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iv.
Rex must've dropped off for a little bit, because the next thing he knows he is blinking open his eyes.
Rubbing at them, he finds that a few tears are even still wet on his face. He frowns.
He doesn't want to do anything, doesn't want to move even though his body aches for a different position, so he waits, closes his eyes again.
Everything hurts. Mercifully it isn't like the desert – no stinging pains or worrisome jolts, only a dull hurt fading into the background. All of that can be ignored, anyway. The raw, hollow feeling in his chest is the pain that throbs relentlessly.
Rex licks chapped lips and attempts to curl into a more comfortable position. He isn't waking up, he's going back to sleep, back to comforting unconsciousness...
Without his permission thoughts begin to surface in his mind – deep musings that are unfit for such a sleepy brain.
They swirl and drift up, breaking into any hope of going back to sweet sleep, and they kick his reluctant head into gear.
As if someone else is controlling him, his eyes slowly pop open. The white, tall ceiling glares back down.
His name is Rex. Yesterday he was lost in the desert. Yesterday he almost died.
Yesterday was bad, he thinks with a shudder.
Today, though, he works for an organization called Providence. Today he is alive. He has something called 'amnesia'.
And he is alone.
The same uncomfortable jolt as before shoots through him, making his eyes well up and his good hand clenches tightly. Then he stops, blinks.
The doctor made no mention of family, he realizes suddenly. But he also didn't say that Rex didn't have one.
None of his aches compare to the raw, tender hope that sprouts in his chest at that thought. It's beautiful and excruciating and wonderful and awful, all at the same time.
He could have a family; he could have parents. The John guy wasn't exactly super helpful or specific, so that means it could be a real possibility. It's such a gorgeous idea that it gives him strength to finally sit up.
"Maybe..." He clears his throat at his creaky voice. "Maybe that's who he went to call."
Excitement swells in him as he tests out the words carefully.
"My...my family."
It's such an incredible thought that he can't hold back a shaky grin, and decides he needs to find out for sure. He needs to go ask John himself. Because honestly, if he sits there or tries to go back to sleep, the paralyzing loneliness will eat him alive, and he needs to know.
He can't be just 'Rex' – he has to have a last name, a family. He has to have someone out there who misses him.
Getting up proves to be much more challenging than expected, though. Rex can't actually remember the phrase, 'easier said than done', one of many things he doesn't know right now – but in a few seconds, he learns how it feels.
Sitting up is difficult and stretches ab muscles he didn't know he had. Trying to move his legs? Pain. Lots and lots of pain.
When the tingling, falling-asleep buzzing finally fades somewhat, he struggles to scoot to the edge of the bed and is breathing heavily by the time he makes it.
Finally, finally, his bare toes – still crusted with red dirt and healing blisters – are inches from the floor.
There's sweat on his brow and a weariness in his bones, but he has made up his mind to get answers. He won't stop now.
He remembers his IV just in time – the ache as he pulls his arm around too much makes him look down, and there it is. Biting his lip, he eventually shrugs and grabs hold of the IV stand. It helps him keep his balance, anyway.
Still, he can't help but feel ridiculous as he stumbles and rolls his way to the door.
"Well this was definitely a great idea." He mumbles to himself.
Slowly, feeling very much like an old man, he creeps to the door and hears, faintly, someone on the phone. Someone angry.
"...he doesn't know anything!"
Rex freezes. Is that Doctor John? Is John talking to someone about him? Really? Seriously, what are the odds Rex would eavesdrop precisely on a conversation concerning himself?
Seems like something out of a sitcom.
The optimistic part of him whispers excitedly that the man must be talking to his family! He must be telling him that Rex is okay (okayish) and they should come get him, pronto.
He lets his death grip on the IV pole go so he can lean in closer to hear.
"Yes, fine," The doctor snaps to someone miles away. "Bring the Keep, bring a squad of soldiers if you have to – just get somebody down here! I wasn't trained to deal with amnesiac teen EVOs."
Everything is silent for a moment. The expression 'you could hear a pin drop' isn't in his brain either (probably never was), but Rex swears his heartbeat is the loudest sound in that moment.
A few seconds later, he realizes he's not breathing. Somehow, he doesn't think John is talking to Rex's family anymore.
More and more questions pile up, like some confusing snowstorm is brewing in his head.
What's the Keep? Why does the doctor need a squad of soldiers? Why is he calling Rex an EVO? What the frick even is an EVO?
Distantly he hears the word teen and it fits, it sounds applicable to him and that makes him thrilled, faintly. He knew he wasn't old.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay." The man is saying, sounding calmer. "Fine, yes, that's fine. See you in a few hours."
There's a small beep and a sigh, and it suddenly occurs to Rex that John is going to check on him soon. He doesn't like the man, never has, but now the thought of seeing him makes him...anxious. Uneasy.
Rex suddenly doesn't want John to know he heard the phone call, doesn't want to ask him about it.
He needs to move, then, he realizes. No more time for musing, or wondering about the phone call.
Heart pounding, he waddles best he can to the bed, dragging his IV stand cumbersomely behind him. It takes effort not to groan in pain as he scurries between the covers, and he isn't sure his lip's not bleeding when he's finished. He tries to look genuinely asleep, with his head facing away from the door and his eyes gently closed.
He wonders if he should start fake-snoring, but thinks it would just sound ridiculous. That thought, mixed with adrenaline, makes him want to laugh.
The doors squeak as they open. Heavy footsteps pound a little out-of-sync with his racing heart.
Quiet breathing sounds above him, so close that his skin is crawling.
"Hmm...wonder how this got here? Probably Jane again, the idiot...wait a second."
Just when Rex thinks his heart will explode, there's a gentle touch on his good arm.
It takes everything in him not to scream like a girl or punch the man in his face – but he only goes stiff, then limp, and then feels the doctor reattach his IV. Somewhere along the way of rushing back to bed, the needle must have slipped or gotten pulled out.
Oh, man, he hopes there's not like an obvious trail of blood leading from the door to him.
As he tries not to freak out, listening to the man's shuffled steps and quiet mutterings, the previous conversation resounds in Rex's mind.
Squads...soldiers...amnesiac EVO...deal with me?
Somehow, he doesn't think he can trust Doctor John anymore.
No one calls her to say they have news about Rex, but Holiday finds out anyway.
She's pretty good with computers. Also, knowing when people are lying to her. Honestly, she's only ever had skill with the former, but really, she's been getting better with the latter.
That's why she'd stomped her way into the Providence briefing room, heels clicking angrily against the floor, and demanded to speak to her boss. It felt awesome at the time – she's always wanted an excuse to yell at the man.
Only, this conversation isn't going as well as she'd pictured it.
"I need to be there. I am his doctor, White Knight." She's insisting futilely, indignant fury searing through her veins. "You heard what Doctor John said –"
"He said Rex that is exhibiting signs of amnesia. He said that the few broken bones, cuts and bruises on Rex were signs that this amnesia is trauma-based." White Knight interrupts, his tone as quick and no-nonsense as ever. "You take care of the boy's nanites, Holiday. Our other doctors are sufficiently equipped to handle his physical injuries."
Her jaw tightens to the point of pain and she tries to stare the man down. He doesn't flinch, doesn't soften his look of disappointment at her loss of composure. This is what always happens when she attempts to give him a piece of her mind – he just gets that condescending look on his face, like he's thinking, Oh, right, she's female. That's what this outburst is.
And then boom, argument over. Simply because she finally shows some of her true emotions.
Holiday wonders if this is what it's like to despise someone, really hate them with every cell of her body.
It feels like pain and fury and spinning out of control. It feels like someone has smashed into her car and then demanded that she pay for the damages.
This. Isn't. Fair. She thinks, hisses it to herself in her mind. This isn't even right.
Suddenly White Knight lets out a sigh, looking less pure evil and more like a weary, burdened human being.
"He doesn't remember you, Holiday." He says softly, almost gently. Almost. "He's hurt and confused. It would only damage both of you to see one another right now."
All her hate and anger is drawn from her body, like someone has stuck a needle in and drained out emotion instead of blood. Pumped back into her system, like she's hooked up to an IV of it, is cold, cutting misery.
Tears of frustration and stinging hurt well behind her eyes, because she's a scientist and a doctor and a genius and she knows that what he's saying makes sense.
Of course it makes sense; White Knight isn't stupid, or cruel when he doesn't need to be. That's what keeps her from screaming at him all the time.
But this is Rex. This is her Rex, whom she is entirely too close to. This is the Rex she hasn't seen for months, hasn't known if he was dead or alive.
And now that she knows he's here and hurt and alone, how can she not want to run over there and wrap her arms around him? How can she not be with him?
It feels like being cut off from her sister again – still so, so close, yet a world away.
"But, White –" she begins desperately.
"Wait a few days." He orders, all pretense of gentleness gone. "Wait until Six can recover him and bring him back to Headquarters. I don't want you on the Keep this time, do you hear me, Holiday? You will only cause him more confusion."
Well, now. He might as well have slapped her in the face. Six can go see Rex, but she has to content herself with news she has to sneak around to acquire.
Holiday, not Six (who have both known Rex just as long), will cause Rex more confusion?
So what, she can't control her emotions now, is that it?
A part of her acknowledges that no, she can't, not in this situation – no one could, not after so much worrying and half-grieving and so many sleepless nights.
Only Six, whose poker face is legendary, is stoic enough not to look affected at a changed Rex and yet still remind him that they are friends and this is Rex's home.
Six is qualified, trained for years this way. Holiday knows disease and medicine and how nanites work and Six...Six knows people, knows swords and knives. He is the perfect man for the job.
This is logic, cold and factual.
But she doesn't have to like it, though (she hates it, actually).
So when White Knight asks to see Six, she crosses her arms, taps her heeled foot, and she waits. She glares at him and she stays, promising herself that if she can't change his mind by the time Six gets here, she'll find another way to see Rex.
She completely ignores the voice in her head reminding her that White could be right – seeing Rex could be the worst thing for both of them.
No, she thinks stubbornly. Nothing could be worse than going another day without seeing him.
Nothing.
The infuriating, unwaveringly neon green numbers glare through the darkness at him. As he stumbles from his bed, one hand grips the dagger always kept on his person – just in case. It's dark but he trips over nothing, as his room is spartan and only messy when Rex comes in.
He doesn't let Rex in often.
He finds his shoes where he left them at the foot of the bed. It's too early and his vision is too blurry to bother with a tie, but he manages to tuck his white, button-down shirt into his dark pants.
Three point five seconds are spent contemplating his vivid green jacket. They feel longer than that – too long – and it's with that thought he decides it would only slow him down.
He's wasted enough time – a glance at the horrid clock reveals two whole minutes have passed since his phone went off – and he sweeps his katanas and glasses off the nightstand in one motion.
Then he's flying out of his quarters, squinting briefly at the bright light in the hall (fortunately, the sunglasses help) and running down the hallway.
It feels like flying. His breaths are smooth and slow, timed evenly with his footfalls. Everything about him seems too collected, too calm for such an early alarm.
He isn't so old to think of two am as unspeakably early – it's just that he rises at five o'clock. Sharp.
And when one spends the day training and working with a sixteen year-old EVO boy, one needs as much sleep as possible.
With his swords controlled by his sides, he runs past hall after hall, noting their sameness. All white and grey, all metal and concrete. It isn't like he can argue with Providence's lack of creativity, though – as Rex is fond to point out, he does wear the same suit everyday.
But he enjoys his routines. He appreciates having control, having something unchanged. In his world, where people could mutate at any moment and EVOs run rampant, and nanites continue to surprise him, he needs something unchanged.
He needs a constant.
Too bad that, too, has changed.
The phone that woke him up weighs heavily in his shirt pocket, thumping against his chest as he runs. Something whispers to him that he ought to be more panicked, more frazzled about this situation.
Six doesn't do frazzled, though. He tucks his feelings behind thick dark glass and looks out at the world through it, feeling safe knowing that they can't peer back in. It's the way he is – the way he was taught to be.
All he knows for sure is that two am is too early to be armed for a fight. He doesn't let his thoughts wander from that statement, or from keeping his pace even and his swords tight in his grasp.
It's difficult, though, when he barges into the briefing room. Holiday is there for some reason – and she's watching him.
She looks on as he slows his pace, not even breathing heavy, and stops calmly in front of the screen White Knight is on.
He pretends he is in his full suit and his doctor's lips aren't pressed into a hard, thin line. He pretends things are normal.
It's almost easy to imagine Rex, standing there, just in the corner of his eye...it's a close thing, but he stops himself from turning his head to look.
Foolishness. He has always been such a foolish man.
His former partner and friend gives him a glare that's both softer and harder than it normally is.
"Six. Get to the Keep. Now." He rumbles in that gravelly tone. "Rex just woke up."
There's no need for a reply.
By the furious expression on the doctor's face, it's clear she wasn't invited to this particular party. To his own surprise, he tries to send a sympathetic glance at her before starting for the door. But he forgets – he's wearing glasses and she can't see it.
It doesn't matter. None of it matters.
As he flees to the Keep, the giant ship that they take to fight the really bad guys (a bad sign in itself), he doesn't look back. He knows she'll be waiting for him on the ship – after all, she defied Knight for Rex the moment she met the boy. And of course she'll get there first, because she's better at navigating the endless levels of Providence than he is.
It feels like it's years before he sets eyes on the ship. How can it have taken so long to get here when he was running at full speed? He wonders as he cranes his neck to stare at the thing.
And yet, sure enough, as he predicted there's the sound of high-heeled boots scurrying up the ramp way and he catches a glimpse of a swishing white coat. She has already made it inside; now it's his turn.
He tries not to glare at Callhan when he boards the ship and the man gives him a few consoling words. He tries not to snap at the Providence men that join him on the ship ever so slowly. He attempts to still his tapping fingers – the only outward sign of his irritation – as he waits, but he can't.
Frustration builds inside as the pilot painstakingly prepares for takeoff. Why are they so slow? A glance down at his watch shows that he only took four minutes for himself, too much time to begin with, and how many more are they going to take?
This is the panic, he realizes with despair. This is the fear and the terror manifesting as anger.
Breathe, Six. In one deep, slow breath through the nose. Hold. Then out through the mouth.
He repeats the action a few more times and herds his fear and fury behind that thick, bulletproof glass in his mind.
It's difficult to tell if it worked or not.
Finally, finally, the ship beneath his feet rumbles and leaves the earth. It rises quickly, despite it's size, and flies fast enough to unbalance even the most trained individual.
Six doesn't shift at all.
Soft, petite hands tug on his tense arms – he hadn't noticed her approach, and struggles not to reach for his swords – and they keep tugging. So he relaxes his muscles eventually, and uncrosses his arms.
Something close to comfort and warmth breaks through his being and into his heart, as Holiday's arm hooks in his and she rests her head on his shoulder. This type of thing she doesn't do often, and she doesn't do it because she's afraid – though, in this case, she probably is.
Holiday stays with him because he's scared.
"It's going to be okay, Six." She murmurs, her voice deep with emotion. "He's going to be alright."
He doesn't mutter back, but I should have been there, and yet he could've sworn she hears the words anyway, shimmering in the air between them.
That's one of the many things he...appreciates about Doctor Holiday – her ability to sense everything he doesn't speak aloud. And...he keeps a lot of what he wants to say inside.
"I'm sure the kid's fine." He replies after a long silence, when he's sure no pain or concern will leak through his voice. "He...always is."
But Six knows his statement won't comfort either of them. Not like Holiday's physical contact. Not like seeing him with their own eyes will.
That's not who Agent Six is; he's never been a comforting person. He's simply not a warm guy.
As though she can sense his darkening thoughts, Holiday's grip increases. He wonders why she cares about him in the way that she does. Why...how could you love someone as closed off as he?
That's the exact moment the ship lands. Suddenly all thoughts of warmth, cold, time, comfort – all of it flees faster than his earlier run.
Suddenly he's rushing down the lowering ramp with Holiday by his side, and suddenly there's only one thing left in his head.
Rex.
Six just hopes they aren't too late.
A/N: So this was mostly new, right? The only old part was only that bit at the end that I shamelessly didn't edit (much). Hope it wasn't too bad. Maybe next time Rex will finally meet Six and Holiday again! Yay!
Unfortunately, the next chapter might take a little longer, what with Easter coming up and all. I'll try for Friday, but if not, expect sometime next week.
Thank you so much for reading, please tell me what you think!
Replies to reviews:
YellowAngela: Thanks! And yay, he's going to get better! ...maybe. He just has to realize that Providence can be trusted :D
Guest: Lol, yes John is a bit of a jerk, isn't he? I figure that most people that work at Providence are jerks. I don't actually have a particular back-story for him (he's not really important, and I didn't want to get attached), but it's possible that EVO's killed his family. Maybe that's why he's such a jerk :)
And that's okay, I make accidental puns all the time. ^^ Thanks for all your wonderful reviews!
:)
Kokoro
