Disclaimer: I do not own these characters! Even if I should. Hur hur hur.

Rating: Rated M for strong language, sex and violence.

Author notes: I've been on holiday this week so I'm kind of rushing this one out without final edits. Just an FYI that this chapter might be subject to substantial changes in the future, when and if I ever get round to it! ;) Soooo... if you have any suggestions to make this chapter better, please do let me know in your review! :D

ishandahalf - LOL! There was supposed to be something kinda sexy about Remy popping Anna's shoulder back in place, I guess... I dunno, maybe it's the hurt/comfort thing? The vulnerability of the moment? Anyway, thanks as always for the great review, and don't worry - we'll find out what was in Emma's chip this chapter. :) x slightlyxjaded - Hmm, unless I am going nuts, it wasn't stated that Belle is dead before this, only that Remy was in the process of divorcing her. However, I may have let something slip! If so, it was totally accidental! Whoops! ;) PKS - Thanks for sharing the moment that made you cry in HoC. That scene was really intense to write, so yeah, good to know it came across well. Thanks as always for the lovely review, and hope you're having a great weekend! :) RRL24 - Thanks, dear. They will open up to one another soonish - promise! :) kaebear89 - Thanks for the awesome review! Glad you're still liking it! And that you're getting the spy thriller vibes from this - I totally visualise this fic that way! :D x Spasticatt - Hey girl! So glad you got up-to-date! :) I love reading your reviews, they always make me smile! And yes - they totally do need to sit down and watch that movie! LOL! XD Hali - Thank you soooo very much for the wonderful reviews you left on this and Coda. Truly these are some of the best reviews I've ever received. You really made my week, and that's no lie. It's always wonderful to hear from readers who totally understand and are invested in the characters. Your words really encourage me to carry on and to know where I'm going right with the story and our fave couple. Just to let you know - I'm planning to put out the next chapter of Coda this week, so I hope it lives up to expectations! Thank you so much again - you made me so happy! :)

Okay... onto the story...

Please read, review and enjoy! :)

-Ludi x

EDIT: Major rewrite of first scene, 17th Feb 2018.


- 52 PICKUP -

Chapter 29

He awoke to the scent of her, that perfume he couldn't place, that had no name except hers.

Anna.

He opened his eyes and there she was, sitting there by his bedside, her head in her hands.

It was the last thing he'd expected from her, this pose of abject defeat, the hunched form of someone who seemed on the edge of despair. The cold truth dawned on him. He remembered Emma Frost's chip, how she'd taken it from him the last time he'd been conscious.

"Anna," he muttered. He'd meant it to be soft, but in his disused voice it came out sounding like a broken rasp.

She looked up.

Her expression was one of exhaustion, as worn as he felt, her green eyes dull, underscored by dark circles. She expressed no relief to see that he was okay – yet there was none of the hostility he'd seen back in Dr. Frost's apartment. Her face was caught behind a mask that he could only read as utter weariness.

For a few seconds they simply looked at each other, to the point that he began to feel unsettled.

"Got any water?" he finally asked her hoarsely.

She still said nothing, silently pushing herself up into a sitting position and slowly getting to her feet. He watched her as she stepped over to the nearby trolley, noting the sluggishness of her movements, the way her hand poured water from a jug into a plastic cup with an unsteady grasp. The lack of coordination made him worry she'd suffered another neural stutter, but he sensed that now was not the time to ask her about it.

She turned back round and handed him the water; he chugged it down gratefully, and she simply stood there, still and silent as a statue, giving him nothing. He was painfully aware of her gaze, one that was becoming increasingly charged with something less than friendly, and something else that paradoxically seemed more than friendly. It was like static, prickling his skin, firing his belly. The force of her emotions was so visceral it was literally radiating from her in waves. Through the mask of her exhaustion there was anger, hurt, betrayal… and a dark warmth he couldn't place.

Remembering how they'd left things when he'd last seen her, confrontation seemed like an inevitability; and so he set aside his empty cup and simply looked at her. It was an opening she took without pause.

"How long?" she asked him.

Both her voice and her glance were stony cold. Whatever warmth he'd sensed from her was gone.

"Since Paris," he replied. He knew instinctively that his usual lies would no longer fool her. She was quiet, weighing up his admission, giving only a brief nod.

"Right," she spoke in a dead tone. "When Essex approached you with that deal back in Paris, you didn't say no at all. You said yes."

She already had it figured. It was useless to either confirm or deny it. He simply held her gaze, prepared to meet any punishment she chose to mete out to him. He was surprised when all she did was look aside at the ground and declare bitterly:

"I suppose it makes sense, after what I did to you, stealing Trask's chip from you, sending you away to somewhere you didn't want to be." Her voice was hard, her accent so damn fine, it communicated her ire to him more than anything else she could've said. She darted a look back at him, and this time her look was fierce. "I guess I was asking for it."

Her fists were working at her sides, another sure sign of barely suppressed rage. She was expecting something from him and if he didn't give it, he knew it would provoke her even more.

"So maybe a part of me did think that," he admitted quietly. "But that ain't the reason I did what I did, and it ain't what I think now."

"Ha!" Her tone was scathing, her eyes blazing with a cold fire. "You make it sound so fucking incidental. But do you have any idea what you've done to me?!" Her fists were still clenching and unclenching, almost unconsciously. "My past was stolen once and you wanna steal all I have left?!"

The accusation cut him deeper than he'd been expecting. The idea that she could even believe that was what he wanted was offensive to him.

"Y'think I set dis up? That I let Milbury just waltz in and take your mem'ries?" He felt his own indignation rising despite himself. "Sure, those chips he took were part of a plan, a contingency plan in case I got inta a tight spot… Collateral, a delaying tactic, if I ever needed t' keep his focus off you – and the chips he really wants. But I never planned this."

He soon learned that even though she showed every evidence of mem-intoxication, she was still about ten times faster than he'd anticipated. She lunged at him without any preamble or warning, her fist slamming into the side of his face and sending him sprawling back against the sheets. In a trice she was upon him, her fingers clawing at his throat. She was under the influence, and he had just awoken from a surgical coma, which should have left them evenly matched – but he had one advantage over her. His rage ran icy cold. Cold enough to keep his wits.

Their scuffle was short – in a few seconds he'd overpowered her, forcing her wrists into the mattress and pinning her into submission with his body. She struggled against him fiercely, forcing him to literally slam her back into the mattress with all his strength and weight, winding his legs round hers so that she had no hope of even moving a muscle without tangling them even further together.

"Let me go, you prick!" she screamed at him impotently, but for once he had her where he wanted her – backed up against a wall with nowhere to go and nothing to do but hear him out.

"You're right," he ground out in a low rasp. "I guess a part of me did wanna hurt ya, at least back then. But you're wrong if you think I wanted this. Milbury was never s'pposed to have gotten this far. Him takin' those chips was never s'pposed t'happen!"

"Oh really?" She was breathless, her glare like fire, searing him to the bone. "Woulda been nice if you'd actually let me in on your shitty plan, you bastard!"

She made a movement with her right leg that he thought was her trying to lay him with a knee to the groin, but that actually came out as something far more sensual than intended.

"Yah think?" he replied, the pitch of his voice dropping a notch. Whatever he was feeling right now was apparently the last thing on her mind; she scowled up at him derisively.

"Yah know what I think? I don't think you even had a fuckin' plan. That you were just makin' this all up as you went along."

Well, yeah, that was technically kinda true…

"What I can say? Things changed. I improvised."

She almost spat with disgust at the statement.

"Changed? What changed? You found out just how fucked up I really am? Took a nose round my life while I was stuck in that neural stutter, huh? Or did finding out what Weapon X was really all about make you think twice about bein' a part of it?" She sneered, her gaze darkening. "Or was it the night we fucked that changed your mind? 'Cos you played that one real smooth, Cajun, makin' out it was only 'services rendered', a sweetener thrown into the deal because you felt fucking sorry for me!"

Her blatant repulsion and self-recrimination was another kick in the gut he wasn't expecting.

"There were 'bout a hundred reasons why I slept wit' you, p'tite," he practically growled. "And feelin' sorry for you weren't one of 'em."

"Yeah, I'm sure 'easy and desperate lay' just about covered it."

"Chere," he answered sincerely, "there ain't nothin' 'easy' or 'desperate' about you. The simple truth is I slept wit' you 'cos you wanted it like I did. You can tell y'self it was just 'services rendered' if ya want, nothin' but a dirty, cynical transaction… but you know deep down dat it was what you wanted, what we both wanted." His voice dropped to a husky drawl, his eyes running over her face with an almost unbearable intensity as he added, "I gave you what we both still want."

Her eyes narrowed and the tension in her slackened, her rigid body softening under his, enough for him to loosen his grip on her slightly. He should've known it was a feint – no sooner had he eased up on her than she'd headbutted him right in the face.

The unanticipated blow had him reeling, and quick as lightning she was out of his grasp and back on her feet.

"Fuckin'— Shit, woman!" he yelled, cupping a hand to his bloody nose – not that she cared at that point.

"You'd best be fuckin' thankful I didn't break your pretty face, you shit!" she raged instead. "Y'think I woulda slept with you if I'd known you were working for that sick fuck, Essex?!"

He said nothing, wiping the blood from his nostril with the back of his hand as she whipped away and paced the same square metre of floor, her footwork a fitful mess.

"I should've known from the beginning you were still working for that bastard!" she railed at no one in particular. "I should've known as soon as Raven told me you were back in NY and wanting to see me! But like the fool I was I fell for your silver tongue and your two-bit charm, for your… your too-smooth lines and your too-sweet kisses! I was stupid enough to think you cared!"

He watched her, the jerkiness of her movements stoking a growing concern in him that gave the lie to her words.

"I do care," he murmured, for once being entirely honest. "Anna… the things that Weapon X did to you… they ain't want anyone should haveta go through."

The words far from pacified her; but she halted and stared at him, the fire in her eyes dimming a little as she spoke coldly:

"Pfft. I'm pretty sure you only started to care when you realised what happened to me was exactly what Essex had planned for you. Before that – you couldn't have given a shit."

"That ain't true," he muttered with conviction.

"Really?" Her tone was disbelieving. "You've made it pretty darn clear the only person you care about is yourself." Her mouth creased into an angry sneer. "You lost your kid and you ran away. Your wife was grieving and you ran away. Her brother humbled himself to get you back together, and instead you took his life and still you ran. Then Belle died and you didn't even look back. How is now any different?"

He glanced up at her sharply, stunned at just how much she knew about Belle. Her death was a truth he'd been trying so hard to escape from, a cruel reminder of the guilt and the shame and the endless what-ifs that haunted him every moment of every day.

"Raven told you 'bout Belle, did she?" he spoke up icily. He didn't need an answer, and she didn't give one. He grit his teeth, an effort to suppress a sudden surge of anger. "She had no right," he stated bitterly, to which she merely snorted disdainfully.

"Don't talk to me about right, Remy. Don't you fucking dare."

He looked aside, his jaw tensing, his eyes smarting. This wasn't supposed to hurt – but it did. His senses were burning.

"You know what the crazy thing is?" she finally broke the unforgiving silence in a quieter tone. "When Raven told me what happened to your wife, I'd never felt so damn close to you. That night at La Princesse you said to me that neither of us was made to be alone. And you were right. We're both so fucking alone, Remy. Unable to get past the people that we loved so bad and then lost."

Her voice cracked, and she stopped. The words had touched him, and he chanced a look up at her. What he saw in her face was sadness, mingled with bitterness.

"I was learning to trust you," she murmured helplessly. "And now I find you're just another enemy. That you always have been."

It was another knife to the gut. His mouth tightened and he shook his head slowly.

"I ain't your enemy, Anna."

"Really?" She looked weary, deflated, like all the stuffing had been knocked out of her. "Prove it."

Several beats of silence widened the gap between them. He didn't know how to bridge it, and he didn't know how to prove the fact that he was being honest with her now. All he knew was that this was fucking painful and he wanted it to end. Apparently his silence was what she had been expecting, because a deprecating smile tugged tightly at her lips.

"And all that ain't even the least of it, Remy," she continued with a jaded softness. "You know what really adds insult to injury? You 'faced with Emma Frost's chip. You know exactly what they did to me. And I don't."

He shot a glance at her, confused. Her words were the last things he'd been expecting. Her entire demeanour – the tiredness, the unfocused gaze, the slight ataxia – they were the hallmarks of mem-intoxication, and he'd assumed that Dr. Frost's memories were the culprit.

"You mean you ain't 'faced with it yet?" he spoke with surprise. It was the worst thing he could've said. She turned on him again abruptly.

"I can't!" she snapped, with something between contempt and despair. "My mind is so fucking broken right now, just one more 'facing session could end it! Do you even know how I'm stopping myself from hooking myself up right now?!"

She jerked her left sleeve up violently, revealing her bare arm to him. He stared, his mouth going hard when he saw mass of bruises all the way up her arm, the track marks dotted all over her skin. Suddenly it was obvious – all the symptoms he'd thought had been of mem-intoxication were actually the signs of an entirely different kind of intoxication. He looked back up at her, his expression grim.

"Non," he spoke in a flat, stern tone. "Don't, chere. Don't start on that fuckin' poison."

"Then tell me how not to!" she begged him in a tone of pure anguish. "Tell me how not to!"

It was a horrible admission that she seemed to regret as soon as it had left her lips. She turned abruptly, her hand clutching hard at her mouth, the slope of her shoulders spelling shame, defeat. She was shaking, trembling hard, and he wanted to comfort her in some way but he couldn't. He didn't know how.

"Anna," he said sadly instead. He touched her arm, all bruised and battered… and it occurred to him that the touch was probably too personal for her to handle, and so he tugged her sleeve back down over the marks slowly, covering them up. It was a small, instinctive thing – but it changed something. When he met her gaze again, there was a softness there for the first time since he'd woken up, a spontaneous warmth that he didn't think she'd meant to give him, that she understood the meaning of as little as he did.

"You still wanna help me, Remy?" she asked him quietly, when their shared gaze had become too meaningful. "You still wanna prove to me you're on my side?"

That little nugget of warmth, of vulnerability, was all he needed.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured. His hand was still on her sleeve – for some reason he couldn't let go. She sat down slowly on the bed beside him, levelled him with a penetrating stare.

"You have to have a place," she said. "One nobody knows about. Where you hid out when you knew Yashida was after you. A place you've proofed against Essex." She paused, her eyes hardening as she added: "I want you to tell me where it is. I want to stay there."

Her expression was fierce, as if daring him to deny her now.

"Anna…" he began doubtfully, but she ignored him, lifting her chin and letting her gaze scale the walls, the ceiling.

"This place… It's like a cage. No windows… Just walls… No day, no night… It's like a cell… Like the places they used to keep me in when I was a kid. And Raven's always here… Like this goddamned ghost from my past…" She shuddered involuntarily, only gradually composing herself. "I need somewhere to 'face with Emma Frost's chip. Somewhere where I'm not gonna be disturbed. Somewhere I'll be safe."

"Safe?" He looked dubious. "Chere, you wanna be safe, you stay here, where there'll be people who can get your back if anythin' goes wrong…"

"No," she interrupted firmly. "This is my thing. I need to be alone." Her mouth went hard. "I have no place left to go. Nothing left to my name. You and Essex made sure of that. You owe me this, Remy, at the very least. If you really care, if you're really on my side."

"And if I say no?"

She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her lip lifting in a cynical smirk.

"Then I tell Raven who you're really working for. And you can try to outrun her and her minions for the rest of your days, or have her murder you here in this bed. Either way, I don't care."

It was a lie. He knew she did care, that she didn't want him hurt. But he also knew she would out him to Raven, if push came to shove.

Still, he hesitated. Even if he knew he owed her, he also knew she was probably better off with people she could trust nearby. The idea of her going through another neural stutter, alone and defenceless, wasn't pretty… and yet he understood the need for her to escape, to be alone. He was the same breed of lonewolf. Pleasure in numbers, to be sure – business in private.

"You get my phone, chere," he finally decided quietly, nodding toward his coat, which still slung over a chair in the corner, "and I'll send you the coordinates. And the keycode to get in."

She stood up to go get it, but his hand was still on her sleeve and he stopped her.

"One thing, Anna. You go there, you ain't takin' any of those fuckin' drugs with you. You start on that shit, you don't get off that ride easy, believe me. And that's a something I probably won't be able to help you with."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Anything else?"

"Yeah." He gave a thin smile. "You keep in contact wit' me. Before and after you 'face wit' that chip. I wanna know you're okay. That you ain't gon' try anythin' stupid."

She looked at him with such scepticism that he knew exactly what she was thinking.

"Look," he said. "I know you don't owe me anythin'. But this is the deal I'm gonna make wit' you. You want my safe house, you gonna play by my rules. Those are the only two I'm layin' down. You let me know you're okay. You don't need to say nothin'. Just send me a blank text or somethin'. Anythin' to let me know you ain't stuck in one of those fuckin' neural stutters again. Deal?"

She pursed her lips and stared down at his hand, still clutching her sleeve.

"All right," she finally agreed. "Deal."

Only then did he let go of her. He wasn't an idiot – he knew there was no way for him to enforce any of these things, but there was one thing he did know – that she would keep her word on this. He didn't know how he knew, but he did.

She retrieved the phone for him, and he punched in the entry code and the coordinates.

"I'll join you when doc says I can leave," he said.

"Do I get a choice?" she murmured with a hint of danger in her voice.

"What?" He paused and looked up at her wryly. "You don't need my help to get those chips no more, chere?"

Her eyes were narrowed, her expression plainly showing she didn't buy it.

"I'm guessing it's more a case of you needing me, Cajun. I might even have an idea of what exactly it is you need me for."

"And you think this is still about need, chere?"

She gave him a scathing look.

"Absolutely. Why else would you still be sticking with me now?"

"I dunno." He answered, a playful lilt edging into the seriousness of his tone. "You tell me. You were the one who invited me back into your bed before this whole thing went tits up. Maybe I'm still holdin' out for a piece of what I know I'm missin'."

He'd really wanted to know what she would've replied to that comment, but unfortunately Dr. Reyes chose that moment to make her impromptu entrance. She halted when she saw him sitting up, seemingly surprised that he was already awake.

"Up already?" was all she could manage to say.

"Yeah. For the last ten minutes or so," Anna replied. Dr. Reyes almost looked approving, until she clocked his still-bloody nose.

"Do you think," she began, casting Anna a pained glare, "that you can refrain from attacking my patients any time soon?"

The plea would've been humorous, if it hadn't been given with deadly seriousness. Anna, however, merely shrugged.

"He was asking for it."

"Yeah, well," Remy couldn't help but bite back sardonically. "You were askin' t'be pinned to this bed."

She levelled him a slow, cold stare.

"Next time I will break your face, you dick."

"Next time?" He couldn't help but take the opening to flirt, buoyed as he was by the thin protection Dr. Reyes' presence afforded him. "Chere, if there's gonna be a next time, I can't fuckin' wait. Let me know when and I'll make sure t' pencil you in."

Dr. Reyes cleared her throat, a sure sign that while she didn't get what was going on she'd certainly caught the gist of it.

"Bloody nose aside," she cut in pointedly, "how are you feeling?"

"I'd say he's pretty much back to his normal self," Anna quipped sourly before he could get a word in edgeways.

"You make it sound like that's a bad thing," he noted, smiling sweetly at her. He still hadn't sent through the keycode to the safe house and he knew she was aware that he could hold it back from her indefinitely if he wanted to. She shrugged.

"Depends on how you like your thieving Cajun con artists."

"And how do you like yours?"

"Straight up. No twists." She glanced at the phone in his hand briefly. "You better start learning what that means, if you wanna have even an outside chance of fitting me into your busy schedule."

He laughed softly, added Touché to the end of the text message, and hit the send button. The phone in the back pocket of her jeans pinged.

As soon as it had, she began to back away to the door.

"I should leave you to it," she addressed Dr. Reyes, before glancing briefly at Remy and adding: "I'll text you, Remy."

He gave a flippant gesture with his hand, but inwardly her words only signalled to him that she was committed to her plan. She was going to 'face with that chip, and she was going to do it alone. It wasn't his place to stop her, but he still wanted to. He wanted to tell her to wait, even if he knew she wouldn't.

She left, the doors swinging shut behind her.

Dr. Reyes was looking down on him with a studiously blank stare that couldn't quite hide her disapproval.

"Here," she said, holding out a paper towel. He stared at it suspiciously a moment before snatching it out of her hand and dabbing at the blood on his nose. For a second he thought she might comment on the obvious story behind his injury, but she didn't.

"So," she began again. "How are you actually feeling?"

"Great," he answered. "When can I leave?"

She gave him a withering smile.

"A couple of days at least. Your cells are repairing themselves at an accelerated rate… which means you're healing faster than most people do. But I'd still like to keep you in and make sure you're okay before you get out of this bed and into somewhere more interesting."

He looked over at her curiously, but she was busy preparing a syringe and there wasn't any expression for him to read.

"So you were with Weapon X too?" he asked after a moment.

"Yes."

"How long for?"

"Long enough." She obviously didn't want to elaborate, and so he didn't question her any further. "I'm going to take a blood sample from you, if that's okay."

"Sure."

She found his vein and it reminded him of the bruises on Anna's arm. He hoped to God she wasn't taking any of that shit with her.

"You want my advice?" she asked him lightly, as the needle sank into his flesh.

"Non," he replied. "But I'm pretty sure you're gonna give it to me anyway."

She looked at him and smiled grimly.

"Whatever it is the two of you are planning, don't underestimate Essex. Ever."

-oOo-

Anna had stood in the doorway of Raven's office, the duffel bag of essentials slung over her shoulder, yet another life cobbled together from the ruins of the last.

"I'm going," she'd told Raven flatly.

Raven had looked up at her from her tablet with an incredulous look on her face.

"Where?"

She'd shrugged.

"Somewhere close by… It's better if I don't say. Considering how close Essex just got to me, it's better nobody knows. This is for my safety."

Raven had blanked the tablet and leaned back in her seat, regarding Anna from narrowed eyes.

"But the thief – LeBeau… He knows, doesn't he."

She'd made no reply; and Raven's mouth had gone flat.

"Why do you trust him?"

"Because," she'd answered tiredly, "I already told you. He'll keep me safe 'til he has what he needs from me…"

But that hadn't only been it. There had been a lot more bubbling away under the surface that she hadn't had the headspace or inclination to understand – or even articulate – at that point in time. She'd known Raven sensed it, but she'd made no allusions to it, and so, thankfully, Anna had left.

Only half an hour had passed since then, and now she was standing here. On the threshold of an apartment that may or may not have belonged to Remy LeBeau.

It was a static, lonely place, more showroom than home, impeccably decorated yet totally unlived in, perfectly finished yet sparsely furnished. Everything was white or black or beige, streamlined and modern. She stood inside the vestibule for a long time and listened to the silence.

No responsibilities, no distractions except her own self.

She slipped off her shoes and walked into the lounge.

There was a skylight in the middle of the room that looked right up to the moon, and she stood under its milky light, letting herself soak in the atmosphere.

This place was perfect, its unspoilt desolation the ideal counterpoint to Raven's impregnable fortress. She could be herself here – or as close to herself as was possible, at the very least.

The next couple of hours she spent going through the entire apartment from top to bottom, checking every possible nook, cranny and seam for any hidden surveillance devices or traps. After a thorough and painstaking search she was finally satisfied the apartment was clean, and she then moved to setting up her defence, rigging the entrances and hallways with a number of booby traps – enough to buy her a little time to escape, at any rate. It was, after all, best to be prepared; and she still didn't fully trust the Cajun not to have betrayed her in some way.

When this was done she took a moment to step back and admire her handiwork. If Essex's cronies were going to show up she'd give them a run for their money and then some. She wasn't going to go down without the fight of her life, that was for sure.

She glanced over at the clock on the granite mantelpiece.

It was 11 p.m. – she'd been at it for nearly 3 hours.

She headed for the master bedroom and slid open the door.

There was an interfacer in the corner, by the window. It was a design she hadn't seen before, something lightweight and probably custom-made – perhaps by Empharma. She frowned, and stepped inside the room, sliding the door softly shut behind her. The lights were automatically set to dim, and she sat on the edge of the sleek, designer bed and took in a breath.

It was only then, by herself, in the lonely half-light, that she began to feel the weight of her existence creep on her. The ache of her endless quest, the hollowness of her tattered past, the pull of her bottomless addictions. She was a woman on a knife edge, the blade slowly scoring into the raw flesh of her being, and it hurt. It hurt to simply breathe, to contemplate each moment.

She sank back onto the bed and was surprised to suddenly smell him on the sheets. The scent was faint, barely there even, a ghost of his infrequent presence, but it was unmistakably him and she found it oddly comforting. An unlikely anchor to something stronger than herself.

She held onto it, as hard as she dared to something so visceral and forbidden. When she felt steady enough she slipped the eyedrops out of her pocket, followed by the collection of mem-chips – Trask's, Yashida's, Lady Sarkissian's, Dr. MacTaggert's – and finally the portable interfacer, with Emma Frost's chip still inside. She administered the drops first, and arranged the mem-chips carefully on the nightstand beside her. It was silly, perhaps, but they felt like talismans, like good luck charms. The final relics of her past.

Finally she took the portable 'facer and put it on her head. Was she ready? Too late or too soon to tell. She was committed at least, that much was certain.

She lay back on the bed and made herself comfortable.

Again there was the scent of him and it reminded her. Her phone was in her jeans pocket and she slid it out, opening up the text messenger. There was nothing really to say to him, and so she did as he'd suggested and sent him a blank message. In a way, it was an insurance policy against chickening out. So much of her life had rested on this moment and yet now – for the first time perhaps – she was scared. Even though backing out was hardly an option.

She set the phone aside and lowered the visor. She prayed her mind would hold on long enough for this. She prayed he would send someone to find her if she didn't come out the other end at all.

Her hand trembled as she lifted it to her temple, but she found the switch – she turned it on and the 'facer ran, and like a whale rising with the tide, Emma Frost's memories descended and devoured her whole.

-oOo-

Three-nine-nine-nine-zero-four-zero-eight-six-one.

She'd committed it to memory virtually the moment she saw it, and it is an inconvenience that she merely wants to get out of the way. Silly numbers. Idiot Trask. All that is left now is the salvage operation.

She walks briskly into the small anteroom leading off from the main infirmary, and lets the doors swing shut behind her. Essex is there, standing beside a small figure lying on a bed. She walks up to join him, and for a while they stand there, silent, side by side.

"Moira's gone," she finally speaks in a low tone. "She said she's taking a day or two off. Nathaniel, we need to watch her. I have a feeling she might not come back… …"

He lifts a hand, seemingly distracted. There is a tablet in his hand, the brainwaves of the girl on the bed scrolling across the screen.

"How is she?" she asks.

"Stable," he replies. "Physically, at least. Her brainwaves, however…"

He needs say no more. The girl with the white streak in her hair is still and quiet as a mouse, this ugly, gangly child – pale as death itself, her life marked only by the steady beep of the heart monitors. She feels… distaste. That one such as this – so small, so fragile – can possibly be so gifted, so exceptional, so important.

"So this is Weapon X's last hope," she can't help but murmur to herself. She frowns. "This isn't what we planned, Nathaniel."

"No," he agrees. "I admit, it is not. Due to Trask's idiocy, we have fallen far short of the army we had originally planned. And yet…"

She glances over at him.

"And yet what?"

"And yet our plans have succeeded in other ways. The army was but one facet of Weapon X's remit. What this child represents is something far more important. A way to change the course of history, a way to do away with the suffering of this world." He pauses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "No… We haven't failed yet, not by any means. You did well, Dr. Frost."

"Maybe a little too well," she notes disapprovingly. "I hadn't expected her to respond to my suggestions so soon – or so thoroughly. Certainly not during the session with the Trask girl." Her frown deepens as she broods, continuing: "At any other time her response to the treatment would have been perfect! But while interfacing with Trask's daughter – it couldn't have happened at a worst time! Of course Trask pulled the plug!"

"Calm yourself, Dr. Frost," Essex rejoins, unperturbed. "The circumstances are unfortunate, that cannot be denied. But Subject Zero herself is a success. Finally we have the clean slate we always wanted. With a little training, a little… manipulation… we can finally make our Weapon Zero."

She looks over at him curiously.

"What do her test results show? Is the erasure complete?"

"Completely and utterly."

He is holding a tablet and he hands it to her. She looks at it, seeing a familiar constellation of patterns pictured there – Subject Zero's neural pathways, a complex network of memories, experiences and habits formed over her short 12 years of life. She scrolls to the next page and sees what she can only assume are the most recent test results. Half of the neural pathways shown in the previous picture have been completely obliterated from existence. A thousand memories, once forged so strongly, have now been torn asunder, ripped apart, irrevocably destroyed.

She lets out a long, pent up breath at the evidence of all the damage she has helped bring about. Even her own dubious sensibilities are shocked.

"One almost wonders," Essex says, with just a little begrudging admiration, "just how you persuaded her to do it."

She hands him back the tablet with a frosty smile.

"I was simply honest with her, Nathaniel," she replies in a hard voice. "I told her exactly what she wanted to hear. That if the Machine allowed her to destroy the memories of others…"

"Then it allowed her to destroy her own memories too," he finishes.

She nods, smiling tightly.

"Believe it or not, subterfuge isn't always the quickest way to influence someone, doctor. Sometimes, the brutal, direct approach is far more effective. In this case I simply forced her to confront the memories that most haunt her. Made her relive those traumas without resolution, over and over, until they became an unbearable torture to her. Then I simply offered her the possibility of relief. A Machine that could take away all her pain."

"And so the seed was planted." He gives an approving little smile. "You are quite deliciously immoral, Dr. Frost."

She is unmoved by the observation.

"You wanted a blank slate, Nathaniel. I simply made sure you got one."

She looks down at the catatonic girl lying on the bed, a sneer on her face.

"I gave her exactly what she wanted – a way to end her suffering. We didn't even have to lift a finger. She did it all herself. She destroyed her own memories."

"Yes," Essex agrees, coldly stating the terrifying truth. "She killed her own past."

-oOo-