Helena is 16, like Cosima. She's 16 with frizzy blonde hair, deep brown eyes and a terminal illness that Cosima doesn't know what it is. It would be kinda rude to ask, right?
Whatever it is the blonde has, it doesn't affect her physical strength (or she doesn't let it, but – again - who is Cosima to judge). Helena is carrying Cosima's suitcase and bags like nobody's business. She even talks to her all the way to the red brick house, showing no shortness of breath despite all the luggage she's carrying. Walk and talk simultaneously is something Cosima, dragging her oxygen tank behind her, can only dream of.
"You missed lunch, but that's okay. We have tea later. Tea is my favourite."
Cosima follows her surprise guide into the house where they're immediately facing a flight of stairs. No stair lift. A lump forms in her throat. 16 years old. She should be able to manage a couple of stairs. She should...
Thump.
Helena dumps the bags at the foot of the stairs. So they're not going up. Thank god.
"I think your room is not upstairs", she tells her in an accent that Cosima cannot quite place (again, she doesn't want to ruin any possible first impression by asking). "But I don't know. I'm not on beds. I'm on pick ups." Helena nods, self-affirmative.
There's a nearby chair. Breathing has gotten too hard for Cosima to be embarrassed about sitting down. Showing weakness is not like her, but she's got the feeling that this girl won't judge her anyway.
Indeed, Helena just watches with her big eyes.
Here they are, Cosima sitting, Helena standing, nobody saying anything. The lingering silence is more than just a little bit awkward, although the blonde doesn't seem to be bothered at all.
"So... how long have you been here?", Cosima asks, grasping for unoffensive small-talk questions.
Helena bites her lower lip, grins. "Four years." She nods. She does that (Cosima figures).
"Years?" Cosima expected something more among the lines of months, weeks maybe. After all she was sent here with no intention of her ever coming back (not alive, anyway).
"Yes. Too young, twelve. But they made exception for my sestra and me", Helena tells her proudly.
Cosima would really like to inquirer further about Helena's exceptional status and surviving rate, but is interrupted by someone calling her name.
Well. Not hers. Helena's.
"Helena, there you are. S just called, you have to go take-" The girl, about their age (Cosima thinks), brunette, tall, slim (could be by her illness or by nature), stops in her tracks when she spots her. "Oh, hi."
"The new girl", Helena stage whispers in household noise level.
The not-new girl smiles at Cosima, then Helena. "Why don't you introduce us, hm?"
Helena is more than eager to fulfil her wishes. "Cosima, this is Beth. Beth, Cosima."
Beth gives a little wave. "Hi, Cosima. Did you have a nice trip here?"
The question is so out of place that Cosima, taken aback, doesn't answer. Like. How can a trip to your dying place be nice? How can knowing that you're spending your last hours in freedom on a car be nice? How can becoming institutionalized be nice?
"She's got very nice hairs", Helena puts in, "Don't you think, Beth?" She grins. "Krystal will love getting her hands on those."
"Well, only If Cosima lets her", Beth says, smiling. Unlike Helena's – all teeth – her mouth remains close. Cosima isn't sure which variant reflects more honesty. "So. You up for a house tour or what?"
Cosima is left to explore the house with Beth alone as Helena leaves to take whatever she's supposed to be taking. They probably have a whole lot of medication in that house and Cosima wonders whether leaving Helena alone to find whatever she needs among other things is wise – but then that's not her problem. And for all she knows Helena might be a reasonable, well capable person. (Or she might not be. But. Not her problem.)
The size of the house is astounding. What astounds Cosima almost more than it's size, though, is its lack of inhabitants. Except for Helena, who bumps into them one more time on her way outside to do whatever (she doesn't say, just grins with full teeth and skips away, which Beth puts down to her "probably having food in that mouth"), they do not meet a single person.
There's no one. Not at the library. The kitchen. The dining hall. The living area and the PC pool. The classroom. The bathroom (one of them, there are many more, Beth assures her, she won't have to share with more than three people). No one.
And since Cosima is still shy about asking (for all she knows there might have been widespread deaths) she doesn't learn about it until she asks about Mrs. Sadler, who is the director of the place.
"S... I mean, Mrs. Sadler has gone on a shopping spree with the other kids", Beth says.
"A shopping spree?" That is a surprise. They go outside?
Beth shrugs, nods. "Well yeah. Some of us are still growing. One direction or the other." There's a hint of offence in her voice, but saying 'sorry' would only add to that. Cosima knows that. She knows about being offended.
"So. You go out and buy clothes?"
"Some of us still get money from our parents. And we get money for completing chores around the house", Beth says – as If that is what Cosima asked. Probably better this way, though. At least no one is getting offended. "Helena, for example, will get 5 cents for picking you up. I get 5 for the house tour... it's not much, but it is more than nothing." She shrugs.
Cosima doesn't know what a sufficient reply would be.
"Right then. Wanna see your room?"
The room is nice. It really, really is. As her roommate, Allie, Beth called her, is currently out shopping, Cosima has the room all to herself. To decorate.
Allie's side is crazy neat. She only has a huge whiteboard with a colourful timetable and one stuffed animal sitting on her (probably hand knit) overthrow blanket. Except for that it's identical to the white sheet, white bed, white wall on Cosima's side.
She gets out her books first. Sorted by topic and how often they have been read rather than colour (which Allie seems to prefer). Any room looks better with books. People without books are not trustworthy if you ask her. Books are like people. Only they stay and never resent you.
When she's done stuffing her books (too many for the small shelf, she has to put them on top of each other (which her roommate will most likely find appalling), she gets out a few posters. They are new as she trashed her old once in a fit of rage. Van Gogh. Einstein. Indie reggae bands. The cold wall starts to look warm. Now she only has to change the white hospital bedding for her own and maybe, just maybe she will start feeling at home. Wherever that is.
A/N: Next chapter will introduce more clones and might even answer one or two questions... we'll see. thanks for reading. :)
