Usual Disclaimer: Fanfiction based on Dark Angel TV series, which I claim no copyrights to.
Timeline: Post 'And Jesus Brought a Casserole'
Author's Notes: Mostly a mood piece; what I think Max would be doing after her capture.
Reviews are welcome: ellenmillion@yahoo.com
Five, seven, three, two...
Max slowly mouthed the numbers, in time with the pulse from the heart monitor.
Six, five, two, one...
In her head, she fixed those numbers, a string of them as long as she'd been lying, strapped down, in the mockery of a hospital bed. She fixed Renfro's face in her mind, to the exclusion of every other face that she knew.
Nine, six, one, eight...
She didn't have a roommate. She didn't have a job. She didn't have a friend.
Two, five, one, one...
It had been hours now. The numbers were perfectly fit into her head, locking into sequence as soon as she mouthed them. There was no pattern to them; there was nothing to repeat. It occupied all of her attention to memorize the string of numbers.
Zero, two, eight, six...
They weren't barcodes; they weren't addresses or phone-numbers. She didn't have a number. She didn't have an address.
Three, one, five, zero...
It was urgent that she do this, she knew, but she had forgotten why it was so urgent. To protect something, she thought, but she couldn't remember what she was protecting, and she didn't try to. It wouldn't be protected if she could remember it. If she could remember, Renfro could find it. Renfro, whose face was burning itself into her memory, etched as the enemy.
Seven, zero, two, three...
Her name was... her name didn't matter.
Six, four, eight, zero...
Renfro's face mattered, and her title: enemy.
Four, nine, six, five...
The numbers mattered. They were vital. They were all-consuming.
Seven, five, eight, nine...
The intense concentration was causing a headache to bloom behind her eyes. But pain didn't matter. Not even the pain from her injury... an injury she was only aware of because of the pain. She couldn't remember what the injury was from, and it didn't matter.
Seven, two, zero, four...
The numbers were all that mattered.
Six, five, three, two...
Uttered in time with the pulse of the heart monitor.
Four, three, seven, zero.
The door opened, and a technician came in, recording the vitals, checking the restraints. He ghosted out as quietly as he had entered.
Two, seven, nine, six...
She started again from the beginning, re-reciting the hours-long string of numbers perfectly. Reality rewrote itself, twined around numbers and one stern face. She would be ready. Whatever it was that she had feared, whatever it was that had left tears, dried and itching, on her cheeks, she would be ready.
Nine, five, seven, four...