind was whirling.

    This place seemed to have some sort of military organization. There was a Captain, a Colonel, an Officer, and, of course, her. Yet, there seemed to be civilians, as well-- Doctor Hilbert, at least, and Jacobi didn’t seem to hold any rank either. 

    Did that mean that there was some military connection to this place, or did those people just happen to be military; ex-military, even? Not to mention, if they were American military, why were they living in the middle of nowhere in Canada?

    Every new piece of information she learned seemed to confuse her ever more. Still, she knew one thing for sure: The medication was kicking in, now. Those lovely, gentle pills which took away all of her thoughts and worries.

    When she woke up, someone was staring at her.

    It took her a moment to realize that, a moment longer for her visual system to differentiate the dark figure from the darker background which it stood against. Yet, once her mind had come to recognize that what she was looking at was a person, she bolted upright, to a sitting position on the bed, nearly knocking over the figure above her.

    “What the hell-?”

    Her eyes adjusted further to the darkness, enough to make out stark, white hair, and blue clothing. 

    “Miranda?”

    The figure paused before taking a step back. Minkowski blinked, kicking her legs free of the covers and sweeping her legs over the side of the bed.

    Miranda. She had only seen the woman once thus far, and yet, she practically had more questions about her than about anyone else. How in the world had she come to be here, if she had been, once, supposedly, the smartest woman in the world? Even if she had been involved in a lab accident, how did that lead her here, under the care of a group of strangers? Or, had she perhaps known them before?

    Their situations, too, were similar. Almost strangely similar. Perhaps Miranda had been in the same place as her, once-- Taken from her home by Lovelace.

    Yet, that just didn’t sound right.

    “It’s okay.” Minkowski tried to comfort her. “You’re fine. I’m not going to hurt you.”

    Her own breathing was steadying, as well.
“I just want to know what you’re doing here.”

    Minkowski couldn't help but wonder whether or not the other woman was even capable of speech— Perhaps she was mute, or deaf, or both, alongside her blindness, though the earlier talk regarding her had not mentioned as such. 

    There were no words. Instead, the other woman turned, gesturing with curling fingers for Minkowski to follow her. It was on shaky legs that she did so, but she still did so. 

    Despite her blindness, Miranda seemed to navigate the lab with ease. Perhaps she often spent time here. It would make considerable sense, given the fact that Doctor Hilbert seemed to be her primary caretaker. Where was he, right now, not watching over his charge?

    Miranda moved to one of the cupboards sitting above Doctor Hilbert’s lab bench, reaching up and pulling it open, retrieving some flat item. 

    It was a sheet of laminated paper, with several smaller sheets of paper stuck to it via small dots of Velcro. The smaller sheets each had drawings on them, simple, childish, and a word to go with each. Below the word was its Braille translation, little raised dots in sequence. 

    Miranda ran a deft finger over the cards until she plucked the one she wanted, showing it to Minkowski. 

    Hello . 

    Then, back to searching. More cards, two of them. 

    Who you

    A question, of course. Who are you?

    For a moment, Minkowski wasn't sure how to answer that question. What was she supposed to say? I'm a former pilot for the US Air Force? I'm a washed up, disabled veteran with a shitty office job? I'm your fellow captive?

    “My name is Lieutenant Commander Renée Minkowski.” She answered, almost adding in you can call me Renée , before remembering that the woman wasn't exactly going to be calling her anything. 

    “And you're Miranda.”

    Miranda nodded, affirming that she was, in fact, Miranda. 

    Minkowski glanced at the door, ensuring that there was no one there, before looking back at Miranda. 

    “Can you… tell me why you're here?”

    A complicated question for sure, but one that she desperately wanted answered. The woman seemed at least partway cognizant of herself and her surroundings, enough to be curious about them. Hopefully, she could construct some kind of explanation through manner of her cards. 

    Miranda thought for a moment, looking forward blankly, and Minkowski began to worry that she had asked something too difficult. Then, the blind woman began to run her finger back over her cards. One, two, three, she began constructing her thought.

    We in big car . 

    She put those cards away, grabbing a new set. 

    We come home. 

    Minkowski quirked a brow, trying to decipher what that could possibly mean. Big car? Or maybe that was her word for something else, like a truck or a train. 

    “Okay. Um… Do you want to be here? Are they keeping you captive here?”

    Miranda’s false eyes shifted downwards, then back up, as though she were actually seeing anything through them. 

    She did not reply for a moment, then her head began to bob up and down. 

    “You are- Okay. So they are keeping you here against her will.”

    More nodding. 

    “It's okay. I understand that must be-” How could she even describe something like that? “Scary.”

    Nod. 

    “I was taken against my will as well. I understand. We're going to get out of here, okay? We're going to go to the police, and we're going to get out of here.”

    Miranda quirked her head to the side. 

    “I know. It's- Well, it's not going to be the easiest thing in the world, but I promise, we will get out of here.”

    A realization. 

    “Is that why you came to find me? Because you want to get out of here as well?”

    Nod. Nod. Nod. 

    “Do you think we can get out of here- I mean, right now?”

    Nod. 

    Minkowski took a deep breath, steadying herself. She hadn't expected their break for freedom to be quite so sudden. She was a woman of planning, making her moves methodically, every step pre-planned. 

    Yet, she had a feeling that Miranda knew more than she was letting on. After all, who knew how long she had been in captivity for, here. She most certainly knew this place well. If she thought that now was the time, then Minkowski was not about to dispute as such. 

    “Okay. We can do that.”

    She tried her best to remember the layout of the place. She hadn't seen any sort of back door, and she wasn't taking the chance of being cornered if she entered a room with no exit. That meant that they'd be leaving out the front door— Breaking a window would risk setting off whatever kind of security system they most likely had. She could only hope that the door wasn't alarmed. If it was, there was no way around that. She wasn't exactly Doctor Maxwell when it came to tech-

    Who the hell was Doctor Maxwell?

    She shook her head, a sudden pain sprouting in between her temples. She had probably heard it in a TV show or a movie, somewhere. 

    What she meant was she wasn't some sort of tech-genius. She would be hopeless when it came to turning off some sort of security system. So, if it alarmed, they'd just have to run. 

    Before any of that could be considered, though, there was the matter of getting out of this room. Doctor Hilbert had locked it from the outside. 

    Maybe…

    Minkowski turned to Miranda. 

    “Miranda? Is there any chance you could get us out of this room?”

    After all, she had gotten in here, right? Wait, did that mean-

    Minkowski went over to the door, testing the handle. Still locked. How in the world- 

    Oh, whatever. 

    Miranda continued staring blankly when Minkowski looked back at her. 

    “Miranda?” She asked again, trying to enunciate her words as best as she could. It was entirely possible that the woman didn't have ideal hearing. 

    Miranda nodded. Right, okay, she was still with her. 

    “Can you get us out of this room?” Minkowski continued, before thinking to add: “Please?”

    Another nod. It was a good thing she could make that gesture, because otherwise, this nonverbal communication would be hopeless. 

    “Okay. Do you need anything from me, or…?”

    Miranda didn't respond to that. Instead, she moved over to the door, navigating the space effortlessly. She took something from her pocket— some kind of bobby pin?— and began fishing it into the lock. It took a few moments, but eventually, the lock popped open. 

    Minkowski could barely believe it. This was it. She was finally going to go home, and she'd be helping Miranda, as well. Two good things at once. 

    “Come with me.” She whispered, wrapping her fingers around Miranda's wrist. To her surprise, the shorter woman tensed up and pulled away. 

    No touching, then. Okay. 

    “That's fine. Just- Follow me, okay? Keep close.” She thought about adding on keep quiet , but Miranda had already been doing a pretty good job of that. 

    Minkowski moved to the top of the staircase, peering over the banister. This time, she didn't see anyone below. They must've all already gone to sleep. 

    Perfect. 

    As carefully as she could possibly manage, she crept down the stairs. Miranda stayed close at her side, a smile on her face, like a kid going on a field trip. 

    They must've really messed her up bad, huh?

    After what felt like an eternity, they were at the front door, where all this madness had started. She took note of the deadbolt and the chain, and got to work on undoing the first of the two. 

    She turned it. It turned back. 

    She tried again. Again, it turned back. 

    “Okay, I know I'm supposed to keep quiet but I can't, I just can't! Commander, you can't go out that door. It's not going to work, and- And I've already woken the Captain-”

    For a moment, Minkowski assumed it to be the voice of God, but last time she checked, God didn't sound exactly like Miranda Pryce. 

    Not that she would know. 

    The voice was enough to take her back to make her rip her hand from the deadbolt like it were a burner on a hot stove. 

    Her mind processed several facts in that moment. 

    For one, someone was watching her. Someone who, for some reason, had been disallowed from speaking. 

    For two, she wasn't going to be able to get out of the front door while this person was still in control of it. 

    And for three, Lovelace had already been alerted as to her escape attempt. 

    She scanned the area around. No other doors. A few front windows, covered by blinds. A chair, sitting just inside the kitchen. 

    Footsteps, coming from upstairs. 

    Minkowski had never been one for split-second decisions, but in that moment, her choices were rather limited. 

    She ran. She ran , something she hadn't been able to do in ages, and grabbed the kitchen chair, dragging it back to the front windows. 

    Lovelace was halfway down the stairs by then, yelling at her to stop, to wait. 

    Minkowski did neither of those things. 

    With a strength she thought she had lost in the accident, she took the chair, hurling it through the front window, which exploded on impact. A million shards of glass flew every which way. There was no avoiding getting cut, but right then, she just saw it as a price to pay. 

    She grabbed Miranda by the wrist again, sacrificing the woman's comfort for the sake of escape, and dragged her forward. Soon enough, the two of them were through the window, and far worse for wear for it. As they stumbled out onto the front porch, bloody footsteps followed. 

    Minkowski didn't care. 

    When she realized that Miranda was only going to slow her down, she scooped the woman up in her arms, an unknown strength again returning to her. An alarm began to blare within the house, but Minkowski was already gone. 

    She didn't stop running until she could no longer see the house in the distance.