1. Prologue

"Goodbye, Sweetheart," the man breathed. "I am so sorry."

A second man glanced at him. "You sure you wanna go through with this?"

The first man, with silvery gray hair, glasses, and vibrantly blue eyes, nodded vigorously.

He smoothed her hair down. She smiled faintly, as if recalling a vague memory. Her eyes were closed, but she didn't give off the impression of being asleep. She looked as if she was...hibernating, almost.

A third man, with a comb-over, white lab coat flying behind him, and a nametag that said "#7" rushed in. "Hurry up," he said, irritated. "They're getting impatient."

The blue-eyed man cast a final glance down and her beautifully placid face.

"Don't you try anything," #7 warned. "We're being monitored."

The blue-eyed man nodded sadly. "I'm ready."

"It's for her own good, and yours too," the second man reminded him.

"Of course."

The second man--his nametag read #12--placed something over the girl's heart. The air went out of her with a poof and her eyes squeezed shut tighter. #12 placed a second thing on her head. She mumbled something, and then was silent. Very silent.

It wasn't a peaceful silence, it was a deadly silence, the kind you find at funerals and at the executioner's block. It was deep; foreboding, warning of certain penalty, and most definitely danger for the girl.

And perhaps it was danger. The blue-eyed man brushed her face with his index finger, stopping just left of her left eye, where a strange silver gold gem lay.

"I just want some time.." the blue-eyed man started. "To say goodbye?" He glanced up at #7 and #12, pain clouding his otherwise stunning eyes.

"Fine." said #7 (he was obviously in more authority). "Just remember, you won't entirely be alone." He motioned again to the camera, and then to the door, and he and #12 walked out.

The blue-eyed man walked up to the camera. "It's for her own good," he told the camera sadly.

And then he smashed it.


Immediately, an alarm went up. "We only have about a minute," he muttered, "but that's enough."

He went over to the girl, grabbing her already cold hand, and spoke to her. "I know you won't remember any of this, once it's over," he started, "but eventually, you will. And I will be waiting. Goodbye, Azalea." 

Three men burst into the room, wielding guns, giving the man enough time to slip something into the girl's pocket. He allowed himself to be unceremoniously dragged to the door, only stopping and struggling when the door was about to be shut.

"I'm sorry, Azalea," he breathed to her still figure.

"So very sorry."


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