Paragon ✓

XIII. Disentangled Doom

The day you march away let the sun shine,

Let everything be blue and gold and fair,

Triumph of trumpets calling through bright air,

Flags slanting, flowers flaunting not a sign

That the unbearable is now to bear,

The day you march away.

- Grace Ellery Channing

A knock on the door startled them into consciousness. Katia hastened to the cover of the bathroom while she listened to Holden answer the door.

"Can I do something for you, Kellen?" Holden's voice was cool, authoritative. It was the same unwelcome, impatient tone a door-to-door salesman might receive.

"Commander Jackson wishes me to inform you that you and Omega-two have been listed." Kellen sounded very nervous. She smiled a little, picturing Holden, in his pyjamas, his arms folded over his chest, looking down on an older man and actually making him nervous.

"Why did Commander Jackson send you to tell me this?"

"Because-" Kellen paused, as if unsure how to address him. "I'm on your team."

"You?" Holden was incredulous. "How large will the team be?"

The question seemed to surprise Kellen, because his inflection was a question when he replied. "Four."

There was a pause. "And who are the other two?"

Now Kellen seemed even more confused. "Well, there's Omega-two, of course, and Martin Littleton."

Another pause. "When is deployment?"

"Today. Twelve-hundred hours. I was asked to escort you and Omega-two to a debriefing in Building Six."

The smile slipped from Katia's face. Deployment. That's what they'd been 'listed' for.

"Tell Jackson that Omega-two is better off knowing nothing. You will debrief me here in one hour, once I have her under control."

"Are you certain?" Katia could hear the uncertainty in Kellen's voice.

"Just do it."

The door slammed closed.

Katia sank to the floor. Head in her hands, back on the cabinet, feet touching the wall. She glanced at the watch on her wrist. It was after six o'clock in the morning. In less than six hours, she would be heading to war.

No more games, no more preparation. No more pretending that maybe they wouldn't actually use her for their intended purpose. She would have to stay alive amidst real bullets and maybe even kill. No, she would never kill. So most likely, she would just be killed.

The Tattoo on her wrist burned. Property Of. She would do as they asked.

Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked on hinges, but she was busy preparing for her date with the executioner. Her name was called. Did he not have the decency to allow her this last moment to collect herself, to say final prayers or make peace or whatever it was one did before they were sent to their deaths?

Crouching in front of her now, his hand on her arm, unwittingly covering the tattoo, soothing in a way she didn't want.

"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, shoving his hand away.

He stepped back, closed the door, and left her alone.

She wondered what they would do if she just sat here on the cold bathroom tile and refused to move. Would they drag her, kicking and screaming? Would they leave her there? Would they kill her?

It was none of those three. They would do what they always had. Threaten her family. As she rose and washed her face with cold water, put her hands on the door, turned the knob, she wondered just how far she would bend in order to protect them.