Eureka Seven: Withdrawal Syndrome

By Rommel

Three: "Faraway, So Close!"

The city, like other things that had once held life in them, reeked of decay. The smell penetrated everything, and hung in the air like a heavy, invisible curtain that fell on the abandoned buildings and the dusty ground. It was as if a sudden plague caused the inhabitants to flee; leaving behind their doors and windows open, children's toys still scattered at the doorsteps of family homes, cars lying empty on the roads.

Death--that's what it smelled like, the pink haired girl finally recognized. Like dying hope. Like her name. Everything in the city was just dead.

She had been wandering for ages, not really knowing what she had been looking, but knowing full well that it had been in vain.

She had passed through the door of what looked like some sort of store, stoping and noticing her reflection on a mirror that had been hung on the inside wall and frowned.

She looked distorted somehow—her features sharp and pretty as always but different. Her hoop-skirted dress swaying about her, hanging from her shoulders as lightly as it had always done. For a long time this dress had been her only possession, the only thing she was allowed to have by the man who had made her be nothing more than a weapon.

She groaned in pain, frowning and noticing that she was barefoot for some reason, the concrete feeling harsh on the tender soles of her feet as she walked about.

It felt good in away—feeling anything meant she still had a heart.

But looking at herself …

She felt so odd.

Was this what people felt when they looked at her? Was that all they saw? The distortion and the monster and not the girl underneath? The thing without a brain made only to kill and to live or die according to her creator's whim?

Death … there had been a time when she would have gladly gone to her death for Dewey. Even though she didn't want to die. She would have because she was afraid of the consequences. Living meant fear and hurt, and she didn't want those things anymore.

Death would have been a relief.

But she had still cried when she had gone. She had flown through the coralian crust in tears, blaming herself for all she had done. She had fought not really caring about what was happening, not listening to TheEnd as it had tried to alert her to danger and get her to respond. Or to Eureka as she tried to lift her spirits and comfort her.

She had just cried.

And the killing machine broke and she refused to die or kill for him, choosing instead to live on with the person that fulfilled her heart, who made her happy.

She had screamed desperately for him as she fell through the air, and embraced him, and kissed him. That was the moment she looked back on almost religiously for its radiant warmth. She had dreamed so much of reliving it. Such a thing seemed too good to be true.

The happiest moment of her young, sad life.

Anemone sighed at her reflection, turning her head away in disgust and moved on. The smell of death followed her, but it didn't bother her, or if it did, she didn't seem to care.

Something was burning in the distance; she could see smoke rising into the colorless sky. The street was hot under her feet, the sun touched her exposed skin, but it didn't feel righ… it felt so much like how she had begun to feel Dominic's embrace, as if it had somehow lost its comforting warmth.

So she walked, not headed anywhere. Devastation was all around her—these people were gone, their lives shattered, and for what?

She recognized some of the building—wasted vignettes of her lost childhood. She walked by the houses without looking, quickening her pace as if hoping to leave her suffering being. Stopping meant letting it all catch up with her, so she kept going, yet every step felt heavier than the last.

Eventually, she couldn't exactly tell when, she came to the end of a street where the pavement came to a dead end. The houses on either side of her were demolished, leaving only broken beams of wood and overgrown grass to fill the lots. The whole neighborhood seemed to have been bombed out.

She caught a glimpse of something ...

There was a figure beside the house to her left, standing among the rubble. She couldn't see who it was, but her heart suddenly felt sick of the loneliness and carefully she made her way towards it.

And among the shadows of the ruins she saw ... a man.

But not really a man—a straw man.

"Scarecrow," Anemone whispered to herself, gazing at the thing in disgust. Shaped like a human, clothed in worn tattered rags, black buttons for eyes, a plastic, wide and fake smile drawn crudely on it… filled with nothing.

She stepped closer, unable to heed the warning calls that echoed in the back of her mind, the dry dead grass crunching under her feet, the black eyes seeming to follow her every movement intently, staring right through her. Black eyes—so different from her own purple ones and yet so similarly empty. Filled with nothing, just like she felt.

The mind of the scarecrow ... the soul ... the heart ... all faraway, yet so close.

And then, she heard a voice from behind her. "My sweet little Anemone ..."

Anemone froze. She knew that voice very well; she feared and dreaded it. She seemed to spend all of her life trying to please it and avoid the ultimate fate she knew was reserved for broken things.

Her heart seemed to stop, the only thing that up until now had reminded her she was still alive. She was really empty now.

Slowly, Anemone turned her head to look over her shoulder, and standing there at the edge of the patch of grass, clad in his pristine white uniform was someone she knew she could never get away from.

And she had been stupid enough for somehow thinking she could.

"You can't..." Anemone choked on the words, tears beginning to gather in her eyes. She brought her hands up against her chest protectively, shaking, terrified, embracing herself. "You can't..."

"I forget..." Dewey Novak repeated. The brim of his white cap hid his eyes. The chiseled featured of his face were locked into a hard, unmoving mask. "Isn't that what I used to call you?"

"You ... you ... are dead," Anemone muttered, feeling as if the words themselves were slowly chipping away at every bit of her sanity. Tears were now running down her cheeks.

Dewey took a step into the grass. "You are my creation. As long as you live, I can't die."

"Stay away from me!" Anemone bellowed, moving back until she was cowering besides the scarecrow, shaking her head desperately. "Stay away!"

He did stop, but only when he was so close to her that she had to look up at him and it seemed as if he was as tall as a bronze statue. "And what would you do all alone? Would you ask for forgiveness?"

Anemone was still shaking her head, crying almost hysterically but in silence, the only sounds coming form her where choked sobs and whines, her knees buckling and dropping her to the ground.

"What would you do?" Dewey's voice remained emotionless, as if he were completely uncaring that it was destroying her world. "Would you ask him to love you?"

Anemone shook her head, making no reply as her thoughts and emotions unraveled leaving only pain and despair in their wake. All the happy things she'd done with Dominic, the things she had once longed for, gave her no comfort. She had been lying to herself; lying to him. Fake happiness was was just as bad as deep sorrow.

Her heart a still lump, there was nothing in her whatsoever. Like the scarecrow looming above her, she was filled with nothing.

"Even alone ... they would all still hate you."

Anemone tried not to look up anymore, trapped as she was between Dewey and the scarecrow, but she kept crying. It was all she had been reduced to.

Suddenly she missed her parents so terribly it sent a sharp spike of pain through her whole small body. She missed Dominic too. She wanted nothing more than to see them all again and feel that warmth that meant she was loved.

"Even alone ... you would still hate yourself."

The words cut her deeply, far more painfully than anything she'd gone through in battle, opening up wounds that had never healed because she had never moved on.

"You would still be in pain."

Dewey stepped the final distance to her in two strides, but she was far to overwhelmed to even scream at him to get away. His presence so close felt asphyxiating, like she had been locked into a coffin and was simply waiting to run out of air. He reached out a hand and placed it under chin, moving it up, bringing her head up to look at him.

Tearful, bloodshot purple eyes—eyes that he had given her—stared at him in utter, wide open horror, one of her hands clutching at her chest and the other at the ground.

"You would still be mine."

With a flick of his hand he produced a cross-shaped injector similar to those she had always used or allowed to be used on her. The long needle caught the light and produced a brilliant glare that burned itself in the back of her mind.

And at that moment all Anemone could do was think of him—the someone she had always treated so badly but who had ended falling in love with her regardless.

"Please, help me..."

Dewey held her head steady, bringing up the needle and quickly inserting it into the small receptor bellow her left ear, and with a hiss the injector drained its cocktail of drugs into her head, flooding out all sensations and feelings in a cold wave of remorseless, battle ready hatred.

The scarecrow's black eyes were still staring at her, still filled with nothing.

"Dominic ... help ... me..."

Had she been but a little bit stronger she might have been able to fight as her mind—the real, damaged girl she was—hopelessly slipped away. But Anemone knew she wasn't strong, she had never been. And so she gave up.

Her slender form relaxed, her tears stopped. As she slipped into Dewey's waiting arms in a quiet stupor Anemone realized the warmth of his embrace felt like everything that was missing from her life.

"Dominic …"

"You are going to have to ask her yourself."

As Dominic watched the houses go by from the back seat of Gekkostate's Type R606, Mischa's words rolled around hauntingly in his head. They were the only answer he had gotten from her when he asked why Anemone would do something like this to herself after it had been so hard to kick her old medication.

She was right, of course, only Anemone would know, and asking anyone else would simply lead to supposition and doubt, none of which would solve anything.

The toxicology had confirmed what Dominic had feared all along; there were traces of something—possibly some kind of stimulant agent—in Anemone's bloodstream. Mischa couldn't identify what it was precisely, but judging by the following quantitative testing she was able to determine that whatever it was, it had such a consistent presence in her system that she must have either been taken it recently or haven been taking it consistently over a period of time.

Neither option sat well with him. His first and most obvious concern was that she had overdosed on the same sort of medication she had spent a lot of her life using and only recently had managed to discard. That would explain why Mischa couldn't identify it—it was probably a compound largely kept secret by the military and even Dominic didn't know what was in it.

But something wasn't right. Anemone had used that drug many times before and while the violent side effects and the bloodlust were unmistakable, they had never before driven her completely berserker. She always retained a little of her personality.

And if she had been using it recently, Dominic would have noticed a change in her behavior. They lived together in a one-room apartment—he would have had to. He might be somewhat naïve, but he wasn't clueless.

Whatever she had taken, he felt responsible. He had never bothered to have anyone check to see if the medicine was addictive—he was sure now it was—and he had never thought it would be an issue. Anemone had always seemed like the sort of girl who, while quirky at times, would let him know when something was not right. He thought he had built enough of a close relationship with her that if anything came up were she felt she needed some medical care she would tell him.

He thought she would trust him like he trusted her. So why then had she not trusted him and told him something was wrong?

Did she think he would just dump her if he found out she was back to her old ways? That he would reject her?

It could be. Anemone had spent her life isolated from people. Dominic was the first one who actually treated her like a person. It was reasonable that she would be afraid of being abandoned again, but she couldn't possibly think he was that heartless.

Or maybe she did. Maybe she was afraid of him like she was afraid of Dewey; maybe she didn't want to disappoint him like she hadn't wanted to disappointed Dewey; maybe she though he wanted her to live a lie like Dewey had.

The questions ate away at him like acid, so much so that Mischa had to threaten to sedate him as well so he would part from Anemone's bedside and try to get some sleep. Holland had been nice enough to set up a cot for him in the infirmary, but there was no way Dominic could actually manage sleep. He had curled up on the cot with Gulliver and stared at his pink-haired lover wishing she would wake up so he could tell how sorry he was.

He had stared and berated himself, blaming everything on him—them being taken hostage, Anemone's condition, his role in making her who she was, her lack of trust in him. Everything. It was his fault.

Dominic couldn't recall if he had actually slept any. At some point his mind seemed to just slip away, but for all real purposes it was the second sleepless night in a row. It wasn't until this morning while climbing into the 606, after Mischa had suggested he go back to the apartment he shared with Anemone to look for whatever she might be using, that he realized how tired he was.

And he was tired, probably on the edge of exhaustion; physically from the ordeal and uncertainty of being taken hostage and finding himself in the middle of an all out assault, and emotionally from Anemone's collapse. His senses were dulled; the whole world seemed to be moving in slow motion.

Dominic took his eyes away from the glass canopy and turned his head to look around to the young girl sitting with him.

Gidget had volunteered to come with him and Matthew in the 606, though he suspected that more to do with wanting to get out of the Gekko and sightsee than anything else. The entire crew had seemed very concerned for Anemone, even despite the fact that she was some they barely knew and who had given them a lot of trouble and had taken down both the Nirvash and Holland in separate occasions.

He envied Renton for having found a family like this, like he knew Anemone envied Eureka. The two of them, on the other hand, only had each other. And even that was clearly not the comforting thing Dominic had thought all along it was.

"There's our intersection," Matthew called him from the front seat.

Dominic didn't bother looking. He sucked with directions anyway.

In vehicle mode, the 606 took up most of the pavement as it turned into the new street but thanks to its skilled pilot they had managed to keep off the sidewalks so far, and from potentially hurting anyone. Luckily, there were very few other vehicles on the road. Dominic had told Matthew that most people in the city used the mass transit system, which had probably played a major role in the afro-haired pilot deciding to bring the LFO.

A member of Gekkostate would be mobbed by fans in the trams.

Discretion, however, didn't prevent Matthew from blaring a loud fast moving beat from the 606's exterior speakers, or keep away the astonished stares of everyone the passed. Most of them, Dominic guessed, had never seen an LFO in their lives.

The music didn't bother him. Anemone had a taste for music too, so he had gotten used to all kinds of weird rhythms. And it kept exhaustion from overtaking him.

Besides him Gidget had kept up a constant stream of "oohs" and "aahs" as the elaborate stone facades of the buildings rolled along; block by block and street by street, staring wide eyed with the sort of wonderment found only in the very young.

He caught himself at that thought. It seemed impossible that she was only younger than him by a few years and perhaps only younger than Anemone by months.

She was just a young girl, happy and care free, surrounded by people who would all give their own lives to protect her. The kind of girl Anemone should have been; the kind of girl he had wanted her to be…

The kind of girl she had earned the right to be, and not ... what she was.

He could not remember the last time Anemone had carried the same wondrous look in her own eyes. Two days ago she had been her usual bright upbeat self, but if Mischa was correct that meant she had been hiding something even then. It had all been an act.

Gidget suddenly turned her head and her eyes met Dominic's. He quickly took his gaze away, slightly embarrassed. "Sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to stare."

"It's okay," Gidget replied. "You don't have to apologize for that. I know you must have a lot on your mind."

Everyone from Gekkostate was really being so nice to both Anemone and himself—it was enough to make him regret he had ever worked for Dewey, if nothing else did. Anemone would probably feel the same way.

Probably.

Finally the 606 pulled up in front of a three-story building with several balconies adorning the upper two floors and large windows with wooden shutters on either side. The door was framed in an elaborated metal design, which curved into three spirals above the lintel. The building itself was just a stone block, each floor painted a different shade of pastel red, a color meant to catch the eyes, contrasting with the greens and yellows of the neighboring structures.

"This is the place, right?" Matthew asked from the front seat, turning to look at Dominic over his shoulder.

"Yeah," Dominic said.

Matthew dropped his hand on the canopy release lever, causing the reinforced glass bubble to slide back. "I'll stay with the vehicle—don't wanna be getting any parking tickets, you know. Holland would be pissed. You two go on ahead and do what you gotta do."

"Don't get in trouble with law enforcement," Dominic said, though he knew he was just repeating what Holland had said. "Who knows what they'd do at this point."

As he climbed off the 606, Gidget following in behind him, a small crowd had begun to gather around the very conspicuous LFO. Dominic knew it was also why they had brought the 606. It would become the center of attention wherever it went in the city, hopefully allowing Dominic and Gidget to slide away quietly from whatever tail the locals had put on them, as Holland was convinced they would.

Given what Simon had told him, Dominic didn't think it was an unnecessary precaution.

"So, you really think these guys are trouble?" Gidget asked innocently as they walked up the front steps and through the door.

"We can't trust them, that's about all I know."

"If that's the case though, why would they let you stay here?"

Dominic didn't think the answer mattered so he kept quiet; Gidget gave him a pout of annoyance.

Buildings this small didn't tend to have elevators, so the two of them walked up the stairs to the top floor. Dominic had never minded, but Anemone had complained endlessly about it, saying it was a waste she had to get sweaty and tired just getting home. Several times she had made him carry her piggy-back style. Good thing she was so lithe or there was no way he would have been able to.

As put-upon as he was feeling, that memory bought a little smile to Dominic's face.

Gidget didn't seem to notice it; she was too busy talking and asking questions he had no answer for almost as if trying to avoid uncomfortable dead silence with someone she hardly knew.

By the time they made it to the narrow hallway that led down to a bank of doors on either side, Dominic could feel his knees creaking from fatigue. He led Gidget to the farthest door on the right, fetched the keys from his trouser pocket, and turned the lock on the doorknob.

"Whoa," Gidget exclaimed. "It's a mess."

The apartment was small, only a single room with a small bed hardly ample enough to accommodate two people, a seldom-used kitchen located in a corner, and a door leading to a bathroom. And as Gidget had pointed out it was not exactly neat. There were dirty clothes everywhere, and used food containers, wrappers, stacks of paper, several stuffed animals, and just about everything else that normal living could accumulate.

At first Dominic had tried to keep the place clean, but it soon became clear it was a battle he could not win. Anemone didn't care at all, and no matter how many times he tried to correct her, she would just throw anything wherever she liked. She had gotten used to being cared for hand and foot while she was the pilot of TheEnd—as far as she was concerned that hadn't changed.

Her bad habits had started to rub off on Dominic rather quickly.

Following him into the apartment, Gidget looked around in disbelieve. "I mean, seriously, it's like a natural disaster area."

"Sometimes I think Anemone is a natural disaster," Dominic said, stooping down to pick up a stuffed bunny with long, flapping ears and setting it on the dresser top. "She doesn't seem to want to take care of anything, even the stuff we spend all the money on. My money because she's never had a job—don't even think she knows what a job is."

He hadn't really meant to be funny, but Gidget still giggled. "Pretty girls like us don't need to work to get what we want."

"Yeah, that's true." Dominic sighed, slightly amused by the comment. He then swept a hand across the room. "Alright, we need to go through this mess. Easier said than done, I know."

"Right," she said happily. "Where do you wanna start?"

"I don't know. If you were hiding something you wanted no one to find, were would you hide it?"

Gidget pointed behind him. "Underwear drawer."

Dominic pulled out the drawer and turned it upside down, spilling its intimate contents unceremoniously on the carpet. Had he been with another male he would have thought twice about doing that, but as it was he figured it was nothing Gidget had not seen before.

He dropped to his knees with a groan and went through the small pile of assorted underwear quickly. When that didn't offer any results, he set the drawer aside and turned back to Gidget.

"There's no point in being careful," he said, speaking in short, precise orders, years of military training making it become like a second nature. "You go over the dresser and that corner over there with the stereo. I'll take the closet and the rest of the boxes on this side of the room. I don't really know what we are looking for; pills, needles probably, empty medicine bottles."

Gidget nodded. "I'll keep my eyes open."

With that, they started looking. Leaving Gidget to deal with the dresser, Dominic began going through some of the boxes that were stacked on the corner. Before, when they had originally moved in, there had been no furniture so these boxes had come in handy, and afterwards they had just been used for general storage; they were now full of magazines, papers, and mail—most of which was addressed to the apartment's previous occupants.

They went over the place as quickly as possibly while still being thorough. Gidget was not just searching through the drawers but actually pulling everything out; Dominic slid open the closet's accordion-style door, and stopped.

One of the few things hanging there was the black jacket of his Federation uniform. It was among the reminders he could not bring himself to throw away, for the same reason he could not accept the full discharge he'd been offered.

None of the horrible things he'd done had been executed while wearing that uniform. He shared those same colors with a lot of people who'd died doing what they believed to be right thing, and in the end it was the uniform he'd chosen to wear when he'd defected to Gekkostate. It represented his sense of duty, to the Federation, to himself, and to Anemone.

Slowly, he took the jacket from its hanger, its clean and crisp fabric reminding him of how tired and grimy he felt. Two days without sleep or a proper meal or a shower. Looking back in the closet he spotted his gray breeched trousers, and right beneath them the tall, patent leather knee high boots required for that uniform.

He had always thought they seemed like part of an era long gone, when officers rode horses into battle instead of humanoid suits of armor.
The whole uniform seemed to have been designed with intimidation in mind, as if seeking to elevate its wearer to a higher position of authority just by the power of the sharp military cut and severe colors.

But it was also the sort of uniform that could be worn with pride whether you were a mere Lieutenant or a high-ranking General. A mark to symbolize that to serve the Federation was to serve humanity.

Or that was the idea … before Dewey had corrupted the Federation into what amounted to his own personal secret police. But a lot of good, noble people still wore the uniform. They had been used and lied to as well, just like Dominic, but that didn't take away from the fact that if need be they were willing to give their lives to protect others.

And so he could keep and wear the uniform without feeling guilty—it burdened him with the weight of the past, and strengthened him with the promise of the future.

"Hey."

Dominic heard Gidget's voice from somewhere outside his thoughts and snapped back to reality. He turned to her. "Uh?"

"You know, if you want to change, I can probably finish in here by myself," she said. "You look like you need a shower too."

He ran a hand across his black hair. "Do I really look that bad?"

"Worse," Gidet said. "You haven't done anything but worry for days, have you? I can tell. I can see it in your face. It's seen that look on Holland before, and more than once on Renton."

"At least I'm in good company."

Gidget shook her head. "That's not a good thing. For a while we all kind of thought Renton was loosing his mind. Then it'll just make everything worse. You are gonna crash if you keep pushing yourself, and then you won't be able to help Anemone at all."

Dominic couldn't argue with that. He really did feel as bad as Gidget said he looked. There was no chance he could take care of Anemone if he could even take care of himself. And Anemone needed to be taken care of.

"Yeah, I guess you are right," he admitted. "There's just not a whole lot I can do about it."

"Sure there is. Go get cleaned up," Gidget repeated more urgently. "You don't want the kids calling you stinky or something."

Strangely, Dominic didn't get the sense that she was forcing the lightheartedness in her voice, or her enthusiastic manner. She may have been too young to really understand any of it, but he didn't hold that against her. Far from it, he envied her.

Dominic wondered briefly if Anemone would be more like Gidget if her life had only just turned out less awful.

If he had tried to save her sooner.

"What's the password?" the female voice on the other side of the door asked. "You know the rules, man. No password, no entry, comprende?"

Art grunted something, holding his injured arm closer to his massive, muscular body. He figured there was probably at least one machine gun aimed right at him from the other side, maybe more than one if things were as bad as he assumed. The 7.62mm rounds would go through the wooden panel and him without even slowing down.

"Screw you, Tomiko," he balked in his unmistakable deep drawl. "You know perfectly well there is no password. Only an idiot would do that, and Simon is not an idiot."

There was a pause on the other side. Then, with a loud racket, he heard deadbolts and chain locks being undone, and after another short pause, the door opened slightly. Art caught sight of the clear green eyes on the other side and made an effort to smile.

The older woman recognized him instantly and swung open the door, her face distraught. "I'm sorry," she said, coming over to him. "You are hurt."

Art ignored her concern, noticing he had been right and there was someone standing there holding an assault riffle. "Forget that. Where's Madgy?"

"Inside. She came in last night," Tomiko said as she moved aside to let him through, as did the riffle man. "Some other guys have been coming through since daybreak, but not as many as I thought. Magdy filled me in. Simon's not coming." Her voice sounded sorrowful as she said that last part. "The Sonderkommando took him to the tower."

Art could understand; he had heard through their hijacked radio set while skulking around waiting for some of the mess to die down..

"I mean to do something about that," he said and stepped inside the small apartment. "I just need to figure out the finer details."

As he expected, the place was crowded, and not just from the surviving soldiers that had been with him and Simon earlier in the day. He recognized some faces, but many more that were unknown—new comrades answering the call. This apartment was the designated staging area for the entire neighborhood. He hadn't wanted to go anywhere else, both because he knew Tomiko was trustworthy, and because this was where he was supposed to meet Magdy.

Several of the soldiers had already prepared themselves, donning body armor and fatigues, but those who had seen fighting were lying down, stripped almost to their underwear, eating and drinking, replenishing their strength… and of course, tending to their wounds.

It was a good turnout, better than was to be hoped for, especially considering the fact that Gekkostate had kicked their ass. A couple of them still had copies of Ray-Out lying about, either not having heard the news or still in denial.

Because the fact was Gekkostate were collaborators. As hard as it may be to accept it, they were the enemy now. Holland Novak himself had taken down Simon.

How could they have been so wrong about Holland?

He noticed there was tall dark-skinned man standing by one of the open windows, keeping a lookout. He recognized those dreadlocks anywhere. Like Tomiko he was someone Art could trust.

The man noticed him as well and nodded in his direction.

"In there. She wasn't feeling very well." Tomiko, who had promptly locked the door behind him, pointed in the direction of the bedroom. "I'll get some bandages." She then gestured to his shoulder. "How is it?"

"Took a fall," he said, feeling rather stupid. "I popped it back in, but it still hurts."

Tomiko frowned in thought. Her features lined with the sort of wrinkles only the constant worries of motherhood could sculpt, her long back hair tied in a bun. "I'm no doctor, but you probably did it wrong."

"Wouldn't be the first time," he said absently as he walked over to the bedroom door. "It doesn't feel as bad as getting shot."

"Wouldn't know. I've never been shot."

"It stings," Art said facetiously. "Just a little."

Magdy was lying on the bed, an arm draped across her eyes. Art thought she might be asleep and realized it was probably better to let her; he was a soldier and a warrior, she wasn't. That she had made it out of there alive was by itself a miracle.

And that was why he didn't want to go. Why he wouldn't go.

Because he had been so afraid that he'd never get a chance to see her again, and tell her what he suspected she already knew …

He sat on the edge of the bed slowly, not wanting to disturb her with his heavy presence, but as soon as he felt the mattress sinking under him Magdy dropped her arm by her side and it became clear she was wide awake.

"Art!" With a kind of exuberant energy she had no right to feel in the gloomy situation they found themselves in, Magdy lunged forward and hugged him tightly.

His arm hurt like crazy, but she didn't need to know that. He said nothing, just returning he gesture as best he could. Her head pressed against his much bulkier frame, he thought he heard her sobbing.

When she finally pulled away, she looked up at him, eyes brimming on the verge of full-blown tears. "I thought you were..." She trailed off as if the words were simply too difficult to utter and became stuck in her throat, then changed topics altogether. "They took Simon."

"I know." Art nodded, for once completely at a loss for what to say; Simon would know exactly what to do. He would comfort them with his kindness, and reassure them with their leadership.

As long as Simon was with them there was no doubt about ultimate victory, but now … he might already be dead for all they knew.

No—they wouldn't kill Simon, not until they dug up everything he knew, and he wouldn't break easily or quickly, Art was sure of that, no matter what they did to him. Torture would take time, especially on someone as stout as their leader, and that was the only advantage they had now.

Simon would buy them the time they needed even through his suffering; they could not squander that. And Art had no intention too.

"What do we do now?" Magdy seemed scared when she asked. Somehow, he got the impression that she might be more frightened of him not having an answer than whatever the answer was.

"We carry on," he said vaguely, not sure he wanted to give away what he was thinking, "that's what Simon would do."

To her credit, Magdy seemed ready to ask for details. But as soon as Art had said that Tomiko showed up at the door, holding a thick roll of bandages and a stern look on her face.

"You aren't carrying anything until you get that shoulder fixed." She sat on the bed behind Art, setting down the bandages, getting an odd look from both him and Magdy. "Lift your arm so I can take your vest off."

"I thought you said you weren't a doctor," Art protested, twisting around to look at the older woman.

"I'm a mother of four." Tomiko held up four fingers to make her point. "I know what sort of scrapes you boys get into. And I don't need a medical degree to tell me how to fix you. Now lift, both of them if you can."

Art gave Magdy a strangely sorrowful glance, one which she could not bring herself to return. Nobody really knew if Tomiko still was the mother of four because two of them had been picked up during one of the more recent raids and the other too were stationed in a cell far to the west, as far away from the place as possible to diminish the risk of being sniffed out. They weren't charged they never were; it was cheaper to just send them to the camps with the refugees.

Either that or be shot in the head.

The fact that this place was still safe, however, didn't bode well for them—it meant one of two things: the brothers had either not been questioned severely enough or they had and were now among other countless unnamed casualties.

"Why do I always let women boss me around?" Art joked to alleviate the mood, lifting both his arms and wincing in pain.

"Because deep down you are just a heavily armed Teddy Bear," Magdy said joining Tomiko as she began undoing the straps of his bullet-proof vest.

"So what happens next?" Tomiko asked as she worked the straps.

Art grumbled. "Why do people keep asking that?"

"Hope."

Art thought about that. Actually, he had been thinking about what to do for a long time, ever since he'd dove out of the way of the two LFO's smashing into that roof, and saying what he thought was not as difficult as it have been otherwise. "We need to get Simon."

Magdy gasped, but Tomiko didn't react at all.

Art let that sink in before continuing. "And I have a plan for how to do that. It's a modification to Simon's plan, but I think it will work. In essence, the goal in the same: get into the tower. We knew it had to come to that eventually."

"You won't be able to just knock," Tomiko said. "And Simon didn't actually have a plan to get IN the tower."

"Yeah, I know. That's the tricky part."

Finally, the vest came off rather gingerly as both women did their best to keep from causing him unnecessary pain, revealing the camouflage-patterned shirt he wore underneath. Magdy laid it aside on the bed, which caused Art to focus briefly on her creamy thigh, while Tomiko began inspecting his exposed shoulder, pressing her fingers here and there trying to trace exactly where the joint had become dislocated.

"So are you going to tell us about this?" Magdy said, fidgeting slightly as if she expected to hear some long delayed bad news. "Or you think you can storm the place by yourself?"

"If I had an LFO," Art sighed heavily, and not just because Tomiko's probing was hurting him. "We need to hack the military network, just as Simon wanted," he said, "and send out the signal. It should just be a matter of timing after that."

The expression of horror on Magdy's face was what he didn't want to see, but at the same time what he knew it could be her only reaction. For all she had seen—and all she had seen them do—she was still that young girl Simon had saved, still so innocent despite everything.

Perhaps that was why he had fallen for her; in a life filled with death, she was the closest link he had to happiness.

Tomiko nodded quietly. "I had a bad feeling you'd say that."

"Wait," Magdy jumped in hurriedly. "You know what will happen. Even with all the weapons we've smuggled in, the people in the camps would never be able to last long."

Art shook his head, aware how horrible what he was about to say would sound. "They won't have to. Just long enough."

"That's a pretty big sacrifice to ask of a lot of people." Tomiko seemed to have made up her mind regarding his arm, so she placed a hand firmly on the trapezium muscle from his injured shoulder before turning to Magdy. "I'm going to hold him. You need to give his arm a pull back into place."

"But—"

"He's in enough pain as it is," Tomiko cut her off. "This won't hurt him any more than he already is."

Hardly convinced by that, Magdy hesitantly took his arm by the wrist.

"When I say so, you pull once," Tomiko said, and Art could feel tightening her grip. "Do it as hard as you can."

Magdy nodded; Art gritted his teeth and steeled himself for the spike of pain.

"Pull!"

It wasn't so bad, just a soft popping noise and a sharp pain which he managed to suppress with a grunt. The look on Magdy's face, however, was as if she thought he'd just been shot. She hugged him again.

This time it didn't hurt.

"Anyway, are you sure about this?" Tomiko said, moving back a little to give them more space but reaching for the bandages—his arm would have to be immobilized for a while. "Like I said, you are asking a lot."

"I know. And I wouldn't ask it unless absolutely necessary, as I believe it is. We can't afford to wait. If they break Simon … we are all dead."

"But we knew that was a possibility when we signed up." Magdy stirred in his embrace, then, placing her small hands on his chest, pushed herself away just far enough to look up into his eyes. "We took a risk and made a choice. Most of the people in the camps are innocents caught in the middle. They are part of what we are fighting for. We can't choose for them."

The bedroom was awfully quiet for a few moments, the air heavy with the decision they were making.

Then Art spoke, saying, "Can we choose to let them kill Simon? We all know people in the camps—it's not an easy decision. But it is a necessary one." He gestured towards the bandage. "And forget about that—I need both my arms to fight. The pain won't bother me; the lack of mobility will."

Tomiko set the roll aside without bothering to argue. "It isn't so much the decision itself that bothers me," she said instead, "but the fact that even if we were to survive we'd have to live with it. And doing nothing means Simon …"

"No. After what Simon has done for all of us … we can't leave him. Everyone will understand," Art said.

Magdy said nothing. She nodded her head ever so slightly, carefully, and dropped her gaze almost as if ashamed of what she was agreeing to.

"All right, we need to figure this out in detail if we're gonna do it." Tomiko's voice was now back her usual stern tone, giving out a colder impression than the motherly voice she had used before. "Screwing up is not an option. And we need to figure out what to do about Gekkostate."

Holland stretched himself out on the couch and clicked through the channels on the TV. It didn't really matter what was on, he just needed something to distract his attention—he did notice, however, that there was no word of the government attack on civilians from any of the news channels, only that major terrorist leaders had been captured. The lounge inside the Gekko was empty, but even if it hadn't been he'd have no problem in relaxing in front of the crew. He kicked off his boots and propped up his feet on the armrest.

Then, he heard a very familiar voice. "Nothing like being home, is there?"

Holland turned his head to look as Talho came into the lounge. As usual, she wore her form fitting jumpsuit, her short black hair swaying over her shoulders as she walked. He loved that outfit.

"I don't want to argue," Holland said tiredly. He didn't want the accusations that would only heighten the guilt he already felt. "Please."

Talho stopped a few feet from the couch, seemed to hesitate, then sighed heavily. "I don't want to argue either," she said. "But I have to know … I have to know why."

Holland pushed up into a sitting position, swinging his feet to the carpeted floor. For once, the self-assured SOF ace seemed uncertain. "Why … what?"

"Holland," Talho started. "I understand how you feel. You want to be responsible. You feel that it's up to you to make things right. And I know it's because of your brother. There's nothing wrong with that. But you don't have to do things this way."

Holland frowned. "What way?"

"By yourself," Talho said, sounding slightly annoyed.

Holland just looked at her. He knew her hard face merely hid her real emotions. She had a right to feel the way she did. More importantly, Holland had no right to argue her point. None whatsoever.

She did not misunderstand his silence for sheepishness. Holland spoke his mind, but only when he was thinking of something worth saying. His silence meant she had disarmed him.

"You don't have to bear this burden alone," she continued, the resolve in her words filling the void Holland felt inside. "I won't let you."

This was about what he'd done yesterday—going into combat and ordering Matthew and Hilda to hold back. Looking back on it, it had been stupid to expect they'd follow such an order. But if something were to happen to them …

"Talho, this isn't their fight," he said finally, very softly. "If something were to happen to them ..."

"And if something were to happen to you?" Talho retorted instantly.

"I can take the risks."

"That's a load of crap," she replied harshly. "Your fight is our fight. You go into danger, we go into danger. I know you don't want anyone to get hurt. I know you want to protect us. But, Holland, it's bad enough to put yourself in danger. To do it alone is just stupid. And you are not a stupid man."

Holland shook his head. "I'm very stupid."

Talho groaned her exasperation. "Childish? Yeah. Lazy? Sometimes. A total slob? Sure." She was actually counting his flaws on her fingers, then stopped. "But you are not stupid."

"I couldn't stop Dewey," Holland said. "He was smarter than me. In the end, I couldn't even protect Eureka—Renton did that."

"So you want to prove something?" Talho said. "Prove what? That you deserve to be happy?"

He didn't know how to answer that. "No, I …"

"Holland, why do you fly?"

He said nothing, the words caught in his throat. His eyes were locked to hers. He hoped she could see the conflict in him, all the things he wanted to say but couldn't find the voice to.

Slowly, Talho sat down on the couch next to him. "I'll tell you why I think you fly." She took his hand in hers. "No, I'll tell you why I know you fly." And she pressed his hand to her stomach.

"Talho …"

"I was wrong to be angry with you because you wanted to be out there. That's who you are, and I have to accept that. Putting ourselves in danger is the only way the make the world better. But don't refuse the help of those who more than anything want to help you." Talho leaned her head gently against his shoulder. "Don't fly alone, Holland."

Holland felt his mind soar—he was lifting above the clouds in his board, above all earthly concerns. And Talho was lifting right next to him.

He was about to finally say something when Mischa hurried into the lounge. She looked concerned.

Freshly showered and clad in a clean uniform, Dominic stepped in front of the mirror and looked at himself. The hot shower had helped, but the young face reflected in the shinny surface did not seem to correspond to the way he felt inside. He sighed, holding out his arm and wrapped the red handkerchief around his left biceps. Like the red badges on his collars and the cuffs of his jacket, it stood out starkly against the black background.

Higher ranks usually wore red scarves or ascots, but his junior rank did not entitle him to that. It didn't bother him now quite as much as it had in the past, when he had loathed the contempt with which the higher up treated him because of his age. The same way he'd treated then Captain Jurgens when Dewey made him his intelligence officer.

His eyes dropped almost as if embarrassed. The bathroom, like the rest of the apartment was messy, shampoo bottles and used towels and lotions and soaps lay thrown about everywhere. The sink was set on a wooden cabinet that extended into a counter and was crammed full of Anemone's stuff.

He noticed casually how most of the bottles were either purple or pink. And, looking over the forest of products, Dominic noticed the small metallic silver make-up box.

Dominic frowned; Anemone, as high-strung and vain as she could be seldom wore any make-up. Her eyes were already amazing enough without the need for liner or eye shadow or anything like that, her lips inviting enough without lipstick.

Why would Anemone keep make-up if she was never gonna use it?

A hard, cold feeling touched the inside of Dominic's chest and spread to his stomach. There wasn't a lot of room for privacy when you lived so close to someone else, but he realized that in order to hide something from him, Anemone would have to do so in a place where would never have any reason to go looking. Her underwear drawer definitely didn't qualify.

But her make-up box…

Dominic reached out a hand a picked the small box from the counter. It was cold to the touch … and heavy.

He opened it, and saw what had feared to find all along.

It was an injector similar to those he had used on her many times before, shaped like a cross with a receptacle for one of the various glass vials containing the drugs on opposite end from the needle, where it would snap into place. It was a field devise, requiring little knowledge or preparation, easy to use in a pinch.

Dominic didn't recognize the names of any of the substances in the dozen vials—he had never known the name of the original medicine anyway—but there were different names. The color also seemed darker in some than in others.

Anemone had been using a whole cocktail of drugs.

"Why were you doing this to yourself?" he asked sadly, the words actually hurting. "Why wouldn't you tell me?"

Neither the empty bathroom nor his reflection had an answer for him.

Dominic sighed, then closed the make-up box and tucked it under his arm as he exited the bathroom. Gidget was standing around, having finished turning the place upside-down and now had a backpack she had evidently found slung over one of her slender shoulders.

"What's that?" Dominic asked, nodding towards the backpack.

Gidget shrugged. "I thought Anemone might like a change of clothes as well. We have lots of stuff she could wear on the Gekko, but there's nothing like your own things, right?"

He pressed a hand consciously against the front of his uniform.

"What's in the little box?" Gidget asked, pointing.

Dominic held it out and she took it and opened it. Her open features fell as she stared at the content, then she pressed her lips together, her eyes shaking slightly, an awful expression on her young face.

"She must have been in a lot of pain to use stuff like that," she said, her voice breaking up slightly. "I can't imagine."

That just made Dominic feel worse—he had been so preoccupied with his new life that he'd been completely oblivious to whatever pain Anemone might be in.

He took the box back without saying anything and stepped over to the door. Gidget followed him quietly, though Dominic got the sense that she still wanted to say something, if only perhaps to try to cheer him up.

But as young as she was, however, Gidget seemed to understand that he didn't want to talk about it.

By the time the walked down the stairs and onto the street, a sizeable crowd had gathered around the 606, including a few local law enforcement officers, their black uniforms and jackboots now familiar to Dominic. They were doing much, just looking over the crowd, and lightly armed.

As he approached the 606, Dominic remember what Simon told him, about the administrator knowing Anemone and him were staying in the city because they would have never been allowed to settle here without permission. That meant that somehow the locals had to know about them, who they were and where they lived, and had at least consented to have them here. Simon had implied that the only way that would happen was if Dominic and Anemone were working with the locals.

But know that he thought about it, there could be another reason …

As a weapon, Anemone was essentially invaluable. The only girl to survive the Novak Foundation process to created a fake coralian. Even without TheEnd she was unique, a prize worth having.

Worth studying.

Dominic ground his teeth at the mere thought.

Matthew spotted them as soon as came into the street, and was now waving them over enthusiastically. Dominic and Gidget pushed their way past the crowd, who didn't seem to notice that there was a second member of Gekkostate and a Federation officer between them.

Reaching down as they made it besides the 606, Matthew helped pull them up one by one into the safety and relative tranquility of the cockpit. "You find it?" he asked, having to yell to be heard above the crowd.

Dominic and Gidget nodded and dropped into the seat.

The ride in the 606 was shorter than he remembered. Unlike the trip out when they'd had to watch where they were going and follow the streets, the return trip was made easy by the fact that Matthew had to do was head towards the huge spiraling tower in the distance.

The 606 was not intended as an urban vehicle. Dominic was surprised at how maneuverable it became in the hands of an expert pilot. And Matthew was clearly an ace, a deserved title if Dominic had anything to say about it.

They drove past the checkpoint at the foot of the tower without being stopped. The orange LFO was distinctive enough that no further positive ID was required. Gekkostate had also been assured by the security crew that they shouldn't bother with the checkpoints because they were intended to catch trouble makers, not world-wide heroes. Holland had almost seemed embarrassed to be offered electronic transit passes for all his vehicles, just in case. He declined.

Several trucks were stopped at the entrance tunnel. Matthew deftly moved around them as the personnel on the checkpoint waved him on. Once inside the tunnel they were plunged into darkness, the lights overhead elongated into thin streaks by their motion, flashing the cockpit intermittently as they passed.

With the 606's headlights on the path ahead looked to be no more than two brilliant circles of passing gray concrete. Beyond there was only black nothingness.

After a few second they exited the tunnel, rolling into a large bustling bay at the base of the tower. This was the administration's car pool, where all the vehicles were worked on and stored when not in use. There were civilians and mechanics, along the security forces, moving around the spacious done-like cavern. Dominic could see a dozen humanoid KLFs—including Simon's red, severely banged-up unit—as well as trucks, motorcycles, cars, vans, and even several tram cars for the mass transit system.

Matthew turned left, following a yellow line on the ground marked 'ACCESS ROUTE: MAIN ELEVATOR'.

The 606 came to a stop inside a gleaming square of light, and Dominic looked up see a matching square directly above them on the roof. A loud blaring filled his ears and he felt a rumble under his seat.

Slowly, the elevator began lifting the 606 upwards.

"I don't like this," Matthew said. "How they let us go around everywhere we want. If they are really so concerned with security they'd at least stop us to check we haven't picked anything up."

"Maybe they trust us," Gidget said.

On the front seat, Matthew snorted. "I doubt it. You know how they say the best way to hide something is in plain view? I think that's what they are doing. They don't want us to get suspicious so they let us anywhere we want."

"No," Dominic said. "That wouldn't work. Eventually we'd run into whatever they want to hide. Because you can't hide something in plain sight forever. You just can't."

"But they don't have to hide it forever," Matthew said suspiciously. "Just until we leave. The real problem for us is that I don't think Holland wants to get involved any deeper than we already are."

"Gekkostate not wanting to get involved?" Dominic said with slight sarcasm. "That's a new one."

Gidget nudged him in the ribs. "Just because you are wearing that uniform doesn't mean you can be smarmy. If it's gonna make you go all Federation on us you might as well take it off."

"Sorry."

"At any rate," Matthew continued, ignoring his comments, turning in his seat to look back them, "if something bad really is going on it's not like we can ignore it. That's not how we do things. But Holland knows we have to be careful. This is a very explosive situation. Totally explosive."

Dominic could definitely agree with that. Clutching the little make-up box more tightly in his hands, he asked, "Have you met the administrator? What's-his-name."

"Odilo." Matthew shook his head. "No. Only Holland, Talho, and Hap did. They said he made them want to kill him. So I guess he made quite an impression. Holland's decided to avoid him and anyone from his staff. I think he reminded him of Dewey. Except, you know, fatter."

"Doesn't sound like someone we'd want to meet," Gidget said.

"The problem is that he runs the show, Simon said so. There doesn't seem to be any sort of power check placed on the administration. And you know what they say about absolute power," Dominic said. "I think there's hardly ever been an exception to that."

Matthew shook his head. "Dewey proved there isn't. Your intentions in gaining power might honorable at first—ideals and promises and all that—but it in the end, power itself becomes the motivation. Besides, history records your actions, not your intentions. It's what you do that matters. That might be why Holland never fit in with Dewey."

"I read his file," Dominic said, trying not to sound reproachful. "He did fit in. He fit in until Ciudades del Cielo."

"Alright, true," Matthew admitted. "He did. But that's only because he believed in what he was doing. And once that illusion was shattered, he didn't dwell on it. Other people would have spent months, years maybe, trying to decide what to do—if they ever did anything. Holland took action. Even if it meant leaving his entire life behind. And we all made a similar sacrifice, because we believed in him."

A memory was triggered in Dominic's mind. "I know you don't want to hear it," he said, "but Dewey could made you believe in him as well. Many of those closest to him saw him as father figure—take the Ageha kids, for example. And myself and Anemone, along with the U.F. And all the otherwise decent people who followed him."

"The difference is that Dewey used and discarded people at his whim. Holland only uses people because he's a leader and there's no other way to get things done. And lately, he's been unwilling to do even that."

"He should be a politician," Dominic said.

Matthew laughed. "Nobody would vote for him. They'd be too busy trying to get his autograph."

The elevator came to a stop on the hangar floor, barely twenty yards from the Gekko. The huge cavern was dimly lit, and mostly empty except for a few military personnel working on even more vehicles. There were also several civilian craft on this level laying around half-assembled as if somebody had started to take them apart and then stopped midway. Dominic realized they seemed to have been cannibalized for components—the craft had probably been confiscated from their private owners.

Matthew drove the remaining distance with barely a touch on the acceleration pedal under his foot.

Holland was sitting at the base of the entrance ramp, his gaze on the 606 as the canopy slid back and its occupants climbed out. When he saw Dominic's uniform he snorted loudly in distaste. "You gotta be kidding."

"What?" Dominic pretended not to understand. "You have one too, don't you?"

"For sentimental reason," Holland replied quickly, his narrow eyes looking the young Lieutenant up and down.

"Same here." Dominic tucked the box under his arm.

Holland stood. His posture was slouched, tired. Like Dominic, he probably wasn't sleeping well.

"Come on," he said. "Anemone is still out. But she's …" he trailed off cautiously, then sighed. "I'll let Mischa explain. Matthew, get the 606 inside. Gidget, I want you back at the radio station in case Hilda checks in."

They both nodded. Gidget handed Dominic the backpack with the things she'd brought from their apartment and walking quickly past them. Matthew closed the canopy of the 606 and honked his horn, telling them to get out of the way.

Dominic followed Holland up the ramp, their steps echoing eerily in the Gekko's empty hangar.

Anemone lay curled up on her side underneath the white sheets, her long pink hair spread around almost completely covering the pillow. She had an IV line hooked up to the receptacle on the side of her neck. And it was clear to Dominic, as he looked down at her wrinkled features, clenched jaw, and pressed lips, that she was in a lot of pain.

He had been sitting besides her since coming into the room in the Gekko's infirmary, carefully studying her to determine just how worried he should be. Judging by what Mischa was saying, very. Gulliver was quietly settled in his lap.

Dominc turned his gaze to Mischa, who was standing nearby. "Can't you give her something?"

"I've given her the highest dose of sedatives recommended for her body weight," she said. "I think even that may have been too much. She's clearly hyper-sensitive to medication. Speaking of which..." She looked at the make-up box now placed on the bed.

Dominic nodded. "When did it start?"

"Shortly after you left," Mischa said, picking up the box and peering at the contents. "Her beta waves have been spiking ever since. REM would indicate a deep dream-like state. Her body might be shut down, but her mind is going into overdrive. And, as you can plainly see, it's not a pleasant feeling. Um..."

She was looking at the drugs. She held up one of the little glass bottles and read the label. "Do you know where might have gotten these?"

"No idea." Dominic returned his gaze to Anemone, slowly reaching out to grasp her hand just to let her know he was there. "Black Market probably. What are they?"

"Stimulants commonly believed to be helpful in the treatment of Desperation Illness. They can also be used as anti-depressants. Not very rare or even expensive."

Something sparked in Dominic's mind. "The man that ran Joy Division said that all subjects like Anemone suffered from Desperation Illness." He paused. "I saw them. It's true."

"Maybe there's a correlation," Mischa said speculatively. "Though Desperation Illness has by and large disappeared, we are far from understanding it. However, no new cases have been reported since the Second Summer of Love. Most theoreticians now believe the disease itself might have been deeply linked with or related in some other way to the coralians. It is unlikely that she's suffered some kind of relapse. But more probable is that she wanted the drugs for their mood enhancing effects."

"Are you saying she's depressed?" Dominic said. "If that's the case, why wouldn't she ask to see a doctor?"

Mischa put the little bottle back in its shinny box. "Considering her background, why would she want to?"

She was right. After all the experiments, if there was someone that would never want to see another man in a white coat or be in a sterile environment, it would be Anemone. He still couldn't forget what he'd seen in Warsaw. And he'd only been there briefly. Anemone grew up there, isolated, being worked on like an animal. She had never spoken of it, not a word, and Dominic had not wanted to bring it up. But something that horrible had to haunt her, because the girl she became was the result of all that.

From the start Dominic had thought there was something about her ... something that didn't quite make sense, didn't click. It wasn't until he saw who girls like Anemone were made that he realized--

"There's also another reason," Mischa said. "You."

Dominic looked at her, puzzled. "Me?"

"I am not a psychologist, but she was probably afraid of what you'd think."

There was an empty feeling left in the wake of those word as if something had been taken out from inside his chest. And a kind of awful sinking sensation. Dominic turned his head back to Anemone, now squeezing her hand very tightly.

He had suspected that for a while. To him it was almost obvious. But having someone else say it simply turned that suspicion into a fact. Anemone had hidden this because she thought he wouldn't understand.

Maybe even leave her.

"I ..." he started, wanting to hear himself say it, and hoping that somehow in her troubled mind, far away, Anemone could hear him too. "I would have tried to help her. I would have done anything to help her. I wouldn't have ... left."

It was his fault. In the wind whirl that followed the destruction of coralian control cluster and his rescuing of Anemone, he had never thought that dealing with other people was something she had no experience with. Anemone took people at face value, judged them by what they did and how they treated her, and also by how others had done the same. And then, with so limited experience, she was thrust into a deeply personal and meaningful relationship with him.

Of course she would transfer her fears onto him. Of course she would think he'd leave her. Everything in her experience pointed to that. But Dominic knew that it wasn't just about been left alone.

What Anemone feared was what the scientists would have done; what Dewey would have done, and did try to do near the end when her combat effectiveness waned.

Being replaced.

She had failed to understand, perhaps right from the start; he was not like any of those people. He loved her.

And he could no more replace her than replace his own heart.

Dominic sighed heavily. He leaned forward, gently brushing away long strands of hair from her face and caressing her cheek. Her expression softened, just a bit. Her lips parted, trembling. "Anemone ... I'm sorry."

"Don't be ridiculous," Mischa's annoyed voice reached his ears from behind, but
Dominc didn't turn to look at her. All his attention remained on Anemone.

"Whatever her reasons might have been, and however she or you would like to justify it, the fact remains that she did this to herself," she said coldly. "And until you realize that, then you won't be able to ever help her. Because this isn't your problem. It's hers."

He rounded on her, his face angry. "How can you say that?" he yelled. "This isn't her fault. Do you know what they did to her? How can you blame her?"

Mischa sighed. "I am not blaming her. I am simply saying that ultimate responsibility lies with her."

Dominic glared daggers at her.

He was about to respond when the EEG, the machine that monitored Anemone's brain activity, simply went nuts.

And she clutched his hand with the sort of violent strength born out of desperation, and her eyes shot wide open, utter terror bringing tears around purple irises. And she screamed—a blood curling shriek unlike anything Dominic had ever heard before.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!"

Her whole body buckled violently. Dominic jumped up, sending Gulliver squealing in terror to the ground, and held her down against the bed.

"GET AWAY!" she screamed.

Mischa was by his side immediately, and before he had even realized it she was helping restrain Anemone.

Dominic looked at her, eyes wide. "Do something! Give her some sedatives! Something!"

"I can't!" Mischa yelled back, her voice distorted by the strain of holding down the violently thrashing girl. "Her biochemistry is all screwed up. A higher dose might send her into cardiac arrest."

But Dominic wasn't really listening.

"DO SOMETHING!" he screamed, hearing the panic in his own voice.

"Hold her!" Mischa reached back. She had placed the make-up box on the bed, and it was about to get kicked by Anemone when Micsha grabbed it. She opened it and took out the injector and one of the bottles. She looked at the label for a split second, before quickly inserting it into the loading fitting on the back of the device.

Dominic realized immediately what she was going to do.

"You can't! It's because of that crap that she's like this!"

Mischa moved placed a hand firmly on Anemone's shoulder, pushing against her with all strength. "It might help calm her down. Hold her head."

"What the--" Holland suddenly appeared at the door, attracted by the loud commotion. His was a mixture of annoyance and concern. "What's going on?"

"Holland, help," Mischa said.

Holland rushed to the bed, practically jumping in and wrapping his arms tightly around Anemone who kept trashing around in the sheets.

"Dominic!" Mischa turned her head to the younger man now on the bed with her. "Hold her head. Don't let it move."

There was no time to think. No time to consider if this would work or simply make things worse.

They had to do something. It was better than just watching Anemone like this.

He did as he was told. Working together, the three of them managed to restrain Anemone bodily until she could barely move from the weight placed on top of her as they climbed on top of her. It was enough to allow Dominic to take hold of her head in his hands and hold it firmly in place. For the first he got a good look at her face. Her features were an exaggerated mask of pain, eyes so wide that her strangle purple irises seemed incredibly small, the red stripe running diagonally across them barely visible. And they were brimming with tears.

In the noise and chaos, Dominic had failed to notice that she was crying. "Please, help me ..." she said weakly, her voice breaking apart.

Dominic could only stare. His own eyes shaking.

Mischa pulled the IV line out and moved the injector carefully to the receptor under Anemone's neck, and slowly slipped the needle inside. It made a distinctive slinking noise Dominic had heard many times before.

"Dominic ..." her voice came again, weaker. "Help me..."

He could not look at her anymore. He closed his eyes tightly, only feeling the tears as they began to run down his cheeks. "I'm sorry."

The injector delivered its dose with a quiet hiss.

"Dominic ..."

He did not even notice that Anemone was no longer struggling. That she was now lying still on the bed. Holland and Mischa picked themselves up, exchanging worried glances, but Dominic felt an enormous weight push his head down until it was nestled in the crook of Anemone's neck.

His tears were rubbing off on her soft skin.

"Is she alright?" Holland asked.

Mischa quickly took the girl's pulse. "It's stable."

"What happened?"

"I don't know." Mischa was shaking her head. "With many cases, withdrawal can be tempered by giving the body what it wants. It isn't healthy, but it provides a calming agent in emergency situations. I can't say I understand how her body works, however. At this stage, I'd need to know what Dewey's researchers did to her."

Dominic tried not to listen. Not to think. It was too painful. He heard Anemone's breathing, now having slowed down to virtually nothing. He could feel her heartbeat, just inches away but seeming like miles and miles.

He didn't know if Holland and Mischa were staring at him, and he didn't care. They could think of him whatever they wanted.

"I'm sorry, Anemone," he sobbed. "I couldn't make you happy. I'm sorry."

And then a soft, slender hand lovingly touched his cheek.

"Don't ... cry ..."

It was Anemone's touch.

Dominic opened his eyes. Slowly, he lifted himself on his arms, carefully so as not to let the hand slip away, and looked down. Into a pair of half closed purple eyes. "Anemone?"

"My happiness?" she said, her only a whisper. "The only happiness I've known in a long time ... is being with you. But ... there's no point in being happy ... when you know it can't last."

"Is that why you ..." Dominic began asking, trying not to sound angry or callous, but trailed off when he realized that the questing was simply too painful. He wasn't angry with her. He was just hurt.

"I was ... afraid," Anemone said lethargically before she fell quiet.

Dominic nodded. That was enough. He placed his hand on top of hers, knotting their fingers together. He wanted to kiss her but thought he might embarrass her in front of the others. "I've been worried sick about you."

"Where are we?" she asked with a hint of curiosity.

He looked towards Holland and Mischa. "On board the Gekko. Gekkostate's been helping me take care of you. And Mischa used to look after Eureka. She can look after you too."

With that, Mischa stepped closer, and Dominic noticed her usually stern demeanor had softened. "How are you feeling?"

"I don't know. My head is all woozy," Anemone said. "And I'm thirsty. And very hungry."

"We'll fix you something," Holland said, coming closer. Gulliver seemed to think it was safe now and was trying eagerly to climb onto the bed, clawing at the mattress with his front paws and making soft mewling noises. Holland scooped him up and laid him carefully by Anemone's side. "Pizza alright?"

Mischa made a face. "I really don't think—"

"Pizza sounds good," Anemone said weakly. "Do you have some ice cream?"

Mischa threw up her arms in annoyance. "Fine. Why listen to me? I'm just the only certified medical professional on the ship."

"I think we do." Holland ignored Mischa protest, answering Anemone's question instead. He placed a hand on Dominic's shoulder. "If we happen to run out we'll just have to raid the nearest shop."

Dominic looked up at him then noticed Anemone was pressing her lips together, as if she wanted to say something but was holding back. Holland noticed this as well, and a more serious look came to his face.

A grim expression of regret.

"I've already told this to Dominic," he said, "but it's only fair that I tell you too. I can't ask for forgiveness for what my brother did to you. I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am. For a long time I thought about you only as an enemy without knowing anything about you. That black LFO and all. Eureka was someone I'd known from the beginning. She was a coralian. But you … I can't excuse what happened to you. But what I can do is offer you what I have."

Anemone frowned. "It was you, wasn't it?" she said. "That LFO I shot down for getting in my way. When I was chasing them into the zone. Why would you … need me to forgive you?"

"You did what any other ace would have done. What I would have done if I could have. You were better than me. That doesn't make us even."

"I'm not an ace," Anemone said miserably, and Dominic knew she was remembering loosing TheEnd. "Not anymore."

"You could say that technically neither am I. I've totaled two LFOs and almost did in a third yesterday. That's a pretty bad record for an ace. But there's more to it than that. Being an ace means being willing to sacrifice yourself. It means having the courage to do anything to protect those you love." His face was warm, open as he said this. A change from the hardened, swaggering pilot he usually was. "It means having something to fly for."

And he turned his head.

And Dominic realized then that Talho was standing on the door, a hand draped across her belly, and it hit him. Holland wasn't just talking about Anemone. How long she'd been there was anyone's guess.

"I have that something," Holland said. "And so do you."

Talho was now smiling.

"Very few people truly have that. We are lucky that way, you and me. And those we want to protect." He turned to Anemone again. "Don't worry about anything. I have a feeling that as long as you have Dominic by your side, you will always have a reason to fly."

Dominic was still holding her hand to his face. He felt Anemone tugging but didn't release her, and before he knew it found his own hand being pulled down and pressed against her chest. Just above her heart. "Lucky us, I guess," he said.

Anemone said nothing, but her brooding silence told Dominic she wasn't feeling very lucky at the moment. And he knew what she was thinking from the utterly miserable look on her face.

Holland was just trying to cheer her up through the mutual link he believed they shared—that of LFO pilots. To give her hope. His intentions were good, sincere, but he was ignorant of the reality. Dominic realized that must have been how Anemone listened to him. The honest meaning of his words was lost, because of what she knew better than anyone.

She no longer had any wings.

Hilda peered through the binocular from the high bluff on which she had concealed both herself and the 808. The camouflage net was something that hadn't been used in a long time—possibly since Holland had stolen the Gekko—but came in rather handy in situations where stealth was more important than brawn.

And not everyone could make a living out of smashing up LFOs like Holland.

She looked behind her resentfully, but the camo net made all the dents Holland had put on the 808 invisible. But she knew they were there … marring the surface of the otherwise shinny baby-blue armor.

Putting her feelings on the matter aside for now, Hilda turned her attention back to the binoculars. It was rather self-serving to worry about something like that now. There were much more serious problems around here than a few banged-up bits of metal.

As much as Holland would have liked to argue against Simon's words, relayed to Gekkostate by Dominic, there was no ignoring the fact that the local administration had launched a full military assault with dozens of unarmed civilians in the middle, and something had been amiss since the beginning even if they hadn't been able to quite figure out what.

Now they knew.

Now the full consequence of their actions were coming back to haunt them.

Because through the binoculars Hilda could see what could only be described as a concentration camp.

She had heard about places like this before, but never actually seen one. The buildings were long and gray, more than dozen of them, surrounded by a tall barbed-wire fence and several watchtowers. On the far eastern end there was what looked like an old factory. In fact, the layout was more like of an industrial complex than that of an actual camp. Hilda guessed that was the point—seen from the air it would look like nothing more than a factory, which could be found abundantly in most cities.

Through the binoculars she could only see masses of people, walking about, clustering together in groups. She was too far out to make out faces, or ages.

Mercifully.

Hilda had been feeling put-upon since Holland smashed her LFO, but looking at this she realized that it wasn't simply a sense of annoyance she felt anymore. Her stomach felt empty and yet full, she felt cold even though the noon sun was at the height of its arch.

She had seen a lot, but looking at these people … she felt sick.

Putting down the binoculars, Hilda fought the urge to throw up. It was a fleeting thing, simply filling the gap between shocked outrage and furious anger, between the thought of doing something and the act.

She took a deep, steadying breath, slipping the binoculars back into the pouch hanging over her hip, and looked over at the 808. The radio wasn't working, only hissing and static. She could go back and inform Holland—her mission was only to scout after all—but now that she was here that seemed one of the hardest decisions of her life.

Refugees, criminals, whatever these people were, she had to find out; she had to be sure before she told Holland.

Careful to keep a low profile, she crawled under the camo netting and scrambled up the side of the 808. She turned the small handle just bellow the cockpit and pulled out, opening the storage container located underneath the pilot's seat. From here she withdrew an SMG.

Hilda checked the safety and the magazine to make sure it was full then locked it into place with soft metallic 'click'. She grabbed spares, a few hundred rounds in all, and slipped them into her pouch.

With the SMG now strapped across her shoulders, a look of resolve on her face, Hilda moved out from under the camo net and began working her way down the slope. The shrubbery on the cliffs was thick and green, making both herself and the 808 nearly impossible to see from bellow, but as she moved closer to the camp's perimeter it became thinner.

She had spotted a nice path from above, where the earth sank down into a crevasse that ran parallel to the perimeter for a few hundred meters but eventually curved closer inwards, affording her good cover as she moved. It crossed underneath an access road, and she could see a large metal pipe on the other side, presumably leading inside the perimeter.

It was only when the path came to an end besides the road that she started to think this wasn't such a good idea. Even if she managed to get a better look there was still no way for her to be certain of what was happening. No, to do that she would have to get inside.

Somehow, as sick as it sounded, Hilda had the feeling that getting into a concentration camp was actually harder than it seemed.

She was lying flat on the incline that rose from the path into the road above when she heard a noise, like yelling. She reached into her hip pouch and pulled out her binoculars and turned towards the camp. The gate was perhaps a hundred yards away.

And she saw a young girl running from inside the camp towards the gate. There was more yelling, and the dull hammering of warning shots. The girl kept running. She was holding something in her hand.

Another shot. The girl dropped to the ground, spraying a thick mist of blood as she fell, which she seemed to do in slow motion.

Hilda almost screamed in rage.

Almost.

Because as soon as the girl's body hit the ground, a gigantic bright yellow fireball engulfed it. And everything around it. Hilda looked away from the blinding flash, but the boom was deafening and very painful even at this distance. The ground shook as if from an earthquake. When she looked again, the gate and the guards were no more.

And she heard yelling, hundreds of voices. And the unmistakable sounds of battle.

To be continued…

Notes: Finally, geez! I was starting to think my prereader had gotten caught smuggling chihuahuas across the border or something. Here's chapter three. I shouldn't have to urge you review at this point but you really should because this writing thing is far too time consuming and it's hard to find the time if no one reads it. I mean, that's kinda why Genocide will never get finished—it's done in my head and three reviews for the 30,000 words of the latest two chapters isn't enough incentive for me to bother writing the rest. So yeah, if you like tell me so—if you don't like it, I'll take that too. If you are silently just going to put this in your favorites, the least you can do is say SOMETHING. Peace out.