Two days later, 416 emerged from the bedroom, wiping at his sleep-encrusted eyes. Even though I hadn't made a single sound, he noticed me nonetheless, reclining on the couch as I stared off into the distance, thinking about the abortion that would occur within a few hours. Gently, he sat down at the other end of the couch with barely a tremor and watched me intently, his brown eyes never wavering and absorbing everything.

"Are you ok?" he asked, giving me a pat on the knee.

I trailed my finger along the lower edge of my lip, which had been doused in a hearty glass of apple juice earlier that morning. "Yeah…" I mumbled.

"No, you're not. Something's wrong."

I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should tell him because I was unsure as to how he would take the news. Finally, exasperated and figuring that he, as the father, had a right to know, I let my eyes flicker over to his, and I said, "I'm going to abort the child."

He froze unintentionally and rapidly sucked in his breath. "Our child?"

"Yes."

It was a long pause before he finally asked, "Why?"

"You know why."

"No, I don't."

"I don't want this baby living the life I lived." Removing my eyes from his, I turned back to the window, and thought about all that had happened since I had arrived in Seattle. I thought about the pain I had cried and the blood that I had bore. And, even then, that was just the tip of the iceberg, considering the emotional damage and people that had died in repayment for my life's mistakes. "I don't want it living in fear that somebody's going to take it away to a place that kills children for fun. When-and if-I want to have children, I want to have them with someone that'll support me, and I want to be able to fully support the child."

"I'll support you," he responded.

I glanced up at him and smiled faintly, but sadly. "I know you will, but…"

"But what?"

I turned away from him, and as I spoke, my voice cracked, revealing the onset of tears, "I just can't," I whispered.

Later that afternoon, I was sitting on a hard bed, lazily swinging my feet and fingering the tear in the paper-towel material that I wore, while a dowdy nurse endlessly interrogated me.

"Are you taking any prescriptions that we should be aware of?"

"No."

"Have you had any recent surgery?"

I thought of the dissections that Manticore had done to me, taking scrapings of my organs and impregnating me, before answering with a curt "No".

"And how many months along are you…Ms…" she leaned in closer to her clipboard and adjusted her glasses, attempting to read the receptionist's scrawled writing.

"Cale," I finished, lying through my teeth. "Teri Cale."

It was an obvious decision to have me go into the hospital under a different name besides my real one. And, since Logan, who circumstantially claimed to be my uncle, was financing the abortion, it only made sense that I should got by his last name.

"How many months then, Ms. Cale?"

I paused, mentally counting. "About two…two and a half…maybe three." Time at Manticore seemed to be in a different realm than in the real world. It was slower, disoriented, while everything in the real world made so much more sense.

The nurse nodded, scribbled down some illegible numbers and told me to lie back because the doctor would be with me in a moment as she left me alone. I didn't want to lie down, didn't want to succumb to another method of torture, so I remained in my sitting position, fidgeting terribly. The table-like apparatus beneath my butt was cold and unforgiving, while the bright lights from above were far too demanding. It reminded me of Manticore, and I nearly screamed.

The moment in which the doctor was supposed to arrive, passed far faster than I would have hoped, and far too soon in strolled the doctor, followed by an ensemble of nurses, who all regarded me as just the average street hooker. I wanted to cry out to them that it wasn't my fault I was pregnant. It wasn't like I had purposely slept around just to have a child. Of course, I kept my mouth shut as they numbed my pelvic area, mumbling amongst themselves about the company meeting next week and whose turn it was to buy donuts for Friday's breakfast.

Finally, the doctor-a short man with a facial hair shadow around his large jowls-glanced at me and asked, "Would you like to see the tools that I'm about to use?"

I firmly shook my head, biting down on my lower lip, praying he wouldn't sense my quivering. Just get it over with, I mentally pleaded.

"All right, then will be some discomfort and pressure, but no pain…" His words were drowned out by the sound of a harsh whirring. My entire body involuntarily clenched, and I heard him mumble something to the ladies beside him. The vacuum hummed louder than I wanted, and I began whispering softly to myself.

"Destroy a life, save a life. Destroy a life, save a life. Destroy a life…"

Yet, my words meant nothing as I drifted in and out of reality, unable to see what they were doing to my body beyond my nightgown, which was stretched taunt across my spread legs. I knew that I was destroying Manticore, destroying what would have been, indeed the nuclear warhead. Lydecker had wanted me to be his nuclear warhead, his Napoleon, his smug hero smashing the enemies left and right. Instead, his victor had turned out to be me, a Californian teenager with no concept of fighting or war, besides what I had seen in the local theater. Lydecker's true champion, though, was being sucked away by a bunch of blind doctors who didn't even realize that they were destroying billions of dollars in technology with one single vacuum and scalpel.

It was hours later before the agony was over, and a nurse-a younger, pretty gal who had obviously never gotten pregnant-helped me to my feet with a bright smile. She regarded me lowly, and I watched dumbly as she washed her hands after handling my clothes. I hadn't realized earlier that clothes could be so utterly unsanitary.

"We'll give you a prescription for the pain, if you'd like…" Her words, as I numbly dressed, meant nothing to me. "…there may be some bleeding, but it'll be nothing to worry about…get plenty of rest…no strenuous exercise…" As I finished clothing, she led me to the waiting room entrance door, where I would wait to receive my prescription slips, she chirped, "Feel better soon."

I smiled forcefully, wanting to tell her that I wouldn't feel better anytime soon.

Instead, I wobbled out to the waiting room, clutching my convulsing abdomen that felt as if it was going to suddenly jump out of my throat and land on the floor in front of me. I began to wonder if the pain at Manticore could match this. Gently, I eased myself down onto one of the wooden benches that lined the walls of the reception area. My entire body burned from the waist down, and I began to question if what I had done was truly the right thing. You couldn't have let the child live, I reminded myself, it would have been tortured all of its life. Yet, like most mothers who had gone through an abortion, my guilt and depression was hanging heavily upon me.

I must have dozed off or something because the next thing I knew, Dad was sitting down beside me, easing his arm gently around my shoulders. He smelled like strawberry jam and wore his leather jacket proudly.

"'Lanzie," he whispered, and pulled me close to his chest. With one arm wrapped around my shoulders and another firmly clasping my fingers, I felt physically secure, but wished that the world around would stop spinning. Inside his warm chest, his heart beat strongly, and I tried to pace my breathing to match the calmness of his pulse. "It's gonna be all right," he reassured me, rubbing the back of my hand with his thumb.

And, upon hearing his heartening words that swooned around my disoriented brain, I pulled him closer, nuzzling myself against his comforting leather, while breathing in the sweet scent, and I began to cry.