***
"No," I whisper, as Miranda pulls the helmet from my head. I'm blinking furiously against the onrush of light in my suddenly-functioning eyes. Blurs of color run together, but I can't make any sense of it. "I'm fine," I insist, though even the words sound strangled. My whole body is trembling. I'm cold. Exhausted. My head hurts, and the ache is steadily increasing. I consider taking my words back, but I was so close. I can still do this. Why has she pulled me out?
Miranda does not reply. When the colors finally move together to form a picture, I understand. Miranda is frozen, pale and wide-eyed, still at the console. Looming over me, frowning, is Matt. Five other people are behind him in the room. Four of them are his men. The fifth, black-eyed and bloodied, is Donegan.
Matt peers at me, no doubt considering yet again what to do with me. Now would probably be a good time to say something funny, make him laugh, or at least, amuse him. Instead, I look down and away. I'm already thinking about Oscar again. How I was so close to saving him.
Miranda clears her throat, finding her voice. It shakes. "We were just— w— Eden thought maybe we could use it to help her. You know. To forget."
Matt glances from her to me. His eyes flicker briefly with something before his gaze hardens again. I'm not sure if it's sympathy or pity. Either will do.
"Get up," he says.
I move quicker than my body wants to, and end up stumbling into him. He catches me, holds me until I start to pull away, then he lets me slide easily from his grip. I step away from him, brushing my hair out of my face.
"Since you're here, anyway," Matt says, studying Miranda, "maybe you'd like to help with this one." His gaze flicks to Donegan, whose face is draining of blood.
Miranda's eyes move to her nemesis— hungry, but hesitant. She looks like she's going to be sick. She swallows, and nods slowly, looking at Matt. "Yeah," she says, her voice cold. "I would."
The men strap Donegan into the chair easily despite his struggling. Once they have everything tightened down, he's motionless, his muscles taut and straining, but ineffective. His eyes are wide and rolling. He grunts and growls as the electrode helmet slides into place.
I watch him from a few steps behind Matt. Maybe I should feel sorry for him, but I'm really just upset he's chosen this moment to get caught. This moment. I should still be in that chair. I glance at Matt, though I can only see the side of his face. Maybe I can talk him into letting me use the chair when he's done. I might have to tell him the truth, but I don't care. I was close. So close to saving Oscar.
In my mind, I am running. A few more steps. Just a few more steps. I replay this moment for an eternity, standing there, not seeing anything. So close. I can convince Matt. I have to. I lean forward to try to see his face, but shadows fall across it, hiding his expression.
Donegan is writhing within his restraints, slobber slipping down his chin onto his shirt. He's slick with sweat, face contorted. The sight is sickening, but not enough to put me off the chair. I move my eyes to Miranda, whose face is turned downward, focused, intense, anticipatory. She moves her arm, and Donegan stops writhing, slumps against his bonds.
"Shall we try this again?" asks Matt quietly. "Names. Who are you working with?"
My world slams to a halt, leaving me spinning. I manage not to fall over; choke off the noise of protest while it's still building in my throat.
Donegan gurgles, spittle and blood emerging from his mouth. He coughs, and sputters.
Matt waits.
When Donegan has finally stopped choking, his face scrunches into an expression of despair. "No," he whines, though it's more a plea. "No, no, no."
Matt's face hardens. He glances at Miranda.
I can't breathe. Donegan is about to break. She's about to break him. A vicious delight shades her eyes as they dart across her control panel, deciding how to hurt him, how much force to use. She doesn't realize what she's about to do. And I have no way to stop her.
I slip quietly toward the door, move into the darkness of the corridor. The black cell of the tunnel sends panic shooting straight through me, but I keep moving. The fear that rises within me now is a different one, even more potent. It is water filling the hold of a sinking ship. It is the last thing in this world that matters to me, slipping beyond reach.