Cleo

Cleo was two years old when her father died, or disappeared, or was abducted, or killed, or any of the thousand other things the police briefly considered as possibilities. Either way, he was gone forever. She was told that she was the spitting image of him; he, too, had auburn hair and warm brown-hazel eyes. But she didn't remember anything about him, past photographs and grainy home videos.

To be honest, sometimes she felt guilty about the fact that she felt so impartial to his passing. She pretended not to notice that every night her mother, exhausted from the day, cried quietly over a mug of lukewarm tea, whispering her husband's name into the cup as if it was a wishing well that might bring him back - but deep down, it broke her heart.

Melissa "Lissa" Valentine was the type of woman whose gentleness was immediately apparent, and made it very difficult for even the most bitter of people to be anything less than pleasant. She'd been shy growing up, and not very well off; the eldest of seven children, she sewed most of her clothes and had to drop out of high school in order to make way financially for the rest of her siblings. When an ad ran in the paper seeking aspiring writers, she sent in a short story she wrote in ninth grade - a short story that, while the teacher at the time gave it a scant B minus, earned Lissa her first well-paying job.

She met her husband-to-be on a Monday in late November. He was the newest hire in the editing department, and had little experience, yet swept across the office as if he had all the confidence in the world. Not to mention he was quite attractive, and it didn't take long for all the women to pursue him. Strangely enough, he appeared impervious to their many advances, and exactly a month later he approached Lissa, with whom he'd barely exchanged words beyond a polite "good morning," and asked her to a movie.

He was glamorous, worldly, and knowledgeable. Lissa was modest, innocent, and guileless. He had a tough exterior, but truly cared for his girlfriend, and in returnshe slowly opened up to him. Exactly two years after they met, he proposed, and exactly a year after that they were married.

Cleo was born on Monday, February 6, and they lived a happy life for two years. A week after her second birthday, he vanished, seemingly into thin air. Why did all of these things spontaneously occur to Cleo as she was frog-marched to her inevitable doom? That, dear reader, is an excellent question.

"What's going on?" she asked, not expecting a reply. The Ten Men that had seized her earlier were half dragging, half carrying her down a darkened hallway.

"We're locking you up until McCracken decides what to do," one of them growled.

"Wh-where am I?"

"Nowhere important. Now be quiet," snapped another one, shoving her into a chair and tying her wrists and ankles together.

"You're just... leaving me?" asked Cleo in disbelief, some of her courage returning in the form of indignation, and then rage. "This is so unfair! I didn't do anything, I don't deserve this! I was never bound by oath to McCracken, I never promised not to betray him, and those kids out there - you can't take them! They didn't do anything either! You're the bad guys and you know it!"

"Feisty," one of them commented coolly. A ripple of snickers erupted around her.

Blood was pounding in Cleo's head. Throughout all of this, she knew she'd been wishy-washy. She knew that Kate disliked her, and Reynie was only kind to her because, well, that's who he was, and that she'd hurt Sticky, and that Constance had attempted to read her mind and failed for a reason honestly unknown to herself. She knew that despite this, she pretended not to notice these things, a talent she realized was mostly a curse at this point. She knew that for whatever reason, something was taking over her brain - but nothing sinister. No, this was self-inflicted. Guilt? Shame? Fear? Denial? Maybe all four.

She could not explain why she did what she did next. She wasn't a fighter. She never started conflict; on the contrary, it made her exceedingly uncomfortable and she tended to run away from raised voices and palpably tense situations. She wasn't physically strong. All she knew was that the moment she ripped out of the rope holding her captive and charged at the horde of startled Ten Men, punching and kicking and scratching, the only thing that popped into her mind was her father.

She was there when he disappeared. Lissa was still at work, finishing up a draft that had been due Friday. She'd had the entire weekend to work on it, but seemed antsy and nervous and opted to sit at home with her husband and daughter watching old black and white films.

Cleo had just finished eating dinner, and her father was cutting her a slice of leftover birthday cake. Nobody had shown up to celebrate with them, so the big frosted cake they bought went to waste. It had been his idea for the family to eat the rest of it, because it had been so expensive. And all of this was for Cleo, with springy curls and a bubbly laugh that made everyone smile. Cleo, who probably wouldn't even remember how much he loved her, and the way he bounced her up and down on his lap that night until the doorbell rang.

They were well-dressed men, and he invited them into their home, thinking that this could be something about Lissa's work. Cleo was sitting on the floor, rolling a ball back and forth. Today was Monday, and the unit at preschool this week was shapes. She had a triangle (the kind you play like a musical instrument) and square blocks at her feet.

And then all of a sudden, she was scooped up in a stranger's rough arms, and her father was yelling, and a soft white handkerchief floated in her vision for a split second before everything went black. When she woke up, she couldn't remember a thing. Until now.

Another group of Ten Men burst through the door, clutching their heads and noses and various parts of their bodies that had visibly been injured.

"Move aside," said somebody. "Do stop complaining about your nose, Johnson. We all know it's bleeding and we couldn't care less."

As the figure moved towards her in the shadows, Cleo began trembling again. She never wanted this, any of this. He was going to kill her, wasn't he?

"Come here," he said, taking her chin into his hand. She gulped, squeezing her eyes shut. "Ah, I see. It's the girl."

"It's the one, the one that betrayed McCracken," explained a Ten Man.

"Yes, I can see that. I'm not daft," snapped the man. "What's your name, sweetpea?" His grip was viselike, and he shook her head side to side.

"C-Cleo," she stammered. He reeked of cologne.

"Cleo," he said mockingly, then something caught in his throat and he inhaled sharply. "Wait."

"Damon," said a Ten Man - so that was who it was; she had guessed as much - "we can't afford mercy right now. McCracken's coming any minute, and if you - "

"Shut up," said Damon, but in an uncharacteristically soft tone.

Cleo looked up, heart racing, at his silhouette. Something caught in her throat, too.

"Daddy?" she whispered.

Author's note

I am honestly quite anxious about putting this up, because I know this seems to be a Kate/Milligan repeat, which is an idea I wrestled with, but I feel like this is a different situation and gives Kate and Cleo something in common - so I know some of you may not like where I went in this chapter. Regardless, I do hope you liked this! I've been getting requests for Cleo, and people wanting to know more of her backstory, so here it is!

Thanks for being patient with my updates! Review and let me know what you thought and what you want to see next!