When Alex woke up, it took her a few seconds to realize she wasn't in her shared apartment. All she had were thin memories. However faint, they were of intruders shattering her life. The more she remembered, the greater the pain she felt. They took Camila out of the bedroom, and one of them had put a plastic bag over her face . . . and choked the life out of her. Horrendous images returned, and they shook Alex to the core. She sobbed for hours, shaking her head with an incredulous rage toward the heavens. Who would do this? Kill me, I could understand. But Camila's hurt no one. She was all good, the best of people. The bitter truth surfaced, Alex knew she did this to her lover. Her sins had spilled over.

The bare white walls corralled her, bedding and mattress clean and simple, a room for lunatics. A glass of water and a sandwich were next to the bed. How long had they been there? Days? She wasn't hungry, doubted she would be for some time. Rage had a way of suppressing one's appetite. She must have laid curled up in the fetus position looking at nothing for hours, each minute turning the pain in her gut into something else. Any humanity she once had melted. She understood Warchild now. He was true to himself, was right to pull the trigger. She was the fool, and a liar to herself -- no such thing as a killer with a golden heart. You either are one or you aren't. The ceiling was spinning, making her sick. Alex didn't know how long she'd been without serum. Nor did she care.

The warnings from med techs, once sacrosanct, sounded hollow in her mind: "Never go more than two days without a dose. Your life depends on it. If you do, you will experience acute cellular degeneration. Symptoms include powerful fatigue and nausea, followed by days of comparable wellbeing. After that, cell death in the gastric and intestinal tissue causes massive diarrhea, and tract bleeding." She once cringed at the thought of enduring these conditions, now little mattered, least of all her life.

Coming back to reality, she remembered faintly that someone had revived her, someone had smacked her face, someone she'd almost crushed to death. The memory was as repulsive as was everything else here. Through that door was the answer.

Alex got up. She cracked her knuckles, her jaw set to work that door. But the knob was rigid; the door sealed tight. She didn't know there were top and bottom deadbolts fastened on the other side to contain the beast.

She pounded on the metal surface hollering at the top of her voice with curses and obscenities, every word she ever learned from the streets. Yet the door remained in place.

Though she was strong, she couldn't break through steel. After an hour of howling and beating on the reinforced door, she gave up and returned to the bed to curl under blanket. Yet there was no restful sleep. Numb with apathy, she sank in the trough of despair that dragged her to its depth -- because of the memories. Memories of the time they met, memories of Camila laughing, seeing her smile, her warmth and generosity, all the goodness were forever snuffed out, a loss to the world. Whoever had done this had taken a chunk of her life and grounded it to nothing. Worse, she couldn't escape the thought of the plastic bag over her face. The opening bunched around her neck, her eyes wide as eggs, her mouth pulling the plastic inside her mouth. At this point, there was nothing left to life but to avenge Camila. And where was my Camila? What did they do with her?

Sometime later, she passed out, at last, shaking with exhaustion, when a faint knock rapped on the door and a voice came through. It was that of a woman.

"Alexis?"

No one called her Alexis, not even her mother when she was mad.

Alex didn't answer. She stared at the knob. But, the will to exert herself had fizzled.

Alex's rage snapped alive like a kick to the groin.

She shouted, sitting up, "Open the fucking door!"

"A lot of bad things have happened. I'm sorry for your loss. But we're here to help."

"Then open the door." Alex gritted her teeth.

"You need to calm down before then." A pause followed. "You probably have questions. We don't have all the answers . . . Alex, we are not your enemy."

"You locked me in," she screamed.

"It's for our protection."

A day later, there was again a knock on the door.

"Yeah," a calm broken Alex uttered. There were no pitch curses and threats.

"Will you allow me to open the door?"

"Yeah, whatever."

The deadbolts slid back, first top, then bottom. A man opened it.

"I'm Harry DeWitt and I want you to feel safe here," he said. "This is a nice residence, quiet neighborhood, and it comes with staff. Everything you need."

"I need answers -- for starters."

"Why don't we have lunch first. I'm going to let you out now. Please don't do anything foolish."

He left the door open. In time, Alex emerged.

He showed her the washroom.

In front of the gilded mirror set along a marbled wall, she, at last, saw what she had become, unrecognizable with dark bags under swollen eyes, her skin looking like dried brittle leather, aged beyond her years.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

After a good facial wash, she found the dining room, occupied by a long elegant mahogany table and eight Gothic high-backs. Crimson wallpaper wrapped the room among golden fixtures and a chandelier. Then she noticed the seated occupants -- a man and a woman.

She recognized the woman as the last face she saw before her blackout. Alex took the seat opposite her.

"Call her Porsche," Harry said.

Alex didn't register any emotion.

"How you feeling today?" Harry asked.

"I could eat."

"Appetite's a good sign," Harry said. He nodded to a woman standing in the kitchen doorway.

"Who are they?" Alex asked, surprised they weren't seated at the table.

"They're butler staff," Harry said. "Here to help out with the domestic side of things."

The male butler was a harsh-looking man, short and stocky. He had a shock of coarse black hair that stood up like the fibers of a steel brush, dark olive skin with large pores, salt n pepper goatee. The woman in the kitchen was fit and muscled like a sprinter. She wore her long black hair pulled tight in a ponytail over a turtleneck, cargo pants, and boots. They didn't participate. Judging from their clean-cut appearances, they were private security, ex-military, now working under the corporate aegis. Natural enough, most former service guys had two routes once their tours expired, the private sector or the feds. The fief paid better for sure if you passed their admission bars.

"They look like corporate goons to me," Alex said dismissively.

"Yes, they're trusted employees from Midland Superior," Harry said.

"You're a corporate leech too?" Alex turned to face Porsche.

"I'm freelance."

"Freelance means what?" Alex said, becoming surly.

Porsche made a crooked smirk with her lips, not taking the bait.

"What is this place?" Alex said, looking around.

"A safe house."

"Safe from who?"

Harry shrugged.

"What territory is this?" Alex shot-gunned her questions. "What city?"

"We're in Western Pennsylvania, Midland territory. You're protected."

"I don't need protection," Alex hissed. "Now how bout you tell me everything you think you know."

"Just relax. Food's coming. I talk better on a full stomach," Harry said. When Alex was about to object, he raised his voice. "My house, my rules." The suddenness made her pause. "You eat and we talk."

The kitchen help brought out a tray of Reuben sandwiches and placed it on the table with a side dish of extra pickles and sauerkraut.

Alex bit into her sandwich and found she couldn't chew. There was no saliva in her mouth. So she forced the morsel down and pushed the plate away.

"Let's start with an easy question -- why were you following me? You first." Alex pointed at Porsche.

"My job."

"And what job is that?" Alex asked, her tone cold but reigned in.

Porsche glanced at Harry.

"I paid her to follow you," Harry said, taking responsibility. "And from all accounts, you should thank her."

"Thank her?" Alex's temper flashed, climbing the mercury. "For what?"

"Easy now," Harry said. "She saved your life."

"You left her to die, bitch," Alex said, a low growl coming from her throat. "I should kill you."

"Believe me, you tried," Porsche said, touching the dark bruise on her neck. "There was nothing I could do. She was already . . . when I got there."

Alex gasped and swallowed hard, her voice wet with the coming of tears. "Where is she? I want to see her."

Harry and Porsche glanced at each other but neither answered and secrets at this moment agitated Alex even more.

"Someone's gonna tell me something or I start breaking heads," Alex snarled a warning, her calm tone ominous.

Harry said. "She's in the city morgue."

"But you don't want to go there," Porsche added at once.

"Why?"

She hesitated to say. "They used acid. She's . . . half-gone."

Alex shrieked as if a thousand volts had surged through her, burning her synapses. She hammered the table, putting dents into the wooden surface, her face contorting between rage and grief. Alex turned and doubled over, her back arching like a cat, hair rigid and erect, then she vomited the bite she had swallowed. Harry motioned the help to stand back and wait.

Holding her head in her hands, Alex shook in real physical pain, apoplectic. She flung the chair against the wall and stormed to her bedroom. The door slammed shut.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

"That went well," Porsche said, safetying the Taser on her lap, glad she didn't need to use it.

"It went the only way it could. The first steps to recovery are usually hard."

"Now what?"

"You stay here, and keep an eye on her," Harry said. "She'll come around. And when she does, befriend her."

"And you?"

"I got business in Chicago."

"I didn't sign up to play house. I did my part. She's your responsibility now. I told you I have to return to DC."

"Leave everything, you're with me now."

"I still have personal items. Family photos and memorabilia."

"I taught you not to get attached to things, not in our business."

"Well, school's out, been out for a while, teacher," Porsche said, unmoved. "I'm going."

"Fine, do what you must, then come back. I need you."

That night, the sobbing resumed, sometimes punctuated by rage as Porsche listened outside her door. Betty and Bruce had their duties, part domestic, part guard dogs. The next morning, the door opened from the inside.

A grim Alex emerged.

"Coffee?" Porsche asked.

"Sit, let's talk."

"All right." They sat in the same spots as the day before.

"You're the one who took out five of them -- that's what he told me. That true?"

Porsche nodded.

Alex said gruffly at the table. "What's your involvement?"

"Not much to tell. DeWitt hired me to shadow you."

"That part I know." Alex nodded. "But why?"

"Ask him."

"Why did you bring me here?" Alex demanded, narrowing her eyes.

"No other place to go. We had to get you out or else," Porsche said. "Look, before you, I watched some majordomo tech-director got snuffed. The same crew that hit him, went after you. Okay?"

"What were your instructions besides watching?"

"That's all I will say."

Alex snatched Porsche's hand with one swipe, faster than a snake. She squeezed hard, never breaking her eyes from Porsche.

"We're holding hands now?" Porsche winced, the pain mounting from her crushed fingers.

"Talk." She hissed under clenched teeth.

"They told me to keep tabs on you. And to watch your back."

"Why?"

"You're very special. I read your dossier."

Alex released her as the former jerked back her hand.

"You have a file on me?" Alex demanded, then sighed. "Classified used to mean something, I guess."

"With billions tied to biotech R&D -- you're more visible than you think."

"Well, you did a piss-poor job protecting me then."

Porsche rubbed her bruised hand. "You're alive, aren't you?" Porsche said, earning a sharp glower. "Sorry, I didn't mean --"

"These fuckers, I want to know who they work for. I'm gonna burn them all down!"

"That crew could be from any outfit, feds or fief. But between trying to save you and running, didn't have time to ask. Besides, that's a question way above my pay grade."

"Right, save it for DeWitt. I can't wait to see the wizard." Alex exhaled. "I need coffee. My head's pounding."

Betty heard her. She brought forth a mug of black brew and painkillers.

"Take these, they help," Betty said. Bruce leaned by the doorway, watching warily.

Alex nodded, popped the pills and grimaced at the bitter coffee.

"Where the hell is DeWitt?" Alex asked after swallowing.

"He pops up when you don't want him to and vanishes when you need him," Porsche replied. "I'm leaving you in good hands. Good luck," Porsche got up. She nodded toward the staff that she was ready for the hand-off.