A/N: this chapter is in no way reflective of the author's personal views on this topic, and the author freely admits that she is no medical expert, and is instead relying on Google, wikipedia, and the story being from the perspective of a very emotionally distressed and abused young girl. And apparently the author has decided to use the third person, like a pretentious asshole. ;) what I mean to say is- please don't come me for this. I don't claim to know jackshit. Enjoy!

October 31st, 1984.

14

I sit still on the medical table, mind idly running through a math equation Mike has been teaching me.

"Eleven, when was the last time you bled?" Papa asks sharply, turning away from a chart. They X-rayed me to see how my bones are. Something about density and flexibility. I don't pay much attention to their conversations. They're usually boring, and anyway, I need to leave brain space for my training. Papa says it is very important I remember everything they teach me.

I hold up two fingers. He inhales and places his hands on his hips.

"You don't think…?" The doctor trails off, his expression quizzical. "She's just a girl."

"Experiment Eleven is extremely important to this country. Check." Papa looks grim and I bite my lip.

They have me lay down on a metal table and pull my gown up to spread a cold ooze on my stomach. I count backwards from 500 as the doctor waves a strange wand over my stomach. I like how it looks curved. It makes me feel pretty. No one else except Max has curvy bits, and I always hear the boy doctors talk about how pretty she is.

I have many more curves than her, so maybe I'm pretty! Though I don't think that's really true, it makes me smile slightly. It's a fun thought to entertain in my mind home.

"Dr. Brenner." The doctor inhales and gestures Papa over, a shocked look on his face. He points to something on the screen and I tilt my head to the side ever slightly. I just want to see what they're talking about.

The screen is black, small numbers and scribblings around the side. The inside is a greyish triangle with some strange white shapes in the middle. What is that? I squint and barely keep from gasping. Is that a face? Who, or what, are they looking at?

"Looks like she's about 17 weeks along." The man stutters. Papa glances at me for a split second. Something flashes across his face. A look of pure disgust, then pain, then anger. And, perhaps, a second of sorrow. Then it is blank once more.

"Terminate it." He orders. What are they talking about? What do they want to end? I don't like how his words sound.

"Are you sure-"

"Do you want to keep your job?"

"Yes, sir." The man is quick to respond.

"Then terminate it. I want her fully operational by the 2nd."

"She's very young sir, we don't know how her body will-"

"Do it."

"Papa?" I squeak. "What is it?" He fixes me with a look.

"Be quiet Eleven."

"Papa." I try to sit up, be he shoves me down, not even looking at me. My head hits the metal and a pain shoots through my tongue along with a metallic taste. I whimper. I have not felt pain like this in months. I had been good for so long, Papa had no reason to hurt me.

But I have done something wrong. There is something wrong with me. It must be related to the tiny face on the screen. Wait. They were asking about my bleeding. Mike said some weird things about that when I first experienced it.

I dig back through my memories and let out a breath. He said that babies grew in girls. I didn't know what those were then, but now I do. There was one in one of my school books. They are tiny people made of bits of a Mama and a Papa.

Papa is speaking to some one on a phone.

"We are terminating the pregnancy." Cold rushes through my body. He must be talking about me. That… that face on the screen. It is inside me. My hand darts to my stomach, where I feel a gently fluttering, like I feel around Mike. There is a baby in me. It is mine. I am a Mama.

A sob tears from my throat.

"Papa?" I wail. He can't be wanting to take my baby away. He loves me. Why does he think this will help me? Papa leans over me and strokes my hair.

"Shhh, don't worry Eleven." His voice is soothing now, but it rips at my flesh. Over his shoulder I see the doctor collecting strange looking devices.

"Don't hurt baby." I choke out, pushing his hands away. He straightens up, face stiff.

"I don't know what you're talking about Eleven. There is no baby. It's just a blob inside you, but it will become trouble if we don't get it out." He turns to the nurses standing about the room.

"Strap her down to the operating table." He indicates me. I pull myself off the table and dash for the door. I am nearly there when a man grabs my arm roughly. I scream as I hear it pop out of its socket. I glare at him and push him aside with my mind, scrabbling for the door handle.

I yank the heavy contraption open and dash down the hallway.

"No, no, no." I pant, skittering along, feet cold and head buzzing. I can't let them get me.

I run past white room after white room. I glance Mike in one, and I think about going to him. I'm sure he would help me. But then he'd get hurt. And the men are fast approaching. I hear them behind me.

I run up a flight of stairs, feeling my strength ebbing with every step. I reach a door that won't open and pound my fists against it.

"Help! Help me!" I shriek until my voice goes. I huddle against the door, arms tight around my middle. I feel the fluttering again. Like my baby feels my sadness. She wants to help her Mama. I gasp, tears rolling down my cheeks hot and salty.

Metallic blood drips from my nose, running into my mouth and leaking from the edges.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I love you." I whisper to my baby until the men come. "Mama loves you."

They grab my arms and I wail as they drag me off.

I would have named her Olivia. And she would have loved me.

Papa told me it wouldn't hurt. He uttered that over and over again as I lay on the table, drugged and numb. He thought that was what I was worried about. I would take the pain of a thousand thank yous for one minute with my baby. I never had a choice, though.

They don't put me all the way under, either. Apparently there's too much of a risk that I wouldn't come back. That sounds wonderfully tempting to me. But no, I must survive. To help. For the country. For Papa.

I lay there as they push things inside me, shove me apart, and suction her out. I feel everything. And, worse, I see her. Bits, at least. She could have been pretty. Been someone I'd be proud of. I won't know.

They put me in a room alone. After a bit of arguing, they decide to keep me in my restraints. Even if they'd loosed me, I would've done what I do now. I stare at the ceiling. I wonder if Mike knows. I hope not. I don't want to know how dirty I am. How empty. How lost.

Ripped apart and set loose to the smokey skies.