[Indicates thoughts]
*emphasis*
PG13 - language and mature subject matter
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December, 2261
(Three weeks later . . . )
[Please let it not be. . . ]
Lyta was sitting on a cold stone floor in one of the old mining tunnels that the resistance called their temporary home, her back to the wall. It was a firm support, but she wasn't aware of it. She was, however, aware that they would attack in a few hours. She was aware that they would move out in a few minutes. She was aware that the cryo units were all on their way to the ships.
She was aware that she'd sent them to die.
Soon she'd have to wake them up to do so. It was the crowning glory for the weeks from hell. The trip to mars had been ok, and Franklin had been fairly friendly to her (if getting randy as hell, thinking about number one), but her Zack-induced pleasant mood had soon faded and worry again replaced it. Then they met the resistance cell, and everything went downhill. Way, way, downhill. Ostracized, insulted, threatened, ignored . . . she had gotten used to it. Franklin sticking up for her helped - and yet it didn't. But over the past week, Lyta had come across a small problem. Then the small problem turned into a big one.
[Ok, so it's not the first time my period was a week or so late. It's just stress, right?! But every other time, I knew I couldn't be pregnant, either from taking precautions before a date or from not having one that month. Or even that year. But this time . . . there is a chance. I hadn't been planning on being intimate with Zack, sure, I'd been hoping for a while, but to have it suddenly happen . . . neither one of us had been . . . careful. I wish that there had been time - even a chance - to fix it . . . I have to get through this, somehow. Then I can find a way to take care of it, before the Corps does! Oh please let it not be!]
"Get up, red, we're going." A man whose name she didn't know called out to her, and she got to her feet obediently and followed him.
[Please let it not be . . . ]
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[This can't be happening . . . we have to get out of here and back to safety, where the hell is that stupid little bitch?] Number One was not in a good mood. Her troops were out looking for someone they shouldn't be bothering with, but Franklin had insisted. [Steven. Now there's a study in contrasts. He might still be hot for my mattress, but here he is protecting this little tart.]
She was trying to ignore the facts that a) Lyta had been a good, if untrained fighter for them years back, b) Lyta had saved Sheridan's butt, and before leaving for orbit said man had renewed his promise to her, to them, that mars would be free very soon, and c) whatever the hell Lyta'd pulled from Garibaldi's brains and slammed into her own, it was still giving the recipient class-one grade A screaming nightmares. Garibaldi's hell and Lyta's, shared with her. Whatever those . . . *things* were, Lyta'd had to cope with them even worse than Number One did. That would have earned the redhead bucketloads of respect, if not for the fact Number One was trying very hard to not think about the Black Widow Screamers.
Her concentration elsewhere, she wasn't watching where she was walking and fell flat in her face into the cold red sands. Swearing, she shook the dust out of her breather's filter and looked at what had tripped her.
[Oh, god . . . I think I found her - Is she-?] One reached over and felt the neck of the body. It was cold, but a very faint pulse could be felt once she pulled off her glove. Lyta was alive. She didn't *look* it! Lyta's hood had come off of her head, and she was lying half-buried in the sand. Little drifts had covered parts of Lyta where she lay, crumpled and exposed to the cold, with only the extreme dryness keeping frost from forming. At least Lyta had her breather still on, but One had no way of knowing how well it was working. The visor was caked solid with freeze-dried blood, and quite possibly the filter-vents as well. There were dried trickles of crimson down her throat that had leaked from the breather - the bleeding must have been intense. One kept watching as she yanked out her communit, but as long as there was the faint, slow movement of breathing, One couldn't do much else. She signaled the others to come help carry the limp body inside so they could pull off the mask and see how bad the damage was.
It only took a few minutes to get someone strong enough to carry the vulnerable girl into the nearest bunker, then Steven pulled off her headset - which was charred to a crisp - as well as numerous burned patches on Lyta's face and scalp, the charred tissues peeling away from her head as he removed the seared electronics. The rest of her face was covered in blood, from her eyes, it seemed. Cursing fate, Steven wished out loud for at least two units of blood to appear magically, along with an IV and guardian angel.
Pausing very briefly to steel his nerves, he gulped and gently tried to open one of the eyelids. It stuck at first, but parted to show dried and semi-fresh blood oozing out from over a slick black surface. Her eyes were *probably* still there, but he couldn't tell because of all the blood. They weren't any more certain than before how bad Lyta's condition was.
"She said on the way here that she wanted to come back. From the tone, I didn't know what she meant. She must have known . . . she must have known she'd be hurt. It might be fatal still, I don't know. If her brain is bleeding, too. . ." Steven's voice trailed off.
"She knew this was suicide?" Number One half queried and half-stated, then started to bark orders for a stretcher to be found, something to carry her on until they got her to a hospital. [Her *eyes*! Teeps need line of sight to work . . . she knew it would hurt her but she did it anyway. Why? Could anyone be *that* loyal?]
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"And just how the HELL do you intend to do THAT!?!" Number One yelled across the table, hands covered in blood and filth from trying to clean Lyta off. [At least she's stopped screaming - oh god, the screams were just. . . ]
Dr. Franklin was on the other side of the table, similarly blood-stained, but from trying to hold Lyta still - as she had been warmed up, she had begun to tremble violently, to the point where she was having full seizures. The black in her eyes was gone, but instead all he could see through the blood still trickling out was the whites, her eyes having rolled back. Franklin was worried that her eyeballs had somehow been torn or blown loose in their sockets, and were no longer attached, but he had no way to check that without the proper equipment. His main concern at that moment was keeping her from biting her tongue again, since it was already bleeding profusely, and quite possibly fatally.
"Look, If we can just hold her together long enough for the rangers I called to get here, they can find a way to get her into a hospital! But we have to keep her still, keep her from hurting herself further!"
"It's not that easy, Steven! I don't know why she isn't dead already! MARCO! Get *over* here! She has to live long enough to get these damned nightmares back out of my brain," One yelled at a resistance member as he came running in, adding him to the 5 others trying to hold Lyta down before anything else was broken. [Dammit she's fraggin strong!]
Suddenly Lyta's spasms stopped, leaving her a limp ragdoll on the table. "Shit, this is worse!" Steven frantically checked for a pulse as the others pulled away nervously. "She's alive," he whispered after a few seconds. "I think she just went into a full coma. The random nerve pulses have stopped. This could go either way - ABOUT TIME!" His volume increased exponentially as a familiar uniform burst into the room, followed by several identical ones. The rangers.
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[Never thought I'd ever want someone messing with my head, you know.]
[That's ok, Teresa, I do understand. At least you know I don't answer to Psi Corps.]
[Yeah, well, it's still a drab uniform with a chunk of jewelry . . . sorry. I don't mean to offend you. The block will keep me from remembering, keep me from dreaming about them, right?]
[Yes. It will only be broken - and only temporarily - when someone tries to scan you against you will. They'll receive it, but I doubt they'll get anything else. When she put them in, she also put in the framework for such a block. She likely intended to complete the block herself, but I have to say it's impressively strong anyway. Someone not trained by the Anla'Shok wouldn't have had an easy time to finish it.] The man gave a wan smile, and let go of Number One's hand, just as the nurse came into the waiting room.
From the nurse's p.o.v, all she saw was two rangers, one in uniform, the other not, but both with such a clear air of command, and concern for the woman they'd brought in so suddenly, that she just *knew* they were both of the kind who'd saved her home, who were on their way to save her ancestor's home. The plainclothes ranger was still splashed with bloodstains, having taken the time to wash but not go home for a change of clothes, instead she had just sat in the waiting room, her hand covered from time to time by the uniformed one's hand, a look of focused determination set into her features with the ease of long practice.
She stood up as soon as the nurse entered. "How's Lyta? Will she live? Will she be able to recover her sight?"
"The doctors were able to reconnect the optic nerves, so yes, her vision might heal itself with time and enough regen packs. If she has the time - it's only been a few hours, you see, since you brought her in, and these things take time to tell-"
"What things take time? Tell me what has happened, all right? Don't baby it up for me. Straight answers."
"We don't know exactly what happened to her. We have no idea why she's even alive. She could die at any time, still. At the moment, she is in a coma. Her body, if it recovers it's strength, will likely have the ability to function on it's own, but her higher brain functions are effectively dead. No sensations or reactions. It might very well be permanent. The burns marks on her face and scalp suggest some sort of neural enhancing device. Normally, in a situation like this, we'd run a DNA check to see if the patient was a rogue telepath, who might have been using the device illegally. But today is hardly what us marsies would call normal, is it? You might have had the sense to ditch your uniform beforehand, miss, but the man sitting beside you didn't. Neither did the other two standing guard outside the recovery room. If you win the battle, we might be free finally. If not, we still have a few days, weeks maybe, of breathing room. There isn't a staff member here who can't guess as to how she was hurt, even if the specifics aren't there. But I won't lie to you in any case. *If* she lives, she will be in a coma for weeks, if not months, if not years, or she might never wake up. This kind of trauma isn't documented outside of a label to 'call psi corps'. If you have a telepath you can trust, in a few hours or days, you can do a scan - with permission of next-of-kin - to see if there's anything left in there of her. For her sake, I hope not. Few have the ability to survive isolation like that."
Number One had sat down again, still shocked. [She knew this would happen. . . she did it anyway. Did she have so little to lose?]
The ranger next to her spoke up. "When would I be allowed to see her. It's said talking to someone-"
"You could go now, if you want. But there isn't any response from the audio centers of her brain. There's no response from her what-so-ever. If it will comfort you, you may do so, but I doubt it will affect her at all. Room 1287, down the hall and left twice."
They walked quickly. It was easy to find, the guards were a tad noticeable in the otherwise empty hallway. The doctors had the sense to put her in a nearly-empty corridor, but as soon as the accidents from the 'freedom celebrations' came in full-force instead of the current trickle, they'd be spotted. Number One paused in front of one of them. "Plainclothes would be a good idea, and soon."
The ranger nodded. "They're on their way, ma'am. But we will not leave our post. The one inside has done far too much for the cause to let our protection falter."
"Jamming those - shadow - ships."
"Among many feats which others could not have done."
Number One went into the room.
Lyta did not look well. Her skin was a greyish color, and she lay far too still for One's comfort. Her face and entire head was swathed in bandages. Her companion, whose name she still did not know, had placed his hand lightly on her forehead and his eyes were closed as he stood by the bedside. One knew he was trying to scan Lyta.
She sat in a chair on the other side of the bed and waited for almost an hour for him to return his attention to the outer world. "Well?"
"She . . . is not entirely there. I don't know for sure."
"Will a stronger teep be able to find anything? What did you find?"
His voice was quite soft. "My talent became active when I was in the outermost colonies. A ranger was the one who found me. The corps doesn't know of it. I trained with the rangers, with minbari telepaths. They can be much stronger than human ones. I tested out at what would be a moderate P12. I doubt there are even 50 humans, total, who are stronger than me, especially with my enhanced training. Minbari are more experienced, gentler, and more patient than the Corps could have ever been. And she -" he indicated Lyta with a flick of his eyes "- she had training by the Vorlons. Or a vorlon, at least. I doubt the others would bother with such things as a pet human.
"I can tell there are barriers, ragged, put up hastily when one or possibly all of the shadow-altered telepaths fought back at her. She tried to keep the last vestiges of herself from being destroyed. I do not know how much was lost. Possibly a great deal. Possibly very little. The feedback destroyed her enhancer, as you saw, and burned her right to the bone. There are images, faint imprints of memories that are worse than almost anything I've ever known before, and I have over a hundred ship-kills from the war. This - this was different. With them, she was still linked as they died. They were telepaths, all at least P10. They had the memories of being altered fresh in their minds, but some - the lucky ones - had already gone quite insane. This was closer to her than anything I had to go through. Ever.
"She - she knew one of them. She escaped the Corps with her. Anya. Her name was Anya. They'd been linked before, and Lyta hadn't realised who it was until it was too late. And others. Final moments, memories. Great battles. Some fought her. Some tried to take her with them, and some did both. One just . . . died . . . without joining. She was aware of all of it. I only saw faint impressions, like a single heel-mark in the dry mud compared to the full person dancing - or fighting - in the rain. I do not know how she could have survived, but she did. Somewhat. Not intact. What remains . . . is behind walls I cannot and *will not* try to break through.
"She likely has gone insane, herself. If the stories of what she endured before are true, this final attack will have pushed her past breaking, and she truly is dead inside. But, perhaps if the first vorlon cared enough, had provided enough protection, she is still a person. But she will never come out on her own. And *If* she does, her ability is surely gone. No telepath can keep their abilities after the visual connections are lost. Line of sight is required, and an intact nerve bundle is needed to block- but - she . . . is blocking now. Perhaps the vision centers escaped the damaged. Perhaps she truly is unique. I don't know. It will take further scans to tell, but I am already exhausted."
One gave him her chair, she instead leaned against the wall until Steven returned and the guards outside were replaced by ones wearing more 'normal' clothing. Her mind did some wandering of it's own.
[The Vorlons? Well . . . I guess her crazy dream to get into vorlon space was right . . . god knows why . . . I might have been wrong to chew her out about not telling us she was a teep years ago, she might not have been - I'll ask Steven - well, think of the devil and he shall appear.] One straightened as her lover and comrade-in-arms entered the room, an electronic clipboard under his arm. "Paperwork for admissions?"
"Yeah . . I though I'd finish it in here . . . the hall is getting full, if I'm recognised . . ."
She took the pad from him and looked at it, her eyes skimming down the pages. "You know her medical history, or will you bluff?"
"She's ended up in medlab a few times . . . I can recall enough to fill it out accurately. They don't need much, anyway, not for accidental electrocution. That's an explanation that'll fit the wounds closely enough."
"Steven?" she asked curiously.
"What?" He asked back, seeing her expression.
She pointed to the 'name' section.
"Oh, that . . . I had typed in her first name and A - L - and then I remembered only an idiot would put her real name down, the corps isn't aware - we hope - of her level of ability, but IPX has been tracking her and they might have squealed to 'em. But with so many people out there I didn't want to risk drawing attention by deleting . . . that's the last name of the Chief of Security, back home. He knows her, and since the first two letters matched, I thought, 'what the hell. Zack wouldn't mind, we'll just have to decide in a few days whether to make the fake records into a sister or wife.' But considering his habit of eyeing women, maybe not a sister. We'll check. It'll hold until we can move her to a secure place to wait until she wakes up."
"Steven . . ." One began, "she - well, ask him." She turned away as he turned to face the ranger.
[She isn't going to wake up.]
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