Ow.

Note to self: cross car crash off the bucket list. Cross it off several times. Score a monster of a red line through it. Ow.

The thought vibrates like a charging phone, on again, off again. On. I'd never realised how much pain could brand me, scar me without even trying. Never been so glad to be off my period. My eyes remain shut, as if magnetised. Or maybe, deep down, I don't want to wake up and finally see the fallout. Shifting, I realise I'm still in my seat, despite only reaching for the belt at the last millisecond. My hand is still lanced to the polyester webbing, never letting go. I don't need to open my eyes to know I'm bleeding. Where the pain is hot upon my skin, blood had spilt. I know that from experience. Too much experience. Where I'm cold, I sense the shock, the adrenaline. Some part of me reels at the thought of opening my eyes. Of seeing whatever Miss Kirby has become in the driver's seat next to me. If the impact hasn't thrown her through the windscreen. The impact. The shot. The bullet.

Jolting upwards, my eyes wrench open. The air is fuzzy, with black spots like flies hovering in my vision. The dashboard is crumpled, the windscreen more than cracked, smothered with grit from the road. The streetlight we smashed into hangs at a jaunty angle, spilling sparks onto the hood of the car. My breath shakes.

Easing to one side, I carefully unravel the seatbelt from around my wrist; it leaves a bright red snake coiled under my skin. Still shaking, I force myself to look at her. At Miss Kirby, whoever she really was. Whoever her family were. Whoever would miss her now that she is gone. I leaned forward, gasping a little at the splattered blood on the windscreen. Having seen so much death, you'd think I'd be used to it by now. Somehow, it always burns your lungs when you see someone else, who was once so alive, lying extinguished in front of you. Her head is slumped, caught like a fish over the steering wheel. Her hands, fingers broken and bloodied, are splayed by the gear stick. I can't see her face – don't want to. I look around, neck twinging. Mr. Dark. Where is Mr. Dark? Where is he? An ache makes itself known, while the adrenaline begins to wear off. Pain comes slowly this time, but when it arrives, it almost renders me immobile. My head falls back against the seat, my shredded hands and bloodied clothes sinking against me.

Lifting an arm, I place a hand on Miss Kirby's shoulder. Her body. The car is completely totalled, the bonnet crushed beyond repair. The wingmirrors are bent outwards like broken feathers, but I no longer care. All I have the energy to do is just sit here, mind rattling with thoughts of Mr. Dark being carted off somewhere, experimented on. Improved to be their emotionless killing machine. I choke back a half-laugh. It's almost cliché, the whole super-soldier thing. I thought war without machines was old news. Thought it was all viruses and nuclear bombs. I guess not.

The world may not want war, but people do.

They will look for any excuse to start a fight.

Well, they won't be starting one with me, or Mr. Dark. Not if I can help it.

My body sags, threatening to slip back under. For a brief time, I let my eyes wander closed, until the cracking of glass upon pavement opens them again. It takes too long for me to focus, but when I do, a small smile creases my lips. Mr. Dark. He's standing beyond the broken window, peering down at the glass in wander and awe. My smile fades.

He's covered in blood and it's not his own.

It's too fresh to be Miss Kirby's, and my cuts are superficial. What has he done? Why do I care? I've done worse.

As soon as he sees I'm awake, his face twitches and he rushes to pry open the car door. It bends beneath his grip. His hands hover above me, eventually closing around my shoulders. His callouses are harsh, but I don't mind.

"I thought you were dead," he whispers.

My heartbeat explodes.

I'm alert now, sitting up against the agony in my bones.

Mr. Dark helps to ease me out of the car onto the sidewalk, where I stand cocooned in his arms.

By stand I mean heavily leaning on his shoulder.

When I realise my legs have no intention of working, I push away, falling onto the concrete so hard I become numb. Mr. Dark crouches down to meet me, his gaze unsteady. He touches my arm, then retracts. Reaches out again, searching my face for confirmation.

"I'm alright. Just...ow". My shoulder twinges. Everything twinges. Being in a car crash really hurts, let me tell you.

Raising my head, I force myself to really see him, to breathe the stench of blood that drenches him. His clothes, his hands – both literally and metaphorically. I stare at him; he stares at me. Predator. Created. An AI with a mind of its own. His own. Still, the question dances on the edge of my tongue all the same.

"Why didn't you let me die?" He almost reels at my voice, at the words that spill. He searches the air, as if the right answer is lurking between the pores of oxygen.

"Life would be...uneventful without you". That's all I need to hear.

I don't cry – I can't seem to cry anymore – and pull myself to my feet. I don't need him the way he seems to need me but, I like him when he's near me. Next to me. Come to think of it, I only kissed him because he was there. So solid and true and real compared to the ball of lies that my life has become.

I started this – whatever this is. It's my job to see it through.

Mr. Dark puts his arm out and reluctantly, I take it. I'll fall over otherwise. There's no use playing the lone wolf when you've been bitten.

Together, we step over the broken glass, my head twisting as a siren echoes in the distance. Luckily the number of streetlights is low and the cars on the interstate are far away enough to pass the wreckage off as just another shadow. I frown. Reality bubbles into my throat. Someone tried to kill us. But the bullet missed. It missed very precisely. As if...

They killed Miss Kirby because she was going to give us information, tell us more about the Foundation.

The theory that has been building in my mind since Light mentioned his dead friend – the one he thinks I killed – finally cements. They killed him. They must have done. Him and all the other operatives who were sent to apprehend me that day three years ago. Then they must have realised I wasn't a threat, that I was just as human as they were. My shoulders bunch. What the hell is human supposed to mean? When we can make bionic limbs and create AI's that speak for us. Mr. Dark helps me over the fallen wingmirror, clearing us of the wreckage. A small fire brews behind us, quieter than our footsteps. The moon hangs low, while the stars seem to dim around us. Grey walls covered in posters for summer camps and winter festivals guide us off the sidewalk towards a dirt path cutting into a line of houses. The blood on Mr. Dark's shirt is starting to dry. I lick my lips.

"Who did you kill?" He turns to me, eyes wide, nostrils flaring like a stag. Not a proud leader, but a hunted one. Feral.

"The people who shot us. Three. One man, two women," he tells me. Too matter-of-fact. Every time he opens his mouth, I'm reminded that he's supposed to be a soldier. A killer.

"The man was the sniper. I shot him with his own gun. Those bullets are very messy at close range. The women had guns too, all with silencers. Permits. They were posted in the van we saw following us. I caught up with them, slashed their tyres and killed them all. Broke their computers". He's about to go on, I can feel it. But he's waiting for me. To thank him, praise him as if he's some toddler having just learned his ABC's.

"We could have interrogated them," I tell him. He shrugs.

"You didn't specify".

"I was unconscious". He shifts his weight, uncomfortable. Guilt starts to pool in the pit of my stomach. Feeling guilt for a murderer. I must be concussed.

"They could have given us more information about what we're dealing with. Who the Foundation have in their pockets. Senators, Mayors. Police. FBI. DEA. About what they did to me, what they did to you". My voice falls to a whisper.

"You didn't have to kill them". We halt in the darkness of the pathway, coveted by strings of unopened flower buds that haven't found enough light. The symbolism makes me want to laugh. Or scream. Tear my hair out at the roots. Preferably all of the above. His hand flitters above my shoulder, before finally landing on it. And falling off.

"They hurt you. You were not waking up, even though I asked. I asked nicely. But you were silent, and I thought you were dead. So, I killed them. I wanted to. For you", he says.

For a moment, I'm speechless. No one has ever killed three people for me before. No one has ever done anything for me before.

I've always had to fight for each second of existence in a world that says I'm the sickness, the diagnosis, the psychological recognised medical condition. Something that needs to be fixed. To be erased.

The body of the car lies a few feet away, so I look at Mr. Dark to distract myself. His alabaster skin, his moss eyes. The flutter of his breath in the moonlight.

"Thank you". He smiles. Bounces on his feet. Then he stops, frowning, as if he's remembering something. Part of me longs to remember, but I know my memories are being denied for a reason. They are not memories I would want to see. No. I want to see the present, see Mr. Dark staring quizzically into my face.

"Thank you. For the...the strange box with the smooth words", he says. Oh. The music. In the school yard.

I shrug my aching shoulders.

"You're welcome". It's then I realise he doesn't actually have a name. Mr. Dark was all well and good when I was happy thinking of him as anything less than human. Now, I don't know what he is. Especially not to me.

"Do you," I pause. "Do you have a name? A title that you go by?" His lips curl and he shakes his head. Against the dark of the concrete walls, ridden with cracks, his hair blends like a river. I steady the thumping of my heart.

"Do you want one?" I raise my hand, press it ever so lightly to his blood-spotted face. He doesn't shy away, like I expect. He freezes, a film star in a snapshot. Names are individual, and he deserves to have one, to be one. A person. With a life, and a home and freedom. Things that no one should be denied. I should know. I chose Alyssa. He should choose too.

"We'll Google it," I say when he doesn't reply. He nods passively. Taking his hand, I guide him down the darkened path, until he asks,

"What is Google?" I chuckle.

"How long do you have?" To hear me talk, ramble on and on and on. To listen.

"All my life". Silently, we walk hand in hand, both covered in blood, away from the scene of a murder.