#proclone

After three weeks of therapy, Sarah can finally manage to stand and walk on her own. Biting down on her lip, she carefully slides one leg in front the other, taking care to avoid a sharp turn in her knees. She exhaled and decided her knees would fully cooperate today. Grazing her hands on the wall, she picked up her speed, beads of sweat forming on her temple. She refused the cane they offered, Sarah Manning doesn't need a cane, she thinks.

Sarah braced herself as her knees buckled,ready to hit the ground. She grits her teeth as a strong pair of hands prevented her from the fall. She wants to scream, she hates these rough and firm hands on her, she wants the soft and unsure fingers-- Tilting her head to the side, she whispered a pained thank you to the wind as the hands retreated into the wall. She heaved a sigh and continued her dancing in the dark. At some point, they even allowed her to roam the halls at night, with undetected supervision of course. Sarah has a strong feeling she's being watched, every piece of her person scrutinized in detail.

"I'm ready," Sarah announced loudly one day. She doesn’t know how many are listening, but is certain the man without the face is always nearby.

A deep sigh can be heard in the shadows. "It's time," he answered shortly. His hands gripped her arms in a firm vise and guided her up. She should be afraid but she is not. After all, the man without a face is the same man who rescued her from the war. The last memory she has of the war is being stabbed in the leg and the blast -- the ringing in her ears, the blood-

He never told her his name. Her questions were always met with cold silence. Who are you? What are you gonna do to me? Who do you work for? When are you gonna finish me?

"We will talk once you're able to walk," Sarah knows that by we, he meant someone else. She veiled her doubts and focused on her full recovery instead. She was grateful of the hands that helped her, the voices without a face, without a name.

Sarah stopped walking. The air has changed somehow, they're on a different floor. When the man released her, she stretches her arms to find a wall, or any surface to hold on to - a new force of habit,she grimaced. Nothing. Her arms dropped to the sides in defeat, or of being uncertain what to do. She smirked, thinking a cane would be very useful now. She sensed another person in the room and stilled her breath to listen for any clues. "Walk forward," the man  said.

From across the room, someone had swallowed a lump in her throat so light that Sarah could have imagine it. Sarah held her breath and there it was again, the heavy sigh, the lick of lips, the concealed sharp inhale.

Then, Sarah knows. Sarah just knows. With all of the strength and courage she can give, she limps across the cold smooth floor, towards a familiar scent. Sarah's eyes were blinded in the war but she knows Rachel Duncan is standing in front of her. While she can't tell if it's night or day, she can clearly imagine every detail of Rachel Duncan's face.

"Rachel..."

"Sarah.."

[2 hours ago, the original caption is Sarah being blinded in war goes to track Rachel all over Toronto by following her scent. Mehehe. Since it's Tat's birthday, I had to do something. Hope you clones like this. Happy birthday Tatiana Maslany!!]