[center][h1]Duranin, A Colonial World of The Commonwealth[/h1][/center]

Her head pounded furiously, each horrid pulse sending shoots of electric agony through her veins.  Haggard gasps rose from her throat and she yearned to scream, but every breath only stole air from her burning lungs.  She writhed and whimpered as the rain pattered against her cheeks, red blood slowly dripping from her forehead colouring the turbid puddle she rested in a ruddy brown.  It seemed an eternity passed every second, but in time the torment lessened, and the feeling of cold air and rain bled through the torture that consumed her senses.  The pain washed away with the cold droplets that soaked her, and she stilled as if death had taken her.  The release was ecstasy.  It was as if she’d escaped the pits of hell as she relished the momentary respite.  With a strained motion she brought a muddy hand to her head and brushed the blood caked brown hair from her face.  Grimacing she pushed herself up and onto her knees.  Her thoughts were hazy and her brain ached, every attempt to remember what had happened only lead to frustration and confusion.  Still something dug at her thoughts, it demanded her attention, it was urgent…  

She sighed heavily and put it aside.  Finally raising the strength to stand, she outstretched her arm to lean on the black brick of the building that rose to her side.  Looking down she saw a face in an undisturbed puddle and stopped.  Was that…  No, something inside her said it couldn’t be, but when she raised a hand up to her own features it removed all doubt.  She traced the length of her bleeding lips, the shape of her brow.  Before her was something impossible, and yet even as she struggled there was no other face she could recall as her own.  A voice inside her cried out, but something smothered it.  A cold feeling flooded her, compelling, ordering her to disregard the sight before her, to accept it.  She couldn’t.  Something was wrong, that face wasn’t hers.  It was then the question came, if that wasn’t her, who was she?  Frustration, desperation, every time she delved into the fog of her psyche there was emptiness, why was her face [i]wrong[/i], why couldn’t she even recall her own name?  She shook her head, something had happened, she was hurt, that’s all this was.  She just had to find help, and this was a city wasn’t it?  There were sure to be people nearby.

An acrid smell wafted through the alley she stood in and she looked up to see smoke rising from the street behind her.  Even in the rain she felt the heat of the vehicle’s burning, flames licking in her direction.  Her mind had only begun to register the danger before her body moved, breaking into a run that taxed her aching muscles and aggravated what she imagined were bruises and burns.  Bolting out onto the next street she stumbled into a crowd that had formed looking up at the rising cloud of smoke, transfixed by what could only be death and destruction.  Slowing slightly she regained control of her muscles and looked back.  Behind the fire had spread to a building, and all around she heard voices calling to her with concern.  She looked at them with hope and confusion, muttered something about her head, and then felt the hand that clasped her shoulder.

Consciously it only barely registered, but the cold feeling grasped her and again her body acted on its own.  She spun around and grabbed something out of her pocket, there was a bang, and the black eyes of a Rhodesian peered at her in horror.  Looking down she saw the alien’s blood coving her arm, and a magnetic pistol in her hand.  The eyes of the crowd looked on in confusion, and then fear.  Screams erupted as the diminutive being before her slumped onto the ground and the throng dispersed, each one calling for the authorities. 

She saw the being die by her hand and she heard the screams, but she wasn’t afraid, why was that?  She should have been stunned, terrified, incapable in the face of what she’d done.  There was none of that.  Her hand didn’t shake or tremble, and instinct returned the weapon to the holster she’d taken it from.  Her face felt strange, and looking down into the red mirror at her feet she saw a smile forming on the mask that was her features.  She was fine, it was everyone else who needed help.

As the rain scoured the blood from her hands so too did the blood scour a veil in her mind.  It wasn’t much, but she remembered a place and a trail.  Taking off without warning she vanished into another alley, then another, within moments becoming buried in the festering sprawl that was the downtown slums of a rotten city.  There would be no following her, and the police would forget about another murder within the week.  These were the things she knew, and every step brought something back.  How to fire a gun, strangle a man, build a bomb.  The uncertainty left her and her smile grew larger still, what was she afraid of?  There was nothing she couldn’t kill, and that feeling she’d called cold was the love that told her to do it.  It told her where to go, and it told her a secret name, the name of the one who loved her most of all, the Confederation. 

With all this returning to her she finally reached the place that the warm feeling had commanded her to.  There was no natural light here, under the sprawl of crumbling towers and bridges among a city of tents, but there was a door.  She took a card that hung on her neck and held it to the featureless slab of rusted metal, there was a buzz, and the barrier swung open.  All around her people either didn’t care, or diverted their eyes.  This was a place where a question was a death sentence after all, that she remembered.

She stepped in and the door shut behind her, leaving her in darkness.  With a harsh whine a generator started somewhere within and the lights above flickered on and flooded the space.  Cold concrete surrounded her, but there was only one way forward.  Walking slowly she ran her wet hands against the walls habitually, leaving damp streaks that marked her progress through the tunnel.  Eventually there was another door, this one an immaculate white as if in defiance of its decaying surroundings.  As she approached a small camera emerged from the doors center, and leaning in she held open a green eye for it scan.

There was no noise to verify the door was open, but with a brush of her hand the barrier slid into the floor.  Beyond was a place that assaulted her head with memory, racks of guns and what they were, an ancient computer and how to access the networks it was connected to, and finally a wall of pictures and names.  She scanned each one and she knew what she had to do, what she wanted to do.  She had a mission didn’t she?  Each of those pictures represented a person that had to die, even if she couldn’t remember why that was.  She needed only trust that loving embrace she felt when the Rhodesian died, reasons were distractions.

Stripping out of her sodden clothing she laid on the bed and remembered one last thing: her name was Thirteen.  Or…  No, Thirteen smothered the doubt in her mind and let sleep take her.  She only had to trust in the Confederation, and do the job that she relished. 



[@Ozerath]