𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓪 𝓶𝓲𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓵𝓮

He'd  never  planned  a  future  for  himself  —  he'd  never  been  allowed  —  he'd  hoped  for  one,  of  course  he  had,  but  when  it  came  to  the  visualisation  of  it,  to  the  details  and  the  specifics,  it  was  just  a  blur  of  colours,  feelings,  vague  longings  and  concepts  he  had.  Nothing  solid  —  nothing  certain.  The  clearest  vision  he  ever  imagined  hinged  on  Papa's  eventual  death.  The  idea  that  one  day,  still  many  years  from  now,  Papa  would  grow  ill  and  then,  by  some  miracle,  he  imagined,  maybe  he'd  have  time  to  free  himself,  to  carve  the  Soteria  from  his  neck  and  run  in  whatever  chaos,  whatever  vacuum  the  eventual  death  of  Dr  Brenner  might  cause.

It  was  a  fantasy,  though.  That  he  also  knew.  Because  he  understood  that,  more  likely,  when  Papa  took  ill  and  became  too  old  to  continue  his  project,  the  government  would  terminate  it  or  hand  it  over  to  younger  hands  who  likely  wouldn't  see  any  use  for  him. He'd  be  old  by  then,  too,  of  course.

In  a  way,  his  mind  had  become  full  of  rooms,  like  a  grand  old  house;  these  rooms  would  pile  with  thoughts  and  feelings  and  memories  and  some  of  them  he  would  shut  away,  lock  up  tightly  as  he  could.  Whether  because  they  had  become  too  full  and  too  overwhelming  to  sort  through  or  because  he  was  trying  desperately  never  to  see  them  again,  the  sentiment  remained  the  same.  Years  of  captivity  and  conditioning  had  eroded  him  in  ways  he  scarcely  understood.  He  was  fine  in  body,  but  in  mind?  In  soul?  He  was  shattered,  and  some  of  his  pieces  didn't  fid  anymore  but  were  else  would  he  put  them?

That  particular  room,  the  one  where  Papa  eventually  dies,  came  with  its  own  window,  and  he  passed  by  it  on  occasion  but  never  really  allowed  himself  to  look  in  because  if  he  didn't  hide  them,  shove  them  away  into  their  own  compartments  of  his  mind,  he's  not  sure  what  he  would  do.

He  needed  the  hope,  the  separation  from  the  things  he'd  learned  were  true  and  the  things  Papa  had  convinced  him  of,  the  vague  feeling  that  there  was  still  hope,  there  was  still  something  for  him,  something  he  could  make  out  of  all  this  — it  wasn't  all  lost,  he  wasn't  all  ruin.

And  now  she  was  here;  she  had  found  him,  and  in  that  act  alone,  he  believed  in  her,  thoroughly,  entirely,  more  than  he  believed  in  anything  else.  She'd  given  solid  form  to  the  feelings  that  had  lived  in  his  mind;  the  hope  he'd  felt  all  this  time  materialised.

Henry  watches  as  she  turns  panic  into  process,  fear  into  a  list  of  needs,  grief  into  a  plan,  and  it  steadies  him  in  a  way  that  feels  almost  humiliating  in  its  simplicity.  Like  he'd  been  floating  at  sea  for  years,  and  her  voice  is  the  solid  shoreline.

Still,  something  in  him  tightens,  when  she  says  "Don't  ask  me  to  risk  your  life,"  not  at  her  refusal,  but  at  the  fact  that  she  can  look  at  him  and  still  see  a  life  worth  guarding.  It's  the  contrast  between  her  feelings  and  Papa's,  the  feelings  that  blurred  and  overlapped  and,  in  his  isolation,  had  become  so  hard  to  define,  to  separate  from  one  another  and  see  them  in  their  vast  differences,  which,  just  like  that,  are  now  crystal  clear.

Papa  only  ever  guarded  the  resource;  he  didn't  guard  him.  He  didn't  care  about  him. Not  the  way  any  father  should.  But Papa wasn't his father. Henry  swallows,  forcing  himself  to  exhale  through  the  tightness  in  his  chest.  He  lets  her  feel  the  scar,  lets  her  touch  linger  because  her  hands  are  careful  and  clinical  and  loving  all  at  once.  He  needs  to  remember  that  those  things  can  coexist,  that  she  doesn't  examine  him  with  satisfaction  at  the  harm  caused  and  the  future  promise  of  more  but  only  with  the  steadfast  intention  of  sparing  him  from  it  as  much  as  she  ever  could.

He  hadn't  thought  of  the  technical  aspect.  The  sensitive  position,  the  fact  that  removing  it  might  pose  a  threat  to  his  life.  He  supposed,  more  than  that,  it  had  been  a  risk  he  ready  to  take  because  here,  in  the  Lab,  he  was  merely  a  creature  that  existed,  not  a  man  who  lived  a  life.  What  he  had  wasn't  worth  persevering;  the  risk  of  ending  his  existence  against  restoring  something  that  might  have  actually  been  a  life  was  worth  taking.

❝  You're  right...  If  we  do  it  wrong…  ❞  He  purses  his  lips  with  the  thought  that  he  doesn't  finish;  he  couldn't  tell  her  how  willing  he  was  to  find  death  if  he  couldn't  find  freedom.  ❝  We  will  have  to  wait;  another  opportunity  will  come.❞

It  hurts  to  say  it,  because  the  urgency  in  him  is  animal  —  a  cornered  thing.  The  leash  around  his  neck  is  suddenly  unbearable  now  that  she's  here  to  feel  it  with  him.  But  urgency  is  what  gets  you  killed  in  a  place  like  this.  Urgency  is  what  Brenner  counts  on  —  panic  mistakes,  desperate  lunges,  sloppy  hope.  He's  been  trapped  here  for  fifteen  years,  long  enough  to  have  almost  forgotten  what  she  looked  like,  had  her  appearance  not  been  a  world-shaking  reminder  —  another  day,  another  week,  another  month,  even  wouldn't  be  anything  he  couldn't  handle.

❝  We  can  meet  again,  whenever  you  need  me.  As  a  doctor,  you  have  authority  over  me.  You  can  request  my  assistance  for  tasks,  organisation  and  the  like. ❞  A  brief  pause,  and  then,  almost  warily  ❝ Use  it,  but  don't  use  it  too  often.  Dr  Brenner  will  notice.  He  keeps  me  close. ❞

At  her  question  about  cameras,  he  nods,  once,  slowly.  His  gaze  flicks  instinctively  to  the  dead  corner,  then  back  to  her.  Its  habitual:  a  lifetime  of  being  watched,  being  studied,  being  used. ❝  There  are  places  without  cameras,  storage  rooms,  maintenance  routes,  places  that  are  no  longer  relevant  to  the  project  like  this  one,  they're  just  not  in  the  places  you've  been  shown. ❞  He  hadn't  been  shown  them  either,  of  course.  He  found  them,  in  the  merciful  times  when  Papa  became  preoccupied  with  the  other  test  subjects  and  he  was  able  to  explore  unwatched.  He  glances  back  toward  the  door  as  if  he  can  see  the  map  of  the  Lab  in  his  head  before  turning  his  attention  back  to  her.  ❝  We  will  give  it  some  time,  keep  a  professional  distance  from  each  other,  then  you  will  request  my  assistance  with  something,  some  "assessment"  or  "orientation"  or  some  such,  whatever  sounds  the  most  boring. ❞ His  mouth  twitches  with  something  almost  like  humour.  ❝ I'll  bring  you  to  a  better  room, one  with  more  light.  Once  I  am  free,  I  can  get  us  out  of  here.  I've  learned  a  few  new  tricks  since  high  school. ❞ it briefly flickers his attention elsewhere, to the void inside of himself, the ever so faint crinkle of his brow following.

He  knows  the  sleeping  thing,  when  it  wakes will  bring  with  it  a  tremendous  surge  of  terrible hunger,  it  will  need,  it  will  want,  and  it  will  try  to  take.  It  had  only  ever  tasted  her  once  —  a thing that he is fiercely resolved to never let happen again —  and  with  that  thought  his  eyes  find  her  again  as  himself,  the  boy  beneath  the  shadow,  earnest  as  a  prayer. 

❝  We  can  do  this,  Patty,  we  just  have  to  be  careful. ❞

The silence between them is comfortable, even if the conversation was not. It’s not strained or anxious, nor tense and painful. It’s a silence that brings peace of mind, when the only noise is their breathing, and that’s what Patty focuses on, one of her hands still on Henry’s chest as her other brushes the scar one last time before dropping to his shoulder. She takes in how he inhales, how his chest rises against her touch, and his exhales, the way his chest lowers and her hand moves forwards just an inch, chasing after him as it remains on him. She wants to close her eyes and fall asleep like this. To wake up in some other reality, in a place that is not this awful lab and is their own, a safe place. She wants to feel him breathe like this outside of the constricting walls of this place. To hold him as they sit on a sofa or lay in bed, to lean her head against his chest and hear his heartbeat knowing that he’s not only alive, but safe. That she has gotten him out of this hell, that he will not be tortured for the mere crime of existing. Patty doesn’t want to put him in danger. Not ever again. Her leg aches, like a distant cramp she has totally forgotten she ever had, and she winces, for a moment, fingers tightening in the cloth of Henry’s orderly overalls. The stab of pain is brief, and it comes with a wave of crushing guilt. It’s her fault he’s here. That he isn’t out there, maybe in Vegas, maybe in California. She should have taken him with her, and Patty cannot remember for the life of her why she didn’t. She remembers getting on the train. She remembers packing for the trip, in secret, because she was really too young to be travelling that far on her own. She remembers telling Bob, and telling him not to ever tell anyone else. Patty remembers his protests, and the oath she had made him take to never rat her out. Clearly, he had not. 

She remembers waking up in a hospital, and that memory, now almost two decades old, feels brand new. It lingers in her mind now, the smell of the hospital, sterile, but warm, so unlike this lab. The beeping of a monitor and her brother’s noise of dishelved relief at her opening her eyes. The pain in her leg feels present again, but dull, distant. Part of the memory she’s rediscovering, Patty imagines. She was in the hospital, but she doesn’t remember why. Her bones feel as though they’re made of cement, all of a sudden, and her hold on Henry grows more firm. She’d left. That was the gist of it- she had left him here, and he must’ve thought she had left him to rot.  The silence dies with Henry’s words, and they save her from her own mind, which will surely only rest until she’s alone tonight, trying to sleep- her torment will begin again the moment she’s alone with her memories. Patty swallows dryly, nodding at first, mainly because she cannot imagine disagreeing with Henry. They’ve always seen eye to eye in their youth, and so far, he’s been reasonable, for someone who has been kept in a cage, treated like an animal, kept in subhuman conditions- in fact, he’s so level-headed about the horrors of the situation that Patty still worries she may have lost him to the dread of his reality.

She realises what she’s agreeing to a moment later, shaking her head instead, although her protest is not earnest, it’s merely a reaction of desperation. 

❝ I don’t want to wait. Waiting means you have to endure even more of .. this. Of him. ❞ Patty doesn’t say Brenner’s name. She doesn’t want to do so ever again, not if she can avoid saying that monster’s name like the plague. He doesn’t deserve the privilege of being treated like a human after what he’s done, she can see it more clearly than ever before, and the hatred blooming within her scares her, for a split second. Patty had never thought herself capable of despising someone so before.

❝ But I understand. ❞ Patty wishes she didn’t. That there could be any other way to do this, a way that doesn’t require them to play these absurd roles, a way that doesn’t mean keeping Henry trapped in this place any longer, but she is not a child anymore. The girl with big dreams of a stage and a warm home, often with him by her side, isn’t there anymore. She’s an adult now, she has been for the majority of her life, and she knows what this means. What Brenner is, and how dangerous he can be. 

❝ I hate it, Henry. ❞ Her voice breaks in honesty, and Patty shakes her head. ❝ I hate how I have to pretend to be your superior. I don’t want power over you, to be a figure of authority, it’s sick. ❞ She says, and her stomach churns with genuine disgust. ❝ I hate that I cannot treat you the way you deserve. ❞ Patty sighs, and her eyes meet his, detaching from the floor she had been staring at in guilt, sorrow and contemplation. Hope is all she can hang onto now, the hope they both have to share as though it is a lifeboat, the feeling they now will have to cling to if they are to make it out of here alive- and she is determined to see that through. His mention of tricks brings the phantom of a smile to her face, an echo of a past they’d both long forgotten ringing in her mind. 

❝ You still are a miracle, Henry. ❞ Patty says, and for a moment, she is there again, holding his hand, sitting in a diner she is not allowed to be in, and then she is on a stage, and he is shaking, unsure, terrified. For a moment, she is the girl who keeps those memories. ❝ We can do it because we’re together. Because we have each other- you have me. ❞

The  realization  struck  him  as  her  fingers  slipped  the  final  button  of  his  shirt  free  —  the  understanding  blooming  behind  his  eyes,  solidifying  from  the  fractured  images  he'd  caught  in  her  mind:  the  fumbling,  dreaming  quality  of  her  fantasies,  the theoretical nature  of  her  desires.  She  had  imagined,  yes  —  but  she  had  not done.  Not  with  him.  Not  with  anyone  at  all.

Strange,  how  it  had  never  quite  occurred  to  him  to  wonder.  He  had  assumed,  in  some  vague,  distant  corner  of  his  mind,  that  she  had  lived  while  he  had  been  entombed,  that  she  had  loved  and  kissed  and  learned  the  languages  of  bodies  while  he  withered  alone  in  sterile  white  rooms.  It  hadn't  hurt  him  to  think  she  had  —  the  world  had  continued  spinning  while  he  was  shut  away  from  it  all,  and  he  wouldn't  have  begrudged  her  any  history,  any  past  lovers  who  might  have  taught  her  the  choreography  of  pleasure.  In  fact,  he'd  wanted  it  for  her:  a  life  —  a  normal  one,  free  of  the  dark,  hungry  world  beyond  and  the  bright,  sterilized  cage  he'd  been  forced  to  call  his  home  for  so  long.

Of  course,  this  new  knowledge  does  not  cool  his  ardour.  Rather,  it  set  him  ablaze  with  a  protective,  furious  tenderness  —  a  determination  that  they  would  navigate  this  new,  uncharted  territory  together:  two  cartographers  mapping  a  world  that  belonged  only  to  them.

They're  about  you.  My  thoughts  are  always  about  you.

To say that she knew nothing would be a lie. Patty had studied medicine, anatomy, the human body. The brain, too, how feelings could affect one, feelings of all kinds of different natures. It was her job to know. But now? She was helpless when faced with reality. Nothing about it, about this, was at all like anything she knew of. Well, except maybe her own clumsiness. The way her breathing stuttered whenever he touched her, or the way her heart seemed to have a mind of its own, rattling the bars of the cage which was her chest.

If she didn't know any better, she would have thought she was physically capable of melting into a puddle. Patty thinks she may have been lied to, by the majority of movies she has seen, by books, and mostly, by other people. The banality of this intimacy, something she has never experienced before, something people deem as normal, as simple, it's nowhere to be found. There is no simplicity to calm her racing heart and shallow breathing— there is only him.

Henry, the main component to this whirlwind of emotions she finds herself in. The way his breath falls against her skin, warm and familiar, yet uneven and ragged, much like hers, his lips, always so soft, something she's gotten used to over the years, as they spend time together, as they get closer to the line they're now crossing.

It's not simple at all. In fact, it's most likely the most complex situation she has ever found herself in, and yet, it's not a complexity she feels an urge to solve. It's them— just the two of them, together, as they have always been. The way her skin feels as though it's buzzing with electricity, it's new, but it's a feeling entirely their own. It doesn't feel like a movie or a story, being this close to him. It feels right, inexplicably, undeniably so, and as she breathes him in, a hand running through his hair, there's a warm shiver running down her spine, tingling with something new, something entirely of their own making, something she would never dare to compare to her previous knowledge— it would not do their bond justice.

The rot consumes