Alex jerked awake, but couldn't see. Blindfolded, she became aware of her situation: she was sitting upright in a chair, her forearms bound on the armrests.

A metallic taste lingered in her mouth. Something soft and large filled her maw behind her teeth, not allowing her to speak. She tongued its soft rubbery surface -- a ball-gag.

She tried to fight against her restraints and winced. The bullet wound in her shoulder reminded her of its sting. Memories were in tatters.

Ship.

Lockheart.

Warchild sitting on her.

A drop ship -- an assault team . . . Papa and Rotter had betrayed her by siding with Warchild. But they jumped clear, her faculty returning in translucent folds. Yes, everyone else was zapped. Taken. She was a prisoner.

Can't be so long ago, a few hours, a day? Her thoughts soon returned to the present -- she was tied up -- her bare feet touching a cold smooth floor.

Alex calmed her mind and sent out sensory feelers.

Focus. She smelled five people, elevated testosterone, one with a fast heartbeat.

Everything began to click in place. She was in the lair of beasts.

Then she heard, "She's awake."

Rough hands removed the blindfold. A sucking sound escaped her mouth as the ball-gag plopped from her lips.

Alex blinked and squinted in the new brightness, letting her eyes adjust to the odd surroundings. They were in a square room, the floor and walls covered in white ceramic tiles. Overhead, surgical lights hammered her eyes. Tiles in a room such as this said much -- it was a bad place, a black site, and she was in its grip. Mentally exhausted, flesh wounded, sickened with nausea and bone ache, she was dying, with or without their help.

A man crouched on bent knees feet from her, studying her. Behind him, she sensed there were more in the room. Her olfactory picked up five distinct masculine pheromones in the room. Along the long wall, there was a one-way silvery mirror -- more men behind there, she guessed.

The squatter held in his hands a pair of pliers. He had an unwholesome look about him while clipping his fingernails, each click jolting her nerves. Click-clack-click-clack. An odd appearance, one ear higher than the other, a crooked ridge that was his nose, he stared at her with cold crazy eyes. He lay down his clippers and gestured at the water bottle.

Alex nodded. He put the nozzle to her lips. She sucked on it like a hungry infant on a teat.

"I'm John," he said gently, tilting the bottle for an easy pour. "Your dossier said you're something special, jacked-up to be some kind of killing machine. Should I be impressed?" The man got rough, gripping her chin with his finger and thumb. "But all I see is a raggedy girl. And you don't look so hot. Feverish?" He touched her forehead. "I got something to cool you off, soon enough."

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After slaking her thirst, she managed, "No need for this. Ask your questions. I'll answer." The pledge was as inane as it was poignant.

John shrugged. "I'm so glad. I'd make things go easier."

"Get on with it," she said, resigned to her fate.

"No rush, not until the right audience gets here." John gave her a chilly grin. "By then, I hope you're both still thirsty."

Both?

As John the clipper moved away, she saw another prisoner who had been blocked from view, sitting opposite her. Alex's skin tingled; her ears burned. Lockheart -- sat strapped in an identical dentist chair -- just out of reach. And he was awake, grinning at her, his mouth free of a ball-gag. How she had fantasized the moment she'd see him again, which medieval methods of execution was apt -- death by a thousand cuts, boiling water, or the iron maiden, twisted visions that had kept her going each night. When she had him in her grasp on the Lady Celeste, Warchild had foiled her plan. And where is Warchild? She didn't care because Camila's killer was in front of her . . .

A fire inflamed, lighting the rage in her belly.

Feed it, feed the hate. It will keep you alive -- long enough.

But it wasn't just her emotional resolve; she was burning hot inside, putting out so much heat her skin glistened with moisture. She was running a high fever without the delirium. The wound in her shoulder was throbbing deliciously inside a ring of carmine warmth. Yes, the hemonanites were mending and rebuilding her damaged tissues, she realized with astonishment. So, this was what it felt like to regenerate.

She returned to the devil in front of her, his gaze unblinking. The Sandman was calm, almost nonchalant.

Yet, something didn’t add up. Lockheart wasn’t here by chance. They used him to shake her up obviously — how much did they know? And where was Warchild? He was knocked out like she was, last she remembered. Perhaps they’d put him in a different room. Perhaps there were complications. Some tickers didn’t react well to being shocked. But Warchild was a Cerberus. They could drop a piano on him and his heart would keep on ticking — that was the promise of Moreau.

Yet, something was happening inside she couldn’t explain. A warmth was spreading from her torso to her limbs — the yoke of pain she experienced these past days was lifting, replaced by euphoric energy and lightness not felt since the augmentation, the specter of death retreating. Then it hit her like a two-by-four beam — as long as her body underwent repairs, the damn meds weren’t needed. Maybe they were placebos, to begin with. Did Moreau introduce T-Stoff and A-Stoff to keep Cerberus on the leash? Moreau had to know, she surmised — fucker hid the truth of regenesis from us. She almost laughed out loud. How ironic it had to be here that she learned the secret.

"So, don't you look stupid coming after me?" Lockheart taunted.

"You don't talk to me," she said, her voice a low growl.

"Why not, these may be our last minutes together. Balkan's Praetorians don't mess around, I should know. I'll tell you what's going to happen -- they'll set up some secret tribunal, give you fifteen minutes with a lawyer -- after that, a double-tap to the skull."

"Better than acid."

"Don't be sore." He chuckled.

"If I weren't in restrains, I'd tear you apart."

"I don't doubt it," Lockheart said. "But you should know, it was never personal. The word came down to disappear you all -- I figured acid," he shrugged in the restraint, "is a good clean way. Most people have cranial implants and biowares, you know."

"She was flesh and blood!"

He paused first. "Sorry about your girl. She wasn't part of the plan."

"But you killed her anyway." Alex jerked forward, lips puckered; she spat at him, her spittle falling short of the distance. The attempt caused a tearing pain in her chest.

"Eh'nt -- three-points declined. I'd save my strength for what's coming if I were you."

"Without the meds, I'll be dead soon enough," Alex bluffed, knowing the truth. "But you, they'll keep alive. And I hope you suffer a thousand times what you caused."

"Not going to happen," Lockheart scoffed, and turned his head to the mirrored wall. He reminded those behind the glass. "If I die, so does Carnivora. Only I know where it is."

"You're wrong. They can reverse engineer the shit out of my cells, Musk-out on my corpse anytime they want. I am Carnivora." She grit her teeth. "In a way, I'll be the cause of your death and that's alright."

"Wanna bet?"