AN: Whee, here it is folks, the sequel to My Name is Quinn
Disclaimer: Quinn and the other OCs are kind of mine but nothing else is
Warnings: Oh gosh (get comfortable folks) Slavery, abuse, child abuse, torture, langauge, graphic violence, implied sexual abuse.
This might end up being tweaked before the story is over - I'm far mrore of a perfectionist now than when I started the first installment and updates might be slow as I'm at uni now but I'll try my best, I hope you enjoy.
"Quinn?!"
That name again. My name. Me. That name is only thing I've had to hold on to through months of torture in the place of the man I took it from. And I guess that means it's not my name really, is it? I'm a number, a statistic…a thing. A dying, broken thing at that.
There's a woman kneeling down beside me, her soft hands tracing gently along my bruised temples. If I had the strength I'd try to move away but I it's effort enough to open my eyes and stare into hers. I'm not supposed to look anyone in the eye, Nirrti taught me that, but I'm bleeding and dying and a whisper of a memory of a man I'm supposed know urges me to go out fighting. So I raise my eyes, jet black and defiant, to meet the white glowing ones I know will be staring at me.
And then I know I'm dying because what I'm seeing isn't what I should be seeing. The eyes that meet mine are blue, not white, framed by cropped blonde hair and set in the face of a woman I only know from memories and dreams. I should know her, it's important, but I'm bruised and broken and there's so much blood I'm only sure of one thing.
"'I'm…dying" I tell her, because I know I need to speak. This is an important moment and I need to do something so I tell her the only thing I know.
"No…no you're not. Hang in there, come on, Quinn…"
The woman is talking, saying the name that isn't mine over and over but I don't know how to hang in there when I'm lying in a pool of my own blood and drifting away faster than I can breathe.
"Oh God…"
An anguished sob reaches my ears from what feels like a hundred miles away and the emotion in it is a change from the malice and lust I'm used to. And all of a sudden I want to stay. I don't' want to be hurt and broken; I want to live because now I know why I held on. I stayed alive because I fell in love and even if my concussed mind can't figure out what that means through the pain and blood loss, I know it's important.
I try to grab the hand currently running through my hair with my non-broken arm, the one that isn't chained to the wall and broken in five places, but all I manage is to twitch my fingers pathetically. It's enough though as this new person moves to hold it gently, cradling it in her own. There are more hands around me now but I focus on this one because I'm dying and she's important and that's enough for me. It has to be enough.
His name is Quinn. That's what they told me. His name is Quinn, he's six years old and he's my clone from another reality, genetically accelerated through his childhood and moulded through abuse and experience into the perfect soldier.
Except he doesn't look so perfect now. There's blood everywhere, fresh, crimson blood, so striking that the pale figure in the middle of it all is only the second thing I notice. When I do finally set eyes on him however my head spins and for a second I'm convinced it must be me down there and I'm having an out of body experience. It's one thing to see a photo of someone who looks like you but seeing him there in three dimensions is startling.
I snap back to reality when Major Carter gasps in shock, rushing forward to the man she fell in love with and I begin to asses the situation. The blood is indication enough that it's bad but as I look closer I'm even more horrified. His right wrist is manacled to the wall, high enough so that his arm, clearly broken and dislocated, is extended. He must be in agony from that alone.
"Help him!"
Major Carter's desperate and pleading tone is a vast contrast from her usual professional and controlled manner and it shocks me into reacting but, if I'm honest, I don't even know where to start. Janet, my fiancé, is already kneeling down beside him, alongside Major Carter, checking his vitals and trying to stem the bleeding. Her tone is anxious but controlled as she barks orders to Lieutenant Renshaw of SG-18 but I can tell, from experience, that she's simply repressing her feelings for the moment.
Colonel O'Neill is supervising as Teal'c cuts through the cuff around Quinn's injured wrist whilst Colonel Murray readies the stretcher and all I can do is stand and watch what must be pretty much a replay of what happened when I was found, four months ago, in the same position.
As I watch them move the battered body of my clone onto the stretcher and hear the whoosh as the Stargate activates, all I can do is pray that this version of myself will survive the after-effects of Nirrti's torture too.
AN: Just a short prologue, other chapters will be longer. You can catch updates on my LJ if you don't want to wait for me to post them to I hope this wasn't too bad and I'm not too rusty at writing Quinn. Thanks for your time.