InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 8: Vendetta ❯ Concession ( Chapter 11 )

~~Chapter 11~~

~Concession~

 

-=0=-

 

 

Samantha groaned and rubbed the back of her neck, almost happy to be back in the relative quiet and safety of the cage. At least when she was in there, they left her alone, didn't they, and as much as she loathed the confinement, the knowledge that they were leaving for the night served to calm her nerves just a little.

 

They'd drawn more blood from her today—maybe three pints of it. Focusing her gaze on the clock mounted high on the wall, she'd lain perfectly still, telling herself over and over again that she didn't care, that they couldn't break her, that one day, she'd be free again.

 

As if it hadn't been humiliating enough to have been bound to the table by a series of restraints, they had also removed her smock for the duration, too, leaving her completely naked and completely at their mercy while they took a series pictures and scribbled on their clipboards, examining every inch of her, or so it had seemed. A couple of them had made remarks about how `human-like' her body was, and that, even if she was a monster, he'd have been more than happy to fuck the hell out of her if he'd met her in the bar. They'd inspected every single cavity on her body as she'd bit her cheek and stared at the painfully slow hand on the clock as it ticked off the seconds, the minutes, the hours. As they'd unfastened her, shackling her wrists and ankles, she'd wondered if anyone really deserved to be degraded like that . . .

 

She sighed, trying not to wonder whether or not her family was searching for her. On the one hand, she missed them insanely, especially at times when she had nothing to do but think. On the other, she couldn't stand the idea that they were out there somewhere, looking for her. The frustration that they would feel when they couldn't find her . . . how hard would that be for them to deal with?

 

Her mother and father . . . That was the worst thought of all, really. Her parents—people who were always smiling, laughing . . . `Please don't let them cry . . .' she thought to herself as she closed her eyes. `Mama . . . Papa . . . I'm so sorry . . .'

 

The door slipped open, and the holy man stepped inside. His hair was damp, his collar streaked with moisture that had soaked into his sweatshirt. Black leather jacket slung over one arm and knapsack slung over his shoulder, he didn't even spare her a glance as he stalked over to the desk and dropped his gear.

 

She frowned, unsure why her heart had lurched when he'd entered the room. He shook his head, sending fine droplets of water flying, and with a heavy sigh, he peeled off the sweatshirt and let it fall over the back of the old office chair. The effort drew up his shirt, exposing the small of his back, and she almost smiled when she noticed that he had the smallest little love handles. He was quite fit—she had to give him that. His back wasn't overly muscled, but she could tell that he obviously took care of himself.

 

`He's the enemy, Sam,' her youkai voice reminded her.

 

She wrinkled her nose and forced her eyes away. `No, I don't really think he is . . .'

 

Her youkai heaved a sigh designed to let her know what it thought of the capriciousness of her own thoughts. `Maybe you ought to spend more time considering how the hell we're going to get out of here and less time contemplating the holy man's back.'

 

`Hmm . . .' she muttered though her gaze returned to the holy man once more.

 

He plopped into the chair and dug into the knapsack to draw out a sandwich wrapped in plastic and wax paper.

 

Turning her face away, she bit her lip and tried not to breathe too deeply. It seemed like a simple deli sandwich, and she could smell it, which only served to make her stomach growl in blatant reminder that she hadn't had anything to eat in days.

 

She knew, didn't she, that she couldn't keep going on like this. Youkai, in and of themselves, did not necessarily need to eat, but hanyous did. She could feel her strength waning. The water that she'd had last night had helped her, but water wasn't food . . .

 

She'd almost started hoping that they'd stop putting the drugs on the food that they gave her. If they did, maybe she could bring herself to eat it. After all, if worse came to worst, then she figured that her pride was the least of her concerns, but she could smell whatever they added to the food, and while she wasn't entirely sure what it was, she knew that it couldn't be good.

 

Even if she could bring herself to eat the dog food, that would just lead to another bout of humiliation, wouldn't it? The white coats made fun of her, made comments about her, but she'd had no choice but to do what she had to do. Just the memory of that was enough to strengthen her resolve. She couldn't—really couldn't—deal with that kind of humiliation all over again . . . Hungry or not, didn't she deserve to retain even a semblance of her pride . . .?

 

It was pastrami on rye.

 

As hard as she'd tried not to smell that sandwich, she couldn't help it, either. Squeezing her eyes closed as she let her temple fall against the cool bars, she gritted her teeth, wrapping her arms over her stomach in an effort to stifle the sounds she couldn't control.

 

At least the holy man couldn't hear it, and even if he did, he made no indication.

 

But the thought of food was enough to trigger her thirst, as well, and she opened her eyes, only to stare at the hated bowl of water that the main white coat—Dr. Harlan, she thought his name was—had stuck in her cage just before he'd left. He hadn't added the same drug to it; it smelled just a little different, but he hadn't tried to mask it, either. Even in the weakened light, she could see the slightly cloudy water, like the last of a glass of milk after the ice cubes had melted.

 

The crinkle of the wax paper signaled that dinner was mercifully over. Letting out a shaky breath, Samantha bit her lip. She wasn't entirely sure that the holy man would give her water if she asked. Still, she had to try, didn't she? She had to . . .

 

“M-may I have . . . water?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

He glanced up from the newspaper that he'd gotten out after he'd finished his sandwich. He didn't lift his head, but she could feel his eyes on her, and for a moment, she thought that he was going to ignore her.

 

Standing slowly, he strode over to the cage and pointedly looked inside. “You have water,” he told her brusquely. “Drink that.”

 

“It's drugged,” she whispered, unable to keep the hint of desperation out of her voice. “Please . . .”

 

She really didn't think that he was going to cooperate. Staring at her for what felt like forever, he refused to speak; he didn't move. An irrational surge of panic shot through her, and she sat up quickly, grasping the bars of the cage so tightly that her knuckles leeched white. “Please,” she whispered once more.

 

He heaved a sigh and shook his head but walked over to lift the panel and retrieved the dish of water. Without a word, he strode over to the utility sink and dumped the contents, then rinsed the bowl a few times before finally filling it with fresh, clean water. “Sip it,” he commanded as he started to put it back into the cage. “If you puke it up, I'm not giving you more.”

 

She nodded enthusiastically and made a grab at the bowl. He pulled it back before she could reach it. “I mean it,” he stated.

 

“Okay,” she blurted.

 

This time he let her take the bowl. “Sip,” he repeated as he flicked his wrist to stare at his watch. “Stop.”

 

It was one of the hardest things she'd ever done, to stop herself from gulping down the liquid. The only reason she did was because she knew he'd take it if she disobeyed. Still staring at his watch—he was obviously timing her—it felt like hours before he finally nodded. “Okay,” he instructed. She tipped the bowl. “Stop.”

 

She couldn't help the tiny squeak of dismay when he reached in and pushed her wrist to make her lower the bowl. “I'll take it,” he warned.

 

She shook her head.

 

He eyed her for a long moment. “Sip.”

 

He let her take about ten sips of water before he made her put it down again so that he could remove it from the cage. She felt like crying when he slipped the panel closed again despite the warning pangs in her stomach that weren't quite as bad as they had been the night before but were enough to remind her that she really did need to take it slowly. Still, telling herself that she should be grateful that he'd given her the water at all was a bittersweet thing, at best.

 

Satisfied that she would leave him alone—at least for the moment, the holy man set the bowl in the sink and returned to the desk and his newspaper once more.

 

Samantha sighed and curled up against the corner of the cage. From her vantage point, she could watch him, and that, for the moment, was enough.

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

`Almost two weeks . . .'

 

The soft rattle tray drew Alexandra Izayoi out of her reverie as she stared out the window in the sun room of the Zelig mansion. Turning her head to watch as Isabelle approached with a tea tray. She set it on the small wicker coffee table and proceeded to pour. “Would you like sugar or honey?”

 

Alexandra stared at her sister for a minute before letting out a deep breath. “Uh, honey, please,” she replied as the frown on her face deepened.

 

Isabelle smiled brightly as she squeezed honey out of a plastic bear bottle. “Griffin loves honey, too . . . I have to admit, I like it much better than I used to . . . Is that enough?”

 

“Sure,” Alexandra said.

 

Isabelle stirred the tea carefully before handing the cup to her sister. “I got a call earlier about one of my moms. She's doing well, which is such a relief. She was diagnosed with gestational diabetes during her last checkup, but she seems to be controlling it just by watching what she eats.”

 

Alexandra stared at her sister, the air of disbelief growing by the second as Isabelle sat down and slowly sipped her tea. She looked completely calm, wholly collected despite the slight tightness around the corner of her eye. “I don't care about your patient,” she said quietly as she set the cup of tea back onto the tray.

 

Isabelle shot her a cursory glance. “Sorry . . . I was just making small talk . . .”

 

Shaking her head, Alexandra rubbed her forehead, unable to wrap her mind around her sister's strange behavior. “Small talk? Do you think that I want to sit here and discuss your patient's gestational diabetes? Women get that all the time, and they're fine, you know.”

 

“Of course they are,” Isabelle replied, that strange little smile back in place. “If you don't drink your tea, it's going to get cold.”

 

“I don't care about the tea, either, Bitty! Our baby sister is out there somewhere, in case you hadn't heard!”

 

The first crack in Isabelle's forced calm showed in the quick fluttering of her eyelashes as her smile faltered for an instant. “Samantha's fine,” she said, her voice trembling despite the forced cheerfulness behind her words.

 

Alexandra stood abruptly, unable to deal with Isabelle at the moment. Stomping through the house, she didn't stop until she'd pushed past the glass doors in the living room. The blast of frigid air that hit her as she strode over to the railing that wrapped around the great stone patio was a welcome thing, soothing the anger that she couldn't control, and she drew a deep breath, lifting her gaze out over the ocean.

 

What the hell was happening?

 

She couldn't understand it. Isabelle's behavior baffled her. She was starting to wonder if her sister even realized exactly what was going on. Always smiling, always making tea or putting together a snack or helping Gin make dinner . . . It simply didn't make sense at all.

 

Her grandfather rarely came out of his office. He seemed to think that he'd miss a call if he did, and she seriously doubted that he'd gotten any sleep at all since Samantha's disappearance.

 

Everyone seemed to want to know exactly was going on, but no one seemed willing to discuss it, either. As if they thought that talking about it was going to make the entire situation a little too real, they danced around it, making small talk and going out of their ways to be as courteous as possible, but . . .

 

But it was all fake, wasn't it? Fake and contrived and . . . and stupid . . .

 

Even her mother was putting on a strange sort of act that horrified Alexandra, as it made her feel even more alone. When she caught anyone looking at her, she just smiled—thin, strained, painful—and said that Samantha was fine; that she was simply having trouble getting back home.

 

And every day that Alexandra saw these things, she couldn't help but feel a little more isolated, a little more alone . . .

 

“Hey . . . You're going to freeze out here.”

 

Alexandra didn't turn around at the sound of John's voice. Slipping up behind her, he sighed and dropped his coat over her shoulders. “So you . . . had a disagreement with your sister.”

 

Alexandra sighed and suddenly covered her face with her hands. Seconds later, John's strong arms slipped around her, pulling her against his chest, sheltering her from the blowing wind. “I don't understand,” she said with a sniffle. “Has everyone gone mad? Isabelle acts like nothing at all is wrong, and Mama . . . Grandpa won't say anything, and Grandma just keeps baking cakes and cookies . . . What's happening . . .?”

 

John kissed her forehead. “People deal with things in their own ways,” he mused. “Maybe it's too hard for them to admit any of this to themselves.”

 

She shook her head and turned her face to the horizon once more. “Samantha's the reason we're all here, and yet it seems like everyone's afraid to say her name.”

 

“Do you really think so?” he asked.

 

She nodded then sighed and shook her head. “I don't . . . I don't know . . . It's been two weeks, John . . . two weeks . . .”

 

“Your mother's convinced that she's all right,” he ventured at length.

 

Alexandra leaned back and to cast him a haunted look. “Do you believe that?”

 

He tried to smile. It didn't work. “They say a mother knows.”

 

“How much does she know, and how much does she just want to believe?”

 

John let out a deep breath and pulled her close. “Isn't it . . . all right . . .? To believe . . .?”

 

Alexandra choked out a broken sob and buried her face against his chest. “Where is she, John? Where is she . . .?”

 

He didn't answer. He didn't know how. For as long as he'd known her, Alexandra was never the one to cry. Strong, stubborn, almost fixated sometimes, she formulated her hypotheses and systematically worked to achieve the logical end, and yet . . .

 

And yet maybe this—maybe now—this thing that she couldn't control . . .

 

“I believe she's okay,” he murmured, hoping against hope that for once, she couldn't see through his lie.

 

She nodded slowly as her tears soaked through the fabric of his shirt. “You do?”

 

He closed his eyes and cleared his throat, his arms unconsciously tightening around her. “. . . I do.”

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

`They really did drug that water . . .'

 

Reading through the same page in the book he'd brought along, Kurt pushed the text away and rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand.

 

He really hadn't doubted that they had drugged the water and likely the food, as well. Seeing the proof for himself earlier, though, just hadn't set well with him.

 

It ticked him off, damned if it didn't. It wasn't human, was it? Administering any kind of drug on a system that wasn't meant to absorb it wasn't a good idea. Even he could figure out that much. If he didn't know better, he'd swear that they were trying to hurt it in hopes that they wouldn't have to pay him the full finder's fee.

 

Not even they could be that stupid, could they?

 

Snorting loudly, Kurt pushed himself to his feet and stomped over to the cot. Yeah, they really could be that stupid. He'd dealt with them long enough to know that much to be true.

 

Heaving a sigh as he stretched out on the uncomfortable cot, he glowered at the naked beams high above. For almost fifteen years, he'd worked for them and other facilities like them. His job had always been simple: hunt down the demons and capture them. Sell them to the centers—normally whichever one he was closest to—and use the money to further his real mission.

 

Everything felt as though it were spiraling out of his control. He'd never wanted to be coerced into watching that one. He hadn't wanted to see it again after he'd walked out the door after making the initial deal. He certainly didn't want to be stuck here, night after night. It pissed him off that it would have the gall to speak to him. It irritated the hell out of him that he had to pander to it, giving it water and making sure that it was healthy . . .

 

Flopping over onto his side, Kurt smashed his fist into the pathetic excuse of a pillow and uttered a low growl. “Damn it,” he hissed. Those bastards didn't comprehend it, did they? They really, really didn't understand what those things could really do. To them, it was just a fun little game. To them, it was just something else to pick apart and examine, to look at through the eyes of those who professed to be smarter than the rest of the hapless population . . .

 

To them . . .

 

To them, the things that had happened to Kurt—to countless others that were as unfortunate as his family—were nothing. They didn't care because they hadn't seen it. They hadn't seen the horrific things, and they didn't really give a damn, either. They didn't hear the voices of those who were dead calling out to them in the depths of their dreams. They didn't know what it was like, coming home, believing that everything was all right, only to find out that it wasn't; that it never, ever would be again . . .

 

They called themselves doctors. They went to their parties, and they laughed over their own cunning. They patted themselves on the back and smiled their broad, empty smiles. Then they went home to their wives, doped up on Prozac, to their children who were all in the top ten percentile at their respective schools . . . The perfect little existences, right? And they never knew—never would know—just how easy it'd be to lose it all.

 

Kurt knew. All it took was a blink of an eye, an insular moment in time, and everything—everything—could be taken. Call it fate or misfortune or even just circumstance, it all came down to that one moment—that space in time that you could spend a lifetime regretting . . . `If I'd only have gone on that vacation that my wife begged me to take . . .' `If I'd only taken the right road instead of the left one . . .' `If I'd have listened to that gut feeling that said there was something wrong, to start with . . .' `If only . . .'

 

And if wishes were mountains, then that consuming sense of melancholy that was always left behind would be the sea . . .

 

And if that were true, then the ones left behind? The ones left with a lifetime of distorted memories and nightmares that never ended . . .? What would that make them?

 

Uttering a terse sound—a half growl born of frustration and doubt—Kurt gritted his teeth, swallowed hard against the surge of anger that he just couldn't repress. `That's simple enough,' he thought with a grimace, a shake of his head. `That makes them the damned, the pitiless . . . That makes them . . . just like me . . .'

 

Heaving a sigh, he closed his eyes. As far as he was concerned, he was gone just as soon as they finished paying him what they owed . . .

 

 

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A/N:

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Final Thought from Kurt:

What a pain in the ass …

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Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in Vendetta): I do not claim any rights to InuYasha or the characters associated with the anime/manga. Those rights belong to Rumiko Takahashi, et al. I do offer my thanks to her for creating such vivid characters for me to terrorize.

 

~Sue~