I've always wanted to suit up to music.

It isn't the superhero anthem I was hoping for, but then I'm not pulling on spandex leggings. At least I hope not. It's so dark I can't see what I'm doing.

My bedroom seems so small now, as if my mind has forced my body to outgrow it. The white bedspread has turned to a grey mesh fence, the walls to prison bars. My Mp3 Player blasts so heavily in my ears I barely hear the words. This won't be my prison for much longer. After a few more driving lessons, I'll be ready to leave. I can go anywhere, everywhere and no one can stop me. Alice and me, together. We can hit a new city every week, buy so many ice-creams we puke all night. I've had a craving for bubble-gum flavour since last week. Closing my eyes, I focus on tonight, what I have to do. Miss Kirby, though that's probably not her real name. Maybe I can give her a new one when I find her. Slipping the bodysuit over my shoulders, I stretch to reach the zip at the back. If only Mr. Dark was here. I bet he doesn't know what a zip even is. Somehow, I find that quite sad. He's never been on holiday, never dated, never ate at a fancy restaurant, at least not one of his choosing. He's just like me. He's never had a choice. Sharply, I finish buttoning the suit, my body covered from neck to ankles. Now is really not the time to think about him – I mean, I was perfectly fine on my own. Damn therapist. I pause, waiting eagerly for Alice to correct me and tell me that Light is a psychiatrist. But nothing reaches my ears. No haughty remark, no snappy retort. Today must have really tired her out.

'It's okay,' I whisper inside our head, praying she can hear me. 'You're not alone anymore. I've got you'. No answer. There's a slight glimmer of acceptance, but it's drained. She's practically out cold and that's a first. Is it bad that I wish she were quiet more often?

Shrugging, I dig my earphones further into my head, hoping that the lyrics will drown the world out. Will drown everything, including this led feeling in my gut. I don't tend to get nervous, especially in these situations. Yet, here I am, with dead butterflies in my stomach like some first grader on a field trip. Right. Back to business. I need a dinner knife from the kitchen, or maybe I'll be creative and take a fork this time. No, no, wait. I'll take a spork. Do we have a spork? Oh please, tell me we have a spork. Those are so in right now. They're the in-thing, they're totally in. Okay, I think I'm stalling. Just a blunt knife then, seeing as my electromagnet has frayed to the point of uselessness. Great. I think I have science tomorrow – I'll make another one.

Shooting one last look at my cell, I creep out onto the landing. The moon hasn't grabbed this part of the house, so the floorboards blend into the blackness, surrounding me in tar. The windows stare at me like a thousand cameras, watching every move I make. I am so tempted to dance right now.

As I reach the top of the stairs, my hands lash out, grip the banister. It's so dark my primal fears are awakening. Being alone, alone in the dark. It's almost as horrible as being alone in that white room, with only wordless books for company. I turn the music up. I'm never going back to that room, never again. If I do, I won't be able to leave. Neither will Alice. Downstairs, the kitchen is bathed in a sliver of moon, so I skirt to the drawer. Oh hey, there is a spork. I knew we had one somewhere. I shuffle around amongst the cutlery, finally plucking out a dinner knife. The van lurches back to me, those men. Attacking me, pushing me back until I feel the cold slap of the syringe. I defend myself. I pull the trigger, even though I don't want to. Gripping the countertop, I stare out of the window, locking onto the curve of the moon until my heart slows. Alice is making me weak, school is making me weak. I can't afford to be weak. The knife sits happily between my thumb and forefinger, like an old friend. Sighing, I head out into the hall. Something creaks behind me, but I avoid the cliché of turning around. I'm not some chick from a horror movie, and if I was, I'd be the killer. That's what everyone thinks I am anyway. Why should I disagree when everyone is already decided? Wind rattles the hair on my neck, even though I don't remember leaving a window open. I'm still not going to turn around. By the time I head towards the stairs, the creaking stops.

Until I reach the top and sense someone breathing.

Breathing heavily.

In a split second, the knife finds its way to a pale neck, my blue eyes to green ones and my hand around an arm.

"You look different today". Only Mr. Dark could pass off stating the obvious as a compliment.

Retracting the knife from his neck, I offer him my best glare. Which is apparently a lousy smile.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He looks puzzled for a moment, as if I've asked him to solve for x. A moment later, he snaps his fingers. Or tries to.

"I am here because I woke up and I saw you leave your room. I followed you to the landing and now I am here. You are going to do something tonight, something bad. I want to come," he says.

Oh fabulous. This is the last thing I need. Watching him is going to be like watching a child in a candy store.

Mr. Dark sways on his feet, already distracted by the patch of light on the carpet. He twiddles his thumbs and smiles. Jeez, what a dork. My dork, I realise. We kissed. Well, I kissed him, he just sort of sat there, looking confused. Same thing, right?

"Can I come with you?" he asks. "I want to help". I'm sure he does, but I don't need help from anybody.

"Please. You still haven't told me things. Why did you do that, last time we met? That kiss? I want to know, so I am coming. I want to know everything". You and me both, buddy. The pleading in his face finally melts me, and I shake my head.

"Fine. Come on then," I tell him. I am definitely going to regret this.

Mr. Dark bounces on his feet slightly, the very embodiment of a toddler after receiving a packet of sweets. As I start to creep to Mum's room, he hisses after me.

"We can use my – Dr. Light's – bathroom window. He broke it. Well, I broke it," he says. Raising my eyebrows, I offer him a wan smile.

"Thanks". Maybe this won't be so bad. I don't know. I really don't know a lot anymore. It's starting to make my brain itch. Leading Mr. Dark into Doc's room, I follow the general path of destruction until I reach the bathroom. There are a herd of cracks in the tiles, while the bath is a throne of blood and glass. One of the curtains is torn, while the other is draped in shreds over the sink. Toilet paper covers the floor and all the glass in the window is missing. As well as the number lock.

"You ripped it off?" I point to the gaping hole in front of us. Mr. Dark nods proudly.

"Nice". He starts beaming, so I turn around, face the broken window as if I'm a gymnast facing the pole vault. A small run up is all I need, and I clear the window, grab the edge of the roof to stop myself falling. Mr. Dark easily keeps up, his muscles locking together like twin cables. Made for battle, for war. For killing, for assassinating. My smile falls away. Ever since he came into this world, his life has been dictated, planned in advance. Because of the Foundation. Angrily, I stalk along the roof, dropping to ground level as quickly as I can. The grass pinches at my boots. From up on the roof, Mr. Dark is smiling. Not just at me, but at the world. Outside. He even shields his face from the moonlight. There is such wonder in his eyes it makes me want to grin. Still, he should save his smiles. This world doesn't deserve them. Motioning for him to hurry, he jumps, practically stepping off the roof instead of climbing down. I expect a resounding thump as he hits the ground, but all Ii hear is the quiet pads of his feet. The truth strikes me again: solider, killer, murderer. Mr. Dark peers down at the buttons of his blue shirt, starts fumbling. I might have to buy him a Rubik's Cube. Just a thought. Now, where to go? Thanks to the Doc', I have no intel, no informants – not that I can remember anyway. The only option is the school. Or the data base in the van, but that is definitely not an option. I'm not going back in there. Even the main road out of the suburbs is too dangerous to travel right now. There's no telling who's out there, watching me, watching us. What will they do if they realise Doc' lied to them? If they find out who he can become, they'll stop at nothing to take him back. To control him. They will tear him apart, open him up to see how he works. They might even do the same to me – if they haven't already. I start toward to the back garden, Mr. Dark gliding softly after me. His black hair slides against his forehead, while his eyes scan the surrounding area. He's like one of those attack dogs. Sweet, fluffy looking and waiting for the order to kill. As I reach the fence that springs up around the house, Mr. Dark coughs. I turn.

"You still have not explained to me what you did," he says.

"What?" Now is not really the right time for this.

"That kiss," he replies, as if that's what I'm thinking about. Rolling my eyes, I pull myself up and over the fence. Offering my hand, Mr. Dark frowns.

"You're telling me you've never kissed someone?" I say.

"No. Dr. Light has never done so either". I chew my lip thoughtfully.

"At least something makes sense". Mr. Dark smiles and, ignoring my hand, jumps and clears the fence in one flowing movement. He lands like a cat. I hope for his sake he has nine lives.

I'll need them.

We creep through the back roads, the odd paths cut into the suburbs until we become part of the stone walls, the odd vines of smudged graffiti. Mr. Dark keeps trying to make conversation, I keep evading him. Hey, it's as if the Doc' were here himself. A pair of liars, reunited.

Around us, the sidewalk burns with lone cans and plastic bags. We're reaching the highway. No escaping this one, it seems. We're spat from the darkened path into the limelight. Midnight traffic loosely circles the road, headlights glaring at us in passing. Apart from that, we're hardly noticed.

"Stick to the shadows," I tell Mr. Dark and he nods, still with that same childlike smile on his lips. The shadows cast by late night gas stations aren't enough to banish the fear from my tongue, but Mr. Dark slips into even the slightest of blackness, becoming invisible in an instant. We slide past a Minimart, the car park as empty as I feel. The highway veers off onto several smaller roads, one leading to a large housing estate. It's a good thing that, unlike Alice, I actually pay attention to our surroundings. We veer off to the right, away from the estate and down a long sidewalk. It has so many streetlights I'm surprised the concrete hasn't caught fire. A few houses lie either side, windows shut tight. Asleep. Something I kind of wish I was right now.

Undeterred, Mr. Dark presses on ahead, laughing every time he sees a garbage can on someone's drive. He shunts towards in, fingers dancing around the dirtied rims. I have to pull him away before he can wake up the whole neighbourhood.

"I don't understand. Why are you so afraid?" he asks as I drag him along.

"I'm not afraid. I'm violent," I snap. He gives me a goofy smile, as if he's some heartthrob that has just managed to understand a movie reference.

"Me too". I can't even summon the energy to answer. All I can do is turn up the music on my Mp3. It's like I'm travelling with a child, or a cat who is distracted by every necklace of moonlight on the ground, every discarded can and sweet wrapper. His attention darts from one thing to another, firing questions every time I take a step. We'll never get there at this rate.

Up ahead, the streetlights flicker. Lowering my centre, I keep to the shadows, ducking behind the neatly trimmed sandbar willow. Mr. Dark imitates me perfectly. I choke back a laugh. Everything he does makes me want to smile. I'm still unsure whether that's a good thing or a bad one. Our paths veers towards a sudden turn, where a long stone driveway splits the road in half. The Academy. We're here. And I wish I'd stayed at home. I squint. Somehow, it seems more sinister at night. As if the bricks are prison bars and the hanging baskets are noose-knotted heads. Skirting to the edge of the building, I realign my thoughts. Miss Kirby will have likely picked a lock on one of the rear doors. I can't risk the chance of setting off the alarm.

Pulling Mr. Dark into the shadows, I bit my tongue. Over and over. What am I supposed to do? Everything is falling apart. I didn't think it through this far. My lungs spin into a frenzy, so I try to close my throat. My breath rises.

Beside me, Mr. Dark leans back. And my breathing stops. Restarts. Slowly. Mr. Dark does not recoil.

"You're full of surprises," I heave, reaching for a wall that isn't there. Mr. Dark catches my arm with his submarine shoulder, letting me use his body to right myself.

"So are you". His reply is so quiet I almost think I imagined it. Looking around, everything resumes. And that's when I realise, Miss Kirby isn't here yet. No car sits in the parking lot. Unless she didn't bring one. What am I supposed to do? My lungs rapid fire and my vision blurs.

Until Mr. Dark grabs me and yanks us both into the undergrowth. A car is rounding the driveway, headlights off. A sleek car, the colour of molasses. The wheels barely touch the road, for the vehicle creeps up the tarmac in silence. Rolls to a halt. As a teacher, Miss Kirby will definitely have a key.

"You ready?" I edge towards the mouth of the bushes.

No reply.

Turning around, I realise Mr. Dark, the man who tried to kill me, is shaking. Shaking like a leaf in a storm. He stares at himself, a deer in the jungle, facing off against a Boa Constrictor.

As I meet his gaze, I realise it.

He's terrified. Terrified and elated and scared and excited. Another thought hits me: he's unstable. He could ruin everything. My breath is knocked from my chest. Isn't that the thing that people used to say about us? About me?

Mr. Dark glances down at his hands and wiggles his fingers, as if trying to prompt them to cease their rattling. He looks up at me, his voice a whimper.

"Please," he says. "Make it stop". I don't answer.

"Please," he repeats. "I'm not supposed to be like this. I don't like being like this. Please, it hurts. I was created. Made. Not born. I am not supposed to be like this".

A final glance back at Miss Kirby, who, from her silhouette, is talking to someone on a burner phone, I step toward Mr. Dark. He shrinks into himself, but I reach out. Take his hands carefully in mine.

"If everyone were the person they were supposed to be," I say. "The world would be a very horrible place". His hands are tiny hawkmoths, fluttering in time with my racing heart. He's going into shock. I recognise the signs: the whites of his eyes, like a stallion in a starting gate at the Georgian Downs, the flushed yet pale skin tone. I drop his hand and they continue to shake.

Fumbling my MP3, I try to keep Miss Kirby in my sights. She is still speaking, but against the blackness of the car window, I can't read her lips.

In an instant, I offer the earphones to Mr. Dark. He doesn't even reach out; he only stares at them in fascination. Sighing, I shove the MP3 Player into his hands, the buds into his ears, and press play. Mr. Dark's hands stop shaking. His eyes remained wide, but they are two white yolks. New planets blossoming in a field of poppies.

Smiling, I turn around to Miss Kirby's car. Which is empty. The floor rumbles, roiling and writhing like a tarmacked snake. I bite my lip so hard blood ruptures.

Hunkering down in the undergrowth, I scan the parking lot. No one. She's gone. Her car is locked, and we have no way of getting inside the Academy. Mr. Dark taps me on the shoulder, and I jump. Turn around.

"This is...". He trails off, searching for the words. Points to the earphone as his body sways along. I dread to think what he's hearing. The last thing I wanted to do tonight was get a super solider with an unstable mental state into 80's Classics.

I whip back towards the Academy. Still empty.

"Five cameras around the main exterior," comes Mr. Dark's silken tone. "Eighteen inside, with two situated around the door which Miss Kirby entered."

"The cameras will have been disabled," I snap. Clamp my mouth shut. It wasn't his fault I'd lost track of her. My eyes bloom wide.

Grabbing Mr. Dark's hand, which cups the body of the MP3 Player as if it were a crown, I drag him out of the bushes and onto the gravel. The pebbles crunch, while the grass yields to our blackened shoes. I walk to Miss Kirby's car. Mr. Dark edges along behind me, trying to tap out the rhythm of the music in his ears with his feet. I shake my head. Roll my eyes. He is definitely the last thing I needed tonight.

We have to get Miss Kirby's attention. But, if the cameras have been disabled, there is no point in hiding.

Turning to Mr. Dark, I lay my palm flat. Let him place his own hand against mine. Our fingers interlock. Slowly, I remove the earphones and delicately place them in his trouser pocket.

"You hang onto them for now, alright?" I say.

"Beautiful!" he exclaims. With no warning. Me. Beautiful. I step back. Frown.

Mr. Dark, realising I hadn't understood, points to his ears.

"Beautiful," he repeats. The music. That was he was trying to say earlier. Nodding, a small laugh escapes me.

"It is, isn't it?" The laughter dissipates into a soundless vapour. I'm not here to smile or laugh. Or talk to Mr. Dark as if he's a regular man and I'm a human being. Because he isn't. And, according to the world, neither am I.

Pointing to the side door, the one which the P.E staff would use if they fancied a quick getaway at recess, I steady my pulse. The door is clean and arched, with a basic silver plate on which to push. Warily, we walk towards it. Me in front at first, until Mr. Dark edges toward me, then in front of me. Like a shield. I shake my head.

"I'm fine. I don't need your help," I say. Mr. Dark turns to me, his swamp-like eyes and oily hair seemingly floating above of his skull. He is ethereal. Quite literally not of this world. Delicate, seemingly. Light. But I am reminded all too soon of what he is. Who he is. What he could mean for me and Alice. He is destruction with a softened stare.

I square my shoulders and step in front of him.

I will not be fooled again.

I lean on the door, wincing as my weight presses onto the metal. It opens without protest. I splay my hands. Wait for the blaring alarms, the police sirens, the cops pointing guns at our heads. But nothing happens. Of course, nothing happens.

Turning to Mr. Dark, whose hand drifts to pocket containing the MP3 Player every so often, I hide a smile and beckon him inside.

The Academy, like all schools (not that I'd know) is a completely different world at night. The white walls are overshadowed by the absence of moonlight. The halls are darkened chasms, and I won't be surprised if fruit bats start flying through our hair.

The P.E staff room sits across from the us, on the far side of the corridor. I hold my breath. The plant remains, but, as I squint, I can see the area where the soil was disturbed. Molecules of plant feeder have spilt on the floor.

Mr. Dark tells me he noticed it the moment we came in.

"Show off," I mutter under my breath. In my head, I'm mulling over the implications of his words. If I were also a super solider, like the Gemini Project, wouldn't I have caught the disturbance in the area earlier? Or am I a prototype? I frown. The Doc' is supposed to be the prototype. Does that make me the variable? The subject.

In our head, Alice chuckles. Her voice is fuzzy; she must have been asleep, or some twisted version of it, up until this point.

'You think we were created by chemicals? You think our brain didn't split of its own accord. You think we're unnatural?' It's a question I've been pouring over since we woke. But I know we're natural. I know, deep down, that we are human. We are real and true. I can feel it, deep down. I read it in a book somewhere: personalities are often created to protect their primary. I was created to protect Alice. Or was she created to protect me? I almost stamp my foot like a child. If only I could remember everything.

'Well, you can't,' says Alice. Once again, she vanishes, and our head is silent. Instead, I watch Mr. Dark as he slips toward the plant. He sniffs around it like a dog, his movements completely fluid. Every time he displays a version of himself which is more than human, I experience some sort of rude awakening. Mr. Dark isn't human. He tried to kill me. And yet here we are.

I wonder what that makes him.

I wonder what that makes me.

If I had the ears of a horse, they would have swivelled forward, then flattened against my head. Something moved. Not by much, clearly by accident. But something moved. This time, I am faster than Mr. Dark, who is admiring the potted plant as if it were the British Crown Jewels.

Sailing forward, I shove Mr. Dark out of the path of the black as tar Remington 541T. Fitted with a silencer, no one would hear us die. I snag the gun, snatching it out of Miss Kirby's hand as she lurches from the P.E office. Kicking the pressure point in her shin, she relinquishes the weapon, which I hand to Mr. Dark. I grimace. Turning around, I watch Mr. Dark fumble with the pistol as if it were a new kitten.

Shaking my head, I lash out and, after a brief scuffle, manage to secure Miss Kirby in an arm lock.

"Move and I'll dislocate your shoulder. On second thoughts, why don't you move? If you put in enough effort, I could have an entire arm to put on my mantlepiece". I smirk even though my stomach jumps over itself. Miss Kirby's hand falls to her side and she regards me with a casual smile.

"It really is you. You're awake," she says.

"Either that or this is some wacky dream," I snap in reply. My lips purse. What is wrong with these people? They're acting like I'm a wild grizzly who has just emerged two weeks early from hibernation. Miss Kirby is one of them – I can see it in her eyes. Watching me, assessing me. She might as well be ripping off my clothes and slicing into my skull with her nails. All the same, there remains something of a person in her stare. She blinks and it vanishes.

"You left the note," she whispers. I chuckle.

"I got my other half to leave it. A calling card. She's very accommodating, you know. Can I get you a glass of water? Biscuits? We need to have a little chat about the Janus Foundation". Miss Kirby's eyes steam like her car engine. She lowers her centre, hands splayed. I almost sigh. This was not at all how I wanted this night to go.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to re-schedule. I was ordered to bring you in if you showed any signs of regaining your memories and your other personality resurfaced".

"I'm sorry," I grin, gesturing behind me to Mr. Dark. "Do I sound like someone who can be overridden?"

Timing is certainly on my side because as Mr. Dark emerges from the shadows of the lockers, Miss Kirby steps back. He doesn't mean to scare her; he's hardly looking at her. Rather, he's mulling over the gun. The Universe must be smiling on me because at the moment Miss Kirby decides to step forward again, Mr. Dark, who is inspecting the gun the way a girl would thumb a pacifier, manages to bend the firearm in half. The metal squeaks, screeching like tyres on tarmac. Before it is snapped in two. Mr. Dark jumps and frowns, trying unsuccessfully to stick the gun back together. I offer him a wide smile. Turn back to Miss Kirby whose stance is fluid.

"There now," I say. "Don't panic. I won't let him hurt you. Much. Come on. Let's have a nice little chat".

Miss Kirby steps back, hands beginning to shake like the bonnet of her car.

"If you kill me, you'll blow your cover. I could tell the Foundation about you any minute". I laugh.

"But how will you tell them without a tongue?" I ask. I mean, it's a fair question. Miss Kirby's face seems to green in the darkness, while my own face betrays nothing of the bile which rises in the pit of my throat. I swallow it down. Gesture to the far door.

"Come on," I repeat. "Let's go have a little chat". Miss Kirby remains standing.

"There's nothing to talk about. You're a psychopath and I'm taking you in. You don't understand what good you could go," she says. Implores would be the right word. Shaking my head, I gesture to the door again.

"Take us to your car. And then, to your boss. Or your boss's boss. I'm not sure how far up you are on the Janus Foundation food chain. Take me to them and we can end this now. We can have our little chat along the way". My own body seems to shrivel, like a prune in a bathtub. This wasn't the plan. I was supposed to gather intel. My mind is snowballing. I'm a ravenous wolf, shivering on a mountain top, staring down at a human village where sustenance awaits. But, if I race down the mountainside, I will not last long. Looking back at Mr. Dark, who regards me with a confused expression, I square my shoulders.

"Take us to your car. Tell us everything you know. I'm not asking and I'm tired of waiting". This is my one chance, our one chance. To put everything right. To fix everything before it unravels into a vat of veins and broken promises.

Motioning to the door, I ask Mr. Dark to escort Miss Kirby back out into the parking lot. Before he does so, he smiles at me, his face suddenly alight, as if he's remembered something he never knew.

"I understand now," he breathes. "Why I liked those words in my head." I frown. Oh. The music on the MP3.

"Why?" I ask him softly, while Miss Kirby watches our exchange with a curling lip. Mr. Dark's voice lowers.

"Because they sound like you. Beautiful". I stop breathing for a moment. And I force that moment to end.

"Just get her in the car," I say, but as I walk to the door, I realise I'm smiling.

Schooling my face into a neutral expression, I lead the way to Miss Kirby's vehicle. It is one large bat, with jagged wings ensconcing the blacked-out interior. The perfect vehicle for someone perilously advocating the 'greater good'. I turn around once I reach the passenger door.

Motioning for Mr. Dark to side in the back, right behind Kiss Kirby, I asses the exterior. Smooth, too smooth. Almost slick, like molasses. Flicking my hand towards the main door, I watch every movement Miss Kirby makes as she retrieves the keys from her pocket.

"Was this vehicle issued to you by the Foundation?" I ask. For a moment, Miss Kirby says nothing. One look at Mr. Dark forces her throat to unravel.

"Yes. They buy the number plates before the information is released into the database. We can't be traced". Saying nothing, I point to the car.

"Get in," I snap. We're wasting time. A few hours on and the road will be kissed by sunrise.

Frowning, Miss Kirby slips into the driver's seat, while Mr. Dark crawls into the back. Even though he's the same height as Dr. Light, he seems to absorb the contents of the car. I slide into the passenger's seat. The dashboard is bare and there is no glove compartment. I smile. A modified car then. No space for documents or files or folders for some unsuspecting car-jacker to find.

Miss Kirby reaches toward the footwell, as if reaching to straighten her sock. I know better of course. Softly, I lean toward Miss Kirby, whispering in her ear.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. I'm the one who killed Dr. Steele". Miss Kirby jumps and the knife she was reaching for drops onto the accelerator. Bending down, I pick it up. Examine the blade before opening the door to throw it out into the parking lot. Wide eyed, Miss Kirby takes a few deep breaths.

In the mirror, I can see Mr. Dark about to protest, but I shoot him a look. In the end, he sits back and crosses his arms, like a petulant toddler. My brain urges to make a mental note to apologise to him afterwards, but I managed to banish the idea. He's a killer. There is an enhanced murderer in the back of this car. My stomach shifts to tin foil. There is a murderer in the front of this car too. A murderer probably sits across from me, though I imagine it's only part of the job to her. In the end, the murderer at the steering wheel surprises me by breathing a huge sigh of relief.

"I can't say I'm sorry. Dr. Steele didn't know when to keep his hands to himself," she says. I can imagine.

"Have many people have you killed?" I ask and she jerks. Her hands choke the steering wheel.

"Not as many as you," she snaps and my body stills. I hide the growl which follows. She must know who I am outside of the Janus Foundation. She must know. That I was a child once, but the Foundation ruined me. And know I'm a shadow in someone else's life. A postcard chewed by a wolf. Spat out.

"I was not born like this!" I slap the dashboard and behind us, Mr. Dark jumps. Miss Kirby reaches out, as if to strike me. In the end, she retracts her hand.

"They made me this way". The Foundation. Dr. Steele. Having my childhood, the first half of my life, ripped away from me. Torn and shattered and fragmented. I am a fragment. The most jagged piece of a broken mirror. Broken forever, thanks to them. Thanks to me.

Miss Kirby steadies her hands on the wheel, turning the key in the ignition. I cannot hear the engine as the car surges to life.

"It's just a job to me," she whispers. "You get assigned a profile. You read up on the subject. That's all you are to them. To people like me". Realisation dawns.

"You don't know anything, do you? About me. Why they want me. Why me in particular".

"It didn't start with you. There were earlier studies, in the 1960's, when psychology was becoming a recognised science. They studied people with multiple personalities, but the government shutdown the operation after the studies were deemed inhuman".

"Can't think why," I mutter. Miss Kirby reluctantly eases the car out of the parking lot, scoffing.

"Someone like you wouldn't understand. You're so young. You can't even begin to understand the concept of the greater good. Your DNA, your mind, could provide the basis for a better future. No more PSTD for soldiers on the battlefield. No more broken people". I lurch forward and grab the steering wheel, jerking to the car to the left, almost careening it into the wall. Hissing, Miss Kirby snatches the wheel, realigning the car just in time.

"What the hell did you do that for?" she snarls. I chuckle.

"The fact that you don't know says everything," I reply. That she doesn't know what she's done. What she's part of. The lives she's helped to destroy. No one is broken and the people who fight, fight because they are human, not because they are too emotionless too know the difference between right and wrong.

"Do you know who I am? Where I came from?" I ask, trying to hide the way my voice crumbles. If I'm expecting any sympathy, I won't get any. Not from someone like her. Miss Kirby turns out onto the road, where the streetlights have dimmed to sepia.

"I don't know. You were working with the Foundation from aged ten, but you defected and were taken in aged twelve. After a year of tests and DNA samples, the Foundation planned to release you, but you went mad. Killed a dozen operatives and someone was shot. Dr. Steele decided stasis was the best course of action, and we already had enough to complete out first wave of experimental studies". Red fills my vision, but, ever so reluctantly, I employ Dr. Light's breathing techniques to prevent the possibility of throwing myself out into the road.

"If you already had enough samples, why are you still here? What do you want with me?" I snap. Miss Kirby frowns, as if I've asked her to line dance on the roof.

"Isn't it obvious? The first waves of studies were inconclusive. Most test subjects died and the only who survived did not alter". I risk a glance at Mr. Dark in the back of the car, who is gawping out the window, staring at the lights, oblivious to our conversation. Perhaps that's for the best. The Janus Foundation can't know about him and as much as I hate the Doc', Mr. Dark is just a child in the world. He's learning, every minute of every day. Who am I to take that from him?

The car speeds up, turning down a minor road. Houses align the sidewalks, pristine gardens cloaked in darkness on both sides. Miss Kirby's hands grip the wheel, rather steady for someone whose been threatened several times in the past ten minutes. Frowning, I ask,

"Why do you work for them?" Miss Kirby doesn't look at me. For a moment, no words cross her lips. Eventually, she replies.

"The pay is decent. I have flexible working hours". My hand crashes against the dashboard, breaking Mr. Dark from his stupor.

"I have one rule on our little road trip". My voice has reached that dangerously low point, where it will either snap or fade away. "Don't lie to me". Liars might as well be trodden flowers in a ditch. Miss Kirby doesn't nod. Rather, she sighs and slows her speed a little to be able to concentrate on my face.

"I have a Mother. Did you know that?" I snap. Miss Kirby, for a brief moment, blinks hurt from her eyes.

"Yes," she says. "I know". With that, she puts the car into gear and the car surges through the streets, where the trash cans are leaning haphazardly against the walls, crowned by the odd ginger cat fishing for a meal. Somehow, I realise I understand how they feel.

The car traipses down the darkened street, nearing an open road where the houses only dominate one corner of the sidewalk. Houses with burgeoning British Columbia flowers, delicately swaying in the breeze like little white blouses.

Casting a quick glance at Mr. Dark who is now staring at me with the same wonder with which he regarded the streetlights, I resume my questioning.

"I'm not going to tell you anything else. So, you'd better kill me soon," says Miss Kirby. She says it so casually, as if ordering a coffee. Which is how I know she's bluffing. Someone like her talks a big game, but in reality, she has something she needs to be alive to protect.

"I think you will," I breathe. "Tell me about the Gemini Project. About your boss. Tell me where you keep your subject files. Give me whatever key cards you have before we reach our destination."

"Look, Alice. You need to stop this. I know what these people are like. I know what they will do to you, what they have done to you and the people around you," she begins. I frown, my pulse rising.

"What do you mean?" I ask. "What do you mean? What have they done?" Do I have a father? Did they kill him like they disposed of so many others? My Mother. Did they hurt her? Is she too afraid to tell me the truth? I need to know, I must know. I will know.

"Tell me!" Miss Kirby slows a little, her voice straining.

"Listen. The Foundation, they"—

I can't hear anything.

I should hear the screech of a gunshot splitting the air. I should hear the careening of the car as it slips from the road and Miss Kirby's surprised gasp and Mr. Dark's wild cry.

Instead, I see Miss Kirby's head cave, see her slump onto the steering wheel. I see blood, everywhere. Coating the dashboard in a chalky canvas of brain matter.

Mr. Dark is behind me, lunging forward. I snatch the steering wheel from Miss Kirby's cooling hands, trying to steer the car back on course. But, with her feet still pressed firmly on the gas, the car careens forward. Faster and faster and I'm screaming and grasping at the seatbelt and tears are flowing even though the dead woman in the car is a woman I barely know and—