A/N: Set after the season two finale. Just a one shot to delve into the mind of Marcy. I love the character with a passion and felt the need to scratch at the metaphorical itch. I do not own any rights to Travelers series or characters.

This is a bit out of character for her, considering she is their medic, but I wanted to sort of allow the body to process it before she could.

Marcy's POV.

Protocol one; The mission comes first. Protocol two; Never jeopardize your cover. Protocol three; Don't take a life; don't save a life, unless otherwise directed. Do not interfere. Protocol four; Do not reproduce. Protocol five; In the absence of direction, maintain your host's life. Protocol six; No inter-team/deep web communication except in extreme emergencies or when sanctioned.

I try to repeat the strain of thought as the lights above my eyes are blinding me, causing splotches to appear and my stomach to turn. Apparently Marcy's body is prone to migraines in extreme light or distress.

Does protocol Alpha cover this? Media coverage, blowing our covers, meddling where we shouldn't, reproducing, saving lives, interfering on numerous occasions.

If it didn't, surely the director would have taken action upon us and overwritten our hosts with those who would do a better job at what we have been trying for how long now? I've lost count.

It doesn't help that we're laying here on these metal slabs like some science experiment. What they want to find, they won't. Our bodies are as human as possible save for the coms and yet they haven't found them yet. Are they ignorant? It should be easy to see them beneath our skin under these bright lights.

Marcy, calm down. Your com is still on and I can hear every breath you take.

The voice belongs to Philip, 3326, and I can feel my tear ducts stinging with the need to pour emotion from the corners of my eyes. Damn it.

It's going to be fine. If we did something wrong, we would have been overwritten by now.

That belonged to Carly, 3465, and only served to cause my chest to rise and fall more rapidly.

Marcy, None of us are taking it this bad. Are you okay? Remember your breathing technique's for twenty-first century panic attacks.

Trevor, 0115, his voice only served to cause my frame to start shaking. Even if he was right, panic attacks seem to be this bodies natural reaction to stress and I'm feeling more than enough stress currently.

Go ahead. Let it all out.

Grant, 3468, caused the flood gates to open and I allowed the body to break down into a sob.

"I don't understand. I can't control it." My voice sounds like a stranger to me as I speak through the fit wracking my frame, causing the people around me to glance in my direction and start hissing out orders to cut it out or stop playing a role that I think would get me out of here – but that isn't it. Don't they get it? We're just as much human as they are, we're here to protect them and this is how they treat us? Like a lab project.

You don't have to control it. It's your hosts natural reaction, just allow it to happen.

Grant continued to coax the reaction out of me which happened to help the pressure that had begun building in my chest upon being placed here under these intrusive lights and judgmental eyes. Personally, I hate crying. I feel like this body is overreacting and yet all I can do is think of David's face and wonder how he must feel.

Betrayed. Hurt. Angry.

Those are the only three things floating in my head as a second bout of tears streak my face and they pull me off of the table and push me forward. My feet are trembling, like most of my body and it seems I might be feeling shock but I quickly push away the assessment the second the pressure is back on my chest and it's clear that a panic attack seems to be pushing it's way back through my frame as I make my way towards a door, which they wrench open and push me into.

Philip is quick to catch me before my body falls to the floor, his arms are cold because of the temperature in the room – yet he doesn't let go and instead allows this frame of mine to sob uncontrollably. Through my tears, I can see the muddled images of my team, all disheveled and in the same white attire that they gave me – we look like test subjects or a part of some dystopian novel.

Which is funny, so I force this body of mine to laugh and it helps the weight on my chest and the need to cry. So I laugh some more, allowing the stuttering of my shoulders to force another and another out of my trembling frame and before I know it, they are laughing too for the first time since we were brought in.

"What are we laughing at?" Philip asks, finally letting go of my frame.

"That's precisely what I'm curious about." Grant says, hands against his cheeks as if they hurt from the pull of facial muscles.

Carly slumps next to me, hands on her knees as her body convulses with each giggle that leaves her frame. "Marcy-"

"We look like the characters in a dystopian novel." I finally manage and they all burst into another fit of giggles.

"We do!" Trevor guffaws, shaking his head as if the very notion is utterly brilliant, And in some ways, it is because it allowed that awful feeling we all were undoubtedly feeling to ease just enough to actually laugh.

"They all hate us." Grant says finally, ringing his hands in a nervous manner.

"Wouldn't you hate us too if you found out we killed their loved ones?" Philip poses and we all nod in agreement.

"In theory, we didn't actually kill them. I mean, yes we did. But they were going to die anyway." Grant presses, trying to find reason in murder and yet we're grasping at straws if we attempt to do so. He knows it, I can tell by the look in his eyes as he glances our way.

"What are we going to do?" Carly's voice shakes at posing such a question.

"We can get out of this. I know we can." Trevor says, seemingly having more faith in their capabilities than I do.

When the door opens, our heads turn in the direction and instead of seeing someone in a suit or with clearance, we see a small child holding onto a soda can with both hands and a doll is tucked beneath her arm.

"3468 and your team are to proceed in cooperating with the officials. You are to break protocol two. Protocol Alpha." The child blinks and then stumbles just slightly on her short legs, eyes wide as a doe. "W-Where am I?"

"I don't think you're supposed to be in here." Grant says, nodding to the direction behind her. "Go find your parents."

And with that, the little girl took off – the door, our exit, closing behind her and clicking to warn that it has indeed locked us in.

"You heard her." Grant scoffs, eyeing all of us in quick succession.

With that, we know what we are obligated to do and now, now we must admit it all to everyone outside of these four walls and further the torment and pain of those we have caused harm – the ones our hosts knew before we took over and refused to allow the hosts the horrors of the deaths they would have originally endured.