[b]London, England [i]2nd August, 1943[/i][/b]

It all started when Christina's mother refused to get out of bed. This, in itself, was not an unusual occurrence. Ever since Peter's death, her mother's mental state had been balancing on the edge of a precipice and the smallest thing seemed to force her into one extreme or another. Many a day, she'd refused to leave her tiny, dim bedroom and Christina had to nip round to deliver meals - from where she lived, in a renovated farm outbuilding next door, unable to afford her own place - where her mother would flood her with a tidal wave of emotional anecdotes that could keep Christina trapped for hours. Today, though, Christina's patience was particularly thin. Her brother had been dead for nearly a year, now, but it was if his ghost was resurrected each and every day in the presence of her bleary-eyed mother. After heating her up a bowl of stew, Christina flung it towards her bed-bound parent and marched out before the aging woman could even open her mouth. Christina could hear her mother huffing in annoyance behind her, as she left. 

She needed to get out for a little while and so she had pushed her way through the front door, down the garden path and out the gate. This sliver of rebellion gave Christina a sense of excited liberation and she had stop herself from skipping down the road. She had no idea where she was going. Anywhere was better than there. 

A little way down the lane, she paused when she caught sight of the wheat field. The wheat field where she had frozen Victor. She - and the villagefolk - had no proof that it was her and at first, she managed to convince herself that it was just 'one of those things' but when she got angry, she often discovered her surroundings glistening with the formation of pure ice or dust with snow. The slow dawning realisation that it was her doing was met with a gloomy, though not altogether surprised, acceptance. She didn't tell anyone. She didn't anyone to preach to her or outcast her ;she knew she was headed to hell. She was just a bad person for some reason that was beyond her comprehension, full stop.

When she glanced away from the wheat field and the memories it held, her eyes snagged on a short, skinny man dressed in a long, dark trench coat, lounging at the side of the road. She frowned - he didn't look in a hurry to be anywhere and no strangers came here without a purpose. The village was too out the way of mainstream war advertising and major transport links. She slowed her pace in surprise.

"Christina Buckley?" a low voice said and she jumped, as she realised he had fallen in step with her. She instinctively took a small step to the right (away from him) but he was unfazed by this. He held out a small, pale hand for her to shake. It bore no calluses nor dirt; certainly not the hand of a worker. Cautiously, she shook it, unsure of what else to do. 

"My name is John Smith" - how likely, Christina thought absently - "And I'm hear on a government recruitment scheme for special soldiers. Soldiers like you."

She scoffed a little, quite unable to understand what she was hearing. She wasn't particularly strong nor fast and certainly nothing special enough to come all the way out here for. She wasn't exactly weak - working on her mother's farm had ensured she had some muscle - but there were lads in the area who were double her size and strength. Surely they'd be better suited? She waved away the notion, thinking they must have mixed her up with someone else. But he spoke, before she could object out-loud. 

"We know about your little ice trick, you know. We know everything," he said casually, shrugging, and then by way of explanation "We're the government."

Christina felt herself freeze, excusing the pun. Her heart began to beat rapidly and she felt a mass of lead settle into the depths of her stomach. Her mind could not formulate anything resembling coherent thought. Someone knew. But how? She'd been so careful to conceal it - hiding whatever she froze by accident until it had thawed. She stopped walking, a small breeze ruffling her hair. Her eyes were wide.

"I-I don't k-know what y-you talk-"

"Cut the crap," the man snapped and any traces of friendliness drained from his tone "You have the chance to help your country. Take it. Now."

Christina blinked, not expecting his response to be so sharp. Mentally, she flailed - she was still unable to get past the mental shock that these people knew about her unnatural curse. She opened and closed her mouth several times, aware of his dark, beady eyes studying her and monitoring her reaction. Finally, she settled on a grim determination. Peter had left her mother and, no matter how frustrating the old woman was, she couldn't do that to her mother again. She shook her head, her resolving hardening. 

"I'm sorry but I can't. Women aren't even allowed in the army; besides, I have my elderly mother to think about"

"We can make an exception for you" he cut in, abruptly. 

"My final answer is no" Christina was unwavering. 

His mouth set into a hard line as he stopped, mid-stride, regarding her. Christina thought he would argue, force her into it (whatever [i]it[/i] was), but he merely stared with those hard, dark eyes. He was evidently angry - it seemed to pulse through every crease and line on his face - but he said nothing. After an eternity of silence, he nodded slowly.

"Very well, Miss Buckley"

Embarrassed, she glanced down at her scuffed, leather shoes, in an attempt to avoid the full force of his disapproving glare but when she glimpsed up again, he was gone. Alarmed, she scanned the road and caught sight of a thin, dark figure marching off swiftly in the opposite direction. That was it.

And she thought she'd seen the last of John Smith.

But apparently not. 

----------------

When she awoke the next morning, he was looming over her. The soft green of her bedroom wallpaper had morphed into sterile white walls, and the cold, hard table she awoke curled up on was a far cry from her old, comfortable mattress. Everything about the place was angular and foreign. And the heat...sweat was already dripping from her forehead, matting in her hair and she felt drowsy and faint. John Smith smiled from where he stood across from her - the first sign of any kind of happiness he had shown since she'd first met him - and turned on his heel, walking back across to the doorway. He paused, glancing back.

"Welcome to the facility, Miss Buckley. You can call me Dr Granger. I'll be overseeing your stay here."

Christina propped herself up, blinking. Her breaths came out in quick, shallow pants as she took in her surroundings. This wasn't home.

"Where am I?" she managed to croak, her voice hoarse and scratching like sandpaper on the back of her throat.

"[i]A labyrinth, built by the bricks of science, from which there is no escape,[/i]" he announced, tagging on a short, maniac laugh before exiting the room. 

The door slammed shut behind him, sealing her fate.