I don't own Lab Rats. I do own this story. Enjoy.


* * * Chapter 17.1 * * *


"Bree," he mumbled. "Bree. B-R-E-E. Br-ee. Bree."

He knew that name. He knew he knew that name. But, like a word on the tip of his tongue, he couldn't figure out its precise meaning.

The girl was Bree. The girl from the story; the girl he felt a connection to. Bree held some significance to him, both as a name and as a person. B to Bree . . . he knew he knew her.

"Still thinking about her?"

He moved over so he could speak to the guard outside the door—the sister, the one of whom he was fond.

"Yes. I know her name now. It's Bree."

"I know. It's a very pretty name."

"She's important to me, but I don't know why yet."

"Describe her to me."

"She has white hair and green eyes, but I don't think she always looked that way. She's been subject to a lot of experiments . . . just like me."

"Just like all of us."

"She met a boy named Leo . . . I think he's important to me too."

"But you don't know."

"I don't."

"Like a word on the tip of your tongue."

"That's what I'd compare it to, yes."

"I know the feeling."

"You're just as lost as I am."

"All I have is my brother. Other than that, I know nothing about life outside this facility."

"Do you remember the sun?"

"No."

"It's beautiful. My squad and I used to watch it set when we were stationed in the mountains. That was months ago. I've been in here for a long time."

"But at least when you're healed you'll get to leave."

"Maybe I can convince them to let you come with me."

"I would like that."

He stayed silent for a moment, taking a deep breath and feeling the sharp pain that came with it. "I wonder if I'll ever heal completely."

"From what? The physical or emotional scars?"

He flashed a grin at her dark humor. Her words held more truth than either one of them wanted to acknowledge. "Thank you," he said, "for being my friend. My squad only looks—looked—at me as a leader. Kitty is something of a friend to me, but we've never had talks like this. You keep me from being lonely."

"Ditto. If we have to endure all of this, why should we have to endure loneliness as well?"

"Solitary confinement is one of the worst things you can do to a man. Deprive him of comfort or sleep or even food and his will might survive. But deprive a man of human contact and his spirit will break."

"Shh, don't give them ideas."

He nodded and grinned again, even if she couldn't see him. He enjoyed the deep talks. He hadn't had such conversations in years, and he found them invigorating—perhaps even inspiring.

"I think the stories are drawing to a close," he said, running his hand along the wound in his right thigh.

She stayed silent for a moment, then sighed and said, "I don't think I'm supposed to tell you this, but I heard that there's only one more part of each story to tell you. The next time you go into that room will be the last."

He sucked in his breath. He didn't know whether to believe it or not. And if it was true, he couldn't tell if joy or longing would be his principle emotion. He still didn't even know if the stories were real or fictional. He wondered if he would ever know.

"In another life, we would've been friends. Do you believe that?" He paused, waiting for her answer.

It took many seconds—seconds that felt like hours, and when she did respond, it sounded like a hammer hitting a nail: sharp, stentorian, and sure.

"I do."