A/N: The narrative of this story jumps back and forth between third person and first person, the first person perspective being Zaida's.

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Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hellboy or BPRD characters. They belong to Mike Mignola, as you all well know.

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In the BPRD's infirmary the small figure of the unconscious woman lies on an exam bed, ragged clothes exchanged for a simple hospital gown. Her black hair is cropped close to her scalp. In her baggy street clothes it is easy to mistake her for an adolescent boy.

Every inch of her body, both exposed and concealed beneath the gown, is covered in a webwork of scars.

"It's not just external," Abe explains to Manning and his fellow agents, "Her X-rays are a fog of scar tissue. Every single internal organ has suffered multiple traumas over a long-term period, and all her bones show signs of healed multiple fractures."

"Christ," Manning exclaims, "What the hell happened to her?"

The fish-man shrugs. "Everything. Blunt force trauma, lacerations, exposure to all sorts of toxic materials and diseases. This woman should be dead a thousand times over."

"But she's…alright?" Liz asks, uncertain.

"Far as I can tell, she's the picture of health. Amazing, isn't it?" This coming from a man sporting gills and webbed hands.

Hellboy grunts. "Looks like she was run through a meat grinder." The others grimace at his tasteless remark.

"Any idea when she might wake up?" Manning asks.

"I can't say for sure," Abe replies, "I'm assuming she'll regain consciousness once her body recovers from…whatever it is she did to Horne."

"She healed him," Liz breathes, awed by the strange woman's power, so different from her own dreadful talent.

Abe shakes his head. "More like she absorbed his injury, then healed herself."

"Either way," Manning says, "She'll make one hell of an asset."

"Assuming she agrees to join the BPRD," the fish-man clarifies, much to the supervisor's annoyance.

"Make damn sure she does."

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I lose consciousness in a dark, filthy alley. I wake in a hospital bed. Crisp sheets, white walls, in I.V. drip in the back of my left hand. For a brief moment panic sets in, but then I realize there are no straps holding me down, nothing in the I.V. but saline. I sit up, pull the needle from my hand. The tiny puncture closes instantly. I pull the thin blanket aside, swing my feet down from the narrow bed. The floor tiles are cold against my bare feet. I am dressed in a hospital gown. It's amazing how something can be both immodest and frumpy at the same time. I pull the fabric aside to find a line of new scar tissue spanning my stomach. As I watch, the angry red begins to fade, the swelling less pronounced. Won't be long before it's indistinguishable from the rest of the mess.

The door opens, startling me. I let the gown fall back into place and turn on shaky legs to confront my visitor. It's the fish-man. He's dressed in close-fitting shorts and a matching black tank top. His exposed skin gleams wetly in the harsh fluorescent light, indigo stripes over aqua-blue. Clear membranes slide over his large eyes, blink-blink. "You're awake!" he exclaims as if delighted and smiles. There's a thin gap between his otherwise smooth white…well, let's call them teeth. For some reason, I find this minor imperfection disarming. "Hello. My name's Abraham Sapien, but you can call me Abe. You're in the infirmary at the Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense."

There's a dozen questions I could ask, but the first one that springs into my mouth is, "What are you?"

His smile takes a wistful cast. "I don't know. I have no memory from before I was found." His head tilts, regarding me with the same open curiosity I show him. I know I should feel self-conscious, but I don't. Maybe it's because I see none of the revulsion and fear I've come to expect from people who see me. Or maybe it's because I don't know how to read expressions on his alien face.

"So, there are no others like you?" I ask.

He shrugs, a surprisingly elegant gesture on him. "None that I'm aware of. As far as anyone knows, I'm unique." He spreads his webbed hands. "But there are other unique individuals here, such as Hellboy, whom you've already seen in action, and Liz Sherman. She's a pyrokinetic. That means--"

"She starts fires with her mind." The corners of my mouth turn up. "I read the Stephen King novel."

He chuckles softly. "What's your name?"

I've used so many aliases over the years, but when that gentle voice asks me, I respond with honesty. "Zaida."

"Zah-yee-dah," he repeats slowly, as if to taste each syllable. "How long have you had this ability, Zaida?"

"Ability?"

"To heal."

I look away, smooth my rough hands over the gown's flimsy fabric. "Too long."

The silence stretches between us. The fish-man, Abe, is patient. He waits for me to break it. I finally do. "Am I allowed to leave?"

"Of course," he assures me, indicating our surroundings with a graceful wave of his webbed hand, "This isn't a prison. You're free to go whenever you wish. But we would like you to consider staying for a while, so that we might learn more about your ability--"

"No." I meet his dark eyes with my own, uncompromising.

"…okay." I've piqued his curiosity. I can read that much in his expression. My eyes wander to the hospital bed, I.V. rack beside it. Memories of other white rooms, other beds surface in my mind. This place is stifling.

"I'd like my clothes, please."

Abe nods, strides to a cabinet and retrieves my clothing, cleaned and neatly folded. I'm surprised they bothered to keep my old clothes at all, but grateful. They may be ugly, but they're sound. Just like me. As he hands over the garments his fingers accidentally brush against mine and I jerk away from his touch as if burned. Abe flushes a deeper shade of blue. "Sorry."

I shake my head, equally embarrassed. "It's alright. I'm just…not comfortable with being touched."

Something flickers across his face and I wonder if he thinks I've insulted him. I almost stammer an explanation, that I react that way when anyone touches me, but he backs away and says, "I'll leave you to get changed."

"That's alright," I say a little too quickly, "You can stay. Just, y'know, turn around."

Abe blinks in surprise. "Are you sure?"

I swallow, nod. Irrational as it is, I'm afraid if he walks out that door it might never open again. Besides, I think sardonically, it's not as if my virtue's in any danger. With a slight shrug, Abe turns away and crosses his arms. As I shed the gown and begin to slip into my familiar clothes I hear him clear his throat. "So, if you'd like, one of our agents can give you a lift home."

His offer brings me a sense of relief mixed with suspicion. "I'm between homes at the moment." I pull up my pants, squeeze my feet into my tattered sneakers and tie the laces. When he hears the faint double clomp of my soles against the floor, he turns. Clad in well-worn clothes, hood thrown back, I know I look more boyish than ever. "I wouldn't mind a ride, though," I say.

"Very well. But first," he ventures a few steps closer and I realize just how tall he is when he peers down at me, perhaps searching my scarred visage for any signs of discomfort from his nearness, "could I interest you in a tour? Manning wants me to do everything possible to persuade you into staying. He's technically my boss, so I have to humor him." He smirks, and I'm charmed in spite of myself.

I tilt my head and return the fish-man's mischievous grin with one of my own. "Is that the only reason you're offering?"

Abe shakes his head. "No. I'm also rather enjoying your company. And…I'm curious about you." He seems almost shy when he admits this.

I smile, feeling the scars on my face stretch. "The feeling's mutual. Alright, then."

Grinning, Abe gestures to the doorway with a gallant sweep of his arm. "Shall we?"

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This place is strange, wondrous, and far bigger than I could've imagined. Some of the less harmful artifacts Abe and his friends have collected over the years are displayed in glass cases like relics in a modern museum. Weird sounds reach my ears, sometimes haunting, sometimes frightening, but always far-off. Abe gives no reaction to them, just prattles on cheerfully on this and that. His enthusiasm amuses me. He seems to really enjoy what he does. I suppose he doesn't have much of a choice, considering.

I'm introduced to various agents, stony-faced men and women whose names I forget as soon as they're uttered. I'm also formally introduced to Abe's friends, who are impossible not to remember. The demonic Hellboy, the tip of his serpentine tail waving like a contented cat's, and Liz Sherman, the troubled pyrokinetic. I can see the years of friendship and shared dangers in the way the they interact. Three misfits who know that, when things go south, they can count on no one but each other to get through it. At one point Hellboy casually throws his left arm over Liz's shoulders and she leans against his bulk with a trusting smile. I feel a stab of envy at this display. That someone as monstrous-looking as Hellboy…

Abe continues the tour so smoothly it takes me a moment to realize just how abruptly we've parted from his friends. It's almost as if he senses my discomfort at their affectionate display.

He saves the best for last.

"And this is the library." He ushers me in with a sweep of his arm. I gasp. It's the most beautiful room I've ever seen. Oak shelves stand floor to ceiling, filled with row upon row of books. Leather wingback chairs are arranged beside reading lamps which add their soft glow to the chandelier's. The center of the floor is dominated by a tall statue perched upon a craggy peak, driving a long spear into the snakelike body of a hissing dragon. The air smells of leather, aged wood, and old paper. Everything is earth tones, reds and golds, which makes the far wall stand out all the more. My tattered sneakers trod upon the expensive carpeting as I approach the soft blue glow. The light ripples like magic and it occurs to me that what I'm looking at is a massive water tank. I turn to Abe who watches my actions silently.

"Yours?"

He nods, his expression a mixture of pride and unease. I understand. Like my scars, the tank is a reminder of how other he really is.

Enthralled by the soft swirl of light, I extend a tentative hand and run my scarred fingertips over the glass. It is warm to the touch. The water must be heated. "How long can you breathe out of the water?"

"Used to be only a few hours without my breathing apparatus," he replies, "but I've been working on acclimating myself to air. I can go several hours without much distress." He shrugs. "To be honest, there's no physiological reason why I shouldn't be able to breathe on land indefinitely."

"And psychologically?"

Another shrug followed by a rueful smile. "I don't feel as pressured in the water. I suppose it's because nobody can really follow me there."

"Not the happy member of the BPRD you seem to be?" I quirk a jagged eyebrow, only half teasing.

"This is not what Manning would want you to hear," he sighs, staring into his tank with a somberness he hasn't displayed before. "Sometimes…during one of my assignments that takes me to the ocean, I think I might dive as deep as I can go and just never come back." I can tell he is startled by this confession, perhaps always half-formed at the back of his mind and never uttered until now.

I smile wistfully. "I've always loved the ocean. I learned to swim even before I could walk. It's in the blood. My father was a fisherman…" My voice trails off as old memories surface; images I haven't thought about in many years. The sandy beach and crystal blue water, golden sunlight beating down from a sapphire sky. My father drags his dugout ashore, clad only in a simple breechclout. His teeth flash white against his bronze skin and his hair flies about in a wild mane as the breeze rushes in.

I shake myself out of my reverie and notice Abe blink-blink his eyes and jerk his outstretched hand to him, holding it against his chest as if ashamed. I wonder what this odd behavior means. Instead of asking, I wander over to the nearest bookshelf and let my eyes rove over the spines. Some of them are leather-bound, some fabric, all old, their spines creased from use. I'm glad they're not just for show; there's nothing more wasteful than a book that's never read. Some of the titles I recognize; old classics like Pride and Prejudice, Don Quixote, and The Stars My Destination. But there are many others I've never heard of, but sound occultish by their titles; Bestiary of Mythical Animals, The Book of the Golden Dawn, and Tobin's Spirit Guide, just to name a few. None of it's arranged in any particular order that I can tell. I grab a volume at random and, rather than try one of the leather chairs, lower myself onto the carpet and open the book atop my crossed legs. From the corner of my eye I see Abe fold his long body until he sits beside me.

"Can I ask you something?" his quiet voice intrudes as I try to focus on a woodcut of two small children dancing on the tongue of a giant yawning lion.

I shrug.

"You don't have to answer."

"Alright," I murmur.

"How did you heal Agent Horne?"

"I don't know." I turn the page. Another woodcut, this time of a semi-naked chubby woman bathing in a stream while demons peep over a nearby hedge.

Unperturbed, he tries again by rephrasing the question, "What did you do to him?"

I straighten a corner of the page, its edges as soft as cotton. "I kissed him."

"Kissed him?"

"I don't know why it happens. I see someone hurt or sick, I kiss them, and I take their hurt or sickness into me." I sigh and look up from the page, no longer bothering to pretend interest in the book. Instead I watch the light dancing in the watery tank, casting strange runes on the carpet, walls, and ceiling. "Sometimes I hear their thoughts, people they love, old regrets, fears. Mostly fears. I always have nightmares when that happens."

After a moment's thoughtful silence, Abe tells me, "I have the same problem, sometimes."

Now I look at him, surprised and more than a little wary. "You're telepathic?"

Abe shakes his head. "Not exactly. I just…know things."

"Uhuh. And what do you know about me?" I'm caught between curiosity and mild paranoia. Has he been rummaging in my thoughts without me knowing?

He's quick to reassure me. "Very little. I try not to pick up anything without permission."

"Very gentlemanly of you." I grimace at my words, knowing they've probably come off as sarcastic. Abe smiles to show he's not offended and I catch another glimpse of that little gap between his teeth. I shut the book, reach up to slide it back in place on the shelf, then draw up my knees and wrap my arms around them. A yawn pulls my uneven lips into an O and my stomach gives a faint growl. Abe's smile broadens a fraction.

"Hungry and sleepy. C'mon," he rises in a single fluid movement and extends a hand to me, "I'll show you to the cafeteria."

I ignore his proffered hand and pull myself up to my feet, swaying only a little. Healing takes a lot out of me. Ideally, I'd be holed up in some out of the way shelter while my body finishes recovering. But that's not going to happen this time. "Thanks," I say and follow the tall fish-man out the door.