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Later that Night
Sloan couldn't sleep. There was just no way that she could shut her mind off - or even turn her mind down - long enough to allow sleep's heavy drugs to work their magic. Besides, Sloan didn't even want to sleep, really. She knew she would only have terrible nightmares, and she didn't want to have to see Tom's face from those last moments, distorted by her night mind. The same mind that would show her his dead body tortured beyond repair; his brilliant mind ripped into incoherent shreds of what once was. Instead, she sat in the loveseat that Tom always slept in, covered with the blanket he used. All the lights were off. Memories could be easily coaxed out into darkness where their true shape and form could not be seen. In that way, she could see them as she wanted, and not as they were. In the light, memories were too harsh, and mutated into cold facts and exact events. Goosebumps raised on her arms as a chill scurried down her back. Sloan pulled the blanket over her arms in an attempt to warm herself. No, she would much rather remember their times together the way her heart saw them - not the way her logical scientist's mind did. A tear slipped down her cheek as she saw moments playing out in various places in the apartment. Conversations, searches, emotions, touches, looks, quiet moments… So much had gone on between them in such a short amount of time. Sloan wasn't sure she was remembering everything that they had said to each other, or every way that he had touched her, looked at her. Of course, this was all Sloan would have left of Tom. Memories… Sloan let her head fall to his favorite pillow - a plush dark burgundy - and wondered what would happen if she never found Tom. She wondered if those few warm moments - seemingly cold when she knew no more were to follow - would be enough to last her whole life. Cold. The word bothered her. She wondered why, when suddenly, a greater chill came over her entire body, so forceful that her teeth chattered once or twice. Sloan felt like her feet had been soaking in gallons of Arctic water, and her fingers were suddenly stiff with numbing cold. She pushed herself off the loveseat and went to check the thermostat, shivering with each step. 69 degrees. And the air-conditioning was on because it *was* nearly 80 degrees outside. Returning to the loveseat, she curled up in Tom's blanket, and tried to warm herself back up. She didn't understand this. Was she sick? There was no earthly reason for her to be cold. She closed her eyes, hoping some warmth would return, and a vision of Tom, naked and alone on a freezing Arctic tundra came to her. Sloan's eyes snapped open, and a gasp escaped her throat. Her hands moved to cover her mouth in horror, and for a few moments she was silent as her mind scrambled to ascertain whether the image she had just seen was real or imaginary. In the end, she couldn't be sure. And although she had never been devoutly religious, the final words she spoke that night were an entreaty to a supernatural being. "Oh, God, please protect him."
That Night
The Attractive Woman walked down the grey halls of the facility, the sound of her high heels striking the linoleum like a thousand cap guns going off at once. Her face was set in a grim line, though her make-up and hair were perfect. She had hoped to be here earlier than this, but circumstances beyond her control forced her to spend most of the day with other smaller projects. She hated the fact that she had to answer to someone. If she had things her way, troublesome people would simply be eliminated or exiled - not indulged and allowed to live. But, her superiors had other plans, and she had to abide by them. No matter how much she disagreed. She reached a nondescript door, pulled out an ID card, and ran it through the slot. "Place hand on scanner, please," an automated voice commanded. She did as she was asked, and the computer scanned her fingerprints. The scanning didn't hurt, but she could feel the heat below - it almost felt like she was holding a warm mug of tea, back at her father's winter cabin, where the snow fell like cotton. "Prepare for retina scan," prodded the voice. Leaning down into the retinal scanner, she wondered if she still owned that cabin. Her father had passed away ten years ago, and she had acquired all his holdings. Had she sold it off? She didn't think so. She was sure she had wanted to hold on to it, certain it would appreciate in value. Maybe antiquated cabins were the hot ticket this season… "Retina scan complete. Comparison of fingerprint and retina scans in progress. Please wait." A few seconds later, the computer had validated her, and the door swung open revealing an average-sized conference room, painted in the same dull grey tones as the rest of the building. She stepped inside, and sat down at one of the chairs, waiting for her associate to arrive. The minute she did, her cell phone rang. Popping it open, she placed it to her ear, her face totally expressionless. "Yes." The tone in which she said it made it at once a question and a command for the other party to state their business quickly, for her time was valuable. She listened for a while, the right corner of her mouth twitching a bit. "*Still* no sign of them?" She listened again, and looked around the room wondering if there were laws against color in this place. It was like stepping directly into an old movie, only without Cary Grant, making it much more depressing. "Either you're totally incompetent or blind. They are two rather robust men, one white and one black. They have little funds, no connections, and no allies any longer…I've made sure of that. I would think it an easy task to locate them." Listening once again, she rolled her eyes. "Then extend the radius by 100 miles and start over." The person on the other end apparently didn't like the idea of that suggestion, and her eyes hardened in anger, shining like mahogany torches. "Just get it done, and quit complaining. Or I don't think you'll be very useful to me any longer." She snapped her phone shut in annoyance just as an interior door opened and a rail-thin man stepped through. "It's about time," she said, still angry from the phone call. "I'm sorry. It couldn't be helped. The subject is not the most cooperative I've ever worked with." She sat forward, her eyes aglow with interest and something like hate and vengeance blended together. "How *is* our newest acquirement?" The man stood on the other side of the rectangular table nervously, as if he wasn't confident making speeches and reporting. He was a scientist and most comfortable testing samples and working out formulas. He was young, his face unwrinkled, but his dark hair was salted with some grey, as was his mustache. He wasn't sure, but deep inside, he was certain it was because of the horrors he witnessed in this place - of the horrors he'd been forced to commit. His blue-grey eyes looked down at the clipboard full of papers he held and he sighed. "He is nearly done with de-sensitization, and we are now awaiting your orders. I was told that the normal dose we use with Dominants was nearly unsuccessful in subduing him, and he has since proved very hard to control." "How is he faring now?" asked the woman, certain of the man's answer. "Surprisingly well, considering the level of cold we exposed him to." The woman was shocked. She was sure that Tom would have been a quivering mess by now, begging to feel any kind of warmth. The scientist cleared his throat, and looked at the woman before him. "It would appear that he is of higher stock than the others we have tested." She nodded slowly, dangerously. "So it would appear." The man didn't like the look in her dark eyes. He had never liked her eyes - their color masked what she was truly thinking. "Your orders?" he asked, his voice quavering a bit. "Proceed with the usual experiments. Until we're certain that this one is different from the others, we won't stray from our protocol." "Very well. I'll keep you updated." And with that, he turned from her and left the room, the door closing with a soft clink. When he was gone, she rose from the chair and walked to the double-sided mirror on the opposite site of the room. Pressing a button, she watched as the room on the other side was revealed to her. In it, Tom was still in the cage, lying on one side, a fine sheen of frost covering his entire body. The Attractive Woman chuckled and a smirk crawled to her lips like a black widow spider to her evening meal.
The Next Day
"Ed, take it easy! You were just released from the hospital!" Ed looked over at his friend, and shook his head as they stumbled through his door. Plopping onto his couch, he ran a hand through his hair. "I was knocked-out, Sloan. I didn't undergo major surgery." She made a smirk in his general direction and went about putting his things away. While she was gone, Ed looked around his living room, happy to be home again. Everything was as he left it. The hazy sun drifting in through the windows gave the place a warm, friendly feel that he had noticed from the first moment he had walked in so many years ago. He pulled the boldy-colored Navajo-esque blanket from the back of the couch and covered himself with it, knowing that Sloan would if he didn't. He listened to her in his bedroom, putting his sweater and things away. She was too quiet, he knew. Normally, she would be chattering away about everything and anything. Not today. Today she was as quiet as a tomb. It worried him. He wished she would talk about what was bothering her, but he knew that their argument from the previous day was still affecting what she felt she could share with him. He hated it that they had fought - that they couldn't agree on this one thing. It was simple really. Ed didn't think that Tom had the ability to feel much of anything, not to mention love. And Sloan was certain that he did. And that disagreement separated them more easily than the Great Divide ever could. Sloan returned with a forced smile on her face, and a sadness in her eyes that she tried to hide. Pushing a hand through her mahogany curls, she tried to sound normal. "Want some soup? Maybe a sandwich? I could-" "Sloan…" said Ed, cutting her off. She turned to him sharply, ready for battle. "What, Ed?" He reached out for her hand, and thankfully, she came to sit next to him and took it. As she did, her anger seemed to drain away like water after a summer storm, and some of the old Sloan returned. The Sloan he used to see all the time. "You don't have to pretend with me, Sloan," he said softly, trying to get her to look at him. But she couldn't manage it, apparently, and kept her gaze on her lap. "I think it's better if we don't talk about…him, Ed. It only turns into an argument." Ed let go of her hand and sighed. "Look, Sloan, I can't help how I feel." Sloan's eyes turned from the green of young moss, to the hard green of jade, and she nodded her head crisply. "I know. And I can't help how *I* feel. And I certainly won't apologize to you for it." Ed was a bit taken aback by her harsh words. She had changed so much in so few days, it was hard to accept. He didn't want to admit that Tom had meant so much to her, but it was getting hard to deny. "And how, exactly, do you feel, Sloan?" Ed wondered why he was asking her this. He knew the answer - hell, she'd told him the day before. Maybe it was the masochist in him. Or maybe each time he asked her, he hoped her answer would be different. Sloan pushed off the couch and walked over to the window, moving the blinds aside to look outside. She didn't know what she was looking for - maybe she thought if she looked hard enough, or waited long enough, she'd see Tom down there, beneath a streetlight, calling up to her. Her Romeo. But was she worthy to be his Juliet? Sloan didn't know. She hadn't tried to find Tom beyond asking Ray and Walter to make some calls. Sloan worried that Juliet would look down on her and her lack of loyalty and devotion. But what more could she do at the moment? There were no poisons to drink - no knives to slip into the cracks of her broken heart. Nothing that would send her to him. The people that took Tom were professionals and had left no leads to follow. "Sloan?" Ed's voice brought her out of her thoughts, and she remembered his question. What were her feelings for Tom? Sloan took a deep breath, and turned back to look at Ed, hoping that he would believe her this time. "I love him, Ed. And I've told him." Ed's eyes widened slightly, feeling something not unlike an arrow through his heart. He waited a few beats before answering. "Sloan, don't you see how useless it is? He can't love you back. I don't think he can feel much of anything. Blame it on evolution. I guess Nature decided that feelings get in the way too much." Sloan felt her anger rising again, along with her need to defend Tom. "Ed, you don't know how wrong you are! You don't know Tom, Ed. Not really. But I do. And I know he loves me. I can feel it." Ed rolled his eyes, exhaling sharply. "Sloan, I've seen enough of Tom to know that his feelings - if you want to call them that - are nowhere near the kinds of feelings we have. He's like the Tin Man from the 'Wizard of Oz.' He might *want* to have emotions, but he'll never quite get there. And you're not the Wizard, as much as you might want to be." Sloan was sick of this, and she wanted to get out of there. In a rush, she had collected her bag and walked to the door. She opened it, and turned back to look at her friend. She hated this venom between them, but Ed wouldn't let it go. "Remember this, Ed. In the end of the movie, the Tin Man found out he had a heart all along." That said, she mumbled a "get better" and closed the door. Ed sat there for a few moments thinking about what had been said between them. Could he have been wrong about this all along? Was he letting jealousy cloud his judgment? Picking up the phone, he decided he didn't know. He needed to do more research. He was a scientist after all. It rang three times before it was answered. "Um, yeah, hi. Do you have 'The Wizard of Oz' at your store?"
Same Day
Sloan opened her door wearily, and stepped inside, re-setting her alarm with tired fingers. She had spent most of the day driving around, mostly looking for clues - but also, she had just wanted to be alone with her thoughts. And not alone with them in her apartment, where memories could ambush her. When the alarm was set, she dropped her bag right where she was standing, and shed her coat on her way to the answering machine. But the red light wasn't blinking. No messages. Not from Walter…from Ray…or even from Ed. God, what was she doing? In the space of a day or two, she had effectively alienated every friend she had. There was no one left to turn to anymore. Sloan shook her head quickly, trying to clear it. It didn't matter. She was trying to find Tom; to save Tom. It didn't matter what she had to do if it meant saving him. Moving to the loveseat - which had become her bed since Tom had been taken - she exhaled a great puff of air and felt tears sting her eyes painfully. The air caught in her throat and became a sob, and her hands covered her eyes, her whole soul crying. It was surreal in a way. Tom had been gone only two days, but Sloan felt his absence as keenly as a physical wound. She missed him in everything she saw or heard, because she wished he were there so she could share it with him. Show him something new that he had never seen before. Like cotton candy, or a merry-go-round, or a baseball game, or something as simple as swimming in a pool. But in another way, Sloan wasn't surprised at the way she felt his loss. They had been nearly inseparable for months - forging a bond out of fire and trust and necessity. And from that curious beginning, love had bloomed - somehow. Sloan wiped at her eyes roughly, and tried to get herself under control. She glanced over at her mantle, looking at the picture of her sister with the same dark hair and green eyes. Sloan smiled palely, wishing her sister were there. Paige always had a way of showing Sloan the silver lining in the storm clouds, or the life underneath the destruction. Right now, Sloan needed her older sister's advice and guidance more than ever. But of course, she couldn't call her; couldn't let on that anything was wrong. If she did, that would only make Paige a possible target - along with her husband and children. Sloan was about to look away, when something next to Paige's picture caught her eye. A slip of paper. A scratch of ink. Moving off the couch, she walked closer, and saw that it was a piece of paper, folded in the middle, and tented on the mantle. It had her name on it. Just her first name written in a man's scrawl: SLOAN. Sloan took a deep breath, knowing it could only be from one person, and reach for the paper with trembling hands. She closed her eyes for a moment, steeling herself, and then opened the paper. Sloan, I'm writing this while you're out. You can't know how happy it makes me that the gene therapy shot worked. I'm human now. It's almost unbelievable. Being human is nothing I could have ever imagined. The smells, the ways things look, and the best part: the emotions I have now. I finally understand what I've been feeling for you. I know I told you this during my fever last night, but I want to say it again. I love you, Sloan. I know that now. I just hope you can know it, and trust it. I also want you to promise me something: if either side ever takes me, please don't try to find me. I'm considered a traitor by my own kind, and a guinea pig by yours. Either side would kill me in a matter of hours. I am a wanted man. I don't want to make you a wanted woman - or an outlaw. Please abide by my wishes. Tom Sloan felt all the blood in her entire body rush to her head, and she gasped, dropping the note. She stumbled to the loveseat, and collapsed there, never wanting to see another day.
That night
The man looked down at Tom, his blue-grey eyes as hard as iron. "Give in, Tom. It's futile to resist." Tom looked up at him from the floor, his head cocked to one side. His blue eyes, usually sharp and clear, were almost translucent from pain. His whole body was quivering in distress, and covered with a film of sweat. He remembered how it had felt to finally be out of the cold. The way the feeling had come back to his fingers and toes - burning at first, then fading into warmth. But this was not an acceptable alternative. "You don't know what it will take to break me," he said evenly, pushing himself up to stand before the man. He wore electrodes on his chest and head, and a heart monitor on his waist. He was clothed only in pants. Tom had no intention of showing the man that he was in immense pain. He would die first. It didn't matter anyway. His conditioning and training had prepared him for torture, and it had taught him a way to push the pain aside. Until it became too much for even him to handle. But the general idea was that by then, he would be dead. The scientist scribbled something onto his papers, and Tom took those few moments to stretch out his empathic tendrils. He had to figure out where he was - maybe then he might be able to formulate an escape plan. Or leave a clue for someone. Tom closed his eyes, doing his best to forget
about the pain, and tried to reach the man's mind. He regulated his breathing
as best he could, and focused on the other man's feelings. What *was* he
feeling? How did he feel about what he was doing?
Tom opened his eyes curiously. He had not heard
the man's thoughts - but those *were* the man's feelings in words. Tom
had got several distinct emotions: guilt, fear, weariness, and anger. This
was useful information, Tom knew. This man seemed to be on the edge. He
had apparently seen too many horrible things, and done more "experiments"
than he was comfortable with. Perhaps Tom could persuade him to help.
The man looked up, suddenly aware that Tom was
essentially free and could kill him with one well-placed blow.
He reached down and took hold of a small microphone
on his lapel. "Rolfe? Rolfe, get in here now."
Seconds later, a burly man with a shock of black
hair stepped into the room, and escorted Tom back to the chair he had been
sitting in moments before.
Tom didn't fight him. He didn't see a purpose
to it. They would do what they would do, and he had no recourse. Resisting
would only make them angry.
Rolfe strapped Tom back into the chair - he had
pulled free after the last round - and Tom reached out to his mind. After
seconds of connection, Tom felt nothing from the man, other than an obligation
to duty and authority.
Sighing, Tom closed his eyes, preparing for the
next phase of the experiment. He filled his mind with images of Sloan -
something calming and soothing.
The scientist finished his notes, and spoke again
into the microphone. "Prepare for Level 2 of the experiment."
He walked over to Tom, and blinked several times.
"I believe this will be painful, Mr. Daniels."
Tom opened his eyes, and smirked at him, dreading
the experiment after this. "I'm sure you are correct in your assessment."
The man shrugged. "Since you won't - or can't
- tell us about your nervous and cardiovascular systems, we have to do
our own testing."
Tom made no response, and he felt the room fill
with the man's anger again. Tom found it oddly curious. Even though the
man apparently disliked what he was doing, he was intent on doing it, and
was annoyed when hindered.
The man stepped back a few paces, into the shadows,
and Tom felt like he was the only person in the dark room. Totally alone.
Suddenly, he heard the man's voice telling his
assistants to begin.
Tom closed his eyes again.
And it was then that something akin to the lights
from an atomic bomb exploded behind his eyes, and he felt what it must
be like to be hit by lightning. The fingers of the electricity seemed to
travel up his spine to fracture in his belly, then his extremities, and
later on, in his brain.
Tom bit down on the insides of his cheeks to keep
from crying out, before the true pain began.
Sloan's Apartment
Sloan was ripped from her fitful sleep by a terrible
pain in her belly, head, and behind her eyes. She cried out in agony, slipping
from the couch, and held her head in her hands, begging for it to stop.
She opened her eyes, and saw only her darkened
apartment. Nothing more.
"My God, what's happening to me?" she asked before
another wave hit her, and she fell to the floor, writhing in anguish.
The moment her eyes closed, an image of Tom came
to her. He was dressed only in pants, and was in what seemed to be a black
void. And every time the pain hit, she would see a bolt of lightning come
down from above, striking him, singing him, burning him.
"Stop! Please stop! Tom!" she yelled, not sure
how much longer she could take this. Or how much longer Tom could take
it.
Sloan managed to make it to her bed, grabbing
her phone along the way, before the pain swelled again and crashed over
her like a tsunami. |