AN: Hello! So, it's been a while, hasn't it? We apologize for that. Season 3 ended up being a bit of a bummer for us, and we strayed from this story for a bit. But we're ready to get back to it now. We're excited!

Since it has been awhile, I'd suggest going back and reading the last couple chapters (or, hey, maybe just the whole story) before reading this part. A lot of critical info will be dropped, and you might need the refresher : )

Enjoy, friends!

Going Up, pt. 12

by palarasandhek

Toronto, 2067—Present Day

He'd run, frantic, between floors one and four nearly three times before he spotted her. She was exiting the elevator on the fourth floor, snug in an elegant black coat; heels clicking against the tile in a chorus of self-possession as he called out, breathless.

"Marion!" His voice erupted, half-strangled; ribs quivering in resistance of every bounding step towards his colleague—his partner. His current vessel, though well-maintained and relatively fit for its age, had entered its final act. He could feel it in the creaking of his bones, the tightness of his windpipe as he struggled for breath. The time for chasing after his destiny had already passed. If he were yet to capture it, he could not do it alone.

Marion Bowles—kindred to him, though not quite adored—could sense this. Just as she could likely sense what had spurred his current state of panic. Her knowing showed itself in the faint yet prideful quirking of her lips, the haughty gleam in her dark eyes. As Aldous came to a halt, her name falling repeatedly from his lips, broken between each gasping breath, his hands fell upon her shoulders.

The heat, lukewarm and expected, burbled between them.

Firmly grasping his wrists, she removed his hands from her. "Good morning, Aldous," she began, tone wry. Smirking, she said, "You look absolutely dreadful."

"Marion," he gasped again, glancing up at her with piteous eyes, "she's here—"

"Really," she continued, choosing to ignore his desperation. The resentment coiled tightly in her abdomen, though she carefully restrained its clawing—ever the professional, in both business and pleasure. "Panic does not suit you."

Stymied by her obvious apathy, he straightened his posture, jaw squaring. After a few careful breaths, their gazes seemingly tied, yet still unwavering, he grit his teeth. "Where have you been?"

"Charlotte," she began, clearing her throat slightly, for emphasis, "she had a rough night. I stayed with her through the morning, until the fever went down." Aldous was the first to break, averting his gaze. "You understand," she concluded.

"I do."

After a moment, she turned on her heel, striding towards her office. "Come—we can talk once I've settled in."

His dread called to him, tugging him in the opposite direction. "Marion, there isn't time—"

She stopped abruptly, glancing over her shoulder. "Trust me—time will be of no consequence here." Unperturbed, she continued walking, pulling her ID badge from her coat.

With his heart still hammering in his chest, Aldous swallowed thickly, and respectfully followed.

Mount Sinai Hospital—New York, NY, 2000

"Can you say ahh?" The little boy, face freckled and pallid, opened his mouth slightly, eyes clenching shut in pain.

Beside him, his mother squeezed his hand, her husband sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, foot tapping nervously against the floor. "Stick your tongue out, Sweetie." Frowning, he followed his mother's instructions, allowing the nurse to glance fully into his throat. The boy's tonsils were horribly swollen—his throat nearly closed from their burgeoning—beat red, and dotted with the all too familiar pale yellow pustules she'd come to fear in the past month.

In this moment, Sylvie was grateful for the precautionary facemask that she wore, for the boy's parents—nervous, yet clinging to the hope of a more commonplace contagion—would be unable to see the way her lips pursed over a frown.

Giving nothing away, she looked the boy in the eyes and gently explained, "I'm going to touch your neck, okay? I'll be very careful." He nodded, looking afraid. He flinched when Sylvie's fingers grazed his engorged lymph nodes. "I'm sorry," she whispered. While these particular examinations had grown all too familiar in the past month, her stomach still dropped every time she had to test the children. Once a diagnosis was made, their fates were always sealed.

With this particular virus, there may be some possibility of a miracle. None had yet graced the halls of Mount Sinai, however.

As she placed her stethoscope against his chest, her hand at his back, softly mooring the boy's quaking body as he struggled to pull in a deep breath, Sylvie already knew. The parents did, too, she supposed. It was in their eyes—fear had already doomed them, doomed their feeble son; but neither party could bring themselves to even suggest the idea.

"He'll need bloodwork," she hastily explained, rushing through the motions. Her heart constricted at the false comfort of her own denial. Brow pinched, she handed a sloppily written referral to the boy's mother, his father rising suddenly.

"Of course—"

"Does that mean needles," the boy asked, voice small.

Clenching her jaw, Sylvie glanced down at him and nodded. "A tiny one," she gestured with her thumb and forefinger. "But that's nothing," she assured him, opening her arms up wide, "compared to someone this big and brave, right?"

His smile was faint. "I guess so…" The mother placed her arm around him.

Sylvie grit her teeth. She wanted to console this boy, really. But he was one of so many, lately. And the platitudes had grown exhausting. She was all too relieved to guide them out the door of the examination room, directing them towards the lab.

When they were gone, she stood out in the busy hospital corridor and sighed. She wanted to sit, wanted to sleep. Some long forgotten part of her brain cried out, "Eat!" but she was too focused to entertain it. The nourishment she sought could not be obtained from a hot meal, or a warm bed; nor could it be obtained from the sympathies of her colleague.

There was only one source for her comfort right now, and it lay a floor below, in The Bubble.

"Mary," she called, jogging up to the other nurse as she stood at the information desk, chatting with the receptionist.

The woman turned to her, eyes wide in curiosity, mask affixed on her own face. "Yeah?"

"Can you cover the next round for me? I have to head down to the ICU."

"Sure," Mary replied tentatively. "I was just finishing my break."

"Thanks—"

"Have you taken yours?"

Sylvie chuckled, tone unexpectedly derisive. "My break?"

"Yeah." The concern in Mary's eyes was apparent.

Sylvie softened slightly, glancing up at the clock. "Three hours—my shift is over."

"That's not the break I was talking about."

Expression concealed behind her mask, Sylvie smiled. "I know." Before Mary could protest further, she squeezed her shoulder and headed in the direction of the elevator, calling to her over her shoulder. "I owe you a coffee!"

In the past month, the ICU had transformed with the insurgence of new bodies requiring admittance. These bodies, however, were not of the usual ilk. Like the boy Sylvie had just examined, these bodies carried the H2N7 strain. And once the contagion's incubation period had concluded, and the virus had matured within them—a startlingly rapid process, they had discovered—these bodies could not come into contact with any others.

These bodies required quarantine.

Which is why The Bubble had been constructed: a large scale containment that had, so far, swallowed up half of the ICU, housing those victims of H2N7 whose bodies had fought off the pandemic long enough to survive into maturity. Victims whose bodies offered hope to doctors. Victims whose bodies were subject to experimentation.

Sylvie's stomach clenched with guilt when she considered the pain these patients must endure. They were anomalies, each and every one. Thus far, the mortality rate for H2N7, also known as the Millennium Flu, had remained at an overwhelming 100%, with no cure in sight. Most who contracted it died within a matter of days. There were a select few, however, who had managed to survive a matter of weeks. And while these patients were destined to the same grim fate as all others who had fallen before them, their uncharacteristic perseverance did offer doctors some insight into that elusive vaccine. For that reason, Sylvie and her colleagues were obligated to do everything in their power to keep these people alive, in spite of their pleas otherwise.

As Sylvie stepped into the decontamination chamber, donning the isolation suit that had grown all too familiar to her in recent weeks, her mind drifted on autopilot. She was one of only a few nurses allowed clearance into The Bubble—a privilege that was likely only afforded to her by the Chief of Medicine's favor—and even so, she was authorized precious few visits a day.

During each of her shifts, she had been assigned a Bubble rotation every eight hours or so—usually, one at the start of her day, and one at the end. However, in the past week and a half, she had taken it upon herself to walk a third round at her own liberty. This particular shift had not been authorized, however—if it was thanks to Dr. Fitzpatrick's leniency with her, she did not know—she had yet to be reprimanded for these unnecessary third checkups.

At first she had tried to convince herself that this risk was taken solely in the name of compassion. As she entered safely into The Bubble, her own breath echoing inside the suit's helmet, her heart ached at the parade of miserably ill faces that greeted her. Forcing a sense of responsibility, she stopped at each bed to make sure that their charts matched their respective monitors, that each body was still breathing, if not entirely living. As Sylvie neared the end of the hall, however, heart rate quickening, she knew that this routine had been nothing if not a show.

While the majority of these anomalies only lasted a week in The Bubble, there was one patient who had managed to last an astounding four weeks. Her continuing survival had not only baffled doctors, but thrilled them. For that reason, she had become a veritable guinea pig for experimentation.

Their constant poking and prodding disgusted Sylvie. To them, this woman was merely a means to an end. Her days were numbered, they all knew—she could pass any day. And with so little time left, they felt an equally small amount of guilt in treating her like a lab rat.

Sylvie had known this from the beginning. The woman had always been stronger than the others, and so she had always been a target. And Sylvie had always made it a point to linger near her isolation tent, to offer her what meager reassurances she could. Early on, these had come in the form of small talk, of feeble yet well-meaning jokes. The woman had been oddly calm from the day of her admittance—a tranquility that had unflaggingly remained, even as the days grew longer and more painful, and her mortality slipped visibly from her grasp.

Sylvie had been amazed by the woman's optimism, her every grin. Most patients in far better conditions showed less hopefulness than this woman. The nurse couldn't help but be drawn to her.

While early on their conversations had been simple, they had quickly evolved into more personal matters. They were limited, of course, by both time and the constricting intercom system they were forced to communicate through, but her patient had a way of injecting remarkably philosophical non sequiturs into the most innocuous of exchanges. Her insights stuck with Sylvie long after she'd leave the hospital—for days, sometimes—dogging her as she'd lie in bed at night, desperate for sleep.

The woman had surpassed intrigue. She had begun to haunt Sylvie.

Some days—some impossibly long, lonesome days—this woman, marked for death, felt like the only person who understood Sylvie: her exhaustion, her compassion, her inability to truly connect with her colleagues, and her fear of the unrelenting blight that had swept the globe over.

It was a mistake to grow attached, she knew—it was mistake to grow attached to any patient, let alone one who didn't have even the slightest chance at survival.

Still, as she approached the woman's tent, saw her smiling weakly behind the glass in anticipation, she knew that it could not be helped.

She spoke into the intercom, smiling in return. "Good afternoon, Paige." The call was inevitable.

Toronto, 2067—Present Day

Marion's calmness was maddening. She knew as well as he what this all meant—what disaster it would surely portend—yet still, she showed no signs of alarm. Aldous ground his teeth, hand cupping his jaw as he waited for her to finish unpacking her bag.

"Your leg," she said, not taking her eyes from the folders she stacked on her desk. Huffing, Aldous glanced down at his right knee, which bounced nervously in anticipation. Placing a hand upon it, he stilled himself.

The waiting was unbearable. "I don't know where they've gone," he said, voice strained, quiet. "I think I might have…"

He couldn't bring himself to finish. Marion concluded for him, "Lost them?" He averted his gaze, glancing at the oil painting on the wall, which depicted two peacocks, one white and one green, sat facing each other on a branch. He'd always hated that painting.

"You always think that," she reminded him, finally taking a seat behind her desk.

Turning back to her, he curtly said, "We've had some close calls in the past."

"You've had some close calls," she corrected. "No matter the outcome, it's always been my job to clean up the mess."

He sat up, nostrils flaring, "You know that's not—"

"It is, Aldous. It's true."

He sat poised at the edge of his seat, ready to spring up at a moment's notice. The tension coiled within him. A flame burgeoned through his limbs, the heat of it physically stinging him.

Marion sighed, shaking her head. "I'm really tired. You know?"

He licked his lips. He was tired, too—of the abstractions, the wondering. Still, he grit his teeth and humored her. It was his duty, after all. "The past year has been a long one."

Marion laughed suddenly. "The past year?" For a brief moment, her composure broke. He could see the despair pass through her eyes, the lines along her face becoming suddenly more visible. She pursed her lips, swallowing, before turning away. "I don't know what it is," she began quietly, staring out the window. Below, the city streets were calm—unusually so, Aldous realized, gulping. "Lately, I can just feel the weight of it." Suddenly, Marion turned back to him, gaze piercing. Her brow pinched in sorrow. "All those lives—too many lives."

He recoiled, his abrupt, unexpected guilt turning into an instinctive defense. The anger was so easy, so sharp. "I've tried to make it right," he hissed. "You know that. But there are some things that are… beyond me even."

She raised her eyebrows. "I know that."

The admission sounded like insolence to him. He hunched forward, digging his palms into the edge of the desk. "Did you bring me here to mock me?"

Marion smiled, sadly. He held his breath. "Aldous… I couldn't give a shit about that."

The man stood, his chair scraping back along the floor jarringly. In spite of herself, Marion flinched. "Then why are you wasting my time?"

She took a shaky breath, looking over at the peacock painting. Her fists clenched on the armrest of the chair. How could she possibly explain to him how hard it all was for her? He'd never understood that—never could. And even if it were possible, she knew he wouldn't care.

Not when his lover walked free, in the arms of another.

Still, in a different life—in the only one that mattered—Marion and Aldous had been bound to each other. The gods themselves had blessed their union. And try as she might, the cursed woman still could not break it.

"I like this life," she said, near a whisper. It was the only explanation she could offer him.

"What?"

"Marion Bowles," she said, turning to him. "I like her. I like this woman, this vessel." She smiled. "I like her home. I like her work. Her child—" She stopped, taking a breath. "—My child. I love her."

"She's one of many," Aldous slowly reminded her.

"It doesn't matter," Marion revolted, tone sharp. "I love her. And I am—" She bit back a sob. "I'm tired of leaving my children."

Aldous dropped his head, unable to quell his shame. After a long moment, listening to Marion's breaths as she resisted tears, he whispered, "I'm sorry—for this prison."

Marion stood. "I am, too." Taking another deep breath, she crossed the room, stopping at the table against the far wall. There sat a decanter of scotch, a few glasses, a bowl of fruit.

"You shouldn't be sorry," Aldous said, staring straight ahead, out the window.

"I feel sorry," she insisted, plucking a pomegranate from the bowl. She held it in her palm, running her thumb over the skin. "I was never really meant to be a wife," she told him, shrugging slightly. "And maybe that's why I could never keep you." Marion paused. "Now, a mother, on the other hand…"

When Aldous lifted his gaze to meet her, she was staring just over his shoulder, smiling. Curious, his brow furrowed.

As he turned, his blood ran cold.

Mount Sinai Hospital—New York, NY, 2000

Her stories, though brief as the time they were granted together, never failed to make Sylvie laugh, or to shock her.

Before she was sick—only a month ago, though it seemed odd to think it had been that short a time—Paige had been a travel journalist, often working for National Geographic. Six months ago, she'd been in Brazil writing an article about that Huni Kuin people when she'd "accidentally" done ayahuasca.

"I was there to learn their culture, Sylvie," she explained, trying not to cough. Her body heaved against the force of it. "They offered me tea," she shook, smile persisting. "It would have been rude to—" Unable to hold back any longer, the cough roared forth, her frail body lifting from the bed.

"Paige," Sylvie called out in concern. Her heart skipped in anxiety. The emergency call button was only a few feet away.

Her eyes clenched. Sylvie could see tears spilling from the corners as she rubbed her chest, settling back into the mattress. She waved the nurse off, nodding as she took in a much needed breath. Still, she wheezed.

The lungs were always the first to fail.

Sylvie bit her bottom lip as the silence settled between them. "Are you all right?" She asked, voice quiet, worried.

Paige nodded in response, clearing her throat. "It's fine," she blinked, though they both knew it wasn't. This time, her smile didn't return. After several moments, she asked the nurse, "Do you think that… that could've been it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Could that have made me sick?"

Sylvie's heart sank. Though she tried to hide it, the regret in Paige's voice was apparent. "Probably not," the nurse answered honestly. "Everyone… no matter where they are, is at risk. It's just... the sickness is everywhere."

She nodded again. "My still being here—do you think it'll help—" She coughed again. "—it'll help someone else?"

Sylvie wanted to lie to her. With another patient, she may have. Nurses could lie. It wasn't necessarily ethical, but they had the luxury of leaving the hard decisions to the doctors if they wanted to.

But this was Paige. So, she told her, "I don't know. I really hope so."

"Me, too." She looked up, smiling the best she could. Her face was still half contorted in pain. "It's kind of screwed up, isn't it? Almost seems like the world is ending."

She was being sarcastic, trying to joke—though with her, it was sometimes hard to tell. Still, Sylvie didn't find the humor in that idea. "It's not," she assured her. "Influenza happens. New strains are always evolving. It's just the way of things."

Paige's brow furrowed as she grew uncharacteristically serious. "At this rate though? Black Death, every ten years—I don't know that that's natural."

Sylvie took a breath, staring at the wall. "This isn't the Black Death."

"Really?" She smirked. "Could have fooled me."

The nurse's pager went off just as she opened her mouth to respond. "Shit," she said, glancing down.

"What is it?"

"Dr. Fitzpatrick," she sighed, shaking her head. "Listen, I'm sorry to cut this short—" She looked up, the forlorn expression on Paige's face stalling her.

"I know. It's okay," the patient reassured her.

"It's—" It's not, she wanted to say. But that wasn't necessarily true. This was her job. She had no choice. "I don't want to leave you," she said quietly instead. It was the truth.

"I know that, too." Paige glanced down, frowning. Saying goodbye was always hard for both of them, maybe because they both knew every time could be the last. Still, Paige's brave face rarely wavered. What was different today?

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm just…" Paige looked away, voice small. "It gets lonely in here. And I don't…" She stopped again, perhaps biting back a cough.

Sylvie's heart ached. She forced a smile bright enough for the both of them. "Hey, you know my schedule. I'll stop back in before I leave tonight, okay?"

After a moment, Paige nodded, looking up to meet Sylvie's gaze. She still did not smile, but her eyes glimmered. "Okay."

"Sylvie, could you shut the door, please?"

She was in trouble, and she knew it. For the Chief of Medicine to call her into his office at all did not bode well. That he requested she close the door behind her was downright nerve-wracking.

Still, Sylvie complied, coming to stand before his desk a moment later.

"Why don't you sit." It was a command, she realized. Not a request. "All right then," Dr. Fitzpatrick began, steepling his hands over the desk. He leaned forward and smiled, showing his teeth. No matter the circumstance, whenever the doctor looked at her like that, Sylvie felt as if she was being preyed upon.

Dr. Fitzpatrick had always liked her. From her first day at Mount Sinai, he'd taken special care to guide Sylvie, to be near her as often as possible. The attention had flattered her, initially. The Chief of Medicine was a handsome man, if not a bit too old for her tastes. In addition to that, he was wealthy, and made no effort to hide it. That he had any interest in her, despite her status, ought to have been welcome.

More often than not though, Dr. Fitzpatrick's presence made her feel uncomfortable. She understood that he was a man who was not accustomed to being told No. She also understood that he was a man preoccupied with material possessions, with ownership. And Sylvie did not have an interest in being owned by anybody.

Being alone with the man in his office left her feeling anxious. If he wasn't going to reprimand her for something, there was a fair chance he may make an advance. Honestly, she didn't know what would be worse.

"I hope I didn't interrupt your break."

"Oh, no," she shook her head. "I'd already eaten. I was just enjoying sitting down for a few minutes."

"Mhm," he nodded, smile unwavering. "I understand. It's been a long day." He chuckled. "Excuse me—a long month."

"Yes," she readily agreed.

He sighed suddenly. "Some of the patients we've had coming in—they're just hopeless, aren't they?" She swallowed, waiting for him to continue. "It's sad, truly. They're not dying a pleasant death."

"No," Sylvie quietly agreed.

"They deserve our kindness, our care."

"They do."

He smiled again, looking at her with obvious scrutiny. "You excel in those areas."

Uncomfortable beneath his gaze, she tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "Thank you, sir."

"Connor," he corrected, wagging a finger playfully. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Sorry, Connor."

"That's better." He sat back, still watching her carefully. "Though in times like these," his brow furrowed suddenly, "we have to remember, we can still kill our patients with kindness."

She paused, expecting this comment to be rhetorical. After a few prolonged moments of silence, however, she realized it was not. "I'm sorry? I don't—"

"You've been spending a great deal of time in The Bubble."

Oh. So he had known. For how long, she could not be sure. She deflated slightly. "I have, sir." She caught herself, hoping to curry his favor. "Connor," she smiled sheepishly.

He paused, frowning. "Aside from the obvious health risks involved, Sylvie, you do realize that it is a fool's errand?"

She chose her words carefully. "Tending to them?"

"Caring."

She swallowed. Her palms were growing clammy in her lap. "I know… But those patients—they're so… alone. All the time. They can't even really talk to each other."

"Then it's a good thing they won't be there long," he chuckled.

Sylvie's jaw tightened slightly. "Not all of them."

His laughter ceased. After a moment he said, "Ms. Spence has put up an admirable fight. But even she doesn't have much time."

"No." The way she said it, it was hard to tell if she was agreeing or disagreeing. Her brow furrowed. "But she does have time."

Dr. Fitzpatrick nodded. "Maybe." After a moment, he turned to his computer, frowning. "In any case, I think it might be in your best interest if we take you off quarantine rounds." Her stomach twisted. She should have expected this. Still, it hurt. The thought of not seeing Paige every day—for however many days she had left—it was unacceptable.

"When?"

"Hmm?" He looked up, seeming suddenly, unrealistically disinterested.

"When should I stop?"

The answer seemed obvious to him. He looked at her as if she were a fool. "Well, immediately, of course."

"Oh." She sat there for a moment. Her chest felt very tight, all of a sudden. It was difficult to breathe.

"Yes, well. I think that will be all, Sylvie. Thank you."

"Okay." She stood, feeling in a daze.

As she was reaching for the door handle he said, "And Sylvie?" She turned. Dr. Fitzpatrick was smiling. "I mean it. I really don't want to see you down there again."

Unable to speak, she simply nodded.

Toronto, 2067—Present Day

"Are you hungry?"

Aghast, Aldous found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move, aside from the trembling that unconsciously seized his limbs. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Marion. It was obvious, by the way her warm gaze, her amused smile lingered on the little girl behind him that her inquiry had not been directed at him. Sweat began to form at his temples.

The girl—pale, ethereal face framed in chestnut waves; eyes hollow as the ages of torment she had rained down upon them—smiled in kind.

Grin widening, Marion stepped forward.

Traitor, Aldous' mind screamed, though his mouth could not heed his violent thoughts.

She knelt reverently before the girl, not sparing a glance in Aldous' direction, and held the pomegranate in offering. "It's one of mine," Marion said gently, meeting the girl's eyes. Their gazes locked in silence. "What do you call yourself now?" Coyly, the girl smirked. Marion chuckled. "This form suits you."

Laying one small hand over top the pomegranate, she calmly answered, in a voice both vacuous and childlike. "Kira."

Marion bowed her head. "Kira," she repeated, in veneration. After a moment, she lifted her head again, pushing the fruit towards her. "I would be honored."

"No," Aldous keened suddenly, his voice returning to him, cracked and strained. Like a whip, the girl trained her gaze on him, her brown irises darkening. Aldous gasped and sputtered, as if a great weight had fallen abruptly on his chest. Again, he was helpless, watching as Kira took the pomegranate in her hands, and held it between her palms.

For a moment she simply stared, the smile slowly fading from her lips. And then she pressed, the pomegranate crushed by her otherworldly strength. Seeds spilled to the white floor, juice trickling down between her tiny fingers.

She looked up at Aldous, his face frozen in horror, and spoke in a tone comprised of a thousand different voices.

"You will eat."

Mount Sinai Hospital—New York, NY, 2000

Mary was placed on Bubble rounds in her stead. When Sylvie found out, she asked her, "Can you tell Ms. Spence that I've been removed?"

Mary chuckled. "I think she'll be able to figure that one out herself."

"Just tell her," Sylvie pleaded, "please." And while the other nurse did not understand—not her urgency, or her obvious distress—she acquiesced.

For three days, she could not break away. Dr. Fitzpatrick's orders had been clear, as had his hidden implications, but it had never been Sylvie's intention to follow his rules. For all she knew, Paige did not have another three days left in her. If she didn't say goodbye soon, properly, she would never get the chance.

And while she could not quite understand this pull she felt, this desperation to be there, in the end, she also could not deny it. If she never saw Paige again, she would not forgive herself.

On the fourth day, one of her colleagues had fallen ill with a terrible migraine, and asked if there would be anybody willing to cover his overnight shift. Sylvie seized the opportunity, volunteering immediately. She stayed away from Dr. Fitzpatrick's office, but watched when, at 9pm, he locked his door, briefcase in hand, and left the hospital.

She waited a half an hour before she jogged down to the ICU, heart hammering in her chest, and entered The Bubble.

She'd asked Mary about Paige's condition, not bothering to hide her obvious investment. "Well, to me, she doesn't seem good," Mary had replied, curious as to why Sylvie was so interested in the first place. "But it's hard to tell. I mean—they're all…"

Dying. The word hung between. Sylvie knew it to be true. Some were just dying faster than others.

When she was finally back inside quarantine, she didn't even bother to check on the other patients. This wasn't business, after all. For her, it was personal. As she neared Paige's isolation tent, however, her heart sank. The woman was sleeping, but the look of pain upon her face was all too apparent, her cheeks appearing far more gaunt, her complexion paler than it had been only a few days ago. A cursory glance at her chart showed that she had not, in fact, been good at all.

For a moment, Sylvie closed her eyes, throat tightening against the guilt. It wasn't her fault. Realistically, she knew that. But she couldn't help feeling like she should've done something more.

Still, Paige was alive—here, now. She was breathing. There was time.

Sylvie cleared her throat, pressing the call button on the intercom. "Paige?" The woman in the bed did not move. "Paige," she tried again, brow furrowing. "Please… wake up."

She held her breath for what felt like several moments before Paige began to stir, her eyes cracking open shortly after. At first, there was no recognition in her gaze. She glanced around her surroundings in a daze until, finally, her eyes settled on Sylvie, widening marginally.

They shone brightly in relief, as if a soothing balm had fallen upon her the moment Sylvie's presence neared. The nurse grinned, staring silently, graciously into her gaze. She placed her fingertips upon the tent, as if to reach out. Paige smiled back, tears shining in her deep, brown orbs—

"Remember… remember the color of my eyes."

Sylvie recoiled with a gasp, shocked by the invasion of an unknown voice in her head. It came to her like a memory, but she could not recognize it as her own. Her hand trembled slightly.

"Paige," she called again, shaking off the strange sensation—as if her heart had gone weightless for a brief moment, fluttering with nauseating swiftness. "Are you okay?" The other woman nodded slightly, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. "I'm so sorry I never came back. It's just that Dr. Fitzpatrick—"

"I know," Paige told her, voice croaky from disuse. She cleared her throat, coughed. "The other nurse told me." She sounded weak, the words themselves seeming to sap her of a great deal of energy.

Sylvie sighed, shaking her head. "I still meant to visit."

"Couldn't you… get in trouble?"

Sylvie averted her gaze. "Maybe…"

After a pause, Paige told her. "You don't have to come back."

She looked up again, brow knitted in dissent. "Of course I'll come back. I want to—"

"No," Paige shook her head feebly. "That's not what I mean."

Sylvie blinked, staring back into the other woman's unwavering gaze. A sudden, sharp pain lanced through the back of her skull. She winced, confused, hand reaching instinctively for the back of her own head. That odd weightlessness returned, and with it, another wave of nausea.

"Remember the color of my eyes." She tried to shake it off, this unknown voice, but it left her rattled, dizzy. For a moment, the shape of Paige's nose and mouth seemed to transform, the color of her auburn hair darkening. She blinked.

Maybe she should've heeded the other nurses' advice and eaten something, or actually taken the time to sleep. The exhaustion—or perhaps it was the anxiety—was starting to get to her.

She couldn't concern herself with that now though. Because Paige was here, and she clearly needed her.

"What—" Sylvie shook her head, attempting to clear this strange fog. "What do you mean?"

Paige licked her lips, coughing again. She glanced down at her lap, wringing her hands. "I can just… feel it. My body isn't…" Her bottom lip quivered slightly, familiarly. Sylvie narrowed her eyes, fighting against the sudden sense that she was forgetting something very important. "It's just too much."

"Are you—are you saying…?" She knew. As she strained her ears, she could hear—the way that Paige wheezed, the way her body tensed. She knew what she was saying.

Paige was quiet. As the tears escaped the corners of her eyes, Sylvie's heart broke. "You shouldn't say that," Sylvie told her. The other woman shrugged, or tried to. Her body was seized by a hacking cough before she could.

Sylvie flexed her hands, fists tightening, and closed her eyes. The back of her head throbbed again. "You have to be confident," she said, through gritted teeth. "You have to—"

"—be confident. I'm confident in us."

The pain intensified, the floor seeming to tilt beneath her feet. Sylvie whimpered, forcing her eyes open again.

"Sylvie," Paige began, struggling through her tears, the shortness of her breath. "It's okay. I'm not—I'm ready." Sylvie shook her head against the pain, against Paige's words, tears spilling from her own eyes. "I am. It's okay, I just—" Paige gasped suddenly. Sylvie's heart stopped. The sick woman forced herself to continue. "I just don't want to do this alone."

"No," Sylvie sucked in a shaky breath. Everything was spinning. She leaned against the nearest table for support, shaking her head. "You're not. It's not—"

"I would do anything," Paige continued, her voice quickening, in spite of her wheezing. "Just to… feel another's person's skin. One last time, before I go."

Sylvie opened her eyes suddenly, the room righting itself for a brief moment as she looked straight into the other woman's eyes.

Then the room shifted, everything around her seeming to fall away. Suddenly she was inside of a metal box, the floor unsteady beneath her, a set of numbers ticking above her head—a memory that she did not know to be hers.

"Just… take a deep breath," Paige said, her face ricocheting through a dizzying number of unique features. Auburn hair; dark, silken tresses; dreadlocks. Glasses, facemasks, wide-brimmed sunhats. Brown eyes, blue eyes, almond eyes.

Always a smile.

"Feel my hand in yours. Feel my warmth on your cheek. Remember… remember the color of my eyes."

The same woman, reaching for her.

For a brief moment—or several brief moments, even-time seemed to stand still. Paige's body had frozen, mid-cough; the lifelines on the monitor halting in tandem. A desolate silence seized the room. Alarmed, Sylvie turned on her heel, unsure of what she should expect. All through the room, bodies, monitors, and blinking lights had been arrested.

She sucked in a stilted breath, heart sputtering in her chest. The blood pooled audibly within her-she could hear it thumping wetly in her own ears. Startled, she turned back to face Paige's tent.

A strange face reflected in its glass door captured her attention.

It was the face of a woman—fair-skinned, with hazel eyes and blonde curls that contrasted sharpy with her dark skin and hair. Frightened, she glanced over her shoulder, expecting to find this strange figure standing behind her. The room, however, was empty, save for herself and the frozen bodies of her patients.

Tentatively, she neared the glass, the woman seeming to mirror her approach. As she stood before this unknown reflection, the nurse opened her dry mouth, as if to speak. The woman opened her mouth, too. And when she lifted a hand to her hair, the woman matched her, touching her pale curls.

Their brows furrowed.

Who are you? she thought. But when she opened her mouth, the words, "We have to stop this," came out instead. Sylvie's eyes widened. It was not her voice.

She shut her mouth tightly. Suddenly, the other woman broke her reflection.

"If you walk away, she will die."

Before Sylvie could respond, the other woman lifted a finger to the glass and pointed.

Uncertain, Sylvie glanced over her shoulder, and gasped—for she saw herself, walking from The Bubble, offering Paige one last, grievous look in parting. The clock above the door, and every clock in the room, Sylvie realized, spun forward, rushing through time. Scared, she turned back, watching as Paige's body—alone—reanimated. She drifted in and out of hours of sleep, tossing slightly in her bed, in only seconds' time; until, finally, her body ceased its moving. The monitor flatlined.

"No," Sylvie managed to choke out, her own voice reclaimed. Time froze again.

"It's true," the woman said, redirecting her attention. "But I can stop it."

"How?" Sylvie's heart beat nearly out of her chest.

"Just let me. Let me take control."

The nurse shook her head. "How-I don't understand."

"We don't have time for you to understand. Just… don't fight me."

In a dizzying rush, time and sound returned. Sylvie blinked-confused, disbelieving. In the glass before her, she was greeted by her own face.

The pressure in her throat, however, was beyond her.

"Cos—" Sylvie choked on the name, sputtering as some outside force willed her mouth to form around the syllables. The pain in her head had dulled, but her chest tightened immeasurably, limbs fighting for control against an unknown force. With watering eyes, her gaze darted to the emergency evacuation button on the opposite wall.

As a nurse, she didn't have the key code necessary to open Paige's isolation tent. She could, however, hit the emergency evac that would open every tent in the room simultaneously. This would contaminate the entire Bubble, she knew—an act that, while reversible, would undoubtedly end in her termination from Mount Sinai, if not much worse. But with emergency lockdown engaged, they would be offered a precious few minutes—perhaps five or ten—to be together.

A part of her mind screamed—No! You will contaminate yourself!—but there was some other ghostly part, crushingly strong, that reminded her—Let me take control. No harm can come to you.

"Sylvie?"

She glanced at Paige again, the echo of a thousand different faces staring back at her in fear.

Taking a leap of faith, she relaxed her body, feeling herself falling backwards into the phantom embrace of another. The wrinkles of her mind were soothed by its cool voice, its steely determination.

We will not let her die again.

"You'll never be alone," the other spoke through her.

"What are you—"

Without giving it another thought, she bounded across the room, punching the emergency evac.

Toronto, 2067—Present Day

"You will eat," Kira said again, voice low.

Aldous' entire body spasmed once as he fought to move against his shock. He stared first at the girl's hands, at the pulp clutched in her palms, the red running down her wrists. Then he lifted his gaze to meet her eyes. The irises had blackened, pupils expanding lengthwise into slits, just like—

"Serpent," he hissed, his strength returning to him in a wave of unrelenting fury.

"Eat," she repeated again.

He stepped to the side, around Marion's back, chest heaving with each enraged breath.

Kira shook a small fist, flecks of pulp falling to the ground as she pushed the pomegranate towards him. "This will be your last meal—"

He shook his head, backing up towards the door. She could stop him if she wished, he knew. But she was never one to take by force. She was merely a guiding hand.

"You cannot force me, girl."

Her face darkened as she launched the fistful of pulp in his direction, seeds skittering at his feet. Her voice dropped several octaves as she bellowed, "You will eat, Zeus."

He halted of his own accord, staring at the girl with wide eyes. Millennia had passed since anyone had addressed him by his true name.

Clenching his fists, he smiled down at her, shaking his head slowly. "The gods do not bow."

Instead, Aldous ran.

Mount Sinai Hospital—New York, NY, 2000

Sylvie watched. Her body was still her own, but there was another within her, guiding her movements.

Paige stared, wide-eyed, as she cast off the barriers of her hazard suit, jogging eagerly to her bedside. "Sylvie, why would you—" The words caught in her throat as the nurse sank to her knees by the bed, grasping the dying woman's hand in both of her own.

Sylvie could feel the protrusion of her bones beneath her skin, so thin it was nearly diaphanous. She did her best to breathe warmth into her, rubbing her hands soothingly. Paige's mouth hung open in shock, but the tears fell freely, too, the gratitude shining in her eyes.

"You weren't supposed to do that," she whispered, barely audible over the blaring of the emergency klaxons

Sylvie looked up at her, brow furrowed. Did the woman even understand what she'd said—what that could mean? The room had begun to spin a little less, the pain in her head dulled save for the pulsing cacophony of voices that had awakened there. She couldn't catch her breath though. There wasn't the time.

"Do you know who I am?" she whispered hastily-it was the other's inquiry. Sylvie could sense the woman's hope concurrently with her own curiosity. She could hear doctors, nurses on the other side of the room, too, knowing it would take them minutes yet to undergo the sterilization necessary to enter The Bubble.

Paige's brows knit. "What?"

Sylvie squeezed her hands. "Please—look at me. Do you know who I am?"

Paige stammered for a moment before replying, "You're Sylvie."

"No—" The nurse shook her head, the words gushing forth rapidly. "I mean—I am. I am Sylvie. But I am… so many others." She looked up at the other woman, her face beginning to change shape again. She could see her hair darkening, knotting; glasses taking shape over her eyes; a silver hoop pierced through her nose. "Can't you see the others? Can't you see me?"

Frightened now, unsure of what to say, the woman shook her head.

"Paige?"

The tears were apparent in her voice. "Sylvie… I don't know—"

"No. Cos—" Her throat nearly closed, jaw slamming shut against her will. She could hear people shouting across the room, banging on the glass. The klaxons seemed to grow louder. "Cos—" She gritted her teeth, and began to push. Her entire body stiffened, then convulsed slightly, hands tightening over Paige's.

"Sylvie!" Paige's voice quaked in alarm.

"Cos—im—"

"Please," Paige cried. "You're hurting me!"

Sylvie's jaw popped as the other choked out, "Cosima!"

Toronto, 2067—Present Day

He made it to the lobby before the pain began—a sharp, stabbing jolt that cut right through his heart, stopping him dead in his tracks.

To see him running crazed through the DYAD lobby had been enough to garner strange looks and muffled questions from his employees and colleagues. But as he stumbled, half falling to his knees as he clutched his chest, the receptionist rose in alarm.

"Dr. Leekie," Martin shouted. "Are you all right, sir?"

"Dr. Leekie," Aldous gasped, the edges of his vision beginning to blacken. Martin was at his side, arm on his shoulder.

"Somebody call an ambulance," the other man shouted. "Dr. Leekie—"

"No," he wheezed, sending Martin sprawling towards the ground. He pushed himself up, shaking his head. The pain was already beginning to recede slightly. "No, I just need some air."

Mount Sinai Hospital—New York, NY, 2000

Paige stared at her, bewildered; but Sylvie could see the recognition skirting the edges of her eyes, the gears turning. She was alert.

The other seized the moment.

"Take a deep breath," she said, echoing Cosima's own words from back in the elevator. "Feel my hand in yours. Feel my warmth on your cheek. Remember the color of my eyes."

And Paige did, she could see, as her gaze widened, pupils dilating.

"Remember that moment, before any of this started, when I took your hand, and gave you my name, and we were just…"

Together, Sylvie and her other waited with baited breath.

After a long moment, the dying woman exhaled shakily, tears streaming down her face, and answered, "Cosima Niehaus." Then, cupping the nurse's cheek in her hand. "And Delphine Cormier."

Around them, time stopped again, and the room spun. The women embraced, sheltered in a circle of other bodies—some of their faces familiar; some young, and some old. A Samurai and her lover. A slave, and the dear friend she wished to free. A woman betrothed, and her bard. And so many more.

As one, they smiled.

As one, they loved.

Toronto, 2067—Present Day

Outside of DYAD, on a busy sidewalk, amidst ignorant, bustling passersby, Aldous Leekie halted, arrested by a pain so severe that his eyes rolled back into his head.

In the split second before he lost consciousness, a single thought entered his mind:

He had been wrong.

Gods do bow.