Chapter Text
Merel starts running.
Paravyan watches her numbly. He knew this would happen, of course. He's known Merel for a while now, been with her practically the entire time. He knows how she thinks better than she does.
And to her, those promises lose meaning when faced with this.
He can practically hear her logic—she's not putting anyone in any danger by running, not this time. No. She's only protecting herself.
Light flashes. A little blackbird takes to the skies, an oversized fiddler crab snaps defensively. Her best bet would be her invisibility, but Merel has never been good at remembering that in a panic.
There's a piercing shriek, a wail that trails off, and Yermolai steps in front of him, blocking Paravyan's view. "She'll be alright," his teammate says, patting his shoulder. His face is uncharacteristically solemn. "She's a survivor."
"I know," Paravyan says.
Marsha approaches them, her eyebrows furrowed and gaze downcast. Creius comes up behind her. He's carrying Merel, not over the shoulder like Yermolai does to tease her, not on his back like Marsha does to play with her, but cradled to his chest as if she was only a tired child who had fallen asleep on an outing. Her face is peaceful like this. There's no trace of the desperate struggle she'd been putting up only moments earlier.
Paravyan wonders if their chests are tight too, if everyone else is struggling to breathe.
Creius walks past them, back towards the building. Yermolai follows, but Marsha stops beside Paravyan. "She didn't feel any pain," she whispers to him. "She won't. I'll make certain."
Paravyan can't bring himself to reply over the lump in his throat, so he only nods. Nobody mentioned how they'd knocked her out. He finds he's relieved. He prays Merel stays asleep until it's all over.
But they have never been so lucky.
Paravyan and the other men had been asked to leave the room while Marsha and one of the female doctors do some preparations. Of course, this doesn't stop the three remaining XII members from bursting into the room when they hear shouts. "Marsha, no! Please, Marsha! Marsha!"
(He refuses to think about how he's beginning to understand why Merel is always running, now.)
The doctor has backed away, her hands over her mouth in fright. Marsha is half on the bed holding Merel as she struggles and twists, trying to get away. The medic speaks calmly to her, but no one can hear what she's saying over Merel's screams and the frantic alarming of the monitor she's connected to.
"Please, sir!" Merel cries, her eyes wild. "I'll never run again, I swear! I won't run!"
Paravyan turns to look at Creius. It's easier to look at him than Merel. His face is impassive, even as he tenses almost imperceptibly. "Stand down, Blackbird. That's an order."
(She's never been good at following orders, not like him.)
Yermolai pushes forward, past the anxious doctors who have suddenly realized this may not be the most legal or moral operation, seizing a mask hooked up to a machine. He flips the switch, and it hums to life, a fine mist billowing from the tubes.
"Yermolai, please, I don't want this!" Merel sobs, turning her face away from him as he nears her. Marsha strokes her hair, but turns her to face him anyways. "No, don't make me—!"
Yermolai doesn't respond, but his hands are gentle as he presses the mask to her face. Paravyan looks away, his fists clenched, but she calls for him anyways.
"Paravyan, please," Merel begs, her voice already beginning to quiet. "Don't let them do it…"
He looks at Creius. Their leader is unflinching as always, watching the scene as if it were just another simulation. It's easier to believe it is, now that the monitor has resumed its steady beep. Paravyan squeezes his eyes shut instead. It's for the best. Creius would never deliberately harm any of them, and he cares about them. This is for their own good.
(He'd asked why the squad had to be the ones to do it, a moment of weakness. Creius had only looked at him for a long time before telling him the XII took care of their own.)
"Mandrake extract taking effect," Yermolai says, his voice almost casual. "Subject calmed."
Paravyan opens his eyes. Marsha still holds Merel, hugging the girl hanging limp in her arms and continuing to stroke her hair. Yermolai reaches behind them, adjusting the pillow that Merel had nearly knocked off the bed in her franticity, and Marsha lowers her to lie back.
Yermolai catches him staring. "Don't sweat it," he says. "Her vitals are fine." He turns his gaze to the cluster of doctors, huddled in one corner like frightened prey. "Give us the room, will you? We don't need any help with the injection."
The doctors are quick to scurry out, Creius following them as his communicator buzzes, the door clicking shut behind them. Paravyan doesn't watch them go, instead moving to sit at Merel's side. She doesn't turn to look at him, her normally bright eyes half-closed and unfocused. Her breathing has slowed, her chest rising and falling rhythmically as she inhales the mandrake extract. After a moment of hesitation, he reaches out and lightly grasps her hand. Her fingers twitch weakly against his hand. Her palm is still smaller than his.
"She told me she used to hold hands with her classmate when they had vaccinations at her school," Marsha says quietly. She does not smile, nor does she show any signs of regret as she carefully wipes Merel's arm with alcohol. "That her classmate would only put up with it because there was no rule against it, and it was more trouble for her to complain."
Paravyan looks at her, some twisted part of him almost grateful for a reason to look away from Merel's dazed face. "Injections and doctor's visits are some of the many things that frighten her."
"It'd be faster to list what doesn't scare her," Yermolai says, rolling his eyes. "Little bird's more trouble than she's worth."
Despite his words, as Marsha slides the needle into the pale skin of Merel's forearm, making her whimper, Yermolai pats her head without any of his usual force.
"How long will she have to be here?" Paravyan asks.
Marsha only shakes her head, her focus on the IV tubing. Yermolai clicks his tongue. "She'll be too out of it to be scared."
"That's not what I'm worried about—"
Creius steps into the room, shutting the door behind him. Paravyan sits up straighter. Their commander's eyes have tightened. Most wouldn't be able to tell, but Paravyan prides himself on having served under him long enough to notice. "Blackbird's stay will be longer than anticipated." His voice is barely loud enough to hear, and yet it carries the same unquestionable authority. "We're being sent another… treatment."
Marsha whips around to face him, though her hands remain steady on her medical tools. "You swore it would only be the tracking serum."
Creius isn't fazed, only slipping his communicator back into a pocket. "Plans change."
He can tell Marsha wants to argue—Paravyan may not have known Marsha as long, but he knows that she can't stand to see others in pain, and that she has a soft spot for Merel (in their team, who didn't?). But they are soldiers, and soldiers don't argue with their commanders, so in the end she says nothing.
Yermolai laughs, a harsh, grating sound of amusement. "Of course there's another one. Be a shame to waste a good lab rat."
Paravyan tenses, his grip on Merel's hand tightening before he can remember to gentle it, but before he can say anything, Creius points directly at Yermolai. "Behave yourself, Hound. And, Marsha?"
"Yes?"
"Continue keeping Merel comfortable," Creius orders, though his voice lacks that tone he uses when commanding. He looks at Merel for a moment. She's fallen asleep again, the artificial calm dragging her under. "I'm going to meet with someone, but I should be able to bring back nepenthe serum."
"Understood."
As soon as Creius leaves once more, Paravyan turns to Marsha again. "Isn't nepenthe banned?"
Marsha doesn't meet his eyes, fiddling with the gauze on Merel's arm. "Commander Creius made an agreement." Paravyan stares, and she relents with a sigh. "It was one of his conditions for administering the tracking serum."
"But there's no way of knowing—"
Yermolai cuts him off, placing both hands on his shoulders and spinning him in order to look him dead in the eye. His lazy, uncaring smile is gone, replaced by an almost serious expression. "Look, Beagle. Just stop asking questions, yeah?"
"What is wrong with you?" Paravyan hisses back. "How can you be okay with all of this?"
Yermolai laughs again, bitter and mirthless. "Orders are orders. And here I was thinking you were Creius's little lapdog, just rolling over whenever he tells you to."
"They banned nepenthe for a reason!" Paravyan argues. "She might—"
"We're already here shooting fuck all into her, and that's what you're worried about?" Yermolai keeps laughing, but his face is drawn tight in anger as his voice rises. "Shut your damn mouth and stop asking questions. The more you ask, the longer this drags on. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner she can forget all this."
"That's enough," Marsha says. Her voice is quiet, but they fall silent immediately, turning to her. "You're upsetting her."
Paravyan risks a glance at Merel. Her face is pinched, and she's frowning the way she always does during nightmares. She makes a soft whine, and Marsha smooths her hair back from her face. "It's alright, you're alright."
Yermolai huffs, crossing his arms, but lowers his voice. "Look. Do you really want her remembering all this?"
Paravyan doesn't answer, and Yermolai pats his shoulder roughly, moving to leave. "It's a mercy to let her forget."
He opens the door, and Paravyan finds his words. "Wait, Yermolai, I'm—"
He slams the door shut before Paravyan can finish.