Chapter 12

There she is.

Weapon Zero, on the other side of a one-way window.

I don't know her real name – they won't let me see her file. They won't let me talk to her either. In my mind I call her Rebecca. I don't know why, except that I feel as though she needs a name.

"So far," Dr. Frost is saying to her audience of gathered assistants, "this is the only subject who has successfully completed the Weapon X program. In other words – this subject can erase memories. Permanently."

I peer through the glass at the girl. She can't be much more than twelve – so small and forlorn sitting in the Machine while a technician slowly lowers the visor over her head.

She's become an instrument, a tool with which Weapon X can fix the world's problems.

"Soon, we won't need mem-therapy anymore," Dr. Frost is saying. "Soon we'll be able to just erase peoples' trauma, and make them into better people."

They lead in another one of the kids – I don't even know this one's designation. Nameless, markerless. Maybe they're not one of the special ones. Maybe they're just a test subject.

They sit the kid down into the chair next to Weapon Zero's, and plug them into the Machine.

I swallow hard as the Machine is switched on.

What does it do to a human, to have parts of you erased? Even if it's trauma that's gone, does that mean you're no longer who you were? That you're someone or something different?

What does it mean to suck up all that trauma? What does it mean to be Weapon Zero, the human sponge?

Philosophy was never my subject. I stare at the hard, determined little mouth of Weapon Zero. Now I know why.

-oOo-

The soft chime of a text from Anna wakes me up from a light sleep and into yet another strange hotel room.

I twist onto my side and reach for my phone. Her message is short.

Sorry, something came up. Just eta me and I'll meet you at the airport.

I give a little grimace of disappointment and roll back over. Maybe it's just as well. Didn't get much sleep last night.

I wake up a couple of hours later and less than another hour after that I've checked out. I take the metro to Amsterdam and stop off for a meeting with another potential client before heading to the airport. I know Jake's trying to keep me busy, but I ain't sure I appreciate it in this context. I'm anxious to be with Anna again – there are things we need to resolve, and it's like a sword waitin' to fall on top of me. Even if the resolution is some kinda rejection, at least it'll be something that doesn't leave me hanging like this.

I text Anna my eta while I'm waiting to board.

The plane journey is a short 45 minutes, and I land back in London by late afternoon. When I get to the arrivals lounge, I'm surprised to see Jake there.

"Where's Anna?" I ask.

"Why, hello to you too, Mr. Lord," he greets me snidely.

"Shut up, Jake," I say as we head towards the parking lot. "I was expectin' Anna."

"I know," he replies. "Something came up. I had to pick you up instead."

"Right." I glower over at him. "I kinda guessed. Don't tell me. She got called in by Wisdom."

Jake is suspiciously quiet. He calls for the elevator up to the parking lot level and while he's busy supposedly checking out the floor numbers, he says: "Don't get pissed, Remy."

Well, shit.

"Don't get all coy on me now, Jake. What did Wisdom want?"

The elevator lands and we get inside.

"Remy," he answers, almost pained. "Anna's gone to New York."

What the fuck?

I do a double take.

"She went ahead and contacted Logan," Jake explains. "He arranged a meet. Gave her a deadline too. Twelve hours."

I stare. Words form in my mouth. Am I pissed? Or am I numb?

"She didn't tell me," is the only thing that comes out.

"Well, it was kinda spur of the moment," Jake returns as the elevator comes to a stop and we step out. "None of us were expecting things to go so quickly… Wisdom wasn't too happy… He had to fast track all this shit just to get her outta here by the deadline. I don't think she got much time to think about sorting stuff out here before she left."

I don't acknowledge him. My ears are ringing, my thoughts are racin'. On the one hand I'm admiring Logan's tactics. Giving a short notice deadline on the meet keeps a potential enemy on the backfoot, gives them less time to pull any funny stuff. But on the other hand… this is yet more shit Anna's been keepin' from me. She's gonna have her work cut out with this guy, and my emotions careen between concern for her and the idea that this damn well serves her right.

"Remy," Jake is saying as we get into the car, "Don't be pissed, okay? I know she would've at least wanted to say goodbye."

He might be right.

But the way I'm feeling right now, I don't think any goodbye I coulda said to her woulda been pretty.

-oOo-

The apartment is quiet, lonely. As always she's left everything spotless and clean, and the only evidence of her presence is the lightness of her fragrance.

I walk into the bedroom and dump my bag. My stomach is churning. There's anger, sure. Disappointment. But there's also this sinking feeling, the sense that I'm losing her.

Did I ever have her?

She never came here with the understanding that this was anything more than an extended vacation. Maybe the fault's with me for misreading the situation. For thinking this was something more.

Maybe ya didn't even know somethin' more was what you wanted back then, LeBeau.

Shit. I'm overthinking things again. The past don't matter. What matters is, I don't wanna lose what we have now.

I suddenly notice that the red LED in the corner of the telescreen is flashing. I hold my breath and pick up the remote, switch it on.

Huh. Looks like Anna's left a pre-recorded message. I don't think about it – I hit the playback button.

She flashes onscreen – a green-eyed redhead with the face of my Anna. No makeup. For some reason the hair colour brings out the light sprinkling of freckles that adorn her cheeks and nose, more so than I've ever noticed before.

"Hi, Remy," she says. She sounds subdued… nervous. Sad, almost. It forces me to reassess my assumptions about what she's been thinking. I can tell she didn't want this. And sure, this was her own damn fault, but… … "I'm sorry," she's saying. "I wanted to say goodbye in person, but I guess that isn't going to happen now." She pauses, swallows. She's contemplating something painful… the idea, maybe, that she might've cheated herself of a final goodbye.

I try not to think about that and unbutton my shirt while I wait for her to continue.

"Listen," she says. "There's something I need to tell you. I wanted to tell you in person, but… well, it's kinda too late for that now."

She looks aside, her teeth pulling slightly at her bottom lip, that unconscious gesture that I never fail to find sexy.

"Just spit it out, chere," I murmur. Almost as if she heard me, she looks right back up and into my eyes.

"I want you to understand why I'm doing this. I can help Logan. I know what he's going through. I'm probably the only person in the world who knows what he's going through. I know you think I'm wasting my time, but… I can't just walk away from him. I can't. Just like you couldn't walk away from me."

It's a low blow. What she feels now and what I felt then aren't the same. What she feels for Logan is pity. What I felt for her was simple – love.

"Remember how it was for me?" she asks softly. "All I wanted was the truth, or death. Anything else was a life of endless madness. All I wanted was relief. An end to it all. I can give Logan that. I can give him the end he wants."

She halts, her eyes lowering slightly. I shake my head imperceptibly.

"No, chere," I murmur to myself. "You can't."

"Anyway," she begins again on a heavy breath, almost as if she knows I won't believe her. "I left this for you." She lifts a hand; and there's a mem-chip between her index and middle-finger. "It's on the nightstand." She drops her hand again and I glance over at the bed. The chip's there, placed neatly next to my lamp.

"There are two memories on it. The first one is Logan's – the one I 'faced with back at the Marko mansion. The second one is Jean Grey's – the last one she ever recorded." I look back at the screen just in time to see her mouth twist with pain, and yet again I wonder what she saw in those memories. "I edited out the end," she's explaining, "the part that probably made Logan lose it. You don't need to see it to know what went down, and… well. You see what it's done to me, and I'm supposed to be immune to this shit."

Her laugh is bitter.

"I should've told you," she admits in a quieter tone. "But I guess I didn't want to believe myself that it had screwed me up so bad. I was… scared. Scared for the first time since what went down at Empharma, and… I've never been good at dealing with fear. I didn't want you to see that. I regret that now."

She's silent a long time, looking down into what I presume are her hands. I came in here angry, betrayed… but listening to her now… I can't help my heart reaching out to her. I want to touch her. Hold her. And I can't.

"Remy," she finally murmurs, her eyelashes lifting, "I know there's a chance, however small, that I won't come back. If I don't… I want you to know…" and she drops her head, says softly; "I'm sorry for those things I said to you. There isn't a thing we've been through together that hasn't been worth it. I've loved every moment I've been with you. And I wish you were here so that I could hold you and kiss you and—"

There's a sound off-screen – the sound of someone I don't recognise calling her from the hallway – probably one of Wisdom's cronies. She glances off, sighs, rubs her temple. It's a familiar old gesture – one she used to do when she was suffering from the mem-intoxication. She doesn't look at me, but down at something, on the bed. Maybe her phone.

"I gotta go, Remy. I'm sorry. I'll be going dark of course, but Jake'll be tracking me through my phone, so… if anything goes wrong, you'll know."

The seconds tick by. She stares at that same point beside her for a long time. For a moment she looks nothing like her – just another freckled redhead, distant, preoccupied. Dr. Jean Grey. Then she takes in a breath and gets to her feet. She comes closer to the screen, looks up at me. And she's her again. My Anna. It's those eyes. They can't deceive me.

"Goodbye, Remy," she almost whispers. "I love you."

She reaches up and the recording cuts off.

It's almost like smashing into a brick wall, the silence afterwards is so deafening.

I power down the screen and take in a long, loud breath. This apartment is too damn quiet, too damn cold. My feelings are a nameless mess.

"Love you too, chere," I mutter to myself, because there's no one else to hear. I can't be angry at her, not the way things are now… But the anger is there and it's screaming at me to blame someone for this sense of loss.

I turn and throw the remote onto the bed.

Wisdom. This is all on Wisdom. If he hadn't'a shown up, Anna never woulda had to 'face with Logan's chip, or Jean Grey's, and I wouldn't be stuck here now.

I walk over to the nightstand and pick up the mem-chip. I'm surprised to see other things she's left there – a mem-chip I know from the shape and the scuffing that is the one she gave me when she left me in New York, so long ago. Her memories, the ones she trusted me knowing. That alone makes my throat close over. If she's left that with me, then she really fears she might not come back. This is the last thing I'll have of her.

Underneath the mem-chips is a folded piece of paper. I open it up and see… a childish drawing of a sunflower, done in crayon. I remember the sunflower she'd shown me in her memories, and I know I'm looking at something she drew as a kid.

This is getting too real. There's a knot in my throat, and I fold up the drawing again and lay it aside. I pick up Jean Grey's memories and walk over to the interfacer.

It's been a long time since I 'faced. Even Anna don't 'face much these days, which is a damn good thing considering where she was 2 years ago. Now I'm cursin' Wisdom for breaking that fine equilibrium she'd managed to maintain, as I walk to the study and turn on the interfacer.

Ya blame it on Wisdom, I think to myself grimly. But Anna wouldn't've done any of that shit unless she'd wanted to.

Shut up, brain.

I sit in the recliner and slot the chip into the visor. For a few seconds I lie there holding it in my hands, a thread of anxiety filling me. I ain't 'faced with a mem-chip since… well, since 'facing with her own memories. And the intensity of that experience has haunted me for months. Putting myself through this again…

Merde. Get over y'self, LeBeau.

I slip on the visor, select the Play All option…

…and Logan drags me under.

-oOo-

I'm dreaming.

There's sunshine on my back, and Rose reaches out and puts her hand on my shoulder blade.

Morning, James, she says. How're you feeling?

Her head is on the pillow, red hair spillin' everywhere. She's smiling at me.

I feel… better, I say. And I do. The jump cuts in my brain have slowed to a bearable clip.

Good, she says. I'm glad. She shuffles over next to me and presses her lips against mine and—

I'm woken by a click, the sound of my bedroom door opening – I sit bolt upright in bed, my senses tingling like a canine's and—

"Shit, he's awake!"

A group of five men in Weapon X swat gear are standing there in the doorway, armed to the fucking teeth, almost enough to make ya think it was overkill for some dumb old defenceless fuck in the middle of his beauty sleep, but…

"What the fuck you doin' in my room?" I just about get out, when one of Essex's lackeys raises a firearm and shoots.

The shot hits my throat, but I barely feel it. I been shot more times than I care to remember, but I don''t recall the last time I ever felt invulnerable to bullets. Except it ain't a bullet, I realise as I look down at the sound and see…

A fucking tranquiliser dart stuck in my neck.

"Oh, shit," I hiss, and then I don't remember anything more.

Next thing I know I'm practically shocked wide awake, and into the most fucking uncomfortable chair known to man.

And fuck if they ain't bound me to the damn thing to boot.

"What the fuck…" I growl. I'm strong, strong enough to break necks, but not enough to break through grade A titanium bonds.

"A stimulant," a familiar voice declares to my left. I turn my head, and there he is. Mr. Shitface Essex himself.

"We gave you a stimulant, Mr. Howlett," he says. "We need you conscious for this to work."

The bastard's calm and cool as a cucumber. You wouldn't think his Oxford-educated, respectable ass would be into this kinda shady shit, but I happen to know first-hand that he is. I'm the mug who takes care of his trash, after all. Now I'm the problem. Been a long time comin', if I'm honest. If he wants shot of me, best he can do is put a bullet in my brain. Not this.

I look around, but I already know where I am. The Machine. He's tied me down to the fucking Machine.

"You shoulda got those guys you set on me to put me down in my goddamn sleep, Essex," I growl, but he gives a pale smile, says:

"My dear Mr. Howlett – you read me wrong. I've never intended to 'put you down', as you put it. My intent has only ever been to cure you."

"That so?" I say through clenched teeth. "You're wastin' your time. I don't want your damn cure. Just shoot me and have done with it."

He tuts and turns to the console that powers this damn thing. No amount of strugglin' is gonna get me outta this set-up, so I don't even bother tryin'.

"Really, Mr. Howlett, you ought to be more grateful," Essex is saying dryly. "You're going to be the first to try this revolutionary new cure I've been developing. Since the mem-therapy has had little appreciable effect on you this far, you get to benefit from what some might consider VIP treatment."

"Y'mean be your guinea pig?" I translate bitterly. "Fuck you, and fuck your treatment, Essex. You flip this switch, and the moment I'm outta this chair I'm gonna fuckin' shoot myself. I heard what this Machine of yours does. The only thing it's gonna end up makin' is zombies."

I'm wastin' my breath. What he don't realise is that I ain't jokin'. He puts me through this, I top myself. It ain't no big deal. I've been expectin' death a long time gone. I can count 5 times in the last year alone the grim reaper shoulda come to take what he's owed, but he still ain't collected. Leavin' me cursin' him every night, that he won't give me the death sentence I deserve.

Been contemplatin' doin' the job myself, but… for some reason, you just keep goin'. Is it fear? No… Not fear. Just curiosity. Keep on temptin' fate long enough, and it's bound to bite, right? Except it doesn't. I'm still alive. Dunno how.

But this time… They do this to me and I'm gonna do it. I'll jump off a bridge, under a train; slit my wrists or my throat; stick a gun in my mouth. No more dicing with Death. This time I'm callin' collect.

A side door opens and an assistant leads in a kid who can't be more than twelve. She walks in slowly, guided by the assistant. They stop a moment, while her chaperone has a word with Essex.

It's a girl. Tall, thin, gangly, a white streak in messy brown hair. She looks at me. Flat mouth and soulless green eyes. The eyes of an adult. I try to stare her out, but she doesn't even flinch, doesn't even twitch. Jesus Christ, what've they done to this kid? I know that look. I seen it so many times before. It's the look of a killer. Been wearing it myself since I was 'bout her age.

Essex's quiet conversation is done. He puts a possessive hand on the girl's shoulder and leads her on over, almost like a father would lead his daughter.

"Mr. Howlett," he says, "this is Subject Zero."

What's this supposed to be, a meet and greet? I say nothing. The girl and I are still playin' stare out. At first I'd figured she'd been drugged or something, she'd seemed so expressionless. But now, up close, I see what I couldn't before. There's a hardness to her eyes that's like granite. Not an ounce of vulnerability, of sadness. She's already closed herself off. There ain't no savin' this one. What happened to me has already happened to her. She'll spend her life beggin' for death while she cheats it, just like I did.

I laugh gruffly.

"Ha! Looks like my therapists just keep getting' younger and younger, eh?"

She barely blinks. Essex merely frowns.

"I don't think you appreciate just how special Subject Zero really is, Mr. Howlett. Without her, we couldn't perform this type of therapy at all. She is the only one in the world who can erase traumatic memory. Everything that has ever hurt you in this life… she will take it away from you, Mr. Howlett. She will take away your suffering, and give you a reason to live as a normal, well-adjusted human being one more."

It fully dawns on me just what the lunatic is intending to do here. I glare up at him.

"She's just a kid!" I rasp.

"No," he replies quietly. "She is a gift to humanity. Thank whatever intelligence that made us saw fit to send us someone like her."

Jesus. This is crazy. He's crazy. Jean's told me some shit she's seen down here with the kids, but… nothin' like this.

"You talk about erasin' trauma," I level at him. "What if almost an entire person's life is nothin' but trauma?"

He thinks about it a moment.

"I guess we're going to find out," he finally replies. He sees my expression and adds quickly: "Oh, don't worry. She'll take all the nasty things away, and leave behind the things that make you happy. Sunlight on water, a lover's embrace… the scent of your mother and the sound of rain on the rooftop." He gives an almost plaintive smile as he lists off these things that sound almost abstract. Like stuff he read in some damn poetry book.

He moves away, back to the console. I'm left staring at the girl. It's impossible to know what she's thinkin', her face is that blank. She could've been like me. And I could've been like her. I don't know what's worse, but I think I'm probably the better off. The only thing she'll end up bein' is Essex's little monster. See, he got to me too late. He's learned the hard way he can't control the likes of me. But this young 'un… he can mould her into whatever the hell he wants – he already has. She's better off dead. I'd do the deed myself, if I weren't tied to this fuckin' chair.

I'd kill her b'fore she saw another day of this fucked up shit.

The assistant's back again and leads her into the chair next to mine. She allows them to hook her up to it like she's done it a hundred times before, and I don't doubt that she probably has. There are some things worse than death, I think as I look over at her. Take yourself out while you can, kid, you'll just end up bein' the plaything of a madman.

And I… God, I hope there's enough of me left to remember to kill myself.

And the Machine switches on.

-oOo-

I'm heading down for my appointment with Logan when I hear the news.

"They ran their first erasure last night," one of the lab techs is saying to her friend by the water cooler. "On the Machine."

I almost stop to ask them about it, but I'm already late.

I hurry to the room and am surprised to see Dr. Frost there with a patient.

"Oh," I say, when she looks up at me from the interfacer, looking none too pleased at the intrusion. "I was scheduled for a session with Mr. Howlett…"

"Mr. Howlett will no longer be requiring our services," Dr. Frost says coldly, and I stare.

"But I thought…"

"Dr. Essex moved his treatment date forward. He's in the medbay, sleeping it off."

Oh my God. Suddenly I understand.

"He was scheduled for Friday…" I begin uselessly.

"Yes," Dr. Frost agrees. "But we wanted to take certain precautions." She looks me over disapprovingly. "You were becoming close to Mr. Howlett. It made me… concerned that you might share certain sensitive information with him."

I stand in the doorway, ears ringing. I've been tricked.

"You bitch." The words tumble out of my mouth without me even thinking; but Dr. Frost merely looks over at me with an appraising amusement.

"So you do have a backbone after all," she muses. "More of that, Ms. Grey, and you might go far here."

Assuming I'd even want to now. I don't waste more time on her. I turn and rush out the room.

I hit the basement floor, breath blasting through my throat as I hurry to the medbay, wondering… Why is everything so quiet?

Not for long. Suddenly there's feet clapping on tiled floor, and a lab tech skids round the corner and runs past me. He's splattered in blood, and turn as he runs past, and… he doesn't even clock me. I slow – but I don't stop. I turn the corner and suddenly I see her. Subject Zero, being hustled out of the medbay and off into the opposite direction by a nurse. Weapon X's most valuable asset, being ferried off to safety. And suddenly there are others, pouring out the double doors of the medbay, patients and staff, some blood-spattered, running for their lives. I'm a fish, swimming against the tide. What am I doing? I don't know, except that I came here to do good, and I haven't done any of that, and maybe I can do some now.

So damn idealist, I can almost hear Scott's voice in my head – one of the few things he's always begrudgingly admired me for. But that was just kid's stuff. Working here… you see things. Things that kill all that. Logan's right. What kind of a world is this, where we turn kids into weapons?

I take in a breath and push open the double doors.

I walk into a stand-off.

Men in Weapon X-emblazoned tactical gear, pointing long guns in my direction. Between us lie the bloody corpses of two of their comrades and—

Wait. Why are they pointing guns at me?

The answer comes right up behind me and grabs me round the neck. I feel the cold barrel of a gun press against my temple. I feel his breath rasp in my ear, his heart crashing against my back.

"Anyone moves," he growls out loud, "and she gets it!"

Am I scared? I don't know. Everything's moving too fast. I feel dizzy.

"Logan," I say to him. "It's me – Dr. Grey. Jean. You know me."

He laughs, a rough, ugly sound.

"I dunno who the hell you are, lady, but you're wastin' your time pullin' this bullshit on me."

He doesn't remember me. Remarkable. The experiment was successful. I can hardly believe it.

"You do know me," I answer as calmly as I can – which isn't much. "They erased your memories, didn't they? But you have to believe me when I say that you know me." I want to say I'm his friend, that he trusts me – but I don't know if that was ever the truth, and it feels wrong to lie to him. "I was your therapist, Logan. I was trying to help you."

He laughs again, this time soft and dry.

"Is that so? Well, then, you still wanna help me, you're gonna get me outta this fucked up place. Take me to the nearest exit, and you ain't gonna get hurt."

He backs up towards the doors, and all I can see is the wall of guns aimed at us… and then a side door opens up, and for the first time I see him. The man I've wanted to meet since day one, the genius who's been my idol for so long. Nathaniel Essex. Dr. Frost is with him.

"Hello, Mr. Logan," he says.

He's tall, imposing, handsome, calm. A lull falls over the room. There is quiet. Now I can almost hear my heart beating.

Logan says nothing. Of course, if the erasure's complete, he won't remember Dr. Essex either, and there are a thousand things he must be weighing up right now. I fight the urge to cry out. Calm. I must keep calm.

"I understand how strange this must be for you," Dr. Essex says evenly, even flippantly. "But this is all quite unnecessary. Put the gun down, let her go, and we will forget this ever happened. You are too precious an asset for me to see any harm come to you, Mr. Logan."

"Ha!" Logan spits. "And too precious an asset to see me walk out those doors too, I'm willin' t'bet."

Essex is serious.

"Quite," he replies.

For a moment, Logan is silent.

"What did you do to me?" he hisses.

"Merely erased traumatic memories from your mind," Essex replies agreeably. "I admit, I had not expected you to have reacted so… violently to what was otherwise a most successful experiment."

"Experiment, huh?" Logan is derisive. Calm and collected Essex may be, but… he's cold. Without empathy. I hold my breath. I want to speak, but I don't dare. "Well, you may've succeeded in wipin' my mem'ories, whoever you are, but there's one thing I remember. Before I went down, I promised myself one thing – kill. And I aim t' do that, if that's what it takes t'get out of here."

For the first time, Essex frowns.

"Really? Such a disappointment. And here I was thinking the experiment was supposed to wipe such unpleasant impulses from your mind. Perhaps it wasn't so successful after all. But I'm afraid I can't have you leave here, Mr. Logan. At the very least, there are still too many tests to run on you."

"I don't think so," Logan sneers. "Last thing I'm wantin' is to be your guinea pig, before you decide I've run outta uses and you see me killed."

Essex's smile is faint.

"But you have nothing on the outside."

"And I have even less here. Better to take my chances out there, than in captivity."

He edges back towards the doors, taking me with him, and I let him.

"Dr. Frost," Essex is speaking to Emma, "who is that woman he's taken hostage?"

"Dr. Grey," Dr. Frost replies flatly. "Merely an intern on Dr. Haller's mem-therapy team."

"Expendable then," Essex concludes, as if commenting on his breakfast. He looks over at one of men in tactical gear. "You have my permission to take out the hostage. But I want the target alive."

The man nods, and his squad takes aim.

I don't have time to be scared before the first bullet hits – I don't know where.

At first there isn't any pain, and all I hear is Logan swear; and I hit the floor, although I don't know how I land there, and when I look up I see him staring down at me, and he doesn't recognise me, I can see in his eyes he doesn't, but there's something there like regret, I think… and then he's gone, and there's the sound of boots thudding past me in hot pursuit.

And then there's pain. I've been hit more than once, and I feel it, in my thigh, in my shoulder, in my chest… I gasp against the agony and I think I blank out for a moment… There's a thought in my head, telling Logan to run, to escape, to do what I couldn't… But it all seems so silly now, so stupid, the choices that lead us to either this or that… the choices, so mundane, that led me here… …

I open my eyes, and I see him. My idol.

"Dr. Grey," he says, and his eyes are so pale, so, so blue. "Forgive me," he says. His tone is almost mechanical. I'm confused.

There is pain, and a tunnelling. A slowing down. I can feel every laboured breath I take last a lifetime, every heartbeat winding down. He looks aside at someone else, says, "Bring it here."

He cradles my head, like I'm a child, and I cough… my fingers touch my mouth… and there's blood in my palm… blood in my palm…

Someone gives him a device I've never seen before – a headset…

"A portable mem-recorder," he explains, and his voice is very far-away. He places it on my head, and I don't understand, I don't—

"You're dying, Dr. Grey," he continues, as if all he's doing is running yet another experiment. "But don't worry. This will be your lasting legacy. Here – I've pressed the record button. Now you will be doing one last, great service to science. Recording what it is to die. Unveiling the last great mystery of humankind. Teach us, Dr. Grey. Teach us what we think of, what we feel, what consumes us, when we breathe our last."

His voice echoes in the tunnel. Meaningless words. Unimportant sentiment. I am a blot, a stain. I am shrinking. And all his grand philosophy is empty. There's no more pain. Fear? Yes – abstractly. Outside of me. I am a pinpoint. Small enough to fit through the eye of a needle. The smallest unit in the world.

Smaller and smaller and smaller.

Until there is—

-oOo-