Title: How To Save A Life

Author: Nagi Kokuyo

Fandom: Secret Saturdays

Characters: Mainly Zak and Francis, but others too

Rating: High T, maybe M

Warnings: mostly AU, child abuse, bad language, attempted suicide

Disclaimer: Read below:

Fan: an enthusiastic devotee, follower, or admirer of… Fiction: a class of literature comprising works of imaginative narration, especially in prose form. Fanfiction: fiction written by fans of a TV series, movie, etc., using existing characters to develop new plots

In other words, I OWN NOTHING! (Except the story itself. This I actually own since I wrote it…but that's no reason to sue!)

Summary: When the Secret Scientists invade the Organization, they discover something no one was expecting. Now it's up to Zak to save Francis before it's too late. Zak & Francis friend fic

A/N: Please review! Tell me what you think, and CONSTRUCTIVE criticism welcomed! This is my first time writing something like this, so it's kind of a test for me. This story was inspired by Namorgasm's artwork on deviantArt, especially The Only Hope For Me Is You (which can be found at http :/ browse. Deviantart .com /?qh= §ion =&global=1&q= The+only+hope+for+me+is+you #/d3aho5t once you remove the spaces)

How to Save a Life, Part I

Zak fidgeted in his seat yet again; it had been over three hours since his parents and Doyle had left for the meeting with the Secret Scientists.

The air, cold and eerily still, smelled of antiseptic and death. The walls of the room were faded, streaked where they'd been cleaned with bleach; ditto on the floor. There was plenty of room to move about, but nowhere to get comfortable; but then, comfort wasn't needed. The chair he was sitting in was stiff and hard, the same way it had been for the past three and something-minutes. On the side table next to him, a tray of food sat ignored; the sandwich had gone stale long ago, about the same time the water got warm and the fruit dried. He hadn't even looked at it when a nurse brought it in; his stomach twisted at the thought of food. The room was well lit, but it didn't make a difference to him. Outside, it was a pleasant day, in stark contrast to the environment inside.

They'd found him two days ago—half-conscious, covered in dried blood, and unresponsive—when the Secret Scientists invaded the Organization's base. During the mostly-annual Summit, where every active (and a few retired) Secret Scientists gathered in one place for a conference, the Secret Scientists had gotten an anonymous tip that the Organization was working in human genetic mutation and engineering (both of which were strictly and explicitly outlawed by the United Nations, from which the Organization received its funding). They never would find out who sent it. Even though his parents (and, admittedly, every other S.S. who could get a word in edgewise) had flat-out told him to STAY THERE, he'd managed to stow away in the Saturday Airship supply closet and by the time they found him, it was too late to turn back.

As it turns out, it was a good thing he'd gone along. Zak had been the one to find Francis, and it was an image he would never forget; the memory of opening the door and finding a half-dead Francis would haunt him for the rest of his life, wake him up in the middle of the night.

The pale-as-death teen was lying on his side, eyes glazed and unfocused, and he was barely breathing. He was covered in blood, and looked like hell had run him over with a garbage truck. His eyes were half-opened—his pupils didn't dilate and he didn't blink when Zak waved his hand in front of his face or snapped his fingers—and they were glazed over. He didn't respond when Zak called his name or shook him. Zak dug his index and middle fingers into Francis's neck, searching franticly for a pulse; after a few terrifying, heart-stopping moments of nothing, he felt it. Weak and shuddering, but he felt the pulse against his fingers.

Zak had started shouting for his parents, for Doyle, for anyone to come and help. When they did, his mom did a quick, spur-of-the-moment examination, and declared that they had to get Francis to a hospital five minutes ago. Doyle scooped him up as carefully and gently as he could, but the movement jostled Francis's arm. The agent had gasped, eyes going wide and pupils shrinking to the size of pinpricks before rolling back in his head as he passed out. Doyle had taken him back to the airship and set him up in the infirmary, and Zak had sat watch in case the agent woke up for the ride back to the Headquarters in the Sahara Desert (or, rather, under the Sahara Desert). Francis had stirred a few times, but never woken.

"…I don't know if you can hear me, but I have to say something," Zak said softly. His voice echoed in the quiet room, bouncing back at him off the walls.

The beeping of the heart monitor was his only response; Zak hadn't expected anything less. The doctors had told him that it could be awhile before Francis woke up, if he ever did.

He couldn't deny that the other teen looked terrible—almost as terrible as he felt. Zak stared at the tube running from Francis's nose to a machine, the IV in his right arm, the fifteen stitches in his side, the brace on his left wrist, and the bandages wrapped around his too-pale skin. Zak watched his chest rise, fall, and rise again, and wondered if it was really Francis breathing or just the machines giving him life.

The doctors had confirmed what Drew first said—five fractured ribs (two on the left, three on the right), a concussion, internal bleeding, a fractured collarbone, one nasty gash in his side that needed to be stitched up, a plethora of cuts, scrapes, and bruises, and his left wrist was fractured. He was also malnourished, as if he hadn't been eating properly for some time. It was a minor miracle that he was alive; the doctor said that he should have died from his beating.

"Whoever did this," the doctor had said, "wanted this young man dead very badly."

The IVs were delivering a nutrient and vitamin cocktail that would start replenishing those his body had lost, and though it would help with the pain, the doctors refused to give Francis any sedatives however minor for fear that he would never wake up if they did.

A few times, the constant beeping had faltered, and each time, Zak had frozen on the spot, waiting for the crucial indication that Francis's heart was still beating to even out. Each time he was certain that it would cease, that the younger's body would give out and the agent (ex-agent?) would be lost forever into the abyss of Hades.

"Francis…if you can hear me in there, you need to know something. Epsilon, the other agents, the scientists—everyone in the Organization has been taken into custody. The United Nations is trying the entire Organization for crimes against humanity. If they lose the trial, they'll get life in prison. Epsilon will never be able to hurt you ever again, okay? Ever."

Zak took a breath—a long, shuddering breath that caught in his throat—as he tried to calm himself. He didn't understand why he was so worried about the other boy. There had never been anything more than animosity between them; they couldn't stand each other. The only similarities were that they were both kids growing up and living in the world of myths, cryptids, and secrets. Francis had been, Zak assumed, trained as an agent since he was born; Zak had grown up tagging along on missions with his parents. But…they did have something else in common. Back in Istanbul, they had connected, Zak was sure of it; he'd felt it, the hatred bleeding away to be replaced with understanding and grudging respect. He wondered if Francis had felt it too.

Zak felt so helpless right then. He was a Saturday, and things always worked out for a Saturday, but he couldn't do a damn thing to save Francis. All he could do was sit around and wait. And pray. He'd done a lot of praying. He didn't know what deity he believed in, and he didn't really care as long as Francis pulled through. Over two days since the clone had been admitted and not a sign of recovery. Not a twitch, not a murmur, not a single smartass comment about Zak's personal hygiene. Nothing. Just the sounds from the machines and Zak's own muttering, and even that was starting to get annoying.

The sound of rustling cloth drew him out of his musings, and his head shot up. Yellow eyes looked at him blearily. Bleary and unfocused, but open.

"…Z-Zak?"

Well, what do you think? Review, favorite, alert, etc. Let me know if you see any mistakes or sentences that look like they weren't finished; I skipped around when I wrote this, so it's possible that I missed something when I read back over it.

~Nagi