Thou Art Not Conquer’d
The cell at the end of the corridor was usually empty.
The facility was, nominally, for juvenile corrections. There was, however, a high-security wing. That much was public knowledge, but what was not so widely known was what was contained underneath the security wing, a place that gave “security” a new definition. What went on there was beyond words like ‘secret’ and ‘secure’. It was simply nonexistent, and what went on there stayed hidden.
So no one officially knew how many inmates passed through its doors. It could have been dozens, or hundreds—no one was ever called upon to account for them.
Still, the last cell was generally empty. The guard whose province it was preferred it that way. Anonymity and lack of notice, as far as he was concerned, were both a plus.
Some of the inmates of the secret wing could be, and were, retrained or rehabilitated. By the time any of them even arrived at the facility there was no hope of a cure for them, but there were sometimes—options.
Others ended up on this corridor. And eventually a very few ended up in the last cell.
By the time they got there, all of them had become used to the routines of their imprisonment. They knew what was expected of them, what the consequences were if they didn’t fulfill them. It was a constant source of surprise to those who ran the facility that so many of them seemed to disregard those consequences. There had been hope at one point that the guard could turn more of them, reduce the losses, but he never did. What he did do, in their final hours on the wing, was to maintain calm. How he did it they never quite knew—he didn’t do it by threats or by violence, the means they best understood—but there were no disturbances on the floor once he was in charge.
Other guards had their idiosyncrasies. These inmates weren’t loath to exploit them—they knew which to cower away from and which could be bribed. Not with money—none of them had that, or they wouldn’t have been there in the first place. But there were other things that could be exchanged for better treatment, extra food, protection.
If they got to the end of the corridor, though, none of that mattered. Most of them had never seen the last guard before, but they quickly became aware that he wasn’t to be reached in that way—in any way—and that he was the only one that guarded them.
They didn’t realize—they couldn’t—how complete his watch really was. He slept infrequently when there was a prisoner in his cell, and there was a closed-circuit feed into the small room with a cot where he did snatch an hour’s rest from tine to time. No matter what, the second he opened his eyes, his charge would be before them.
He recognized the irony of his work. He was a hunter by nature, but these prisoners weren’t prey. They’d already been captured and caged by others long before they ever got to him. He supposed he used his natural skills in other ways, sensing their thoughts and reactions, gauging what was needed to maintain control. Tracking their psychological journey instead of their physical one.
Today a new prisoner had been transferred onto his watch. He walked slowly down the corridor, ignoring the inhabitants of the cells to either side of him. They weren’t his business. The new transfer rose at his approach and stood quietly beside her bunk.
She looked young, but then they all were, in this place. She stood still and silent as he walked the last few feet and stood at the door of the cell. He gave her a moment to look him over before he gestured for her to approach. She did, taking measured steps forward until she could go no further and only the bars separated them. She kept her head down and her hands behind her back, though he knew she wasn’t restrained. He didn’t allow that, except in the rare cases where he had to do it himself.
“You know why you’re here?” She didn’t raise her head, but after a moment she nodded briefly. “Tell me.”
“Termination,” she whispered.
“Look at me.” It took her a minute, but she finally lifted her head and he was favorably impressed to see that her eyes were clear and dry.
He wondered, sometimes, what they saw when they looked at him. Some of them barely glanced up, even when ordered to do so. He imagined that he blended in with a hundred other guards, none of whom they’d particularly want to remember. Maybe larger than most, no more or less frightening, except that most of them knew what he was there to do.
As she did. But this one didn’t look away, and he noted the fact with a certain satisfaction. He saw her eyes flicker to the nametag sewn to his uniform shirt. He approved of that, as well. It was always better to have more information about the enemy.
“Just so we’re clear. You’ll probably be held here a day or two. Your time here can be easy or hard. If you stay calm, you don’t need sedation and I won’t waste it on you. No one’s going to mess with you here. You don’t fight me, you don’t argue with me, then you don’t get restrained. And you eat what you’re given. Do you understand me?”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Yes, sergeant.”
“All right. What do I call you?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly at that. “You have my record.”
“I don’t read records.” But again he was impressed, and a little surprised. “Tell me what I call you.”
“R-G-E thirty-eight.”
He shook his head. “What do the others call you?”
For the first time her demeanor faltered, and he could see past her defenses to what she was holding back. But he didn’t relent, he simply stood and waited for her to answer.
“Rogue,” she said at last.
He nodded curtly. He’d already known the answer, but he wanted to hear it from her. “That’ll do.” He didn’t introduce himself; he’d already seen she could read for herself. “You need any medical care?”
She gave him a startled look. “Why? What’s that matter?”
“I don’t answer questions. I ask them.” He crossed his arms. “If you don’t, go sit back down.”
The girl—Rogue—looked down. Slowly, she brought her arms out from behind her back, and he saw that both forearms were bandaged from her wrists almost to her elbows. Blood seeped through the gauze. He scowled.
They’re supposed to be healthy when they send them here. The irony of which did not, of course, escape him either. “What is that?”
“They took a final set of skin samples.” Her hands were trembling and he knew that was why she’d been hiding them. It also infuriated him beyond measure, that they’d strip the skin from her arms before sending her to him, but he didn’t let his expression betray that.
“All right. Go sit down. I’ll bring fresh bandages.” He watched as she silently obeyed his command, then turned and left.
She was still sitting in the same place when he returned, but she rose to her feet again as soon as she saw him and stood still until he beckoned her back to the bars.
“Here.” He knelt and pushed a plastic container through the small slot at the bottom of the cell, but she didn’t move. “Take it.”
She knelt down herself and gingerly took the container, seeming surprised at its contents. He gestured toward the small sink that stood against one wall.
“There’s an anti-bacterial. Soak off the old bandages and clean the wounds. If you need help—“
“You can’t touch my skin,” she said quickly. “It’s my mutation.”
“Yeah?” He was curious in spite of himself, which was unusual. “What’s it do?”
She was moving to the sink. “You have my—“
“Told you I don’t read records.” It was the truth, actually. He didn’t care to know more than he needed to know. “Also seem to remember telling you not to argue with me.”
He saw her swallow. “I absorb energy. Life-force, they say.” She set the plastic container down on the edge of the sink and began painfully unwrapping the bandage on her left wrist. “If they’re mutants, I get their mutations too. For a while.”
“Interesting.” He watched as she finished undoing the bandage; she winced as it pulled away from the bloody wound. They’d simply stripped away the whole layer of skin; it must have been extraordinarily painful, but she poured the disinfectant over the wound with no more than a slight grimace and let the excess drip into the sink. “There’s ointment in there too. Put it on—the bandages won’t stick as much next time.”
She turned her head just a bit and gave him that narrow look again, and he could almost hear her question: Why does that matter? But she didn’t speak, simply followed his direction, then took out a fresh roll of gauze and began wrapping it around her wrist. She got the wound covered and tucked the end of the gauze under, by her elbow. She had a little more trouble with the other arm; she must have been right-handed, but eventually she managed it.
“Put the old bandages in the container and bring it back here,” he directed. She did, sliding the container back through the bars. He knelt to retrieve it, then stood and held a hand out through the bars. “Here.” She shrank back. “Take them. It’s just for the pain.” Two tablets lay on his outstretched palm.
“I can’t—“
“You arguing?”
“They took my gloves,” she snapped back, and then looked horrified. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, but—“
“Hold out your hand.” Reluctantly, she did, and he dropped the tablets into her cupped palm without touching her. “Take those with some water and try to get some sleep. Lights out in thirty minutes.” He turned and started to leave.
“Thank you.” He didn’t pause at the quiet words, and he didn’t wait to see if she did take the pills. Her lookout if she didn’t.
He spent the night, as was his custom, with one eye on the monitor in his room. She didn’t move from her bunk, not once, until the lights clicked back on in the morning.
Rogue was sitting up on the end of the bunk again when he brought her morning meal, and she rose to her feet in her habitual way at his approach. He knelt to slide the tray through the bars and then stood and held something out. “Here.”
She came forward less hesitantly today, and took the black gloves he held out to her. “Where—“
“No questions. Eat your food.” It was the same as the guards were served, for the simple reason that he’d just appropriated an extra breakfast tray. It was one thing he did that was counter to the regulations, but as far as he was concerned, the least these people were owed was a couple of decent meals, and so far no one had ever called him on it. She ducked her head and quickly knelt to retrieve the tray.
She had finished and was sitting back down when he returned for the tray, which was waiting on the floor for him. She’d put on the gloves and as he’d thought, the stretchy material fit over the bandages on her arms. He held up a hand to indicate that she didn’t have to stand up as he picked up the tray, but when he stood up she was standing a few steps away in the middle of her cell.
“You need something?”
She shook her head. “I was just wondering—if you would tell me when it’s going to be.”
“When the orders come through.”
She shook her head again. “I know that. I just mean, when they do, will you tell me?”
“I’ll tell you when you need to know.” Rebuffed, she stepped back and dropped her eyes, and he should have left it at that. “Rogue.” She still didn’t look back up. “No sense in worrying about stuff before it happens.”
“But it’s going to happen. No one ever comes back from here.” Now she did look up. “I want to know.” Both her voice and her eyes were determined. “I won’t need sedation, and I won’t fight—I just want to know.” She took a step back toward him. “Please, Sergeant Wolfe. Can’t I at least have that?”
The use of the name she’d read gave him more of a shock than he cared to admit. Against his will, he was struck by her quiet strength. She must be absolutely terrified, he knew she was in pain, but she kept herself completely under control. And she was right—she deserved the chance to prepare herself. “I’ll tell you. The night before, all right? It’ll happen in the morning.”
Rogue’s face didn’t change, but he sensed her heart rate increase. After a second she nodded. “Thank you.” Her determination and resolve were gutwrenching to see.
“Rogue—“ There wasn’t really anything he could say. “Don’t thank me.”
The girl’s mouth twitched just a bit, and then she nodded her acceptance of his words.
There were two meals a day, and he stayed away until it was time to bring her the next one. He brought fresh gauze and ointment as well. She stood up again as he approached, but this time her eyes were fixed on him, and he shook his head once before he slid the try and medical supplies through the bars. This kind of communication, though not against the regulations of the facility, was decidedly against his own personal rules, and that bothered him. Others had begged, pleaded, sobbed—he didn’t know why her request had been different.
Hell, some other guards openly taunted the prisoners with their future, or lack of it. He’d never done that. But he’d also never acceded to a prisoner’s request for information. He didn’t get involved.
Ever.
Rogue relaxed a hairsbreadth at the gesture and came forward to pick up the tray and supplies. He turned to go.
“What does the ‘L’ stand for?” He turned back sharply. She was standing by the bars, holding the tray, her face schooled into neutrality. “On your nametag.”
Involuntarily he glanced down. “Don’t ask questions,” he said roughly.
“Why not?” And that, too, was a question. “I mean, what’s the difference if I know? The next one won’t know.”
Oh, she was good. “Be quiet. Just eat your dinner and shut up.” This. This was what happened when you gave them an inch. Rogue stared at him in silence for a moment, looking completely unafraid, and then turned to go back to the bunk.
He threw himself into a chair that stood across the hallway and watched as she ate. Generally they ate nothing unless forced, but she seemed to have decided not to defy him on that front, at least. When she finished, she got up to return the tray to the floor by the bars and he got up to take it.
She had moved to the sink and was unwrapping the gauze from one wrist. He hesitated. “You want more pills for that?”
“What’s your name?” She didn’t look up.
“I asked you a question.” He was losing in this encounter somehow, and he really wasn’t sure how that had come about.
“I asked you one first.” She still didn’t look up. “And I know, don’t ask questions. But I figure you can’t do anything worse to me than—“
“My name’s Logan.” He turned and left without waiting to see her response. In his room, he saw that she finished with the bandages before lying down on her bunk, but tonight she was restless. She didn’t seem to sleep much, if at all, and several times she got up and took a slow walk around the cell.
She looked tired when he brought her food in the morning, but she rose and stood quietly as usual as he slid the tray into the cell. He didn’t move away as she came forward to pick it up.
She was pretty. He didn’t generally let himself notice things like that, because what was the point? She was just a pretty young kid who’d made the fatal mistake of being born a mutant, and in another day or so he’d never see her again, so there was none. But he took a minute and looked at her anyway.
Her long dark hair was pulled back into an untidy ponytail, and she was too thin under the prison-issue garments she wore, but she moved with a certain grace. It made him wonder if she’d taken dance classes or something once, before—
“Did you want me to do something else?” Her quiet voice brought him back to the here and now.
“No. Go on. Eat.” He turned away, but he was aware that she didn’t move until he’d disappeared back into his room, where he could watch her safely on the monitor. If he stayed near her cell, where she could speak to him again, it would only get worse.
The orders came through that afternoon.
It felt like a relief, frankly. Until she knew. Rogue was standing beside her bunk as usual, and though he’d hoped to delay telling her until after she’d eaten, though he tried not to catch her eye as he slid the tray into the cell, he couldn’t help glancing at her after he’d set it down.
She was white as a sheet. As he watched, she brought one gloved hand to her mouth.
“Oh, God…” It was barely a whisper, but he heard it, and cursed inwardly. If he ever again forgot his own goddamn rules—
“Rogue. Come here. Right now.” He made his voice stern and commanding, and blindly she moved forward until her hands rested on the bars that separated them. He knew she was seconds from screaming, and this was what he never let happen. “You said you wanted to know. Pull yourself together. Now.” She nodded, but he didn’t think she’d really heard him. “Do I need to sedate you?”
“No!” That snapped her back. “No. No drugs. I’ll be quiet, I promise.” But she was shaking, and he knew she wasn’t really under control. Logan reached through the bars and took hold of her shoulders. He shook her, just once, but hard. She gasped.
“One chance. You pick up that tray and eat your food, and calm down, or I go get a needle. You got it?” He made it sound as mean as he could, and she managed another nod, but her eyes came up to his, and this time he looked away first. He let her go. “Okay. Go eat.”
Somehow she did. He sat on the chair across the hallway—he knew he couldn’t leave for the relative comfort and distance of his own room, not now. He just watched as she mechanically forced down her meal. But tonight she didn’t return the tray after she’d finished; she just sat there. Finally he stood up and gestured. “Bring me the tray.”
She rose and carried it back to him obediently. But when he knelt to slide the tray across the floor, she closed one gloved hand over his wrist. “Logan—“
“Let go of me.” He shook her off.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Please—could I just have a piece of paper and a pen?”
He stood up so quickly he almost sent everything left on the tray tumbling to the floor. “What the hell for?” It wasn’t like she was going to get a letter out, she must know that.
“I just want to write something. Please. It’s such a little thing.” Brown eyes. She had brown eyes, and they were huge and sorrowful now.
“It won’t leave here,” he warned.
“I know. Please? I’m not going to be able to sleep much—I’ll stay quiet, but…it would give me something to do.”
Logan hesitated. Nothing in the rules said she couldn’t, and if it kept her calm... “All right. But it’ll have to be destroyed in the morning.”
“All right.” She agreed readily. He took the tray and left, returning a few minutes later with a single sheet of paper and a pen. She took them eagerly as he passed them through the bars. “You need anything else? You can have a sleeping pill if you want it.” He made the last offer with reluctance.
“No.” Her answer was immediate. “Will you just tell me something? What’s going to happen? Just so I know. I won’t—it’s just easier if I know.” She waited, and when he didn’t answer, she suggested softly, “It’s through that door, right?”
“Yeah.” He glanced at the door in question. “It would be better if—“
“Please. I just want to know what to expect.”
There was another long pause. “I come get you. You’ll—I’ll put handcuffs and ankle shackles on, and there’s a blindfold. It’s through the door, maybe forty or fifty feet to the room. There’s a table. You lie on that, I strap you down, then the doctor comes.”
Her eyes looked a little glassy, but she nodded her understanding. “And then—is it gas?”
“Injection,” he replied briefly.
“Will it hurt?”
Logan felt his lips tighten involuntarily at that. “Just the needle. You won’t feel anything else. You’ll just—go to sleep.” He set his teeth against anything else she might say.
“Thank you—“ She cut herself off. “I mean, I’m glad you told me.” She turned then and started to go back to her accustomed spot at the end of the bunk.
“Rogue—“ Instantly he wished he hadn’t said anything, because she looked back, and he didn’t want to see those eyes any more. “I’ll be there.”
Incredibly, she smiled. “The whole time?”
“Yeah. I stay till it’s over.” He didn’t want to go into what he’d have to do after that.
“That’ll help.” The sad smile trembled on her lips, then faded. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
She turned and went back to her bunk, and he left.
Logan didn’t sleep. He rarely did, the night before a termination. He checked the preparations and rechecked them, ate his own meal, kept busy. When he looked at the monitor, she was curled up on her bunk and not moving, so she must have finished whatever it was she wanted to write.
He didn’t look up as he approached the cell in the morning, but he knew without looking that she’d risen to her feet and was standing in her usual spot. He pulled the keys from his belt and opened the door, stepped in and closed and locked it behind him. Finally he looked at her. She was pale and her lips were set firmly to keep them from trembling.
“It’s time.” He beckoned and she took the two or three steps across the floor to stand in front of him. “Turn around.”
“Wait.” She held something out to him; it was the sheet of paper, folded up now, and the pen. “This is for you.”
He took the pen. “Just tear it up. I told you, it has to be destroyed.“
“No, I mean—it’s to you. There’s no one else to read it, so—“
His stomach clenched. “No.”
“Please. I don’t want you to read it now, anyway. Not till—after.” He still didn’t take the paper. “Look, I won’t even know if you—can you just take it?” Her voice was shaking. “Do whatever you want with it.”
He took the single sheet, folded it over again and shoved both it and the pen into his back pocket. “Now turn around.” This time she obeyed him.
He had the restraints that were required with him, and he slid the waist chain around her and reached for her hands.
“I put the rest of the gauze on, so my wrists are padded a little,” she said, and her voice had raised in pitch. “So it won’t hurt.”
“That’s good.” He closed the bracelets as gently as he could, then knelt to shackle her feet. When he stood up, she swayed a little and he caught her shoulders. “Easy there.”
“I’m scared,” she whispered. “I just never really believed—“
“I know. It’s all right.” He held her in the almost-embrace for a second. “You don’t have to have the blindfold if you don’t want.”
He was relieved when she shook her head. “I don’t want to see.” Carefully he placed the padded cloth over her eyes and tied it behind her head. He could feel her muscles trembling as she tried to force herself to remain still.
“All right. Once we leave the cell, you can’t talk, or I’ll have to gag you. You understand?” She nodded, but when he put one arm around her to guide her towards the door, she made a terrified sound in her throat and pressed back against him. He could feel her heart fluttering in her chest, could sense her fight for control. He closed his arms around her and took her hands firmly. “Hey. Don’t do this, Rogue. Don’t make me knock you out. You can do this.” He didn’t want to see that impressive pride and self-possession break, not now. He felt her lean back into the warmth of his body and take a deep breath.
“Marie,” she said. “My name’s Marie.”
He really didn’t want to know that, but it was what he needed to get her moving, he knew that, and he used it ruthlessly. “Marie. Can you do this by yourself, or not?”
“I can do it.” She forced herself to take a step, then another. He held her still while he opened the door of the cell, then guided her through and relocked it behind them.
True to her word, she didn’t made a sound as he opened the other door. He kept an arm around her waist as he led her down that hallway and into the examination room, and though he felt her tense as that door opened and the wash of antiseptic air hissed out, she didn’t hesitate or resist as he brought her to the table.
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Marie was grateful for the blindfold. She could have simply kept her eyes shut, but tears were leaking from the corners of her eyes despite her best efforts to hold them back, and the cloth that covered them was soaking them up. She didn’t want them to see her cry.
The guard’s hands—Logan, she wanted to remember that—were warm and gentle as he guided her down onto the table. They were like the hands of a lover she’d never know, and the incongruity of it struck her anew as he did what he’d told her he’d do, strapped down her shoulders and legs before removing her handcuffs and buckling leather restraints around her wrists, holding her hands down at her sides. He was careful with her injured forearms, and when he finished with the second cuff, she felt his fingers close over her own gloved ones for just a second.
She was ridiculously grateful for even that tiny bit of human contact. She squeezed her eyes shut against a fresh onslaught of tears.
She could picture him in her mind, the dark hair and the hooded eyes, the powerful form, but she felt like she’d never really seen him. He stood on the periphery of her memory as he’d stood outside the bars of her cell, somehow separate, shadowy.
The door opened behind them and she barely stifled a gasp. Another man’s voice spoke. “Is the subject ready?”
“Yes, sir.” Logan’s hand left hers and his voice was changed—clipped, colorless.
“Very good.” Marie felt Logan move to the head of the table, and she forced herself to remain still as other hands, rougher, in rubber gloves, pushed down the top of one glove and something cold and wet was swabbed against the inside of her elbow.
But he’s still here. She wished he could hold her hand again. It would be over in a second, and she just had to not think about it, she just had to think about anything else—
But when she felt the prick of the needle, although she managed not to cry out, she couldn’t help her head turning towards the pain, towards the sting and the slight burn as whatever-it-was pushed into her veins. Within seconds she began to feel dizzy; her limbs felt heavy and numb. Then it was hard to breathe, and she tried to sit up, to take the weight off her chest, but the strap held her down—
Then she felt his hands on her shoulders, warm and strong, holding her. Not holding her down—the straps did that—just holding on and letting their strength flow into her.
I can do it. It was almost over, she knew. Her lungs tried hard to expand, but it didn’t feel like there was anyplace for them to go. She felt like she was falling, and behind the blindfold there were stars.
The last thing she was aware of was how cold she felt, and how warm Logan’s hands still were against her.
Then—nothing.
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“it’s quite amazing, the touch you have with these subjects.” The doctor had lifted the stethoscope from the carefully prepared tray and set the bell against the girl’s chest. “They used to be hysterical, unless they were sedated—such a waste of medication.” He listened carefully for a minute, shifted the bell and listened again. “It’s much more congenial with you in charge.”
Logan had stepped back from the table and was waiting quietly for the doctor to finish his examination and make his pronouncement, and whatever his thoughts, they didn’t show on his face.
“Time of death, 8:13.” The doctor dropped the stethoscope carelessly onto the table next to the pale, still figure. Everything that had touched her would be destroyed, so it didn’t matter, but Logan very nearly reached across the table to remove the thing from where it had fallen across her arm. He resisted the impulse. “You can finish up. And sergeant, if you ever think about changing careers, think about psychology. You’ve got the knack.” He signed off on the termination order and started to drop the clipboard onto the girl’s chest.
Logan caught it. “I’ll need that, sir.”
The doctor laughed. “You guys are all too squeamish about bodies. Just use gloves.” He glanced down at the table one last time. “Especially with this one,” he advised, and left.
Logan set the clipboard down and made several checks on the last page. Moving quickly, he brought over a portable gurney that stood in the corner; a heavy-duty black body bag lay on it in readiness. Efficiently he released the straps he’d fastened just minutes ago, undid the waist chain and the ankle shackles. Despite the doctor’s suggestion, he didn’t don gloves before lifting the slight form and transferring it to the other table. The girl’s head lolled freely like a broken doll’s as he lifted her; he shifted his arm to support her neck and her head fell back onto his shoulder as he carried her. He put her down gently, supporting her head to the last and placing her still-gloved hands across her stomach before he zipped the bag closed.
There was one corridor yet to go. This one led to the outdoors, or at least to a garage, where a slightly battered van was already waiting. Its back doors were open, and as Logan rolled the gurney out, its driver rose from the back, where he’d been playing solitaire on the floor of the vehicle.
“Just one today?”
“Yeah, just the one.” The man made as if to give him a hand with the gurney, but Logan waved him off. “Hang on. I forgot to tag her. Get the van warmed up—I’ll put her in.” The driver shrugged and scooped up his battered deck of cards before sloping off around the vehicle.
Swiftly, Logan pulled down the zipper of the bag one last time. He still held the clipboard in one hand; there was a small packet stapled to the paperwork. When he tore it open, a set of dogtags on a short chain fell out.
He was supposed to put it around her ankle, but he didn’t want to. Instead, he reached for her hand. He lifted it, and he felt the gauze that circled her wrist under the glove, and he set it back down. It was idiotic, but the bandage was reminding him of how he’d had to handcuff her over that raw flesh, and he didn’t want to do that either.
Suddenly he reached toward his collar and yanked it open, pulling something out from under his t-shirt. He hefted both sets of dogtags, his own and the ones he’d taken from the packet, as if comparing their weights, and then pulled the chain over his head. He started to slide his set of tags off the chain, then changed his mind. He took off only one, then added one of the pair from the clipboard. The other two, along with the short chain, he slid into a pocket. Then he reclosed the clasp, carefully lifted her head and settled the chain around her neck, tucking the mismatched tags into the neck of the prison-issue shirt. He tugged the blindfold free—it was no longer needed, after all—and looked down at the pale face that seemed even whiter against the stark black background.
She looked like she was just asleep. She had cried, a little—he could see the marks of the tears on her cheeks, and it made him angry. He wiped them away as gently as he could and placed her head back down.
“You finished back there? I’ve got to get going.” The voice from the driver’s seat startled him.
“I’ll let you know.” Uptight asshole. Not that anyone wanted to be in this place longer than they had to.
Or at all. He didn’t want to zip the bag closed, but he knew he had to. Logan brushed the hair back from her face first and rested his hand against her cheek; her dark lashes made a sharp contrast with the white flesh. Her skin was petal-soft under his fingers.
He kept his hand where it was as he rolled the gurney forward and got it into the van on its collapsible legs. Inside that van was probably the one place in the facility that wasn’t on camera, and on an impulse he leaned over her, pressed his lips against her forehead. She felt cool to his touch.
“I’m sorry, kid,” he said quietly. Then he closed the bag over her and vaulted out of the van as quickly as he could, slamming the doors hard. “All right. Go.” He had to make an effort in calling to the driver or his voice might have wavered; as it was, he felt slightly giddy and sick as he watched the van roll out of the garage. For the thousandth time, it seemed, he read the words on the side of that battered pseudo-hearse: Sentinel Exterminators.
It was a front, of course. The government couldn’t be seen disposing of bodies. A week from now the same driver would be back and he’d take receipt of a carton of ashes marked with her name.
He shook his head to clear it, willing his mind back under control.
“Gettin’ too old for this bullshit,” he muttered to himself, and reached into his back pocket for the pack of cigarettes he had there. It wasn’t until then that he remembered the letter she’d written.
Goddamn it. He’d meant to tuck it into the bag with her, maybe in her glove so it wouldn’t be seen. Instead, he had it.
And he wasn’t going to read it. No way in hell.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
One more time...this is not a fun read. Bad things happen. Please don't read if dark currents and fairly violent imagery are not your thing.