Story title: Helix: Coma Black
Pairing: Hellion / X-23
Rating: M
Universe: AU...of an AU! More specifically, Helix AU.
NOTE: This is a standalone story, but is part of my Helix series. The contents of this story are what Laura Kinney dreams during her coma. It is recommended that you
read from Helix 2 (Another version of the Truth) onwards to 4, otherwise you will not understand who some of the characters are (the Shrimps, for instance--they are OC's).
However, if you are already reading that series, it's optional to read this, as the events in this story do not affect canon Helix at all. Enjoy! ~onelildustbunni
-1-
Before.
The young woman in the lab coat walked briskly down the corridor, ignoring the moaning on either side. She had heels—high, stiletto boots—and the clicks echoed in the dim light.
Click, click, click, click, click…
Keys rattling.
The woman looked down her slightly beaky nose with a serious expression. What she was looking at was no laughing matter—a human, or the remains of a
human. Genesis #12B. A vague face in a puddle of gelatinous goo.
"Damnit." The woman leaned on the doorframe of the cell and looked down at the failed project in frustration. Nudged it with the toe of her boot.
She composed herself after a moment and closed the door, then turned over the clipboard-on-a-chain and scribbled a note. Experiment #12B failed, please sterilize stall ASAP.
Click, click, click, click, click…
…
Before.
"Dr. Kinney!" A younger man in a labcoat, with short blond hair and thick-rimmed glasses. Looking down on her, his arms folded. She looked up from her laptop.
"This had better be important, Quire. I'm working on a particularly complicated part of 14Z's genome. If this is about the damn vending machine again I'll bust your nuts myself."
Quire looked offended. "Hardly. This is about project X—"
Dr. Kinney straightened in her chair. "I told you not to go near X, Quire. That is strictly off limits for an underqualified—"
"That's it!" Quire snapped. "I'm not your assistant, Kinney—I'm your equal, if not even your senior. You'd never have been assigned this project if—"
"And I will do far better at this project if I am not constantly harassed," Dr. Kinney said coldly. "Please take that into consideration…before I am forced to make you consider it."
"Oho." Quire grinned. "I thought you'd want to know that your little project is having breathing problems, at this moment. Someone's been playing with the respirator settings again."
Dr. Kinney rose to her feet with an alarmed expression, then swept out of the room.
…
"He seems restless," Dr. Quire observed, later that day. "Serum 3-30 is definitely having some effect. I'd recommend another 2-week course of daily doses…then trials…and
then placing bets that 15N is our first success."
Dr. Kinney's green eyes were cold. Crystalline. "Continue with this trial. My project still shows the most promise, of all of them…but it's good to have back-up plans. In case."
Dr. Quire made a hrumpf noise. "You and your project, Kinney. Not good to put all your eggs in one basket. It would be a shame if someone were to cut the cord—by accident."
"Mmm." Dr. Kinney made a note on her clipboard. "What a convenient little accident that would be."
Her associate smiled slightly.
She turned and left the room.
…
"MMMMMMMMMMMMMM!" The man, project A-24, arched against his restraints, the whites of his eyeballs showing in fear as Dr. Kinney approached him, syringe in
hand. Squirting a few cc's for dramatic effect.
"Kimura, restrain him," Dr. Kinney instructed her nurse, a bio-synthetic mutant. One of the first, and in Dr. Kinney's experiment, one of the last. Hopefully.
Kimura took hold of the man's arm and hefted it into Dr. Kinney's reach. In the nurse's invulnerable hands, the man could not budge, making her a prime choice for
'injection clamping', as Dr. Kinney referred to it.
"There, there." Dr. Kinney's voice was soft and soothing as she injected liquid death into the man's shoulder. "You should be proud…society gave you a second chance after all."
The subject through back his head, biting his gag as he convulsed.
"Oh, dear—allergic reaction." Dr. Kinney stepped back; veins were coursing up the man's neck, fast. "I'm afraid this may be messy, Kimura…"
Moments later, there were several sickening pops, and Kimura released the man's flesh, disgusted. Dr. Kinney reached over and slid the eyelids shut over what remained of his face.
"Most unfortunate. I was really hoping this one would work out…sheet, Kimura. I'm pronouncing him dead."
A few minutes later, Kimura left the room, indifferent to what had just occurred. She'd been programmed (with a brain microchip) to act in the facility's best interests,
no matter what happened.
Dr. Kinney paused, her hand on the light switch. Leaving the sheeted body for janitorial to deal with, to prepare for the next round—organ harvesting and biosynthetic
replication (or cloning).
She hesitated. Then she mouthed the two most dangerous words in the world.
"I'm sorry."
…
Now.
Click, click, click…zip, thump, zip, thump. The boots hit the floor and Laura's toes arched into the carpet, enjoying the cushiony feel. She sighed, hung up her pea coat on the
knob, then moved into the kitchen, and touched the 'play' button on her answering machine (having noticed the light was blinking.
"You have…five…new messages," the machine told her.
"Beep!
This is Cecilia Reyes, M.D., director of departments, please give me a call at—" Skip.
"Beep!
This is a message for…Laura…Kinney…please call 1-800—" Skip.
"Beep!
Laura? Honey? Is—is this your machine? Please give me a call…we shouldn't let something as petty as genes get between us—you can choose your friends, but not your
family—and family is the one thing that—"
Skip, definitely.
"Beep!
Westcoast bank solutions LTD. calling for a Ms. Laura—" Skip. Not in the mood.
"Beep!
"Dr. Kinney? I was given this number by director Shaw's secretary, after previous attempts to contact you failed. I need to speak with you regarding a security issue. Please give
me a call at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, you should know the number." Pause—this one had been calling recently; she usually heard him out, because she liked his voice. She
never called back though.
Laura pressed the rewind button so the tape would record over itself. She preferred to keep a ridiculously old device with actual cassette tapes, allowing her the security of
knowing no body could tap into her voicemail account.
She folded her arms and looked at the answering machine. One little box—so powerful—it could record secrets that would rip the world apart, split it down the very core. If she
just got drunk and whispered to it all night.
She had done it already.
Laura thought of the tapes that only she knew about—under a floorboard in a distant building. Brand-new—sure not to be demolished or renovated anytime soon. Hopefully she'd
be dead by the time those tapes got out.
…
Before.
In the Jacuzzi tub, finally relaxing in hot water. And bubbles. Washing dead cells out of her hair—not her dead cells, the cells of yet another failed potential which had literally
blown up in her face from too much internal pressure.
Laura squirted shampoo into her palm. Perfumed. Normally she didn't like scented soaps due to her mutation of enhanced olfactory senses; however, anything was
better than the current smell of her hair.
And the formaldehyde scent that lingered in her nostrils. Even in death her test subjects were not allowed to rest in piece. Rest in pieces, perhaps.