CHUPACABRA

Chapter Twelve: Red Sunrise

That Friday morning, Jane gives Forty chilaquiles for breakfast. "You've gone a while without human food," she says, then offers the plate from far away as if feeding a zoo animal. Forty eats it with the fervor of someone with a nervous stomach, but Jane is right. She hasn't had human food in a long time, basically since the venom discovery, and though the eggs are hard to chew with her trembling jaw they are the most satisfying meal she's had in months.

As promised, Dr. Zapata comes not long after breakfast, his anxiety barely contained. He absolutely reeks, something bitter wafting off of him. Forty-Five devolves into a coughing fit next door. "It's sweat, sorry," he mumbles, wiping his palms on his dark lab coat. He fixes his glasses busily before clapping his hands together, though they don't quite connect. "We've got a small window of time. I told the techies to check the cameras thirty minutes after we head out, and to alert if I'm attacked. It's to keep them from being nosy and checking the cameras in the meantime."

Forty nods, her head moving a little faster than she means to. Though Chupas usually don't sweat, she feels a faint dampness on her palms. "You got thith!" Forty-Five says, her voice muffled by the glass. She leans her whole body against the sound space, peering into Forty's room. Looking at her disheveled, just-woke-up state makes Forty miss her even more.

"I'll come back for you," Forty says, trying to sniff back the tears beading in her eyes. "Someday."

"I'll be waiting," Forty-Five replies, and smiles a toothy, grief stricken smile. Forty wants to hug her and never let her go.

"I'm sorry, but we have to go. Dr. Daas is getting Thirty-Seven as we speak," Dr. Zapata speaks up, wrapping his hand loosely around Forty's wrist. She takes one last long look at Forty-Five before processing Dr. Zapata's words, then she jumps.

"Dr. Daas?" she asks, a quizzical look on her face. "She knows?"

Dr. Zapata smiles. "Karin has always been a softie at heart." Forty briefly remembers Dr. Daas' emotionless face, her cold way of speaking, and her unsympathetic bedside manner. Soft is not Forty's chosen adjective to describe the woman. Perhaps the venom trials have gotten to her as well, penetrated that unmovable exterior and twinged upon the tiny, half-beating heart inside. Either way, Forty is reluctantly grateful for her.

Dr. Zapata quickly disables the keypad, then walks Forty out with a gentle hand on her back. She keeps herself from looking back at Forty-Five, knowing that if she does she'll refuse to leave. She can faintly pick up Thirty-Seven's scent in the hallway, telling her he and Dr. Daas left maybe five minutes ago. She wonders if he was docile around the woman, or if he'd put up a fight even though she was helping him escape. When he'd see Forty, would he accept her as part of his fate or cycle through an endless memory loop of pain and suffering when he looked in her eyes? As she and Zapata walk through the monitor room, she half-hopes Thirty-Seven kills her in the vents, sacrifices her in order to live as he pleases. After all this time spent under the thumb of the monitors, surely Forty would just be a sore spot for him. What did she have to offer him but a body, a meat shield when the gray squad inevitably come running? She wouldn't blame him if he did. After all he'd been nothing but a pin cushion for her fangs for the last few weeks—

"Stop thinking," Dr. Zapata says, gently flicking her forehead. Forty glares at him, stunned. "It's too late to fear how he'll see you."

"I wasn't thinking about that."

He gives an unbelieving mm-hmm as they go through the first two doors, pausing only to let the antibacterial puffers wash them down. Forty doesn't even glance at the blue scrubs still lying in the alcove in the changing area, their original purpose long forgotten. As they travel further down the halls, Thirty-Seven's scent gets stronger. It ultimately comes to a head as they turn a left corner, and Forty's vision is immediately filled with him.