He's running. Running down a hallway so brightly lit that you can see the veins throbbing under his pale, almost translucent skin. Why he is running, he does not know, but he can hear his breaths rattling in his throat – they sound too much like…like what? He cannot remember. He does not want to remember. He can feel the air burning in his lungs; he can feel his blood turn to steel, rendering limbs heavy but powerful enough to propel him forward. No amount of pain will make him stop.

He can't afford to stop. If he does, it will kill him, he knows, even if he does not know what he is running from. Whatever it is, it is descending upon him too fast. He will not be able to go on much longer. Will it hurt? But why is pain unpleasant? Maybe he could – No. He has to be strong.

The lights are flickering, distorting his perception of time. It could have been hours. It could have been just a few seconds. The floor wants to meet him. It is tugging at his limbs. It sucks at him like a vacuum. Will it open up and swallow him if he lets himself fall? He can hear water at the other end. Not rushing at him, but sloshing behind the walls. Just the pipes. They can snap if the pressure is too high.

He will drown. The water is not too far behind him. How long will it take for it to catch up? Minutes? An hour? He doesn't know what an hour feels like anymore. A haze floats across his vision. How long will he last before his body gives out? Will that be the last he will see, or will he come to just soon enough to be defeated, to succumb and fall to the inky depths? Will he lie there forever, a wreck at the bottom of a sea, alone and forgotten? Is that what death feels like?

The lights have stopped flickering. The water has not gotten to them yet. He hears something crack. A fracture opens up in the wall. And another…and another, like wounds from an invisible but no less fierce whip – have his enemies fallen? The ruptures are opening like wounds. They're bleeding like wounds, weeping a black-red fluid. Hundreds of little droplets roll down like tears, striping the broken walls crimson. They're splintering now, redder than they are white. The shards are collapsing inward.

The space around him is shrinking and the shards edge closer like fangs towards their prey. The air is thick and smoky. He can't breathe…Can't breathe! And the bloody white debris are closing in, rubbing against him, biting, scraping his skin raw…He can feel them pierce his flesh, his blood spurting out…He can feel his bones being crushed, exploding from within…There's no air…can't scream…blood rushing…bones snapping…no air…dying…

This is it, Renn said to herself, mentally sighing to herself. He would be out of prison today, though he would have to be Intelligence's cannon fodder for a few years. It was surprising that he had gotten off so easily, but she had been told that he was extremely well-connected – so much for real justice – and he was – had been, at any rate, mentally unbalanced. He had calmed down after a while, and despite the occasional rather disturbing behaviour, he was harmless now. It seemed that he had learned something over the course of his term.

The day she had met him was still clear in her mind. It had been, in fact, her first day of work; she had been practically fresh from university but highly recommended. It had been a strange coincidence that V138 had just been transferred from a (slightly) lower security place.

oOo

Renn stepped into the cell – four cool, unyielding grey walls and a large transparisteel plane cutting the middle of the room in lieu of bars. This instantly gave her an idea of just what she would be dealing with – someone dangerous, obviously, because the material was strong enough to be used in the construction of spacecraft.

The first thing that came to mind was that the prisoner was smaller than she'd expected. Silly, but judging by his file, he should have been a brutish, towering mountain of muscle. That was the stigma she attached to 'terrorist'. For a moment, she wondered if she was in the wrong place. She had definitely not expected this.

Slender, with close-cropped blonde hair and clear blue eyes, he did not look like he belonged here. He looked too young, too vulnerable. He sat curled against the wall, his head in his hands, staring. She was about to speak when he rose and walked to the clear wall that separated. He was only centimeters away, now.

He was different up close. His eyes were rimmed with red, his face hard and sharp, like steel. He had a split lip and his cheek was cut and bruised, the blood caked but still oozing. His eyes fixed on hers, pointedly, with no discernable emotion. Hostile? Accusing? Desperate? Or maybe, maybe he was studying her as she studied him.

"Do you know why you're here?"

He just looked at her with slight derision. She took it as an affirmative.

"I know why you're here. I read all about you."

He was staring at the wall behind her. Then he focused on her again.

"My name is Renn. I'm not supposed to know your name – that's just the policy here. This is strictly professional. I know you probably don't like me, but you will have to get used to me, because I'm the only way you're ever getting out of here. They want to make you a valuable member of society. I know you don't want to be here."

He showed no sign of acknowledgement. His mind could have been in another place. She wondered what the world looked like through his eyes.

"I know that you're not well. I'm going to help you. But for the moment, at least, we'll cut the crap. Can you tell me what made you do it?"

A blank face there. Then he blinked and said nothing. His face twitched and something fell over it.

"What you did is atrocious. You have no excuse…it disgusts me," She shrugged as she said it.

"But I will not hold it against you. I'm on your side; I'm here to understand you and maybe eventually find a way to help you. I need to start somewhere; I need to know your motivations. So tell me, what were they? It's a simple question, and I know you're not stupid."

He leaned closer and spoke softly, voice rasping, perhaps from disuse.

"I like to kill things."

"I see. That's it for now."

As she walked away, she did not see his hand press against the plane that separated them.

oOo

Prisoner V138 awoke with a small cry. She was next to him, liquid brown eyes surveying him with concern. She clung to him still.

"You had me worried. You were moving in your sleep and would not wake up. Come on. We're leaving."

"Leaving..?"

She smiled; her eyes sparkled with a joy he did not seem to share.

"Yes, leaving. Don't you remember? You're free to go; we just need to do some paperwork."

Just like that – she said it like nothing had happened.

"I'm sorry about what I said. I…I wasn't myself. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Perhaps it was the way his voice shook that made her smile warmly and brush it off. Perhaps not.

"I know. Forget it."

Things could not be erased so easily. They could not be swept away with a glance. Some things stayed with you until death.

"I just…say things I don't mean. Do things I know I'll regret. I don't know what's wrong with me…"

His voice cracked under the strain.

"It's alright. I told you to forget it. Once you're out of here, you'll be fine again. I promise you."

She was so certain that it was not reassuring.

"I'm so sorry, Leia…for everything. I'm sorry for destroying everything you worked so hard to build."