Greetings! ThrowingTrees and I thank you for taking time to read this story. We would love to hear from you so feel free to fill in that little white box at the bottom. We don't bite.

We will update this story on Saturday, every two weeks - though we have plans to take it down to once a week. Watch this space :)

Enjoy!

Disclaimer; We don't own anything except the story plot and Caylan. If we did own more then that, we'd be funding research into teleportation, time travel and the ability to produce a never ending supply of popcorn. And ice cream.

The Price of a Rose

Prologue

It is cold.

Her eyes are closed from exhaustion. The room around her is now familiar; in an effort to distract herself from the pain she has memorised all its features: the moist, cement ceiling with its green tinge, the walls which are freezing to touch, the wooden bed attached to the wall with two chains, the absence of a blanket or pillow.

The only light in the dark cell, comes from the small, barred window in the door. The door is made of thick steel. The first day she was thrown in here, she tried to kick it open. It didn't work.

She pulls up her knees to hug them. Tears roll down her cheeks and she rocks back and forth. It is a small motion, but it's comforting nonetheless.

Two days she has been suffering. Forty-eight increasingly agonizing hours. They come for her - silent and ghostly. Only ghosts couldn't drag you down corridors, place you in chairs and inject you with liquid that bubbled underneath your skin. Ghosts didn't drag you back, throw you into your cell and leave you to in a helpless heap of agony.

Sure, they feed her, if you can call the food they give her really food. She is pretty sure many dogs and cats are feed better. But why should they feed her properly? They are going to let her die anyway.

That's the only certainty in this place: death. That is one thing she is sure of. She feels it creeping closer with every hour. She knows what will cause it - the tests.

Every time they come, they blindfold her, dragging her with them.

She has started to memorize the way they take her: First they turn left. After fifteen steps, there is a dent in the floor; she has tripped over it more than once. After another five steps, there is a turn to the right and stairs with seventeen steps. They make her wait a second in order to open the door at the top of the stairs. It opens with a loud beep.

After they pass through that door, they walk through what she thinks is a hallway, though she isn't sure. It is long though. About twenty or twenty-five steps there is another door to go through, this one they pause at and she hears several bleeping sounds. She assumes they are entering a code into a keypad. The door slides open and she wonders what the code is.

When they enter the room behind that last door they take off her blindfold. She would much rather have it left on - the sterile white walls are enough to give her the shivers. They lead her to a chair, and strap her to it.

And then a woman, dressed in a starched lab coat, approaches her with the needle. The injection burns like scorching lava entering her veins. But she is getting used to it now. Pain has always been a companion. Now with every injection it is decreasing slightly - and this terrifies her.

After that they bring her back, and she passes out in her cell. But even that is improving.

How do normal people cope with this? she wonders. How can normal people live with the feeling of your body dying all around you. How can they ignore the feeling of every little fibre in their body, breaking down till they disappear?

I'm not a human, I shouldn't feel this. She rubs her knees and wipes away the tears from her cheek. She leans back a bit against the stone wall behind her, but sits back up quickly again, because the stones are wet and cold.

Why will they not kill me right now? she asks herself. Why don't they kill me? She gives a short laugh because she never thought she would ever ask that question. They don't have any reason to keep me alive.

They know Logan is not coming, she clenches her jaw and wishes that the tears would stop. Oh my sweet grumpy Logan. I miss you so much. I miss your smirk, and the way you grumble when they don't have your favourite beer. I even miss those horrible cigars and the way they smell.

She can't stop the sobs - deep and racking - when she thinks of him. She hugs her knees closer - as if they could take her heart-ache away.

It's just too much, she thinks, how much longer can I bear this?

No! she tells herself, I can't give up now. Someone has to avenge Logan. He is ... was ... everything to me. I can't give up now!

She dries her tears, and puts her feet back on the floor. I have to stay strong. I just need to oppose my thoughts. Distract my mind from the pain.

She looks around, and wondered if the walls would speak and tell stories about the lives it had encountered; if it had ears and a mouth. Maybe I should tell the wall my story. So that one day, if they find a way to make a wall speak; it can tell it when I'm long gone.

"Hey...wall" Oh great...even I think I'm starting to lose my mind now. Talking to a wall...really Caylan? she shakes her head and rolls her eyes. "Ah...who cares..."

"Hey wall," she starts again, "I might as well introduce myself. My name is Caylan. I am what they call a mutant. I think you've probably seen more than your fair share of my type," she gestures to the walls, "in here."

Deciding to make herself more comfortable before she continues, she lays down with her hands behind her head for support. "So I'm a mutant. Yep," she nods her head, "a mutant. Even mutants have stories, hopes and dreams." Her eyes grow distant with memories, "And, and love." she adds in a low whisper.

"Did you know that there is a story that reflects my life?" she gives a bittersweet smile, "It isn't a pretty one - it has a horrible ending. Mine is different though; in the legend love is the reason it all goes wrong. In my life," she adds, thoughtfully, "it isn't."

"I guess I should start at the beginning ... like every story. Isn't it funny how stories don't start with everything going smoothly." Her eyes study the wall, "They always start with everything going wrong ..."