Ultramarine | The Darkest Minds Fanfic

Chapter 3, Cole

I remembered everything of the morning I first saw her.

　　I got to Leda Corp at nine o'clock sharp. Say hello to the guard Patrick, put my keycard on the security panel, and walked into the gate. Second floor. My desk was in one of the bigger offices; most of my colleagues had arrived.

　　"Jones." I heard my name being called—well, not my real name, of course; if I use my real name, it wouldn't be much of an undercover mission now, would it—and I turned around. It was Dr. McMillan. "We are switching you—you're going to be in charge of Subject 51's blood sample from now on."

　　So it's a promotion? Subject 51 is the single most highly secured subject in this facility. His or her ward is guarded 24/7; no one outside of the small unit appointed to take care of him or her gets to look at his or her profile; only a handful of people outside of that unit have actually seen his or her face. I would be lying if I told you I wasn't a little excited to see this kid, not only because it was kind of a privilege, but also because I wanted to know why they were guarding this kid so fiercely.

　　I went to get the tray of needles and vials for the blood sample, and headed for the last ward in the east wing on the third floor. It was where all the subjects were kept—living in small rooms with glass walls on the hallway side, so we could see everything they were doing. It made me sick, and I wanted no part of this, but I was here for a mission.

　　Going past the last secured door at the end of the hall, was the single ward which housed Subject 51. The guard there today, Palmer, was one that everyone hated. He took one look at me, and grunted. I ignored him, and turned on the light in the ward.

　　It was a girl. Hair shaved clean off, sutures rounded the crown of her head, but no wound. She was strapped to the bedframe by leather cuffs, pale like the bedsheets she was in, thin to the bones. On that bed, she looked so small and so frail that, for a moment, she reminded me of the glass ballerina in one of Claire's music box; I feared with one wrong touch, she'd shatter into a thousand pieces.

　　And she was awake. When I opened the door, she flinched a little, and the fear in her eyes was almost too much for me to take. Instantly, I felt ashamed—and stupid in retrospect—that I wanted to see her. Like she was some sort of spectacle in a circus. Don't be afraid. I wanted to say. But what good would that do? There was absolutely no reason for her to take my word for it. How could anyone bare to do this to her? Why am I here? Why do I have to add more pain to her suffering? Why does she have to take this?

　　I walked up to her. "I'm just here to take your blood sample." I said as I lay the tray of syringes on the nightstand by her bed. "I won't..." I cut myself off. What am I doing? "...Never mind."

　　The look in her eyes changed, from wariness to something almost like...pity. She, a girl strapped to a bed, living a life in hell, pitied me. What the hell has my life become?

　　I unwrapped the venipuncture needle—or at least tried to. My hands were shaking—how fucking amazing was that? In a fit of frustration, I tore open the plastic wrapping, but managed to stick the needle straight into my finger.

　　"Shit!" I hissed, and immediately took up the gauze to press on the wound. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Get a fucking grip!

　　To my side, her expression became a little complicated. It was not fear, not pity, either, but something softer and warmer, almost like compassion. She reached out a hand to me, and before I could pull away, put her hand on my wrist. I was too taken by surprise that I actually let her.

　　There was a tingling of warmth on the tip of my finger, right where I poked a hole on myself. When the feeling faded, so did the pain. I removed the gauze, and the hole was gone. If it weren't for the blood, I wouldn't know that there was a wound there just two seconds ago.