EPIPHANY

In transit...

The automated train continued on its lonely way, as sleep finally came to the exhausted cyborg woman, and with it, fragments of memories that she hadn't recalled in a very long time. Jumbled, distorted… but all of them before the day. The day her old life ended. As is often the case with recalling suppressed memories, the traumatic ones were the first to surface...

Nine years ago… Manchester, England, on a tour with her studio...

She was pressing against the wall, glaring daggers at the three men who surrounded her, in the dressing room's bathroom. All three were eye-fucking the gorgeous, statuesque, athletic teenage beauty, dressed in a white-laced performance leotard.

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue, princess?" - the lead thug sneered, reaching out to caress her cheek. Yelena shoved his hand away, murder-glaring at him, trying to get away, but that just made him angry, and he backhanded her across the face, before two others pinned her down to the dirty floor in the bathroom, ripping her clothes off.

"Otstan'te ot menya, svin'i!" - Yelena snarled, kicking and screaming.

As hard as the ballerina tried to struggle, all she got for her trouble was another backhand, this one hard enough to blast a pair of teeth out of her delicate mouth, by the man's prosthetic augmented metal arm. But her eyes remained defiant.

"Damn lads… they weren't kidding about these Ruskie bitches… that's one hot piece of ass! Needs to be tamed properly..." - another whistled, this one a bearded, heavyset balding man in his early 40's, as he mounted her.

Narrowing her beautiful deep eyes, full of indignative fury, the slender woman managed to free up one of her hands, stabbing her manicured nails upward, into the man's face. He howled, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Cunt…" - he headbutted her, then grabbed her in a rape-choke, blinking some blood from his left eye. She almost poked it out!

"You do that again, I'll choke you! Got me?! BITCH!" - he slammed the back of her head into the tiling, before forcefully trying to spread her toned legs, with his knee. She continued to resist, spitting up into his face, even though she saw stars from the blow.

"Feisty one…" - another thug snickered, unzipping his own pants, as the first one gave her an ugly laugh, wiping his face, before he shoved his slobbering tongue into her mouth, in a disgusting kiss, as his knee finally found a crack between the woman's clenched thighs.

"Urrrggghh… like openin' up a present…you better be wet when I go in, bitch… it's for your own good! Or it's gonna hurt like hell..." - he grunted, licking her across the face.

Fedorova's eyes snapped open, as the dream ended. Strangely enough, the recalled memory of a gang rape she had endured as a teenager, did very little, other then evoke a disappointed expression.

That's not it. No… no. Too early… must be too early.

She thought, stretching out atop of the crate, considering. The fact that her old self, in the memory, still talked, meant that this particular memory was before that day. Well before. The face of the bearded man, however... she had a distinct impression that was not the last time she saw it. Narrowing her eyes in concentration, the woman followed the impression, up the memory lane… and there he was again, a half-dozen years later. After… the day.

Definitely after. When exactly, she couldn't pinpoint. But… after.

The same man, slightly different features, more lines on his face… or rather the last frozen expression of agony on his face, lying in a pool of blood, his throat slit ear-to-ear, his bloody testicles shoved into his mouth.

Her lips twitched in some amusement and a minute shake of her head. Early on, after her induction into the Tyrants, she had made it a point, in her spare time between assignments, to track down and kill everyone who had ever wronged or even slighted her in any way. She had quite a vengeful streak, before such… emotionally charged impulses… gave way to the clinical predations of a career assassin. With the contacts and intel at her fingertips, finding them was not difficult. This guy certainly fell into the 'wronged' category, it seemed.

For some reason… she frowned. Why was it such a big deal for her, back then? Why was she vengeful toward that man? Yelena couldn't understand. She had been raped many times since, often on orders from Jaron, as it served a purpose in 'segmenting her personality', as he put it. And she understood the purpose behind it. Eliminating emotional vulnerabilities was a priority, for all new operatives. Frequently, he was the one doing it, sometimes some of the other men. And oftentimes she offered herself to them, when bored. Or even forced herself on them, like she did with Ben Saxon, five months ago. Sex, after all, was an expression of power and pleasure. Forced one, in particular. Just the thought, made the aquiline woman bite her lip, in sudden desire. Being carnally ravaged was exhilarating.

Her early vengeful streak… Jaron had called it a 'self-indulgent pastime', but he never barred her from pursuing it, as long as it didn't compromise the group's anonymity, or interfered with her assignments. Thinking back now, Yelena speculated that part of the reason was, that he wanted her to… ease into it. In due time, she grew out of it, and not just due to thinning-out the list. She simply didn't care anymore. Killing had stopped being a personal or vengeful affair, and had become… instinct. She trained herself out of an emotional aspect of it. Clinical. Natural. Detached. A goal unto itself. And a pleasure for it's own sake, along with professional satisfaction of a completed assignment. Whether her victims 'deserved' it or not, no longer entered the equation. Men, women, children… they ceased being people, and became… targets.

Nothing more.

But the janitor, back at the LIMB clinic… she frowned again, considering why she didn't kill him. Because he didn't 'deserve' it? That never stopped her before. Because it wasn't necessary? Likewise. Never stopped her before. When out in the field, the order 'escalate and terminate' meant just that. No survivors. With the Tyrants, there never were, unless the assignment specifically flagged them as 'protocol exceptions', meant for kidnapping or intimidation. Sometimes both. Like Reed and her team, for example, during the raid on Sarif Industries.

Strictly to form.

So what made her change her MO, back there at the clinic, and spare that man? Was it just Cassan's words? Or something more, that her words, and her… atttitude… triggered? Something that Yelena still couldn't put her finger on? Something that caused her spontaneous outburst at the AI, followed by an emotional breakdown? She couldn't even begin to remember, the last time she cried. For any reason. A part of her was frankly, disgusted at herself, for such a display of weakness.

But another part of her was intrigued. It was indeed cathartic. And it did stop her from following protocol and blowing her own brains out, after her failure. Or reporting in for 'debriefing'. Not to mention, the rage was… no longer there. And without it, she could think much more clearly. Yet that simply brought more questions into the light. More fragments of memories long forgotten, that were now trying to resurface.

Tracing a finger under her patched-up upper torso armour suit, she felt around an old bullet scar, just above and to the left of the navel. This one long faded, not one of the recent injuries she received from Jensen, or any other, older injuries she accrued during the many times she was shot in the line of duty.

No. This scar… was much older. Older then her time with the Tyrants, older then her… new life. The very fact that a scar was still there, meant that it had happened before she was augmented. The biorestorative matrix did a good job in healing any and all scar tissue. Tracing a finger around the scar, she zoned out...

Why can't I remember that day?

The question hung in the air, in front of her eyes, and below the train car's ceiling. She could practically reach up her hand and grab it. But it wouldn't do any good. The answer remained… out there. Just beyond her memory.

Not really able to fall asleep again, she got off the crate, with an exasperated sigh, and began pacing around the train car, amid the crates. The soft metallic clicks of her gazelle-feet were the only sounds, against the soft backdrop of tussling and clinging from the outside, of the train in motion. She felt like checking out the rest of the train, maybe hacking into the onboard GPS node, just to figure out how far they still had to go. Of course, a simple automated ETA query through her Infolink would give her the answer, but that would definitely light her up like an Xmas tree on any satellite-trace. As it was, only the proximity of the crates full of bioneural chips was shielding her from the trace. She had no intention of using her Infolink at all, until she had a chance to delete its signature at the source.

Five hours later, late morning, downtown Detroit

Didn't we just leave this party?

She thought, recalling an oft-repeated catchphrase Barret used. Sticking to the back-alleys, rooftops and sewer tunnels, Fedorova made an effort to avoid the main streets and crowds of people, whenever possible. For one, it was broad daylight, and long force of habit taught her that daylight meant danger. Normally, she would be moving around under cloak, when in public during the day, but with her bioenergy levels still far from optimal, cloak was a luxury, not a convenience, for now. Even with the hyper-efficient system she was equipped with, and became one with, over time, it still drained energy quicker then she had the ability to replenish, at the moment. And she was anything but inconspicuous, with her distinctive set of enhancements, and tall, whipcord-like figure. All if would take is one intellicam getting a glancing sight of her, to set off a ID trace check. And of course, it would come empty, since for all intents and purposes, when it came to identification, she was a ghost. She didn't exist.

That brought up something the woman hadn't really considered, until now. Alone in the darkness of a cargo train, it was easy to get caught up in the abstract. But here… perched on a balcony of a closed-up building, just below the rooftop, surveying the shortest possible route to the Highland Park area, she frowned.

How will she blend-in, long term? How will she survive, even? For years, all of her day-to-day needs, be it maintenance, medical, or simply basic-needs related, were taken care of, by the Tyrants. She had literally NO life, outside her work. No marketable skills, no ID, no connections, no way to even begin considering, how to build anything resembling a life, on the outside. She had a talent for staying out of sight, but that would only take her so far. Already, the strains were starting to show. She NEEDED proper medical attention, since the latent taste of blood in her mouth was still there. She was hungry. For the time being, she could sustain herself by breaking into closed apartments and raiding them for food. But sooner or later that would get the attention of the authorities.

Major point was… she couldn't speak. When, exactly, did she simply… stop… talking, was lost to her. She had a feeling it happened on… that day. But how, or why… like everything else about that day, she couldn't remember. The simple fact was, she could not speak. She didn't need to, for years. She could understand, and very, very well, she was fluent in several different languages, as needed during assignments all over the world, she was conversant in several different sign-languages, a necessity for non-Infolink communications in the field, she could lipread, she did have a CASIE implant, for the purposes of pattern-recognition and emotional readouts, all valuable information to have, in the field. Knowing how the mark felt, and exploiting it, was a major advantage to make use of.

But she didn't, or couldn't say, anything. Her gaze fell on a large sign, over a shop far below, off to one side. Opening her mouth, she tried to read what it said, out loud… but no voice came. Just an exhale, mixed with deeply-buried… block. She tried again.

"…"

But it was futile. No words came. And it was not a simple impediment… she was fully capable of speaking, physically, all the organs required were right there – but she just couldn't. Psychologically. It was blocked. That same… chasm… in her mind. Letting out a keening, feral growl of frustration, she gave up, feeling tears welling up in her eyes. Angrily, she wiped them off.

What… happened… to me that day?!

Eliza Cassan described her as weapon. And that is essentially what she was. A well-maintained, well-supplied with ammunition, well optimised, highly effective - weapon. All of them were. Until a day ago, she had no concept of self-expectations, even. It was a comfortable routine. Go on assignments, carry them out, get back to a safehouse, whichever was closest, get patched-up if needed, get in contact with OR, access the Killing Floor as needed for debriefing and intel, resupply, then pass the time however she saw fit, awaiting for new orders, next deployment.

She literally never had to concern herself with anything else. Ever. Someone else always did it for her. She was an asset. A well-provided-for, asset. For as long as she remained loyal, useful, and efficient.

Now she was alone, wounded, confused, on the run in the world, and had to rely on things she never needed to, in as long as she could coherently remember. And the notion suddenly threatened to send her into panic.

Fear.

She gripped the guardrail tightly, suddenly feeling… trapped… by the expanse of the city below. By the flow of life, by the endless streams of people going about their business, by the… civilisation, as far as the eye could see. All foreign to her. All of it. Hunting life was one thing. She was among the best, at it.

But living it?

Alone in the whirlwind. Exposed. Vulnerable. Especially in broad daylight.

Hyperventilating, eyes wide, she staggered back, leaning hard against the wall, then slid down, covering her face in her hands. The rush of panic was so intense, that she felt like jumping out of her skin.

Scrabbling around for the sealed balcony doors behind, she got up and kicked it in, breaking into the apartment the balcony belonged to, without thinking. She couldn't… take it. She had to hide. Hide from the world. Or she'd suffocate. Crawling into a dark corner between an old wardrobe and a wall, she felt the panic slowly fade, as the comforting embrace of darkness closed in around her. She squatted there, hugging her knees high up to her chin, shuddering in reaction.

"Are you ok?" - a young voice asked, off to the side. In surprise, Yelena shot to her feet. She didn't even hear the arrival...

...a little boy, barefoot, dressed in slacks and a t-shirt, no more then four-five years of age, by visual assessment. Standing in the hallway outside the room she broke in – by the looks of it, one of the apartment bedrooms. He gazed up at her with a quizzical look on his face, no trace of fear in his blue eyes.

"Mommy's not gonna like that when she gets home." - he pointed at the broken-in balcony doors, his expression turning vaguely admonishing.

For long moments, the woman didn't know what to think. Or how to react. She stared down at the child, mouth half-open. A day ago, her reaction would have been… simple. Conditioned. Tragic. Not anymore.

"Are you… a fairy?" - the child asked, taking in the spindly, whipcord-formed figure. She looked like something out of fantasy stories his mom sometimes read him.

Reactively, Yelena shook her head, still not really registering the question. Leaving seemed like the only option to present itself. Turning around, she stepped back to the broken-down doors, engaging her cloak, about to step over the balcony and drop down into the alleys below.

"Wait! Want some candy?" - the boy pealed in delight, seeing the figure vanish into a mirror-like effect, into thin air. Fairies could turn invisible, right?

She paused, still unsure what to do. Dropping her cloak again, she turned partway around to look at the child. She was struck by the complete lack of fear, in those open, innocent eyes. Not knowing why, she approached again, slowly.

"What's your name?" - the child asked. She opened her mouth, trying to respond, but no voice came. Again. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to say her name out loud. But no matter how much she forced it, the… chasm in her mind… remained. In the end, she just exhaled sharply, in frustration, shaking her head, her dark gaze turning a bit… melancholy.

"Oh… I'm dumb. Fairies can't talk! Sorry… c'mon!" - the boy beckoned, running down the hall to what looked like a kitchen.

She dithered for a moment, again considering just leaping over the balcony, but some nameless impulse made her follow, ducking briefly under the doorway to accommodate her tall frame. Fairies... Hazily… a fragment of memory surfaced, almost as if viewed through thick fog. It was of her, a little girl, listening intently to an older woman with a kindly face… was it her grandmother... telling her a story about rusalka, an unquiet spirit, cursed to forever wander the lands, preying on lone travelers.

The metaphor couldn't have been more fitting. Yelena felt tears in her eyes again, and this time, she didn't even bother wiping them off.

What else am I?

She entered the kitchen, seeing the boy next to the open cupboard, a handful of Skittles in his tiny hand.

"Here! Don't be sad… everything's gonna be okay!" - he ran over, extending the hand with the candy upward, towards her. Concern in his innocent blue eyes.

She turned her head away, choking up slightly, unable to meet that gaze squarely. Memories kept pouring in… faces of the children she murdered, over the years.

"What's wrong?" - the boy's voice insisted, and she could suddenly feel his touch on her hand, gripping it in clear affection.

And suddenly, it was too much for her. Making a heroic effort not to break down, Yelena pulled her hand away, as a shudder went through her. Not looking at him, she reached down to his other hand full of candy, and gently closed it.

Then she shook her head, still not meeting that gaze. She knew that if she did, she would break down.

"Why? You don't like candy?" - there was clear disappointment in the boy's tone, still mixed with concern.

Swallowing hard, she looked around, noticing a pocket secretary, on the kitchen table nearby. In a pair of steps she was over to it, writing something down for the boy to read. A question. She handed it to him, still not meeting his eyes.

~"Why are you so nice to me?"~ it read.

The boy frowned.

"Mommy always says be nice to people. And people will be nice back. Right? And you are a nice fairy." - he said with surprising conviction, offering her the candy again.

With a heavy sigh, bringing her emotions somewhat under control, Yelena took one. Still not looking at the boy. Then she set it on the table, not eating it, before she wrote something else on the device.

~"No. I'm not."~

"Yes you are! You're just sad! Sad and… and hurt! You're a… a dark fairy, but you're nice!" - the child insisted, almost angrily, noticing all the scrapes and rips, for the first time. The same conviction still there, before she felt both small hands on hers, squeezing it tightly.

She wanted to pull away. Badly. But she didn't. Not until a soft beeping sound could be heard from the entrance doors, indicative that someone was keying in a code to enter.

"That's mommy! She's not gonna believe-" - the boy chirped excitedly, turning to scamper off towards the doors… but he turned back, as a soft whisper of static-charged wind washed across him.

She was gone, the child only catching a glimpse of a mirrored, invisible shape vanishing down the hallway back to the bedroom, and the balcony there.

"W-wait—!" - he started, but the dark fairy was gone.

Deep inside the slums of Derelict Row, approaching Highland Park area…

Yelena's face remained carved from stone, for the past hour, as she expertly dodged concentrations of DRB gang activity and any other potential impediments. Having committed to memory the layout of all surrounding neighborhoods, from her time here, and the recon she got in a habit of doing, while they were stationed here, it was a relatively simple matter staying unnoticed, once she finally got out of Downtown.

Not much had changed. Except her mindset. Back then, hunting and killing these idiots for sport, was always at the forefront of her mind, whenever she was out on recon, patrolling the perimeter. But she had standing orders not to break cover. Now, it was the other way around. She could indulge to her heart's content, if she wanted to.

But she didn't want to. Filled with conflicting emotions after her interaction with the boy, it was all the woman could do, to keep her mind on the objective.

Infiltrate the facility. Interface with the Killing Floor. Erase my Infolink code-signature. Kill the uplink. Resupply. Get out.

A simple, straightforward set of objectives. It helped focus her, and put her current emotional turmoil on the back burner. But there was no putting the genie back in the bottle. Not anymore. Memories kept pouring out; events, places, faces… regrets, lamentations... and it was all she could do, to shove them aside for now. And with every new piece of the puzzle, she could sense that sometime soon, she will finally be able to recall what happened on that day. The chasm… would be bridged.

When her life, for all intents and purposes, ended. And she became a rusalka.