InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 8: Vendetta ❯ Understanding ( Chapter 58 )

~~Chapter 58~~

~Understanding~

 

-=0=-

 

 

Kurt stared blankly at the assembly before him, wondering if he ought to wake them up or wait for them to do that on their own. Four white-coats; all of whom were entirely too easy to capture—so easy that it had almost seemed a little sad to truss them up—almost.

 

Deciding that he might as well let them sleep a while longer, he got up, grabbed the sterile bag that contained some pilfered strands of one of the researcher's hair, and strode out of the room.

 

Heading down the stark white hallway of the state-of-the-art facility, he figured he might as well check the basement first. This place was smaller than the others, but the building was constructed fairly recently, and unlike the other places, the powers-that-be felt it wise to invest in slightly more impressive technology, including bio locks on all the doors, complete monitoring that he'd already disabled, the best of equipment that he'd take pleasure in destroying, and, unlike the other facilities, this one employed five security bots that Kurt had already put out of commission from the onset.

 

What had made the white-coats here easier to catch, though, was that every single one of them actually lived in the building on the upper floors that were decked out as luxury apartments. Those actually had outer entrances that were up a rather steep flight of stairs that ran the length of the front of the building and up the side, as well. That was how he'd managed to catch them. How easy was it when all he had to do was wait for each of them to step outside?

 

He didn't sense any demons when he stepped off the elevator. Even so, he had to check to see how many holding cells they had in here since he'd actually never been downstairs before, and since this was the one facility that he hadn't dealt with more than once or twice over the years. If they didn't have enough cells for the white-coats, he'd make due, as he'd had to do in the Houston facility. They'd only had two cages, and while he wasn't above finding the humor of seeing two full size men stuffed into each of those tiny things, he had to admit that it did make moving them from area to area taxing, at best.

 

There were four doors, though: three of which were open. Those three were holding areas, but they didn't contain the rough little cages. No, these holding areas were fitted with glass cubicles built out of Flagmar plate—quite possibly the strongest material that man had ever produced: created to withstand a nuclear blast, or so they said. Kurt, himself, wouldn't trust it, but he tended to be a little skeptical when it came to claims of super durability and the like. Those Flagmar plates were embedded deep in the floor and extended up through the ceiling, creating reinforced glass cells. Still, given what he already knew about their brute physical strength, he had to wonder if those really could contain a demon . . .

 

Shaking his head, he dug a hair out of the bag and dropped it into the analysis tray. It closed with a soft hiss, and he heard the airlock release with a dull hiss. Reaching for the doorknob, he paused suddenly. He could feel a strange aura that he hadn't noticed before. Weak and thready, it was . . .

 

Frowning at the strange sense of trepidation that wrapped around him, he grasped the knob and turned . . .

 

The room inside was almost completely dark with only one pitiful fluorescent bulb burning back in the corner. The silence was thick and cloying, but . . .

 

Staring at the darkened cubicle, he saw nothing. The aura was stronger in here though he wouldn't actually call it `strong', by any means. So where . . .?

 

The barest hint of movement caught his attention, and Kurt narrowed his gaze. There was something in that cell, huddled in the corner . . .

 

Glancing at the control panel near the door, he brought the lights up and blinked. Harsh, bright, he groped for the knob to adjust them. The creature in the cell behind him scrambled around as though he'd frightened it.

 

Turning, he glanced at the cage and stared. He didn't know what he thought he'd see, but . . .

 

It was a little girl—a child—probably no more than three, maybe four. Long black hair that was completely ratty and bedraggled, as though she'd never combed it in her life, and maybe she hadn't . . . a pale, peaked face—such a tiny face—such a serious face . . . huge, owlish eyes that seemed to glow in the shadows where she cowered, back in the far right corner. He couldn't discern the color of those eyes, but they contained such a wariness, such a lost, frightened light . . . Just the smallest waif of a child—long, spindly arms and legs to thin that he could probably wrap his hand around them easily . . . hair too long to see her ears . . . She looked . . . a trill of trepidation raced down his spine as he stared, but it wasn't because of what she was, no . . .

 

`She looks . . . human . . . but they still keep her . . . in a cage . . .?'

 

“H . . . hi,” Kurt said softly as he slowly moved toward the glass column. “What . . . what are you doing in there . . .?”

 

She jumped and smashed herself back into the corner a little more as he approached. Hunkering down outside the wall that was fitted with an airlock door, he sighed, forced a little smile. “What's your name?”

 

The child stared at him, blinking methodically without a hint of recognition that she'd even understood his question at all. The oversized adult smock she wore covered her legs and feet. If she stood up, would it be too long for her to walk in? He shook his head. “Where are your parents? Your . . . your mom and dad?”

 

She blinked again.

 

`She . . . she doesn't understand . . .'

 

He sighed. Of course she didn't. What the hell . . .? Where had they managed to capture such a small child? He shook his head. Did that matter?

 

Standing up—the child made a mad scramble all over again—Kurt pulled another hair out of the bag and unlocked the door. It slid open with an obscenely loud hiss. The girl whined softly, clawing at the glass walls, as though she wanted them to open up so she could run and hide elsewhere. He leaned into the tiny space—no larger than the one where Samantha had been kept for so long, even if this one did extent up to the ceiling—squatting down once more, holding a hand out to the child. “Why don't you come out of there?” he prodded gently.

 

The girl whimpered again and tried to shrink away from him.

 

Kurt sat back on his haunches and shook his head. That wasn't working. He wasn't getting anywhere . . .

 

“Okay,” he said, staring at her thoughtfully. How to coax her out of there . . .? Shaking his head, he let out a deep breath. If it were the little demon—Samantha—all he'd have to do was offer her chocolate . . .

 

Sitting up straighter, he patted his pockets. He'd bought a candy bar earlier, but he'd stuffed it into his knapsack, and he'd left said knapsack upstairs . . .

 

He got up and left her there, left the door wide open and didn't bother trying to secure the room. It only took him a few minutes—maybe ten—to trek upstairs and grab the candy out of his bag, and he wasn't at all surprised to find her still huddled in the corner of the cubicle where he'd left her, either. Ripping the wrapper open as he strode back into the room, he broke the corner of the candy bar off and offered it to her. “Oh, come on . . . you don't like candy?”

 

She stared at him with a sense of complete befuddlement. She really didn't know what it was, did she?

 

Leaning into the cage, he carefully forced the bit of chocolate into her mouth. She whined and whimpered then suddenly stopped, her eyes growing large—round—as she sucked on it. He almost smiled as he broke off another piece and held it out to her. “You want it?”

 

She nodded enthusiastically—at least she understood `yes' and `no'. Kurt held the piece of candy in his flattened palm and let her take it from him. Her hand reached out—she didn't have claws—slowly, hesitantly, and when she took the candy, she moved so quickly that he didn't rightfully see it. One second the candy was there with her hand hovering nearby. The next, it was gone as she shoved it into her mouth.

 

“Wow . . . you're kind of a piggy, aren't you?” he murmured.

 

The child blinked at him as she chewed the candy then grunted a little as she stared at the bar in his hand.

 

Kurt heaved a sigh. He should have known. The little demon—Samantha—she was the same way, wasn't she? “Give you an inch . . .” he mumbled as he broke off another piece and offered it to her.

 

She took it a little slower this time, as though she were starting to trust that he was actually giving it to her. This time, though, she uttered a little sound. It took a moment for Kurt to understand. It was a giggle, wasn't it? Rough and ragged, as though she didn't do it often enough . . . but a laugh, nonetheless . . .

 

“You want the rest of this?” he asked, waving the candy bar at her.

 

She stared at it, her eyes growing even larger—they were gray, weren't they? A really deep gray—the skies before a summer storm . . . She nodded quickly, casting him a nervous glance. Did she think that he was going to hit her or something, just because she'd said `yes'?

 

Face shifting into an expression of abject disgust, he heaved a sigh. Yes, she probably did, didn't she? Poor kid . . .

 

He backed out of the cubicle and got to his feet. “If you want it, you'll have to come out of there,” he said.

 

She whined and whimpered and scooted around like she was afraid to do what he'd told her, but he could see it, couldn't he? The desire to have more of the candy was winning over her initial fear. A sudden and intense rage rose in him—a blackened disgust that a child should behave in such a way. Human, demon . . . did it really matter? That girl . . .

 

Would she have started to act like that? She—Samantha . . .? If he'd left her there, if he hadn't gone back . . . would fear have eventually overcome her?

 

`No . . . no . . . she was too . . . too proud . . . They couldn't have broken her . . . They . . .'

 

The smallest of tugs drew him out of his reverie. The child was beside him, staring up at her in an entirely dreadful way. Her desire to have the candy was warring with her sense that she was doing something wrong, and the resulting expression on her face was enough to make him blink, to bring a sheen of moisture to his gaze. “Here,” he said, unwrapping the rest of the candy and holding it out to her. “You don't have to get in that cage anymore, okay?” he told her. “Go home . . . do you understand? Go . . .”

 

But even as he spoke, he knew it was no good. She didn't understand this concept of `home', did she, and even if she did . . . Maybe she didn't have a home to go back to . . .

 

Still, it was a little disconcerting when he strode out of the room a few minutes later. He could feel her following him, albeit at a distance, and he sighed. He couldn't leave her here, could he, but the problem was, he wasn't entirely certain what he could or should do with her, either . . .

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Bellaniece sorted through the mail, dropping the junk into the trashcan without bothering to open them. If she stopped to consider it, it was actually rather amusing. Cain tended to get the most eclectic mail, really. Everything from pre-approved credit cards to solicitations for donations from this place or that one that she was certain neither he nor Gin had ever actually considered giving money to, in the first place. The ones today were from the Save the Snail foundation and the Old Oak Tree fund in Managakoqua, Minnesota. He'd also gotten the standard letter from the local museum, asking him to attend their annual fundraiser drive soiree. That one she kept since Gin might actually want that one, but the rest of the junk she tossed away.

 

Heading toward Cain's office, she smiled slightly. The early spring breeze blowing off the ocean was wafting through all the windows that Gin had opened this morning, filling the house with the crisp, clean smell that only came in the spring. It fit, didn't it? Spring, the time for reaffirmation and life . . . and with Samantha back home, it just seemed right.

 

The office was empty since all the men had headed down to the youkai special crimes offices. Gunnar had called earlier and said that there was something going on with one of the old cases and wanted Cain to go take a look. Bas and Ben had gone, too, and Ryomaru had headed back to Chicago to help his father, who had called last night, saying that he thought that maybe they'd found the facility where Samantha had been held for so long. Kagome had insisted that they wait for Ryomaru, too, since she wanted to make sure that there were enough men that they could handle whatever waited for them inside the building. From what she'd told Kichiro, it was no wonder they hadn't found it earlier. Located on the very outskirts of Chicago, there had been traces left behind of a barrier that would have masked any youkai presence on the inside. That barrier had been removed, though, and it hadn't taken them long to find it once they'd gotten into the area. According to Kichiro, they'd told him that they were almost positive that it was the place, and while Kichiro had wanted to go, too, everyone, including Bellaniece, was convinced that it wasn't a good idea. Killing anyone was out of the question—Samantha would be even more upset by it—and with as angry as Kichiro was, and with excellent reason, they were quite afraid that he really would snap.

 

So Kichiro was in the back yard practicing with Samantha and John, and she thought that Gin might be out there, as well—that was, if she'd gotten back from the airport already. Aside from driving Ryomaru there, she'd also taken Toga and Sierra, as well, since they were heading back to Japan.

 

Setting the mail on Cain's desk, Bellaniece reached over to grab the overflowing ashtray with a grimace of disgust. She'd have to get onto him again—she'd been on his case about quitting for years, as it was—but she stopped suddenly, frowning at the computer. One of the data chips was still in the card reader.

 

Kichiro had told her time and again that he didn't think she needed to watch them, but . . . but she'd seen the strain in all the men's eyes whenever they thought she wasn't looking. She understood why he didn't want her to watch them, but still . . . Samantha was her daughter, too. She had a right to know, didn't she?

 

Sitting in the thickly cushioned chair behind the desk, she flicked the mouse to dismiss the screensaver, biting her lip as she navigated through the system. The file was already open, and, ignoring the trill of foreboding that shot through her, she started the playback.

 

It looked like some kind of medical facility—Kichiro had told her that much, anyway. Bellaniece frowned. According to the timestamp, the footage was shot at 3:23, a.m. The room, however was empty. Scanning through the submenu, she opened the master control. It divided the image screen into about twenty-five different thumbnails—different cameras in the facility, she figured.

 

Opening the master dialogue box, she clicked on the option, `advance to'. A new box opened, asking for a specific time. Bellaniece typed in 12:00 p.m. and waited while the images reloaded.

 

Clicking on the one thumbnail, she grimaced as the full screen view came up. “Sami . . .” she whispered, flinching at the sight of her precious daughter, strapped to a metal table, naked, vulnerable . . . Three men in white coats were examining her—checking every single thing about her. Samantha had her face turned away, but she looked like she might have had her eyes closed . . .

 

One of the men reached for a scalpel, and Bellaniece flinched and gasped as he cut a straight line across Samantha's stomach, and she watched, horrified, as they pulled her open to look inside. Glancing at Samantha's face, Bellaniece could feel all the blood in her body turn cold. She was awake, wasn't she? Wide awake while those monsters cut her open . . .

 

“Oh, my God,” Bellaniece whispered, her shaking hands covering her mouth. “What did they do to you?”

 

“Hey, Belle-chan, I . . .” Kichiro stepped into the office, his words trailing off when he spotted her. With a muttered curse, he strode over, closed out the window on the computer and pulled Bellaniece to her feet. “Belle! Hey!” he growled as he gave her a little shake.

 

Her eyes slowly cleared, shifted to meet his. “What did they do to her?” she whispered.

 

He heaved a sigh and pulled her close. “It's over, okay?” he told her. “Don't worry . . . don't worry . . . Samantha's fine. You know she's fine, right? She's just fine.”

 

The tears started slowly, as though she were half numb, unable to piece together the things she knew. Samantha, her darling child . . . “Why?” Bellaniece whispered. “Why?”

 

“You weren't supposed to see those,” he chided, though his tone was more apologetic than angry. “Princess . . .”

 

She choked out a sob, her arms clutching Kichiro tight, collapsing against him as her grief took over. How many atrocities . . .? How was that right? How could they have done that to her?

 

But there were no answers in the quiet; no sense of finality or any satisfaction at all. Her daughter, her daughter . . . it was too much to bear. “I should have . . . protected her better,” she whimpered. “I should have—”

 

“It's not your fault,” Kichiro rasped out, his own voice as raw and roughened as hers. “Belle . . . She's home now; she's safe. She's all right . . . She's all right . . .”

 

She didn't know how long she stood there; didn't know how much time passed as she clung to him, as she cried and sobbed and railed, venting her anger, her frustration, and yet it seemed to grow within her, larger, darker, uglier . . . “Why?” she shrieked, her entire being tense, angry . . . sad.

 

Kichiro held onto her, shook his head because he had no explanation. It was all he could do, and yet . . .

 

And yet, it wasn't nearly enough. “I want them dead, Kichiro! Dead!” she screamed, jerking away from him, sinking her hands into her hair. “I want them to feel what she felt! I want them to understand what they did to her!”

 

He nodded quietly, crossing his arms over his chest. “I do, too,” he said, his voice quiet, barely more than a whisper.

 

She shot him a fierce glower, dashing her hand over her eyes to staunch the tears as a steely glint entered her gaze—the resolve of a mother. “I want them dead,” she repeated again. “So help me . . .”

 

Kichiro sighed and nodded again. She could see it in his stare, couldn't she? He wanted it as badly as she did: revenge for their daughter . . . and maybe a little for themselves . . .

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Kurt pressed the button that sent a jolt of electricity through the man—Cabot, his name was—feeling absolutely no satisfaction, whatsoever when the man's screams echoed in the room. Strapped to a gurney much like the ones in the facility in Chicago, he grunted, chest heaving as he struggled to draw breath.

 

He'd had to lock her in that room again, as much as he was loathe to do it. But she'd followed him back up to the next floor, trailing behind him, a ghost or a shadow or . . . or a constant reminder. In the end, he'd sought out a snack machine, bought more candy, then locked her back in the holding room with one of those bars of chocolate so that she couldn't see what he was doing.

 

And yet she'd strengthened his resolve, hadn't she? Waking the researchers with a blast from the power hose, he'd questioned them for hours, to no avail. None of them were willing to tell him a damn thing about the child—about where she'd come from, where her parents were . . . not a thing . . .

 

This guy had told him that he'd only been working at this place for about four years or so. Younger than the other men, a little quieter, a little more reserved . . . Kurt figured he'd be the first to break.

 

Without a word, he reached out to hit the button again. The man groaned, whined. “I . . . I can tell you . . . I can tell you what you want to know . . .”

 

Kurt paused with his finger hovering over the button as he slowly turned his head to stare at the doctor. “Can you?”

 

Cabot nodded. “Y-yes . . .”

 

Veering to the side, Kurt hit a button that tilted the table where the man was strapped. Cabot winced and blinked, as though he were trying to clear his vision.

 

“So talk,” Kurt demanded, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared at the doctor.

 

Cabot wheezed but nodded. “Her . . . her mother . . . They had her here before I came in . . . I don't know how long . . . a couple years, maybe . . .” Swallowing hard, he winced again as sweat trickled down his body. He'd been on the table enduring the shocks for the better portion of the morning. Enduring it rather commendably, all things considered—enduring it better than most of the doctors Kurt had dealt with thus far, anyway . . .

 

“She . . . uh, didn't speak . . . maybe she couldn't . . . b-but she—she was just quiet . . . and pretty . . . She didn't have a name that we knew of, but we . . . we called her Kay.”

 

Lip curling in disgust, more at the implication than at the idea. “Pretty,” he repeated.

 

Cabot nodded. “She never tried to hurt anyone; never tried to escape . . . Long black hair, like the girl . . . black eyes . . . You . . . you ever seen those Spanish girls?”

 

Kurt snorted, but nodded.

 

The man sighed. “That's what she looked like . . . pretty like that . . .” Trailing off, he seemed to be trying to figure out where he was going with his ramblings. Kurt just wanted him to get on with it. “Kay . . . she hummed, you know? These songs . . . no words, just humming . . . One night, I went to check on a culture in the lab, and I heard her . . . humming . . .

 

“So I went downstairs—I didn't really mean to, but . . . but it was the song; something about it . . . But when I went in the holding area, she . . . she wasn't there. I mean, she was, but she looked . . .” He winced and shook his head, as though he didn't want to admit whatever it was he was trying to say. “She looked human. I mean, she didn't look any different than usual, but her hair was lighter . . . her eyes were paler. I thought for sure that I was seeing things, but . . . The others told me later that it seemed to happen once a month or so, but no one . . . no one really knew why . . .”

 

The image of Samantha—of her black hair and dark eyes . . . the woman they'd had here . . . she'd been like Samantha, hadn't she? “Get on with it,” Kurt growled. The story was interesting enough, but . . .

 

Cabot nodded quickly, swallowing hard as he ventured a deeper breath. “One of the doctors—Thurman . . . He was sneaking downstairs sometimes . . . some nights . . . Fucking her.” He laughed suddenly—a dry, sad little sound, and he couldn't meet Kurt's gaze, either. “At first it was just . . . now and then, but . . . His apartment is next to mine, and if I were up late working on something, I'd . . . I'd see him . . . Then he started going more and more often . . . I don't know if Dr. Kelvin knew or not, but . . . but if he did, he didn't care . . .”

 

“Kelvin . . . the main researcher.”

 

“Y-yeah . . .”

 

Narrowing his eyes, Kurt shook his head in disbelief. “W-wait . . . are you saying . . .?”

 

Cabot hung his head, winced. “She got pregnant . . . That guy . . . He'd sneak in there at night, but he told everyone during the day that it was an experiment . . . and he'd cut her to see how fast she healed or spray her down with the water hose if she made a mess, and . . . and all that stuff, but he'd screw her, anyway, and . . . And it was sick, you know? You know? He could do whatever he wanted, and she'd just . . . just smile at him . . .” Uttering a terse, incredulous laugh, the poor bastard looked like he wanted to cry, instead. “He killed her,” he whispered, a sense of hysteria rising just below the doctor's façade. “She . . . she had the baby, and when they tried to take her, Kay freaked out.”

 

“You took her baby away from her?”

 

Cabot nodded then shook his head, as though he were trying to admit to and yet to justify their actions, all at the same time. “She got up—God, she was bleeding everywhere—got up . . . and she tried to attack Kelvin. He was the one who took the baby, you see? Thurman stuck her with a tranquilizer, but it didn't work; she kept coming . . . beating on Kelvin as he tried to get out of there. The . . . the baby was crying, and Kay was reacting to that, and . . .” Drawing a ragged breath, Cabot shut his eyes. “Thurman . . . he broke open one of those emergency kits, and he grabbed the . . . the axe . . .”

 

Kurt grimaced as Cabot broke down into a quiet sob. He really didn't need to hear more, did he? It was much harder to wrap his head around the idea that one of the doctors had fathered the child . . . “So . . . so if she is his child, why is she kept in one of the cells?” Kurt demanded quietly.

 

Cabot sniffled, shook his head, couldn't meet Kurt's angry glower. “Thurman said . . . said she was just a test . . . subject . . .”

 

“Son of a bitch.”

 

“There was another doctor here at the time . . . He . . . he tried to sneak her out one night. He . . . he disappeared. Thurman said . . . said he wasn't a threat . . . anymore . . .” He shook his head again. “I wanted to get her out of here, but . . . I was scared, and . . .” With a gasp, a grunt, an angry sound, Cabot broke down in tears once more. “I was scared,” he whimpered.

 

Kurt didn't respond to that. Unable to get a grip on the rage that was building inside him, he stalked out of the room instead. He wanted to hurt Cabot; hurt him for being a coward, for fearing for his own miserable existence when he knew what he should have done, to start with . . . Thurman? Thurman . . . Kurt gritted his teeth, fought for a measure of control that he just didn't have. The trusting eyes so blue . . . the little demon . . . and in his mind's eye, he could see the entire thing, only the one named Kay was Samantha, instead, and Thurman . . . Kurt shook his head, as though to dispel the horrific images that he just couldn't ignore. The little demon who had smiled, just for him . . . the sound of her voice in the silence . . . That Thurman could do that kind of thing to his own child's mother . . . Disgusted, horrified, and yet . . .

 

And yet, how different was he from Cabot? From Kelvin? From Thurman? From . . . from any of them . . .?

 

 

~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~= ~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~

A/N:

A chapter a day early BUT … there will be no chapter tomorrow, sooooo … enjoy.

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Final Thought from Kurt:

It's payback time …

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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~