.o Help Me o.
Alyson
Four walls. One cot. One missing vile. One missing syringe. Not enough bandages.
Blood stained my shirt, sticking to whatever I touched. My arm stung as it bled; the cut reopening whenever I moved my arm higher than my elbow. The cot hurt my back, but I welcomed the pain; I embraced the blood, because every ounce of pain gave me something to focus on; it meant that I didn't have to think.
I wasn't sure how long I had run, how long I'd wandered the woods, how long it had taken me to find my way to the abandoned bunker. I wasn't sure how long I'd been here, or how long it'd been since I'd eaten or drunk anything, or how long it'd been since Evelyn had left, or what she was going to do with the vile, or how long my arm had been bleeding, or how long until I would run out of blood. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to think, because if I had to think, I would think of Zach and...
A hiss escaped my teeth as I pressed my fingers just below the cut, the leather sticking to the damp, slick skin. The dull ache had become a constant pulse, assuring me that I was still alive. Still alive. But not for long. The pit of my stomach twisted with hunger, and my throat burned dry. My limbs ached, the joints in my back cracking every time I sat up.
I couldn't go on like this. Weak. Unable to process simple information. That's all it was. A name. A filled in blank. A simple strand of DNA. A cell. It didn't matter.
But even I couldn't lie to myself that well.
I couldn't deny the significance no matter how much I wanted to. There was nothing I could say to reverse it, change it. For the first time in my life, my brother had gotten something first. He'd changed the rules on me. He'd added another player to my strategic game.
And no matter how hard I fought them, the memories would surface as I tried to close my eyes. The sound of bottles shattering, and the scream and cries of a madwoman would haunt my ears. Every house we lived in, every night I bandaged my own cuts, found our food; every time I calmed Clara down from an attack, everything I'd ever buried, every day I'd struggled to forget, they all circled in my head until I wanted to rip them out, cut them to shreds. They assaulted me until I wanted to scream, to sob, to question anything I'd every felt, every loyalty I'd ever had, to kill everything that every made me feel this way. To destroy the person who'd made me like this, who'd abandoned us in the ultimate way. Abandoned me, us- her.
The nails on my hand were crusted with dried blood, some from the cut on my arm, some from my wrist, and legs, and face. It'd been months since either of my hands were bare this long. The splotchy, tough skin made me sick. The memories of the fire made my stomach roll. My eyes still stung from the tears, and my throat ached from the screams.
The pain had been awful, but worse was the treatment afterwards. The careful way the insufferable woman had tried to patch me up, promising no one would find me, as if she knew what was best, as if she had any idea what a secret even was. Another slice of pain shot up my arm, causing me to wince. I hated remembering, but some memories were useful.
My knees hit the stone floor with a painful thud. Arms shaking, I pushed myself up from the floor and moved to the cubicles on the walls, fingers fumbling until they gripped something thin and flat. The old papers slid out, falling around my feet and sticking to my dirty hand as I searched for the right article.
I found it in the middle of the pile, what used to be the biggest story in the news looked up at me, the bold black letters showing me exactly what I needed to see.
Senator's wife sells home after husband's death and moves to the small town of Dustin, Virginia.
...
There was once a time when entering through the front door, let alone knocking, would have been appalling; but as I stood there, swaying slightly, I realized that nothing was really beyond possibility for me anymore.
I had to blink as the door swung open, the light emitting from inside temporarily blinding me as a woman began to shout. Apparently she didn't appreciate a stranger knocking her door relentlessly at three am. My eyes didn't have time to adjust before the voice cut off with a rough gasp, followed by the woman turning and yelling for someone inside the house. My voice evaded me, and I swayed again, trying to catch my balance against the door frame. Her silhouette blurred as she rushed forward, catching me by the arms and causing me to hiss in pain.
"Oh, my! Are you being followed? How did you get here?" The woman was speaking rapidly, her voice carrying across the empty street behind me. Shifting her arms around my waist, she lead me inside, her questions continuing as she closed and locked the door behind her. "What's your name? Do you need an ambulance? Come, er- no, this way. I'll take you to one of the guest bedrooms upstairs." I tuned her out as she led me up the staircase, hollering over her shoulder for the other occupant of the house.
For as many questions she asked me, she never waited for an answer. Within two minutes, she had taken my jacket, removed my shirt without hesitation (or permission), and was looking me over, taking in the blood and cuts and bruises without so much as a blink. I assumed I looked horrific. I hadn't bothered to glance in a mirror between leaving Roseville, stealing a car, and driving nearly two hours in my already exhausted state. But that was one of the reasons I'd come here. The woman in front of me wouldn't be daunted by what she was seeing; and she had stopped asking me questions halfway up the stairs. Her mouth was now set in a firm line, hands trembling as she silently moved to and from the bathroom and the bed where I was seated.
When she returned holding a bottle of alcohol and bandages, there was a wary determination in her eyes. She placed them on the small table beside the bed before leveling me with an intense, almost pleading, stare. "I've done a lot to keep the past in the past, young lady. I don't need to be worrying about you and- and-" she pressed her lips together, hands clenching at her sides before gesturing to me roughly with one hand. "I don't want any of this or your people or anything of the sort coming here, disrupting me and my son anymore because of you!" She paused. I had to admit I was slightly impressed she had the guts to make demands. It seemed time had strengthened her- at least a little.
When she spoke again, her voice grew quiet, distant. "If there's even the slightest chance anyone will come after us for this..." She trailed off, her eyes flickering from me to the supplies on the nightstand. I pressed my lips together, giving a slight shake of my head even though I had absolutely no idea when the Gallagher gang would track me here.
She didn't look convinced, which was smart of her and frustrating for me. Glancing over me again, she started shaking her head. "You know what, I shouldn't have to deal with this anymore." She stepped back, as if I were a child and she was tired of telling me not to throw my toys. "I don't care who you are or what you've been doing or if you're one of them. I should just call an ambulance, send you to a hospit-"
"You can't do that." Someone interjected from the doorway. I turned around, the movement stinging my open cuts. A guy was crossing the room to the woman, not bothering to look at me. Instead, he placed his hands on her shoulders, lowering his voice, however pointless it was to do so; I could hear every word. "You go downstairs. I'll take care of this."
The woman stared at him for a moment, before glancing at me then back to the young man in front of her. Eventually, she nodded, stepping around him and quickly out the door.
As soon as she was gone, the guy turned on me, eyes narrowing. "What the hell are you doing here, Alyson?" he hissed, taking a step towards me. Then he seemed to process the fact that my shirt was thrown over the bed frame and not all of my skin was bruised. I couldn't help the way my lips twitched at the way he cleared his throat, ears slightly pink. I watched as his eyes raked over my figure, taking in the cuts and blood. I'm sure my hair didn't look better than if I'd twisted it on the end of a fork for hours.
I leaned back slightly, ignoring the protests of my stinging arms, and tilted my head slightly. "You know, I really love the warm welcome I always get from you."
He snorted, raising an eyebrow in impatience. After a minute of my silence, the boy in front of me shook his head, reaching over and pouring the alcohol on one of the gauze. He'd changed in the months since I'd seen him last. Of course I'd seen his pictures in magazines and papers, online and TV screens; but it was different when you were face to face. Screens can't capture the differences in someone's eyes and posture. The gossip collum couldn't possibly begin to understand the meaning in the simple gestures a person makes. The young man in front of me had seen his world flipped, heard life-altering secrets, experienced a fraction of the world he was born into since the last time we'd seen each other; and I could tell in his eyes that it was something that was still haunting him today.
Which was exactly why I'd come to him.
I hissed, baring my teeth as he pressed the soaked gauze to my skin. My shoulder was on fire. He kept an expression of perfect indifference as I glared at him, his body close enough for me to see the muscles in his throat as he swallowed.
"You shouldn't have come here," he murmured, voice low. His eyes softened the slightest amount as he glanced up to meet mine, pressing the gauze to my collar bone, where the marks of my own fingernails were obvious and inflamed. "But since you did, I'm assuming you really have reached rock bottom." The corner of his mouth lifted a tiny amount, only inches away from me. He raised his eyebrows in wonder. "What exactly is the Black Widow's lowest point?"
My muscles were tensed as if I were cornered, throat tightening. The stinging was increasing the longer he held the cloth to my chest. I had a feeling he wouldn't let go until I'd answered. Clearing my throat, I narrowed my eyes, trying to regain some sort of control. "I got in a tight spot," I shrugged to avoid wincing at the pain. "Needed a few stitches; besides, you owe me," I leaned forward, dragging out the name. "Mad Dog."
He frowned, a crease forming on his forehead. "No. That's not it." I actually did wince as he moved the gauze to a fresher cut, the fire now spreading across my chest. He either didn't notice, or he didn't care. I was more convinced of the latter.
"You don't go anywhere without the others," he pressing both me and the cloth against my burning flesh. "And you wouldn't come here unless you were completely out of options. So tell me, Alyson," He leaned closer, his breath adding to the stinging of my face. "Why exactly are you here?"
Despite how much pain was crawling across my skin, I wanted to reach up and rip the smirk off his face. He wasn't supposed to know this much. Seeing him again wasn't supposed to be this painful. It wasn't supposed to feel like I was being scraped hallow. I wish I could blame rawness of my throat for my voice cracking when I told him, "I need help, Preston."
He blinked, sitting back. Even if he didn't know the full weight of the confession, he'd known me long enough to realize the rarity of what I'd just said. He was a descendant of the Circle. It didn't really matter how much he was told, he, like myself, had done enough digging to understand the dynamic, the rules. He seemed to looked over my injuries with a new vigor, lingering on the obviously self given scratch lines. "What happened?"
I shook my head, eyes stinging. The air was sticking in my throat, and it nearly made me jump when the first sob broke. Preston leaned forward, placing his hands on my shoulders. "Hey, breathe, Ally, breathe. What's going on?"
Another sob burst from my throat as I told him. I told him everything, starting from the beginning all the way to hours ago; the words and tears flooding from me, sobs wracking my body again and again. I told him about Aunt Laura being killed, about Mom becoming frantic about taking over the Circle, about Evelyn and Clara, about Clara's father, and Blackthorne and training. Once I started I couldn't stop myself from nearly screaming how Zach had abandoned us, how Mom became obsessed with the Morgans, how I'd slowly become more and more obsessed with making Cameron pay for what she'd done; what her family had done to mine.
I wasn't sure how long he sat there, letting me break down completely, but by the time I'd stopped, my throat ached and my head was pounding, making my already stinging eyes heavy. Preston hadn't interrupted me once, though I wasn't sure how much of my rant was comprehensible. He only moved once to sit next to me on the bed. When it was obvious I'd stopped, he reached over and lightly grabbed my wrist, tracing circles onto my hand with his thumb.
He'd let me break until I ran out of tears; and I hated him for it."There's something you're not saying," he whispered; and I shook my head ready to bolt out the door. His grip tightened. "Alyson, stop. There's something else, I can tell. You don't just hate Cammie because Zach went to Gallagher, and even that wouldn't bring you here. What happene-"
"No!" I snapped, ripping my hand from his and trying to stand. My exhausted legs faltered, and a second later, he was pulling me back onto the bed. I struggled against him, trying to kick him away, but they were feeble attempts. My head fell back, one final sob escaping me. It was getting harder to keep my eyes open.
Preston leaned over me, pinning my hands to my sides. I hated it; I hated him. I hated myself for crying, for breaking. For being too weak. I hated feeling this hallow, this broken. More than anything, I hated myself for letting him see it. All I wanted was to curl up and let everything disappear; my eyes felt like heavy curtains, is I could close them, maybe I could shut out the world forever. Preston didn't say anything, but his questions echoed in my head, screaming to be released. Refusing to let out another sob, I did the only thing to stop it.
"When I was eight, my Aunt Laura was killed for helping a CIA agent find the names of the Circle of Cavan," I said, my voice like nails in my throat. "The agent's name was Morgan."
There was a beat of silence before Preston pressed, "And?"
I took in a ragged breath before adding, "And, I just found out who my father is."
...
Zach
"You're twin sister." The man pacing in front of me shook his head. A humorless laugh escaped his lips as he looked at each of us in turn. "I should have known."
"Edward-" Joe took a step forward, but Townsend wheeled on him.
"No." I'd expected him to yell or snap, but his voice kept the same calm indifference that was somehow worse. "No, Edward." He pointed at Solomon, then at Abby, then Rachel. He didn't even look at me. "All of you knew, and I'm guessing it was in the best interest of the mission not to tell me I had another child and that we so happened to be attempting to kill her."
"We're not going to kill her." My father still ignored me. Maybe when you're a spy who prides himself on keeping his head and following protocol the easiest thing to do is block out whatever unnecessary emotion could make you lose focus.
Apparently, I was the unnecessary emotion.
Beside me, Grant muttered, "Easy cowboy." He placed a hand on my shoulder. Jonas had left, instructing Madame Dabney and Doctor Fibbs how to treat Clara; but Grant hadn't left my side since we'd gotten to the school. I rolled my eyes, but I heard his warning, the offer- let him do the talking about Alyson and her past. Townsend didn't want to listen to me at the moment, and I was too invested in this.
Townsend was still pacing. "Where has the subject been for the past year?"
"She's not the Subje-"
"All sources would indicate that prior to the breakout of Youngblood Asylum, Alyson Goode had been staking out abandoned homes, on the run from both the remains of the Circle and the CIA." Joe gave me a look, and I took their advice. I backed off, stepping back to where the girls were sitting, letting the more seasoned operatives work this out. If Townsend wanted to act like this was a normal mission, fine. I could let Grant and Joe take the lead on this one. But I wasn't going to sit around listening to them talk as if Ally was just another Subject. I'd done enough of that myself.
Macey had taken Bianca to a more secure area of the school, debriefing and treating her. Clara was being held in Sublevel Two, while the rest of us were left to recover and find out where my sister had gone. Cammie looked up at me from her stack of papers. I figured she was getting a head start on her Mission Report, something she'd been great at since I'd known her. Bex and Liz were watching a baseball game. And when I say watching, I mean the game was on the tv screen, but Liz had a giant map on her lap, and Bex was helping her trace out possible stopping points less than forty-eight hours away. A row of laptops were lined up in the middle of their chairs. Yes, my sister had disappeared, and yes, we needed to find her; however, no one could have taken everything my sister had and run far. She wouldn't be able to get out of state without getting some kind of medical attention. I know, because I'm the one who'd injected her with the infection. She would need help, and we were watching every place she could get it.
"You okay?" Cam asked, her eyes darting from me to Townsend and the others.
I shrugged. "It's not something particularly easy to take in."
She rolled her eyes. "I know."
"I just hope he doesn't hurt her."
Cammie sat up straight, her stack of papers nearly falling before her hand shot out to catch them. "Zach, she's killed, broken into both Youngblood and the Gallagher Academy," she said, unsure which was scarier. "Not to mention, she was part of the Circle, kidnapped the President's daughter, and has openly tried to assassinate me and you."
"I know!" My voice came out harsher than I'd intended. Cammie leaned away from me. I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I'm sorry. I just..." I glanced from her to Bex, who was watching me, obviously ready to jump across the room should I snap. "She's my sister." I wasn't sure if which one of them I was talking to, but it needed to be said. "I know her. She's hurt and scared and stubborn, but she's my sister." I looked from Cam to Bex (who looked unimpressed) to Townsend. "And it's my job to take care of her."
.o.O.o.