Judas' Kiss
AN: My only story set in the Ultimate universe, this was the 2001 short that started a novella. The whole story is long, and is archived at my site.

I stood at the front of my cell, straining my senses as far as I could to try to see what was going on. I knew something was up when I heard the klaxon sound. The empty cell beside me had to be the reason why.

Maybe he did get away. I hoped so. He had been so kind and gentle, not suited to what he was made into. I remember the first weeks he was here he just lay on his bunk and cried all night, but silently. He did have his pride.

I had been sick of hearing him. My ears, though dulled by the inhibitors around our cages, were still sharp enough to hear the desperate prayers he whispered into the darkness.

I don't even remember what I sang, perhaps a half-remembered hymn from long-ago Sunday school classes. At first, it was just to shut him up and it worked. I couldn't even hear him breathe. Later, it just became habit. Eventually I did it to keep him, and myself maybe, alive and sane.

None of us deserve this. They make us into monsters and then act shocked when we kill them. A month or two ago, maybe three -- who can keep track -- they came for him. For many nights I had no one to sing to. Surprisingly, I missed it.

They returned an animal to his cell. He had killed two guards before they sedated him enough to lock him up. They had wanted another killing machine, well, they got it. At the cost of the life and mind of a gentle German boy. God, how I hate them.

It took days for him to calm down enough to even remember his name. I talked to him as much as I could. I didn't know if he heard the first night, but I sang to the sad form huddled on the floor. The third night he had jerked, his head swinging around to look at me in the dark. All I could see was a fiery glow from his wide eyes and mouth. That was new. Then I heard him crying.

Before, he had tried to entertain me with stories of his life. I think to pay me for my company. I suppose, deep down, I had enjoyed them. So I dredged them from the deep corners of my mind where they had hidden. I tried my best to give him his life back one story, one memory, at a time.

I like to think he was remembering, not just listening. I think, when they came to get him again this morning, he did remember. He didn't want to go back, to lose everything all over again. I think, if he gets the chance, he will kill them all. Part of me still knows that is wrong, but it's a small part. My programming is winning. I hope he does.

The sudden silence when the alarm ceased was deafening and I felt my heart drop. He was caught, or dead. I hoped for the latter, and that it had been quick. Rest in peace, my friend.

A few minutes later I knew he had no such luck. I could hear the guards coming, cursing down the corridors. I backed up to my bunk, sitting down when the backs of my knees hit the edge.

He was thrown over the shoulder of one of the burlier guards. I saw blood, but not against his skin. Kurt's skin was hard to see at a distance. I only saw the blood that soaked through the soldier's uniform.

The cell door opened, and the man hurled him inside with no more regard than he would give a sack of garbage. Kurt's body skidded when it hit the floor, smearing dark blood against the light gray concrete. He didn't move.

The guard paused just long enough to leer at me, his lip curled as he mouthed the word. Mutie. Then he was gone. We'll kill you all someday, bastard.

I edged to the side of my cell, careful to check that no one was coming back for him, or me. Curling my fingers around the bars, I looked at him.

Blood leaked from a wound in his shoulder. A small puddle grew under his ear. No glow came from his closed eyes or gaping mouth now. With his color, it was hard to see his bruises, but they were there and there was plenty. The guards had a little fun with him before bringing him back.

He breathed shallowly, his young face turned toward the ceiling. He was so young, we all were. Too young to die. Too young to kill. I hoped he didn't wake up.

I cried for him, because he couldn't, and sank to the floor. Reaching though the bars, I laid my hand on his soaked, freezing cold pant leg. It must be winter. I began to sing. What else could I do?