Seconds before I jump into the proverbial driver's seat, Doc's hair begins to change colour.

Noah scrambles back, cursing at the top of his lungs. I'd always counted on his reaction being the best, or at least the most outrageous. Emma only stares. She stares a lot in fact. Not just at the Doc', but at me. At the way Alice's mind has melted away to reveal mine. The way my stance changes, from a hunch to a lightning rod, my eyes sunken to fiery. She shoots me a small smile. I grin back.

Before I can stop myself, I reach for her hand, give it a squeeze.

"Thanks for finding us," I tell her. I don't wait for her to reply; she doesn't need to. There's no possible way I can tell her how much that means to me – what she means to me – without breaking. Besides, we don't have time to turn all gooey in the middle of this hallway.

The red alarms are blaring, people in black are running like ants. I'm definitively sensing some negative vibes. Here they come. The clomp of heavy-duty boots, the crackle of shifting firearms all rumble together to make a beautiful symphony. What I wouldn't give for my Mp3 Player right now.

A wave of disgust washes over me as I think of Karen Hill, when she put a bullet in my music, the one material item that actually meant something to me. My mother – my real mother, who's still out there somewhere – gave it to me. She gave it to me and now it's gone. They are shouting, those people carrying little baby guns. They look like tranquilisers, but you can never be too sure. Getting shot doesn't sound like too much fun. They murmur when they see Mr. Dark, who's poised like a panther waiting to strike. Waiting for me.

"Get behind us," I instruct my friends. My friends – those words are alien to me. They catch between my teeth as if I'm afraid to say them. But I'm never afraid. I am Alyssa Callett. Emma doesn't listen, instead brandishing her preferred weapon of the bedpan. I suppress a chuckle. I'm starting to wish I'd had the chance to pee in it. Noah straightens, but I can seek the way his knees quake. Mr. Dark grins as I nod. The guns surround us on all sides, pointing, ready. For a moment no one speaks. Then a voice booms over the screeches of the alarms, so loud I can't tell if it's a man or a woman. It doesn't matter who it is.

"Stop or they will shoot. They don't miss," it says. I bet they don't, not usually. Not in the sealed training room where they pretend they're heroes, fighting the good fight against their augmented villains. But they're here now, in the real world, where the lines are more than a little blurred. Where right can be wrong, where people are savages. The real world. Here with me. And I don't miss either.

I catch his eye – Mr. Dark's – and I know his name. I know his name. His name is freedom. I remember the translation, clear as a glass in my mind: Ferenc. Hungarian. Meaning 'free'. I remember the name, carved into an exhibition we'd visited with our mother five years ago as part of my high school history project. Ferenc. I want to speak his name, to capture his eyes with mine. To tell him that we will make it out of this. To tell him I'm sorry about how I once thought of him as less than human. So, I waste no more time.

"Ferenc".

The name sounds right on my lips, sounds sure. Certain. His face crumples a little, and then he understands. Neurons dance in his eyes, and he reaches across the canyon between us and grasps my hand. Or at least, that's what I was hoping. Instead, he lifts his hand and uses it a foundation for a duck and roll.

Spurred into action, I hurl my body forward, parrying the barrel of a gun, while Emma guides Noah to edge of the corridor. Their faces are pale even against the white walls. I keep one eye on their location, the other on the black clad guns before me, attached to the limbs of liars. A burly man lunges, so I dodge, kick his legs out from under him, while Mr. Dark – Ferenc, my Ferenc – launches a foot into his head. I offer him a grin. He instantly smiles back. The butt of an automatic is pressed against his head, but a millisecond later, he bends the weapon in on itself, pointing the barrel towards its handler with a grating screech. The woman drops the gun, steps back.

We switch places: Mr. Dark on the defence, while I take the offence position. Parrying blows, ducking guns which never fire. Under instruction I imagine. A fist flies towards my head, so I swing into the punch – a roundhouse – clipping the two main pressure points on the arm before elbowing my opponent in the jaw. She crumples at my feet. Her face is strained even in unconsciousness. Another woman's armoured elbow sails across my back, so I swerve around her shoulders, wrap my arms around her throat. Squeeze. Under Pressure. I so wish I had my MP3 Player right now.

Ferenc pushes a man into my path; he's barely there. Stumbling, he topples into my well-placed fist and does a little twirl as he hits the floor. There are so many people, so many more, I'm beginning to lose count. My gut tightens as I realise how much I'm enjoying this. Hurting people who've hurt me. People who want to hurt me. Ferenc delivers a flying kick to a man pointing a gun at my chest. He travels a good few metres before he hits the far wall. Ferenc offers me a smile, as if to ask for my approval. A gold star on his murder chart.

Emma. I hear her shouts, alongside Noah's calls of protest. Three figures in black, closing in, paying no mind to the weaponised bedpan. Ferenc nods and springs over to them. His strength is something that makes me smile every time I see it in play. Then my smile drops. His strength is too much for a normal human being. So, what am I? Who am I? If I was born like this, then why am I criticised for it? The butt of gun cocks against my rib-line, the metal a sharp kiss against my skin beneath the hospital gown. My opponent has a closed gait, so I can't go for the pressure points on the legs. If I try a headbutt there's a good chance I'll miss. But there's a chance I won't. I sidestep the gun carefully, hands held up. The man beneath the armoured gear, the black turtleneck, nods. Nods to my sort-of surrender. Idiot. I lunge, drive my forehead into his with a crack so loud it rings within my bones. Dazed, I stumble to the wall. Emma cries out, but I hold my hand up.

"I'm fine," I call to her. I hear her following scoff.

"Oh sure, you've headbutted a huge armed man, but you're fine. Of course, you are".

From the corner of my eye, I watch Ferenc toss two men into the opposite wall, painting red on the white canvas. My stomach wrenches. So much blood these past few months. Because of me. No. This needs to end. We can't stay here and keep hurting these people, who're probably just trying to pay their bills. Gets their kids through school. I hate to say it, but this isn't right. A woman, cradling a handheld pistol, runs in my direction. I stare, blink once. Run at her, legs burning with fatigue, I slide past her, grab her leg, and take her to floor. Climbing on top of her, I wrestle the gun from her grip, ensuring the safety is most definitely on. Casting it to one side, I land a punch to her jaw. She's dazed, but not unconscious. Dazed will have to do.

Scrambling upwards, I aim for Ferenc, a darkened blur in my vision. Emma stands by his side, still holding the bedpan. Noah is pinned to the wall, as if folding himself into his own shadow.

"Head for those doors. We'll find the exit. We can't keep fighting these idiots all day!" I tell them. At the mention of not fighting, Ferenc frowns.

"They are trying to hurt us," he says. Facts. He speaks mostly in facts.

"Not necessarily by choice. We have a choice. We don't have to be like this, Ferenc. We can be our own people. Come on". I slide his hand into mine.

"Let's go". The corridor, which was once crawling with soldiers, has been trimmed down to less than ten. Beaten, bloodied, bruised. Perfection. I herd Noah and Emma in front of us down the corridor, scouring the double doors for any signs of further movement. Figures clad in black continue to run and point their little guns, but we aim lower, for the pressure points in their leg muscles, the bones in their ankles. We break some. We almost don't break others. Ferenc shows no signs of tiring, while I'm sweating through my gown. The material – like those paper plates at low-budget birthdays – sticks my skin. Honestly, it chafes like you wouldn't believe.

Up ahead, beyond the door, a large woman steps through, carrying an automatic. She has a taser in her belt. Her hair is cropped short and her eyes are bottomless. Money can make people do the worst of things. Emma skids to a halt, and I jump in front of her. Ferenc turns to guard our backs, snapping the gun-laden wrists of our would-be attackers as if they are breadsticks. To him, they probably are.

"Subject is secured," says the woman before me. She speaks to a small device on her wrist, a microphone of some kind.

"Well, I think that's a little premature. Don't you?" She reaches not for the automatic, but for a syringe. I dart to one side, duck, then lunge. She's just as fast, faster now that I'm wavering.

Emma screams for me, while Noah holds her back. This is all my fault.

The woman latches onto my arm with an unbreakable grip. Ferenc is too engrossed in beating a gunman to a pulp to notice. The woman's finger curls for the plunger, shoving the syringe closer to my forearm. But I grit my teeth. I will never go back.

My hand snaps out, almost of its own volition. My bones connect with her stomach pressure point on her jawline, snapping her head backwards. I grab her wrist, shunt forward so the syringe drops to the floor.

Crushing it beneath my foot, I apply the nikyo grip. I remember, finally I remember. Mum paid for me – for us – to attend marital arts classes. She wanted me to be able to defend myself. Ourselves. She wanted us – me and Alice – to work together. I snap the wrist, let the woman's answering scream wash over me. Or I try to. Instead, the sound rattles through my core. While she cradles her wrist, all I can do is stare. I don't blink. For a moment, I don't think I'm even breathing. A hand rests on my shoulder. Emma.

"We need to go," is all she says. I agree. Following her out of the double doors, I call for Ferenc. He leaps to my side in an instant. Along another corridor. We run up a small flight of stairs, the white walls briefly fading to grey. They really didn't bother to splash out on the paint-job. A nurse bleats to the side as we pass him. The alarms are still blaring, still baying for our blood. But few people come. I keep Emma and Noah in front of us, guiding them to the left of another whitened corridor. The floors are scattered with forgotten charts, half-broken pens. Clipboards. The doors, all with flaring number locks, dare to swallow us until we find the right one. If I can remember.

"How did you guys even get in?" I ask.

"That guy. Your doctor had a card or something. He parked on the edge of the trees, on the road just outside the entrance," replies Noah. Brilliant. So, Doc' has the ticket out of here and I highly doubt Ferenc knows where it is. Unlike me, they can't communicate with each other unless they leave notes, or weird diary entries.

"Which door did you use?" Noah shrugs.

"Truth be told, they all look the same to me," he says. I'm guessing that's kind of the point. To disorientate me, anyone who comes for me. I stand for a moment, close my eyes. Breath heavily through my nostrils. In. Out. In. Out. Repeat.

Bringing the floor plan of the facility, of what little I remember, into the foreground of my mind, I try to map the best route to the nearest exit. We're on the right corridor it seems. Ground floor, main sector. Mostly administration and the conference room I heard Doctor Steele talking to those people in a couple months ago. Benefactors. Sociopaths more like. The back door, which I would say is the main entrance, by the dumpsters. I open my eyes. I know where the door is.

"Stop!" I half-turn, while Ferenc yanks off his shoe. Doc's shoe. Whatever. He throws it up and I catch it in one swift motion. There's a man running towards us, a gun trained on my legs.

Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I face him. Seriously, do they want me dead or not? The man raises the gun at the same moment I raise Ferenc's shoe and launch it towards him. He moves to duck, but I'm running, obscured by the path the footwear takes. The man hardly has time to pull the trigger before I slap the gun from his hand and strike him across the face. He slumps. A job well done, I think. Ferenc frowns as I toss the shoe to him.

"Thank you," he says. His expression is something I cannot comprehend. A mixture of confusion, possibly gratitude and eventually, utter awe. I hide the blush that creeps onto my cheeks. I hardly have time to giggle like a schoolgirl. Noah points to the darkened corner framed by two disused beds.

"I think the door's down there. I remember Dr. Light used his card to get us in," he remarks. Nodding, I race towards the shadows, my mind trying to force mingling memories to straighten into chronology. Still, many of them remain missing. My primary school years for a start, a few months from when I was ten and my thirteenth birthday. All missing. Maybe they'll return in time. Maybe they won't. Maybe I'll always have a piece of myself missing. My hands find the smooth metal of the door, alongside the glowing number lock. Beckoning Ferenc closer, I fish around in his torn suit jacket, then his trousers, much to his surprise. He jumps as my fingers close around the card. Without hesitation, I retrieve it from his pocket and slide it along the number lock. Nothing happens. Nothing except a red flashing light. I press it again. Again. Again, until I'm almost shaking the door and Emma closes her arms around me.

"They must have locked Doc' out of their system," I hiss, mainly to avoid screaming. Emma runs a hand through my hair, guiding me away from the lock.

"We'll just have to find another way out," she smiles, as if we're not trapped in a facility too illegal for even government standards. I shake my head.

"I don't think there is one. The main entrance will be too guarded, and I don't have a damn idea about how get out of here without using a door".

Laying her hand on my arm, Emma tries placing the card against her phone, to corrupt it so the signal might be mistaken for the ID of another doctor, one who wasn't locked out. She presses the card to the lock. Again, the door does not open. Noah sucks in his breath, holds it. Emma takes several steps back. We're trapped. This is all my fault.

'Our fault,' Alice echoes.

"Well, this isn't how I pictured my death..." Noah begins. Seconds later, I hear a muffled cry of protest as Emma elbows him in the ribs.

"Don't be ridiculous. We're not going to die in here". The faint thud of boots resounds from the nearby corridors. Emma winces.

"At least not yet".

I choke a half-laugh from my lungs. Perhaps we are going to die in here. In a whitened haze surrounded by strangers pointing guns as well as fingers. Panic threatens to rip a hole through my chest.

Emma's eyes greet mine, determined. Resolved. Calm in the face of adversity, somehow. Well, calmer than me anyway. Her expression; it isn't forgiving. It is more than that. As if she thinks there's nothing to forgive. Boy, is she wrong. Despite the warmth rising in my chest, I know she's wrong. What I've done, there's no excuse, no coming back from being a monster. It won't be long before she decides I'm not worth all of this. Any of this. I bite my tongue. But Alice is. That's what keeps me from crumpling into a crouch, throwing my hands up in surrender.

Behind me, Ferenc's dancing on his toes, his face ablaze. My stare is pulled to the security cameras: one, two, three. Three angles of evidence, proof enough that their little experiment worked a treat. Noah fumbles with the number lock, frantic in his every breath.

"There has to be another way out. Right?" Emma nods, reassuring him. All I can do is stand here, frozen. A runaway caught by flashing headlights. For the first time in my life, I'm truly afraid. I have no idea what to do. Until the crashing of boots drives me back to reality in a pounding crescendo.

"Emma, Noah, get behind Ferenc and me," I instruct. They shake their heads.

"You can't keep fighting all these people. Not without us," says Emma.

"Yeah. I could distract them with my punch-able face". Noah's expression tells me he's happy doing anything except that.

"No, no way. You'll get hurt," I tell them.

You've sacrificed enough for me is what I don't say. What I don't have the strength to.

Ferenc eases into a stance, though calling it that seems absurd; it's the slump of someone who knows they can win on power alone. Me, I adopt a stance from the kata, once buried inside my muscles. Now it is ready. Now I am. Though my adrenaline fades as quickly as it arrives, I make a show of standing strong.

Presentation is the key to a performance after all.

I draw my breath, hold it.

Until a sudden hiss of pain form Ferenc makes my heart stop. Start again. Out of the corner of my eye, something is wrong. Ferenc grows pale, his skin turning grey like sandpaper. His hair falls limp, hardly the harsh coal black I've grown used to. Emma tentatively reaches for him, but I hold up my hand.

"What's wrong with him?" she asks. The first sign of fear kindles. I shouldn't be surprised.

"I don't know," I reply. "That's what I'm worried about". Stepping closer, I keep one eye trained on the approaching guns. Louder. Louder. The sound of shouting.

"Put your hands in the air. Get on the ground. Now!" Another voice over the speaker, bellowing. Different this time, harsher than the last one. Clearly someone who has never experienced the joys of meditation.

Squaring my shoulders, I step directly in front of Ferenc, shielding him from the oncoming waves of black armoured boots. Behind me, I can hear his shallows breaths, as if his lungs had to coax in the oxygen. Emma and Noah remain by the far wall, near the door, clasping each other's hands. Then the cold rushes in. I turn, cracking my neck in the process. Ferenc is no longer behind me. Swerving, I catch him grabbing onto the number lock and prying the door open with his bare hands. Inch by inch.

"Ferenc! Stop!" Before my words can land, electricity surges from the broken lock towards his skin.

Lurching forward, I grab onto his hand, trying to disperse the energy. White hot rage rushes through me, so much so I think I black out for a moment. By the time I let go, my entire body feels as if it is encased in plastic. Very burnt plastic. As I turn around, I find a herd of gun barrels trained upon us.

Beside me, Ferenc gazes at me in blurred awe. His hair falls across his eyes, singed.

"You're such an idiot," I whisper. A smile rises within me.

The door is open.

"Not another step!" The man closest to us yells, moving the gun in Emma's direction. Immediately, I take a step. Stand in front of her. Well, lean. The electric shock coupled with my bone-tired muscles is beginning to take its toll.

"You won't shoot them. They're civilians," I say. Matter of fact. To the point. Is it hot in here? It feels hot. Or maybe that's just my body's newly electrocuted temperature. I sway a little and Ferenc stumbles to my side. Fumbles for my hand. Clasps it. A searing bolt of pain washes through me. So close, an inch from the door; yet not close enough.

Guards and guns gather around us, like trees shifting the earth, their roots paddles. My eyes water, but I don't loosen my grip on Ferenc's hand. His gaze shifts to my side, then Emma. He glances at Noah, who reads the message written in his skin. My head itches to shake, and my mouth bends to form a protest. But Ferenc is decided. He is an impulse. An impulse of flesh and bone. And while he cannot not have my heart – I am just starting to understand it again – every other part of me belongs to him. So, I grip his hand. And we run.

Running is perhaps an impossible word for what happens in that corridor.

The jump we make from the corridor to the doorway does not feel like flying. Or running, or even jumping itself. It feels like vanishing. Lifting ourselves out of the atmosphere and reappearing in a place we don't belong. On the other side of the door.

We shove Emma and Noah over the threshold first. I remove my hand from Ferenc's while he pins the door closed with all his dwindling strength. I can see it. The way he deflates. The way his muscles loosen, and his eyes take on the velvety sheen of the good ol' Doc. His hair begins to whiten and my gut shrieks. We have to move. We have to move, and we have to move now. I glance at the door. If the shouting and gunfire is anything to go by.

My first instinct is to the race to the car which is haphazardly parked on top of the fallen wire mesh fence. Dr. Light must have run his car into it. For me. I bite back the thought. Not for me, obviously. For Alice. For her.

Collecting my myself and ignoring the way my hands shake, I point to the car.

"Get in the back. Keep your heads down". Emma raises her head, as if she is about to protest. Calmly, Noah takes her arm. Whispers. I catch the words with ease.

"Maybe we should listen to the super-badass, all powerful personality". He catches me watching and winces.

"I didn't mean it like that," he says. I grin.

"I sure hope you did, kiddo." Noah blushes and urges Emma to the car.

A grunt from behind startles me and Ferenc is sweating as he struggles to keep the door closed. His hair is whitening at the edges, as if he is aging before my eyes.

"It's okay," I tell him. Reach out. "Take my hand." He isn't alone anymore, and neither am I. My hand will never waver. I will never stray from his side. I can only hope that he will never stray from mine, even if his mind is not exclusively his own. Just as my mind is a two-bedroom flat.

'I'd like to think we're a two-bedroom penthouse, with a balcony over-looking Central Park West,' comes Alice's lilted tone. Adrenaline is pumping, and she is trying to distract herself from the possibility we may become prisoners again. Prisoners. I shake my head. Too mild a word.

I reach again for Ferenc, who is struggling to breathe. His chest staggers.

At the last second, in a bolt of pure energy, he races from the door, grabs my hand, and pulls me to the car. I slip into the passenger seat. His sits next to me, hands on the wheel. Choking on his own breath. I rub his shoulders, smiling at his crooked mouth leans in to kiss my own. From the backseat, Noah shouts. We pull away before our lips touch.

I sit. I wait. And Ferenc just places his hands on the wheel. Frowns. My mouth curdles.

"What is it? What's happening?" asks Noah. Emma – somehow – remains silent. I stuff the butterflies back down my throat. Ferenc can't drive. Ferenc can't drive and we're stuck.

Taking his hand in mine, I say.

"Please. You must let go. Let go, now. It's alright. I'll be waiting for you. You're in pain, Ferenc. Let Dr. Light look after you. We'll see each other again. Soon. I promise". I offer my words, laying myself bare for him. A balm against his confusion. His brow furrows, but eventually, he relaxes into the seat. And changes. Shifts in a sudden burst. Exhaustion claims him and the Doc' resurfaces, cursing as he holds his head.

"Did he put our fingers in a plug socket?" he groans.

"I thought your brain was already fired?" I ask the good ol' Doc. Right before I point to the door of the facility as it is torn from its hingers. Guards burst through. Guns at the ready.

"Go!" I slam my foot on Light's accelerator and the car speeds forward, churning the grass to mulch. Emma cries out as she is thrown back in her seat. Noah too. Instead, I lean against the headrest. Breathing and sweating and trying not to shatter.

I am not made of glass, but I am not stone either.

Dr. Light is sweating too, his brow a trench from World War One. Eastern Front. His hair is almost completely white, like a halo. I am sure some Angel who stands guard at those big pearly gates will find they are missing their head accessory. Still, Doc' doesn't look at me as he drives. I don't need him to.

Behind us, there is no gunfire. There is only silence as we bounce onto the main road and Light eases up on the accelerator. We slip into the throngs of traffic as easily as one would cross a bridge.

The tenuous silence is soon broken by Noah.

"So". He clears his throat. "We almost got killed. Wasn't that fun?" Emma shushes him.

"Don't even start, Noah". I chuckle as I hear the beginnings of an argument. Noah's indignance is as brash as it is endearing.

"I don't understand," he is saying. "What did I say?"

"Too much. Just too much". With the crescent sunset beaming before us, and the steady rattle of the car engine, I let myself drift away.

But even as I fall, I know that even though we may have escaped, we are not free.