AUTHOR'S NOTES: Oish, been a while, ne? Well, I'm not exactly the fastest writer in the world. *embarrassed look* I hope you'll forgive me for taking so long! Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to send feedback-- you deserve tons of virtual chocolate. ^_~

Wow I don't have much to say this time. How scary!

~Meredith

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Future Games 3/?

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

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Marcus felt snow under his hands, so strange and alien that he also cried out. As it was, he fell from his on the window sill and managed to land on the chill tile bathroom floor in a crouch, with one slightly sore hand keeping him balanced. Moments passed as he held himself completely still, taking in his surroundings despite his disorientation. Light came in-- white through the window from the city, and yellow from under the closed door. The rest of the room was dim and icy; cups and dishes of every shape, size and color clustered around the old-fashioned claw-foot bath-tub directly opposite the window. One slim, tender arm lolled on the edge of the tub, hand gracefully angled down with single drop of water falling every-so-often from one of the finger tips. It was slow-motion-- still-life in shades of purple and blue.

"It is about time you got here," the voice was young, thickly accented and maybe a little drowsy, but he recognized it never the less. Drawing a deep breath, Marcus rose to his feet and approached the bath tub as though it was a throne. Susan Ivanova-- young, impossibly pixyish, lay in the white marble basin. There was no water, instead just a few blankets and a pillow to make the bathtub into a type of bed. She lay with her head tilted back against the curved side, long legs thrown haphazardly tangled over the opposite edge; her eyes were just that same tourmaline blue he knew so well. Watching him without turning her head, she held her lips apart and breathed out, watching her breath became a faint mist as it left her mouth. Her chest, clad in a sky-blue sailor-style uniform shirt, rose faintly every now and then-- it seemed as though she was reminding herself to breathe. With her hair curled ever so slightly and chopped off without mercy at her jaw, she looked charmingly boyish. Her words seemed to drop like crystals in the cold air, "Are you Death?"

He saw that it was not water dripping from her fingers, but blood.

He came to her side and said her name, unable to keep the horror out of his voice. Her hand flitted away when he tried to take it-- she watched with disinterest as her own blood splashed on her skirt and spread there, turning light blue to purple.

"Susan," he said again, mind numb.

"You are at the right address," she smiled, "I am Susan."

"Why--" seemed to be he only word he could formulate, reaching for her hand again. This time, she allowed him to take it; he turned it over and focused himself on inspecting the depth of the cut on her wrist.

"I was just-- letting it out a little, do you know?" she searched his face for understanding, but he could give her none. His grip on her hand tightened, as if he could somehow delay her physically; he had never known such fear. She smiled, strangely, "I collect it in the cups," she nodded towards the dishes, and he saw also that they were stained, or filled with her life-fluid. "I take it to my," she spat the word, "therapist. He does love that. Last week, he said I had border line personality disorder. This week, he will have to choose between multiple-personalities and acute schizophrenia. He is running out of diagnosis."

Wetting his lips, Marcus tried to find words, any words, "Please, don't..."

"It is all right," she raised her hand to touch his cheek. Some of her blood ran to catch in his beard-- he wanted nothing more than it meticulously collect it, every droplet, every cupful, and return it to her. Susan's blood, he realized with a turn of his stomach. Death by withering. "This time, though, I think I shall just go," she continued, "I would like to see, really-- and here you are." Her smile was, sleepy, lazy and almost fond. It was like the word 'sweetheart' on his tongue; her childish affection was strange, and somehow comforting.

Almost embarrassed, he looked at his hands, and saw the red spreading on them like flowers.

"I can't let you die!" he said with sudden ferocity, and she recoiled as though he had betrayed her.

"Why not?" she sounded indignant, as though he'd said she wasn't good enough to perish and leave her body a pile of bones. Marcus turned away from her, searching through the medicine cabinet with clumsy, desperate hands. Finally, he raked the bottles and boxes into his arms and spilled them out on the floor near the bath tub. Carefully, he set the full cup and half-empty saucer as far away as possible.

"Give me your hand," he insisted.

"No," she cradled her hands towards her heart. For a moment, he thought of before (or is that after?) when she had accused him of coming to Babylon 5 to hurt her, and she had also held her hands away. The action seemed a mannerism. "Why should you stop me? I am already dead-- a doll with no heart. The other girls call me the ice princess. They are very right."

"Why?" he asked again, and this time she seemed to understand his meaning.

"Because!" she shook with her anger, "I'd rather die by my own hand than be caught! They won't take me. I'll kick and scream," she seemed to be threatening the long shadows clustered around them, "I'll bite. I can't keep on dodging-- I'm getting tired and..." Insanely, he realized she was crying, and it humbled him, "and there is no one to hold me here! I will go where Mama is. When they took her away, she was just fading: not dead yet. She reached out to me. I saw a... city," the memory seemed to bring light to her face, "the streets were strange and I could read none of the signs. I'm going there to look for her." She reached for him, took one of his hands in her two small ones. The grip was just as strong and steel as he had ever known her. "Will you take me there?"

He shook his head; mutely, violently. "Susan, I can't... I *won't* let you do this."

"Why NOT?" she stressed again, then hurried her words with eager reassurance, "Don't worry-- I am all alone in this country. My room mate doesn't even like me, which is why I sleep in here. No one will miss me. We can leave right now." She sounded like a child (he had to remind himself that she *was*) playing a game.

"I have sworn to protect you," he admitted softly, "even from yourself."

"Protect me?" her voice reached an almost wail, "protect me from *them*! That is what I need."

"If you die," he tried another track, "they win." She curled up into a ball in the corner of the tub, watching him with eyes that glittered.

"There's another Psi test next week," she admitted, "Everytime, I am so afraid I will be caught... I *smell* of the fear, I know it. One day, my luck is going to run out."

"It won't," he said, keeping the image of her-- strong at the helm of the White Star-- firmly in his mind. He could not stand to extinguish the small flare of hope that shadowed across her expression.

Even when it occurred to him that he might well be lying.

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[to the tune of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game"]

"Please give me some feed-back,

that is what I desire,

I'll love you forever if only you'd say,

good or bad, yes or no, yay or nay.

Yes, I really really like feedback,

and I am not ashamed,

cause it's F-E-E-D and back,

yes, that's he name of the game."