you believed the grass was green (it won't mean they'll save you)

by miralines

Summary:

Make sure she knows pain. And make sure she knows fear.

Or, what exactly happened to Rose after the wedding?

Notes:

Title from Deathbed Confession by birdeatsbaby.

Mind the tags on this one. The creation of the Rose Reds was functionally an act of sexual/reproductive assault and this fic deals heavily with that and the accompanying trauma, as well as heavy physical, medical, and emotional abuse. Dead dove; do not eat. Read with care.

It takes six people to carry Rose away from the ashes of her wedding.

At first, her only thought about the fact that they wear her own uniform is that it's a trick. Enemies in stolen uniform, spies— it doesn't matter. Her family and friends are in danger, and there isn't time to wonder why. She quickly scans the room to take in the chaos, try to gauge who's most in need of protection. Cinders was running to the exit the moment after Rose pushed her in that direction, and Rose can't see her anywhere. She could be dead or she could be free; Rose will just have to pray for now that it's the latter.

Rose's pistol is already half-empty in her hand as she fights through the crowd to get to Snow, who's caught in the middle of a maze of overturned chairs. She smells smoke and blood. She hears nothing but screams, gunfire, and her heartbeat. Out of the corner of her eye, near where her friends from school were sitting not ninety seconds ago, she sees Fei reel back and then crumple to the floor. A cry escapes Rose, but she forces her focus back on the enemy. Fight now, grieve later.

She falters when she catches a glimpse of one of the soldiers' faces. She doesn't remember the woman's name, but she remembers her being a few years older than Rose at school. Rumor was that she was good enough that she was offered a path into special ops the moment she graduated, and from what Rose knew of her then, she'd believed it.

Once she recognizes the woman, other faces begin seeming familiar. A soldier Wharton sometimes meets with and who passes Rose on the way to his office, another one with a striking resemblance to the Ashford family, renowned in Zantine for generations of military talent.

These are her own allies. These are the soldiers she's fought beside for half a decade.

Her aim wanders as her hands begin shaking. She grits her teeth and forces a slow inhale as she turns back to where Snow was a moment ago.

She does so just in time to see her drop with a cry, and then for a flaming beam from the ceiling to fall over where she just was, crushing her beneath it.

Rose feels as if she catches fire right with Snow. An animal howl tears out of her chest, and she lunges for the spot where she fell.

The next moment, multiple bodies ram into her, tackling her to the floor. Her gun is wrested from her grip; she scrabbles for anything and closes her hand around a piece of broken glass. Red coats it as she swipes at the soldiers trying to drag her up. She doesn't know who the blood belongs to.

The shard is wrestled out of her hand. She lashes out instead with her fists, her feet, her teeth. She lands some solid blows, even gets one of them to reel back away from her. It isn't enough. Another soldier takes their place, gripping her wrist with bruising force. The screams around her are dying out, replaced with the roaring of fire.

As the soldiers drag her out of the room, she twists and thrashes, desperately trying to see behind her. The floor is slicked with blood. Flames lick at a crumpled form covered in the gaudy floral Aunt Elizabeth was wearing. Snow's friend Delilah lies still with glass in her throat; her sibling Edan is broken over a chair with a bullet in eir back. Rose can't even see Snow before one of the soldiers closes the door.

Rose screams until her voice breaks. She demands to know what they're doing, orders them to take her to His Majesty, even tries to pull her new rank from the promotion that set the hasty wedding into motion. These people are supposed to be her comrades; her subordinates, even. They're supposed to listen to her. Instead, one cuffs her upside the head hard enough to make her see stars. When her vision clears, they're already down the stairs and carrying her into the street.

"What are you doing? I'm on your side— I'm on your side!" she cries. Do they think she turned traitor? That by marrying Cinders she was turning her back on King Cole? How did they even find her? No one should have known where they were until after she was married and could explain everything.

A shuttle waits on the street for them, door already open. The soldiers haul her inside of it and lower her to the floor. Their faces blur together as they pin her there. The metal feels chilled against the furious flush of her skin. All she sees are red uniforms and the flickering light coming off the flaming building.

Those, and a syringe coming toward her. Her blood turns to ice. Rose renews her thrashing, but the soldiers just pin her down tighter, trapping her in place. The needle stings as it pierces her neck.

"Sorry, Captain Prince. His Majesty's orders," someone tells her. Her head is already spinning, ears ringing, body going numb and light.

Rose blinks, and the soldiers are gone. Instead of the ceiling of the shuttle, there's rough black stone with buzzing fluorescent lights set into it. She feels like her thoughts are dragging through molasses. The surface she lays on is just as hard as a shuttle floor, and she still can't move. When she tries to shift, she pulls against metal.

Restraints. She's bound to a table.

Fear brings a cold rush of clarity. They dragged her onto a shuttle. They killed Fei, Andrew, Elizabeth, Snow's friends— who knows how many others? Did Cinders make it out? Did someone pull Snow from the wreckage and treat her wounds, or was she dead the second the ceiling fell on her? Rose's breath hitches at the memory, and a small, keening cry escapes her. How could she have survived that? She has to squeeze her eyes shut and force back tears.

What did they want? If it was about the wedding, why did they slaughter everyone else and take her alive?

She fights the swirling knot of emotions in her chest and takes stock of her surroundings. It isn't just the ceiling that's stone. As much of the room as she can see seems to be carved from it, down to where the tiled floor meets the rough walls. It looks the same as the tunnels deep under King Cole's palace. Is she in one of the rooms there? Why did they bring her here?

Most of the room is hidden behind a sterile blue divider, the kind they keep between beds in the medical ward in the army, but from the way the high ceiling curves above it the space is large. The only furniture on her side is the table she's bound to, but a small flock of medical monitors surround her, wires snaking onto her skin and under the hospital gown she's wearing. There's a bandage around her right hand where she held the glass shard; the hand stings and aches when she flexes it. Another bandage wraps around her elbow, with an IV line going into it. The machines whir and beep. Aside from that and her own unsteady breaths, the room is silent. It smells antiseptic.

Another test reveals the restraints around her wrists and ankles are too tight to squirm out of. She's as trapped here as she was in the hands of her allies.

"Where am I?" she calls, voice scraping against her raw throat. The sound echoes off the walls. "What is this?"

There's no reply.

How long has it been? Does anyone else know? Has news broken about the massacre and the fire yet, and has it been discovered who died there? Do Mum and Papa know? Doc Lorenzo? Her grandparents? General Wharton?

A sob finds its way out of her chest. She thought about inviting her parents and Doc. Thank all the stars she didn't. Papa's sister is dead, Snow's friends, the last of Rose's best friends from school. She's the only one of their group left now; Stella died years ago. Gods, how is Fei's family taking the loss, after all they've been through? Do Elizabeth's wife and son know she was killed yet? Has Snow been confirmed dead? Has Cinders been found, or did she die, too?

Rose clenches her fists. When the blood pressure monitor on her finger gets in the way, she uses her other other fingers to slide it off as viciously as she can. How has this happened? Why is she alone here?

Someone said it was under King Cole's orders. They wore his uniform. She knew he'd be unhappy with the wedding, and right after she disappointed him saying no to his project. But he wouldn't have authorized this. He wouldn't have taken his anger on her out at Snow and everyone else at the wedding.

But what else could it be?

Across the room, past the divider, a door slides open and footsteps echo against the walls. A few moments later, a short woman with a lab coat and a blond braid comes around the divider, smiling widely. The expression makes Rose shudder. She feels vaguely like she ought to recognize her, but she can't place her face. If she's military, Rose probably hasn't worked with her before.

"What's happening? Where is Cinders? What happened to Snow?" she demands before the woman can speak.

Somehow, the woman's smile just widens. "You don't need to worry about that right now. What you need to worry about is that all your vitals aren't being monitored." She moves around the side of the table and replaces the blood pressure sensor.

Rose tries to pull away, heart pounding. "Like hell I won't— it was a massacre. I saw Snow—" She chokes. "What happened to her? What is this?"

"This, Rose, is an opportunity." The woman's eyes gleam, and she pats Rose's shoulder as if she's a small child. "You've served your king well, aside from these few incidents the last few months. That little wedding… well, that surprised everyone! But not to worry. Soon you'll have the chance to make up for all that."

Her stomach drops. "I swear, that wasn't what you think. I'm loyal. Cinders was going to live peacefully here. I haven't committed treason." The wedding was a mistake. If this was what it led to… better to break her promises and leave Cinders alive and safe in that cell than this. Gods, why was she not more careful? Why couldn't she have thought it through? "Is she alive? Did anyone survive?"

She doesn't remember seeing any of the guests still standing. She doesn't remember seeing them on the street outside, either.

The woman ignores her questions. "Oh, no," she laughs. "You're no traitor. But your talents are needed here. After all, can you imagine? An army made up of thousands upon thousands of you, all marching in tandem to spread His Majesty's glory?"

That makes her veins turn to ice. "What?" she asks, hoarse.

He said he'd find someone else for the clone project. He said he'd let her serve him faithfully, despite her failure.

Is this what he meant?

She begins thrashing again, like she could break the metal bands around her with sheer terror. This can't be happening. They must be lying. Her breaths come in sharp and ragged. He was upset, yes, and perhaps he'd even go ahead with his clone army despite her refusal. But the wedding… he wouldn't have done that. He couldn't have.

Heedless of her, the woman says, "This is an honor beyond imagining, Rose. You'll be brilliant." She sighs dreamily. "And my brother and I have the privilege of shaping you to it. You couldn't be in better ha—"

"Gretel!" A new voice shouts from somewhere nearby. Rose hadn't noticed a second pair of footsteps. "Are you going to prattle on to the subject, or are you going to help me with our preliminary report?"

The name and the second voice spark a hint of recognition. Dr. Gretel Engelbert. One of King Cole's top scientists, though the exact nature of her work is secret. Whatever it is she does, it's always in tandem with her brother, Hansel. Wharton mentioned just a few months ago having a meeting with them for something very promising in military use. They're rumored to be the minds behind some of the greatest biological research of Rose's lifetime.

Does that research now include her?

"Let me speak with His Majesty," she pleads. "He wouldn't do this. He wouldn't—" Are Snow and Cinders both dead? Is there a reason they won't tell her? "There must be a mistake. This can't be right. He said he'd find another; and he'd never hurt Snow—"

"There's no mistake, Captain." Gretel pats her shoulder again. "He chose you. You should be honored."

Her head spins. "No! That isn't possible. He wouldn't do this. Where is Snow? Where is Cinders? You can't do this—"

"Damn it all, Gretel, will you quiet her?" Dr. Hansel calls.

Dr. Gretel tsks. "Come now, Rose. You know better than to make a scene like this; I know your mother taught you that. Don't make me put you to sleep."

"Fuck you," she spits. "Don't talk about my mother. Let me out. Tell me what happened to them. Let me speak to His Majesty, if you're so sure he authorized this." He can tell her himself, in that case. He wouldn't have signed off on it. He wouldn't hurt her, her family, like this. He loves her.

"I'm sure he'll come check on your progress eventually," Dr. Gretel says, turning to the monitors. Her smile has dimmed, but she shows no more perturbation at Rose's shouting. "He's a very busy man, you know."

Her body blocks Rose's view of what she's doing, but Rose has a sneaking suspicion. She pulls harder against the restraints, rubbing her wrists raw on the edges of the steel, but there's nothing she can do. She's completely at their mercy. She can't even cringe away from the syringe this time; Dr. Gretel inserts it directly into the IV line feeding into her veins.

Like the first time, it only takes moments for her to pass out.

…

There's something filling up her mouth, pushed down her throat. Rose tries to blink fully awake, to pull back from the intrusion, but there's no response from her body. Her eyes won't open; her head won't turn; her fingers won't even twitch. She can feel the table under her back and legs, and the light of the room is visible past her eyelids. But it's as if her brain is entirely disconnected from it all. She may as well lift something across the room with sheer force of mind as pull away from whatever's happening.

She isn't even breathing on her own, she realizes. Despite her panic, despite how she wants to gasp and pull in more air, her chest rises and falls slowly and rhythmically. Whatever they've pushed inside of her is forcing air into her lungs.

It's like her body doesn't even belong to her. Like it's just a heavy thing she's trapped inside.

A cool sensation touches her arm, the brush of a gloved hand against her bare skin next to it. "The site is clean," Dr. Hansel says from beside her. Rose can't ask what they're doing to her. Her jaw and tongue are dead. But as her pulse leaps, the beeping of the monitors speeds up.

"Oh, is she awake?" Gretel asks from the other side of her, a bit further away. "Are you with us, Rose?"

"She couldn't tell us if she was," Hansel says gruffly. "Check the paralytic dose and increase the sedative."

"But Hansel." Rose can imagine the sweet grin. "We're meant to be gathering physiological baselines through stress later on, aren't we? We have an opportunity."

There's a pause, the only sound the monitors. Rose wants to be sick. She doesn't know if she could be, with the tube blocking her throat.

"It could be quite interesting…" There's a hunger in his voice that would make Rose shiver if she could. "But you'll be responsible for collecting that data and explaining the change in plans."

"Oh, no one will mind that much. She wouldn't be here if she couldn't survive a bit of pain."

Rose's head spins as she feels motion around her, hears footsteps coming and going. What are they doing to her? What do they want? What's about to happen to her? Her limbs buzz with adrenaline that has nowhere to go.

Maybe this is all a nightmare. It can't be real; it's too horrifying. No one would actually do some medical procedure on her while she's awake. Crown soldiers wouldn't kill her friends and family. Her godfather would never really let any of this happen. It isn't possible.

She's had nightmares for years; she hasn't slept well since she got back from her first deployment. She'll wake up screaming any moment and then sneak off to the kitchens and find a bottle of whiskey to settle herself back to sleep.

No wakefulness comes, no warmth from her blankets or comforting, soft solidness of her mattress. There's no darkness beyond her eyelids. There's no sound machine playing in an effort to stop her racing thoughts before bed. There's only metal beneath her and harsh light above her and thrashing panic in her chest that has no way to leave it.

She can't fight this. She can't even breathe by herself. She's fucking helpless.

"Hand me the skin punch," Hansel says. There's motion, a gloved hand bracing her arm, something cool against the skin. She feels like she did the moments before her first real battle began, a raw terror she'd never felt before and hasn't felt since. She wants to run, to rip Hansel's hand off her and hit anything that gets between her and someplace where this wouldn't be happening. Tears well up in her eyes, but she can't sob or blink them away. Her chest rises and falls steadily.

Then a stabbing pain, a sickening feeling as if a screw is being twisted into the flesh of her arm. After a few moments, whatever it is is removed. A trickle of hot blood runs down her arm from the still-stinging wound. "Sample one," Hansel murmurs.

Rose's only warning for the next stab is Hansel putting his hand back on her arm, a little lower down. Then he pushes whatever tool he's using back into her. The room seems to spin around her arm. Tears drip down her temples and into her hairline, a reflex. She can't screw up her face in pain or cry out. She feels the tool inside of her, sending fire through her skin as it drags against the edges of the wound. And then it's pulled out, leaving another trail of blood in its wake. "Sample two."

She wants to vomit, and she wills herself to. She doesn't know if there's anything in her stomach but bile, but even if there is the muscles won't contract to expel it. She wills herself to do anything but lie there like a cadaver for dissection, like a corpse to be devoured by vultures.

Hansel touches her arm again, and then there's the tool, once again penetrating her skin. Her whole arm feels hot; the first two wounds throb while the newest one screams at her. The blood is distracting somehow, as if the slight itch of it running down her arm is the most important sensation she could be focusing on. Her hands and feet and lips feel numb.

And then he finally retreats. "Sample three. I'll place them in storage; you bandage the wounds."

Gretel's hands are gentler, like she's handling a doll rather than livestock. She smooths a hand over Rose's clammy forehead before she begins tenderly wiping away the blood. "Well done, Rose," she murmurs. Even now, Rose can hear the smile in her voice, and her stomach finally gives a little lurch. "You were perfect for us."

She tries again to move her hands. Nothing.

Something starts humming mechanically next to her. It's not until she feels the piercing pinch in one of her wounds that she realizes it must be an automatic suture kit. It only gives her a few stitches before Gretel moves to the next site.

Blessedly, the pain in the first site starts to ebb away— the autosuture must have a way to deliver pain medication built in. Rose remembers once talking to an army surgeon who was irate those models weren't standard in military medicine. Rose had had to promise her that she'd pass the note along, but it wasn't as if she was in charge of medical supplies. She was a junior officer. Still, the surgeon seemed to feel better after she'd finished saying her piece. Papa told her that night that she'd probably just wanted to be heard, that letting her rant made her a good officer. Rose didn't know how good she really was when she'd been so annoyed about the whole event, but Papa's praise still filled her with a glow of pride.

It wasn't long before she was assigned to Viemann, before she met Cinders, before everything started collapsing toward the horrific thing her life has become now.

Gretel's hands return to her face, wiping away her silent, pathetic tears. "Oh, dear," she coos. "Don't cry. You'll have a bit of rest now."

But when Gretel retreats and finally leaves her alone, Rose is still immobilized, three wounds down her arm, a tube down her throat forcing air into her lungs. What else is she supposed to do?

…

Rose must be unconscious when they remove the breathing tube. The next time she wakes, her throat is sore, but clear. She can move again, though her body is racked with shivers and her head aches. The lab feels colder than it did before. She's still attached to half a dozen different monitors and lines. When she looks down at herself, she finds a bandage wrapped around most of her upper arm. Her stomach twists again, but by the gnawing emptiness of it there's nothing inside.

She stiffens as the sound of footsteps approaches. Hansel comes around the barrier, holding some kind of black band. His expression is flat as he looks her over. "You're awake. Good."

"What did you do to me?" she demands. Her voice comes out hoarse and scratchy.

Hansel approaches, unbuckling the band. It looks like it has some device attached to it— another monitor? Her guts squirm at the thought of it. "We extracted several samples of your DNA. I imagine Gretel may want to interview you later on what you remember of the process."

DNA. The pieces of herself they'll need to make clones for King Cole. She tastes bile. "You had no right to— that isn't yours." She feels oddly hollow, like they scooped out her organs and left her skin empty. She pulls at the restraints, unsure if she wants to run or to swing a fist at Hansel. "Let me go. Destroy whatever you took and fucking let me go!"

Hansel ignores her. After fiddling with something on the device, he comes up to her side and puts the band around her neck. For a moment, Rose thinks he means to choke her.

Then he clasps it shut and adjusts it, leaving it snug but not tight around her throat.

A collar.

He's collared her like she's a fucking dog.

"What the fuck do you—"

"In a moment," he interrupts, "I will undo your restraints and allow you to eat and toilet."

For a split second, Rose thinks of escape.

Hansel holds up what looks like a remote control and taps a button on it. Rose gasps as a static charge goes through her, just strong enough to sting.

"If you attack myself or my sister, or try to access any unauthorized area, I can deliver enough volts into your body to incapacitate or kill you. And if you try to interfere with the collar, it will activate automatically. Do you understand?"

She stares at him in disbelief. "You put a shock collar on me."

"Yes. Do you understand?"

Rose pulls again against the restraints. "What the hell do you want with me? You got my fucking cells, what more do you need?"

Hansel sighs. "Right now, I need to get this over with so I can return to analyzing your DNA. Do you understand what will happen if you interfere?"

Maybe she could at least get a sense of how she can escape in the future. If she can get out, she'll have more options. She could find out herself what happened to Cinders, if Snow somehow lived, if there were any more survivors. She could find a way to stop them from making clones of her. Knowing the layout of the lab and what routes she could escape through will be an advantage, however slight.

(If His Majesty truly authorized this, though, where would she go? This is what he wanted from her. Would he see how brutally his agents have carried out his orders and save her? Or is this her punishment for failing him? If this is what he wants from her, who is she to defy him?)

She has no other option but to nod. "I understand," she mutters, eyes averted.

Hansel removes the wires from the monitors on her chest and head, disconnects the IV line in her arm from the machine, and slides the blood pressure sensor from her finger. Then he undoes all the restraints holding her in place. Rose sits up the moment she's able to and is rewarded with a wave of dizziness and a throbbing in her head. Her muscles ache, stiff from what must be days of stillness.

She stands up more carefully, watching Hansel. For a moment, they both stare, as if each expecting the other to try something. Then Hansel turns, dismissive. "Come."

Rose bristles at the command, feeling the weight of the collar around her neck. Her fingers itch to pull at the thing, but she clenches her fists and follows him past the divider.

The rest of the lab is pristinely tidy. It's all the same black rock, but there are silver cabinets set into the wall, advanced holoscreens and computer workstations, large tables with equipment lined up neatly. A pair of small doors are set into the far wall, and to the side is a well-sealed metal door that must be the exit.

For a single, wild moment, she considers trying to rip the shock collar off, enduring whatever pain it inflicts in the process, and bolting. It would never work. She's seen electric weapons on the battlefield; they're faster than almost anything else. She'd be dead three times over before she could make it a single meter.

As he notices her pace slow and her eyes stray to the door, Hansel holds up the remote warningly. Rose shudders and follows him to one of the smaller doors, which has a washroom sign.

There will be an escape. She'll figure it out. This can't be what her godfather intends for her forever.

(His soldiers attacked the wedding. They killed at least a dozen people. They might have killed Cinders and Snow. Isn't that a clear enough sign what he intends?)

"Did Snow and Cinders survive?" she asks Hansel. "Did anyone?"

He opens the washroom door and gestures her inside. "If we must, we'll discuss that when you're finished here."

Rose bows her head as she enters. There's only a toilet, sink, and a shower set into the wall. "Please. Just tell me if they're alive."

Hansel only points at the toilet.

He doesn't allow her privacy to use it. Rose grits her teeth and does her best to ignore him. She was changed out of her wedding clothes and into a hospital gown at some point; who did that? What are the chances he hasn't seen her naked already?

That thought isn't exactly comforting.

When she goes to the sink to wash her hands, she's startled by her reflection in the mirror. Her skin seems paler than it should, dark circles shadowing her eyes. Her hair is buzzed short to her skull— when did they do that? Little nodes connect to her hairline; the IV needle still snakes under its bandage and into her arm. The hospital gown hangs oddly off her frame, and the shock collar is stark and black and bulky against her throat.

She can't have been here for more than a few days, can she? And yet she already looks like some awful cross between a prisoner and a terminal patient.

"Hurry now," Hansel says from behind her. "Before I run out of patience to let you eat."

Rose turns away from the mirror with a shudder. "What about Cinders and Snow?"

"Not yet," is all he says.

Does that mean they didn't survive, or that they did? Are they missing? Injured? Is there even a reason to make her wait, or is Hansel just seeing how long he can get her to obediently follow for the promise of a breadcrumb of information?

The moment he sets a lukewarm ready meal in front of her, she shovels the food into her mouth. It tastes like sawdust, but it's worth it when she can cross her arms over the empty container. "Where are they?"

Hansel sounds as if he's reporting the weather. "Snow Prince and Cinders Saint Exupéry are both dead."

All the air leaves Rose's lungs, and she doubles over. "No. They can't be," she whispers. Snow fell in front of her eyes. That was her dying. And where was Cinders? Why didn't she make it out? What did they do to her?

"You asked. There were no survivors." He gestures for her to follow him back to the table.

Rose's vision blurs and her chest burns. "No. No! You killed them; you fucking— how many people died for this? You think I'm just going to come when I'm called after you murdered them?" She can't be sitting anymore. She stumbles to her feet, limbs buzzing. She wants to collapse. She wants to rip the walls apart.

Hansel holds up the remote in warning. "Don't make this difficult, Rose."

She doesn't realize she's swung a fist at him, screaming in rage, until a current shocks her back into her body. Rose jerks back, struggling for breath.

"I hope you die. I hope someone kills you just the way you killed them." Her knees tremble under her. "I hope someone slaughters your sister in front of you before putting a bullet in your heart."

"You can continue making threats once you're secure," he says, calm. "Will you follow me, or will you make me force you there?" The remote is still in his hand.

Rose wants to collapse. She wants to scream. She wants to burn through everyone and everything that let this happen to Snow and Cinders. They were both so gentle, so kind, so soft. They didn't deserve this. They don't deserve for their killers to continue on as always while they lay dead. Rose should rip Hansel limb from limb and then find Gretel and do the same. She should find every soldier who stormed the wedding and make them regret slaughtering a room full of innocent wedding guests. The collar feels like it's choking her, and Hansel's eyes seem to pin her in place.

She staggers after him and lies back on the table. The moment she does, all the will seems to drain from her body. She weeps as Hansel replaces the restraints and monitors. If she felt hollow before, that was nothing next to this. This is the void past the edge of the galaxy all crushed into her lungs, the weight of the century of life her wife and twin each should have had ahead of them pressing down on her shoulders. Snow will never become Speaker and make the changes in the galaxy she wanted to, never prove her cleverness to the court, never have children and guide her own family. Cinders will never make a new home away from prison guards and cameras, or see the stars, or sing out loud with no fear of who may hear her. And that's only Snow and Cinders— if there are no survivors, every one of the two dozen people Rose and Snow invited to the wedding are gone.

All of them dead, and only so that Godfather could have the army Rose refused him. All of them slaughtered to bring her here. Rose cries until her throat is ragged and her lungs won't sustain another sob, not bothering to hide the sound, like the grief will be lighter if she drags it from her chest and lets it echo off the walls.

If anyone hears her, there's no sign of it.

…

"We have a very exciting day today," Gretel says, snapping Rose out of an uneasy half-doze. Already her chipper voice grates on her nerves.

Rose feels like shit— exhausted, head aching, eyes still feeling a bit swollen from the tears that keep creeping up on her. She doesn't think she's truly slept outside of being unconscious since she got here. Even when she manages to drift off, images of Snow and Cinders layer over the old nightmares of battlefields, years' worth of screams echoing in her ears and startling her awake. Her thoughts spiral around the wedding, the dead, what she could have done to save even one person, what she should have done to keep it from happening at all.

She's never needed a drink so badly in her life. She might give Hansel and Gretel another set of cells if it meant they'd let her quiet her mind and dull the jagged edges in her chest for a few hours.

When Stella died, Rose couldn't stand being sober for three days. It had only been Snow and Doc's concern that had pulled her out of the haze. She'd thought then it was worse because it was self-inflicted. Not only was Stella only twenty, but the only reason she'd died was because she gave up on living. Rose had thought it would be easier if she'd died honorably in battle.

She was wrong. Every loss from the wedding hurts just as badly. Fei and Andrew fought, and their deaths still rip her apart. Cinders and Snow aren't any less dead for not having killed themselves. And now the deaths compound on each other until Rose doesn't know how to survive the feeling of it.

How long has it even been since they died? Since Hansel and Gretel stole her cells? The bandage is still on her arm and the stitches under haven't healed yet. She's been released three more times to eat and toilet since Hansel told her everyone is dead, but she has no way of knowing how often that is. It could be every few hours or once a day. There's no seeming rhyme or reason to when Hansel and Gretel are there working or when they both leave the lab dark and empty, either.

She almost wishes it was Hansel coming to get her now. At least his gruffness is less grating. "What do you want?" Rose asks.

"We're finally getting to the most interesting work." She beams. "Soon we'll have a first idea of how your daughters might perform on the field."

Rose recoils, nausea rippling through her. "Those things are not going to be my fucking daughters," she snarls.

Gretel pats her hand. "They're your genetic offspring, dear. You should take pride in them." She begins disconnecting the wires. "Of course, Hansel and I have already looked over all your records. School marks, field reports, news coverage… you're remarkably obedient, you know. It's a very promising start already."

"Fuck off." She's a soldier. She follows her orders the way she expects her own orders to be followed— the military would fall apart otherwise. Gretel makes her sound like a dog bowing to its master.

Gretel tsks. "Now, I'm about to release you. You know how to behave yourself when I do, don't you?" She holds up the remote control and lightly taps the button, sending a painful warning pulse through Rose's body.

Rose cries out through gritted teeth. "The fuck was that for?"

"That doesn't look like behaving to me," she chides.

Rose looks away, clenching her fists. "Fine," she mutters.

"You see?" Gretel is audibly delighted. "You're perfect."

The room they take her to is clearly a simulation room, like a smaller version of the ones at Wolfgramm. But as soon as they place the sensors on her (even more little things stuck to her skin) and the simulation flickers to life, it's clear that this is a hell of a lot more advanced than those. She's standing in a golden field of waist-high grass, but she can feel the warm breeze and smell salt on the air. The sims at school could only do visual and audio, and it isn't as if the foremost military academy in the Empire was using old tech. Rose didn't even know this level of detail was possible.

In the distance, there's some kind of tiny town— more of a village, really. The buildings don't look like anywhere she's seen in the Empire; it must be a foreign planet. She's back in uniform, able to feel the sturdy weave of the fabric against her skin and the weight of her gear, even as she knows she's still wearing nothing but a hospital gown. If she didn't know better, or maybe if she couldn't still feel the shock collar around her neck as a reminder, she'd think she was back on the field scouting some target. "What the hell is this?" she calls.

"Your objective is to…" Hansel trails off. When he speaks again, he sounds like he's reading from something. "'Locate the hidden cell of enemy insurgents and neutralize them and their leader.'"

Rose almost laughs, eyes burning again. It's so familiar. It's the exact kind of scenario she'd have run through with classmates at school. Andrew always hated them; everyone had been relieved when he wound up with a desk job after they all graduated instead of being deployed. If Fei were here, she'd already be running for the village, trying to one-up Percy's performance. If Stella were still here, she'd be grinning at Rose and asking what the plan was. She was always so bright, no matter what was happening. Rose wishes she'd lived long enough to introduce her to Cinders.

Even if she had, she'd be dead now. All of them are dead. The idea of doing a training sim right now, with everything that's happening, with everything Hansel and Gretel have done…

"And what if I don't?" she asks.

The collar hums to life.

Before it can fully activate, Rose raises her hands. "Fine! Fine." She shuts her eyes and tries to put her grief, old and new, away in the back of her mind. The battlefield is its own world. While she's on it, it's all that matters.

She creeps closer to the village, scanning her surroundings for threats. If an insurgent cell uses it, they may have hidden defenses from anyone approaching. Even as it comes into clearer focus, no one seems to be walking around, despite the fair weather. It makes her hackles raise— either the civilian inhabitants are in hiding, or there are none and the village is acting mainly as a military base. Either way, the risk of ambush is high.

She hopes there aren't civilians. It's always so much easier to fight when she doesn't have to worry about innocents ending up as collateral damage, or her own efficiency being compromised in order to avoid that. But there's always a risk that the townspeople are aligned with the insurgents or that they're being held functionally hostage by them, either of which complicates her job.

There's no sign of life until she reaches the edge of the village. She spots a flash of movement behind some kind of farm machine the second before a shot rings out.

Rose drops to the ground. The world erupts into gunfire.

It's been over a year since Rose has been in combat. Her reflexes for it are well-trained, though. Even in a simulation, her mind goes blank except for the next step. Shoot that insurgent aiming at her. Move between those two sheds. Clear the lookouts there before they notice her. Sweep the building to confirm it's empty before she moves on.

She aims and fires. She flinches with the impact of a bullet against her armor. She shoots to kill. She makes her way through the town, breathes, and waits for it to be over.

And like any battle, eventually it is. Rose stands, panting, before the body of the insurgent leader. The world stills and stops, then fades away. She's back in the simulation room, in a hospital gown again, and the universe is still all wrong. She grips her arms against the remaining adrenaline, unsure if she wants to run or hit something or collapse.

"Oh, bravo!" Gretel calls over the speaker. "It's no wonder you were chosen."

"I passed your stupid test." She wishes the gun were real, that she still had it. She could fire through the glass. Maybe she could kill one and surprise the other enough to have the time for the second shot. And then… Mum and Papa must be mourning Snow. Must be mourning them both. Maybe if Rose found them and told them what happened…

The world changes around her again, bringing her now into a lush jungle. Humidity clings to her skin and seems to crawl down her throat. Rose shakes herself. She can't shoot them. She can't even touch them.

"Trial two," Hansel says.

"I just fought a fucking battle!" Even a conscript would get rest after that, unless they were attacked again immediately after.

"Trial two," he repeats, more firmly.

Rose has no choice but to keep fighting.

…

She dreams of fighting through a labyrinth of tunnels while weighed down with a swollen, pregnant belly. Cinders and Snow are somewhere here, in grave danger. She has to get to them, but every movement is clumsy. Her muscles scream at her to rest. She has no choice but to keep fighting.

Then she turns a corner and her body is back to normal, but instead of foreign enemies she faces a row of armed and uniformed children, all of them identical to a ten-year-old Rose. Not one of them hesitates to raise their gun and aim at her. She screams and stumbles backwards.

The pain of the restraints digging into her skin is what wakes her. Her wrists and ankles are chafed and tender where she's pulled at them, where she still struggles a moment before realizing that she's awake now.

It's not much less of a nightmare.

Her head still pounds, and she feels like she hasn't slept at all. The lights are on, and past the divider she can hear Gretel and Hansel murmuring to each other. Fuck only knows what they're doing.

God, she wants a drink. This would be so much easier with the corners blunted by whiskey.

Rose closes her eyes again until she feels a gentle nudge on her shoulder.

"Rise and shine, Rose," Gretel chirps. "You certainly sleep late for a soldier."

"Neither of you will ever tell me what fucking time it is," she mumbles. For all she knows, they could be waking her as the sun goes down and working overnight.

Gretel begins working at her restraints. "Oh, don't be like that. We have a busy day ahead of us; I'd hate for you to be working on an empty stomach."

Rose turns her head away, but opens her eyes and says nothing more. The idea of doing the endless stream of simulations weak and tense from hunger frightens her more than she'd care to admit.

Although maybe if she collapsed they'd have to allow her a break.

Probably not. What about their behavior would make her think they'd do anything but shock her and force her to clamber to her feet and keep going?

Rose grits her teeth and does her best to forget there's anything but getting through the next few moments. This could be a kind of battle. Survive now, then do it again, then again. Eventually the time comes that it's over and there's nothing left to survive. Just like Wharton taught her.

Thinking of him sends a pang through her that she quickly tries to forget. Gods, he must be devastated. Hopefully he and Papa can be there for each other.

As soon as Gretel finishes freeing her from the table, Rose gets up, wincing at the soreness from yesterday's simulations and from sleeping on something so hard. Even so, part of her wants to collapse back onto the table. Her body feels leaden.

Gretel guides her to the counter that acts as a makeshift breakfast table, where another lukewarm ready meal already waits for her. Hansel sits at the terminal on the other end of the counters, typing god-knows-what into the computer.

"You've done very well so far." Gretel sits on the stool next to Rose as she shovels food into her mouth. "Hansel and I have had to recalibrate the difficulty of our scenarios just to match them better to your abilities. General Malus was very pleased to receive that report. I do look forward to seeing how you do with the updated simulations."

Her chatter isn't helping with Rose's headache, nor does the idea of the Empire's top-ranking military official receiving reports on this. Malus reports directly to King Cole.

(What does Godfather think of all this? Do the reports say what they've done to her to make her comply? Does he know what's happening to her down here?)

The longer Gretel talks, the more Rose wants to snap at her to shut up. She clenches one fist beneath the table, tries to focus on eating and tune her out.

"Of course, right now we're only getting baselines. Everything will still be quite typical at this phase; it's only later that we'll introduce more experimental elements. We'll need a thorough idea of how you perform under normal conditions, after all—"

Rose's patience snaps. "You call this normal?" She laughs disbelievingly. "If you want to know how I work under normal conditions, try not keeping me in a damn collar. Or, hell, not murdering my best friends, my sister, and my wife." The words catch in her throat and tear something on their way out. She suddenly has to force back a burning in her eyes.

Gretel shakes her head. "Oh, Rose. You must understand why you made that little device necessary, with all your threats."

She has to grasp the counter, white-knuckled, to keep herself from swinging a fist at her. "You're acting like I fucking agreed to this." Her voice shakes. "I told King Cole no."

"Oh, hush," Hansel interrupts. "You signed the consent forms."

Rose glares at him. "When do you think I had time to sign anything while I was being dragged out of a massacre?"

He huffs. "Before then. Gretel, show her the damn contract so I can keep working."

"Go make yourself more coffee," she tells him sweetly, but she stands and retrieves a datapad.

Rose expects to see something forged on the screen. Some document falsifying her consent to all of this, if they insist that a document exists. She doesn't expect Gretel to show her her most recent military contract, the one that promoted her to a higher command position back on the field and away from Viemann Lunar Prison. The one that, when Wharton proudly presented it to her in his office, made her realize she'd run out of time to free Cinders without significant risk. She was supposed to marry Cinders, let the dust settle for a few months, and then go out again to the kind of work she actually trained for.

"That's my work contract." She had a half dozen of these over the years; they're standard for each deployment. "What the hell are you trying to do?"

Gretel navigates to a spot several pages in and begins reading. "…as part of this assignment, I give my consent to participate in research project RED. I certify that I have been given the opportunity to be informed of the nature of this project, as well as the risks and benefits thereof, and that I freely offer my time, genetic samples, and other resources as the project's development demands."

Rose feels as if she's plunged into ice water. "Give me that," she says, grabbing at the datapad. Gretel gives it up without argument.

It says exactly that, and more besides. It waives her right to request a reassignment until the project concludes. It allows the Crown the rights to her genetic material as well as her likeness in perpetuity. It even modifies her fealty agreement with King Cole, reducing his obligations to keep her safe from harm when he's capable of doing so. And there are her initials on every page, and her signature and the date on the last one.

She can't breathe. "Wharton told me this was a standard contract," she whispers. He skimmed through every page to summarize it to her, and he didn't mention a thing about this.

He encouraged her to sign it quickly. To take the opportunity to get out of the administrative assignment he knew she was so unhappy with. He'd clapped her on the back after she did, told her he was happy for her and couldn't wait to see how she did in her new position. His eyes had crinkled with fatherly pride.

Gretel pats her on the shoulder. "General Wharton cares a great deal for you. He wants you to be successful."

She cringes away from the touch. Suddenly the smell of her remaining food makes her want to vomit. She doubles over, wrapping her arms around herself. "Don't touch me. Leave me alone," she chokes out.

Did Wharton know they'd take her like this? Did he know how many people would die for it? Aunt Elizabeth was Papa's sister; Wharton grew up with her almost as much as he grew up with Papa. He attended just as many family dinners with Snow as he did with Rose.

He's guided Rose to become a better soldier since she was a fourteen-year-old with no idea of how to succeed at Wolfgramm. He taught her how to work around her challenges to develop discipline. Is this that lesson all over again? Does he see this as just another way he's pushing her to be better than she thinks she can be?

Is he receiving those reports, too? Does he sit in his office, surrounded by his family photos and his military honors, and sigh with disappointment as he reads about Rose's resistance?

She trusted him. Papa trusted him. How could he have done this to her?

Rose sleepwalks through the day's simulations. Her headache only gets worse, and by the time they finally release her she's so exhausted she has to lean on Hansel as he drags her back to the table. Despite only eating half her meal today, she doesn't feel remotely hungry. Of the few thoughts that can make it through her head before dissolving in a haze, though, the loudest by far is that she desperately, desperately wants to drink until she can't remember a thing.

She doesn't realize that she's muttered something about it until Hansel responds. "You're in withdrawal. You'll be fine in another eighteen hours, most likely."

"What?" She struggles to even process the words.

Hansel sighs, irritated, as he pushes her back onto the table. "Alcohol withdrawal. Your system shows signs of frequent intoxication. It's still clearing itself." He begins tying her down, as brusquely as always. "You should have reported how much you drank on your medical paperwork, but we'll manage the issue."

"I don't—" Shame flares in her belly, a dim echo of the reflexive defense she felt whenever Snow used to gently ask if she'd had enough for the night, or whenever Fei told her to go sober up; she was being an asshole, or when she realized she'd again gone through the whiskey supply in her quarters faster than she meant to. "How much I drink is none of your business."

She can't muster the sharpness she wants to, not when she feels on the verge of falling asleep.

"My entire business at the moment is your medical status," he says as he replaces the monitors they keep on her at night, "but it's only a temporary irritation. You aren't the first alcoholic I've needed for my research."

"You don't know anything about me." He's already turning his back; by the time she finishes the sentence he's past the divider.

Is that what this is? Is she actually in alcohol withdrawal? Was it really that bad?

She passes out before she has the time to think too hard about it. This time when she dreams of the redheaded children blocking her way to Snow and Cinders, Wharton stands behind them, giving them their orders. When Rose pleads with him, he barely even glances at her before telling them to fire.

…

Ocean spray mists Rose's face as she stares down the beach to the heavily fortified naval base she's supposed to try to be capturing. This time she has troops— dead-eyed mirages that stare at her as she deliberates. With how lifelike the rest of the environment is, it's deeply unsettling how still and wrong they are. They're just shadow puppets the simulation will move at her orders. They leave her feeling more small and alone than when they make her simulate a solo mission.

Entry points, exits, weak spots, places the cameras won't cover. Her intel came in the form of datapad briefings, but the letters were twisted and hard to read the way they always are in sims. Still, she has to try something. The collar is still heavy at her throat; if she takes too long Hansel and Gretel will prod her along.

There's supposedly a chance of a flaw in the locking mechanism on the east gate. If she sends a strike team to sabotage it and keeps a direct assault as a backup plan… it's good enough on short notice and with no real lives on the line except her own. (She's supposed to have days at least to think an attack like this over, dammit.)

She gives the orders, and the soldiers move out. She checks her gun and gets ready to shoot.

…

Every surface gleams, rain pouring down metal and glass in a densely-packed city. The air smells acrid and chemical, and the streets seem deserted. She stalks between buildings, gun raised, sweeping for lingering enemy soldiers attempting defense of their already-conquered city.

She hears footfalls behind her and whips around. There's a heel disappearing behind a corner— too fast to see if the boot is a military one, but Rose has to check. She checks that all her shields are in place and follows.

The figure wears a green uniform, and their back is turned to her as they hurry away.

"Stop," Rose commands, loud enough there's no chance she can't be heard. "You're in Crown territory. Will you surrender?"

The soldier raises their gun, turning. Rose shoots them before they can aim. Their blood clouds the puddle their body falls into. Rose pauses a moment to make sure they're truly dead, then moves on.

…

The sun beats down from overhead, drenching Rose in sweat. Enemy ships' engines roar in her ears. It's a miracle they haven't found her hiding place between a pair of enormous red rocks yet.

"I can't fucking win this," she mutters to Hansel and Gretel. There's no reply.

She's supposed to be escaping enemy territory to report back to base, but it's as if this planet's entire army is solely dedicated to finding her. There's not nearly enough cover, and if she attacks she might take out a single shuttle before sending them all after her.

Fuck it. If they make this unwinnable, they can deal with her losing. Rose strides out from between the boulders, glaring up at the sky. She shoots at nothing, letting the sound ring out over the rusty sand. At least a dozen shuttles turn to her and open fire.

Instead of bullets, she feels searing sharpness and her limbs spasming. Her surroundings disappear, leaving her buckled to her knees on the simulation room floor.

When the last twitches of pain subside, Gretel says, "Let's try that one again, hm?"

…

The air inside the Behemoth is stifling. This must be the sixth or seventh simulation of the day, and Rose can't deal with the heat on top of the exhaustion. Her ears still ring with the last three battles. She can't quite remember if she's meant to be taking the city or shooting at incoming aircraft coming to support the defense.

Just get it fucking over with. She doesn't weigh her targets, just shoots whenever it seems like she should. The faster she gets this over with, the faster she gets to rest. Maybe. At least the next one might not be so goddamn hot.

Each shot reverberates through the tank and through her body. She falls into a rhythm, the booms of the guns seeming to sync with her heartbeat. One shot, then another, then another. Until they let her be done.

…

She doesn't know anymore if she's shooting at allies or enemies, and she doesn't care. None of it is real. None of it is fucking real. Even the recoil of her rifle is fake. She must look like an idiot, dancing alone in an empty room on Hansel and Gretel's strings. She fires and fires. What does it matter?

…

She didn't think shooting herself would do anything. It's not a real gun.

She's right. There's no sound, no recoil, no impact. She may as well have made a finger gun and pantomimed the action.

But the disappointment still surges up in her with the taste of bile.

…

She'll be allowed to eat after this. They wanted to see how she did on an empty stomach. Her head spins and she can barely concentrate as she keeps pulling the trigger.

…

Her fingers are numb. She could swear ice is freezing over them, encasing her. What's the point of fighting to win a planet this fucking cold? She shoots anyway.

…

She shoots.

…

She shoots.

…

She shoots.

…

When the image of a bombed-out moonscape fades and Rose can see the black walls of the simulation room again, her first thought is that it's strange they would run her through a scenario located in the lab.

It isn't until Gretel comes out of the control room and starts disconnecting her from the simulation sensors that she realizes they're actually done for the day. A ragged sigh of relief escapes her. Her chest aches from the exertion, her muscles burning. It's all she can do to not collapse to the floor like a rag doll.

"Can I have water?" she asks hoarsely.

Gretel pats her shoulder as she removes another node. "In a moment, dear."

Once Rose is fully disconnected, Gretel leads her out into the main room of the lab. A bottle of water is waiting on the counter. Rose grabs it before Gretel can bestow it on her and drinks the entire thing in seconds.

Gretel only looks amused as she leads Rose back to the table. The metal of it could be the plush, downy mattress of Snow's bed for what a relief it is to collapse onto. Rose closes her eyes and tries to catch her breath as Gretel restrains her.

It takes her nearly until she begins hearing the sounds of Gretel and Hansel preparing to leave for the day to realize that the restraint on her left wrist is looser than usual.

Her heart begins racing. She wants to tug at it, to see if she could work it loose, but if she does that now they'll catch her and tighten it again before they leave. She forces herself to stay still, keep her eyes shut, and pretend she's still recovering from the day's tests. It's agony to lay here when she could be doing something, but she musters every scrap of discipline she's ever learned to do it.

Hansel and Gretel's voices fade, then are cut off entirely as the lab door shuts. She waits. The lights flick off and leave only the dim, pale emergency lights. She waits. Goosebumps form on her skin as her sweat evaporates and leaves her vulnerable to the cool, sterile air. She shivers and waits.

When she's sure she's as safe as she will be, she makes herself count to five hundred. Then she carefully tugs at the restraint around her wrist.

It catches on the base of her thumb, but it doesn't feel impassable. Holding her breath, she squeezes her hand into as narrow a shape as she can. The metal scrapes the skin of the side of her hand, but she can wiggle it out a bit. Then a bit more.

Rose's mouth is dry. This is probably her only chance. She has to do this right. She has to get to safety before anyone can realize she's gone, before the collar at her throat can be activated.

She can't take it off. If she tries, her escape attempt will be dead before it can even begin. She'll have to focus on getting out and finding someone who can help her remove it as quickly as possible. Could she find Godfather's throne room? Would he help her, once he realizes what's being done to her here? Or maybe a guard would help her, once they recognized who she is…

First she has to get out. No one can help her as long as she's in this room.

She wiggles her hand the rest of the way out, heart leaping when she finally pulls it free. The restraint across her chest is the easiest to reach from there, and then once she can sit up she frees her other wrist, fumbling with the latches. The wires from her different monitors drag at her as she sits up, but she ignores them for now. The longer they show more or less normal readouts, the better. She doesn't know if they're monitored in real time while Gretel and Hansel are gone, but she can't chance it.

Once Rose has freed her legs, she carefully stands, wincing at her sore muscles. At least that isn't anything she's never experienced before. She takes a moment to breathe, to take stock of her position, her surroundings, her plan. The faster she can get to the door once her monitors are disconnected, the better. She's only going to get this chance. It's a straight shot, though, and Rose can move fast. Once she's in the hallway, she can worry about where to go next.

She rips away the monitors and dashes for the exit.

Her fingers feel leaden as she reaches the door and fumbles with the tiny button to open it. Will it be locked? Can she open it from the inside, or will she waste precious time trying to figure out how to get through?

The moment she actually presses the damn button, though, the door chimes and slides open. Rose's knees nearly give out on her from the force of the relief, but she has to keep going. She steps forward.

Her vision goes white and flickering, and all sound vanishes except a roaring in her ears. Her body locks up, muscles stiffening and trapping her in place where she stands. She can't move. She can't even flinch.

Then she's lying on the floor. She hears herself gasping the same moment she realizes she's in pain— a terrible searing at her throat, an ache in her chest, spasming cramps across her limbs and back like she's pulled every muscle in her body. She pants, heart racing faster than it has from any physical exertion she's ever felt.

Red lights flash in her vision. It takes her a moment to connect it to the sound of an alarm. An alert she tried to escape. She tries to climb to her feet, but her body won't cooperate. Her muscles feel like twitching jelly.

Rose is helpless to resist when Gretel and Hansel return, Hansel grumbling about the interruption to his sleep. Both pause at the open door and seem to take her in.

"This is why we had a failsafe," Hansel grumbles to Gretel.

Gretel is already kneeling at Rose's side, pulling her head into her lap. "Silly girl. You could have given yourself a heart attack before we could get here, and then where would we be?" She strokes the top of Rose's head as if she's a misbehaving puppy, and Rose can't help but wish she'd managed the heart attack.

"Fuck you," she mumbles.

"She still could have one," Hansel says. "Come, help me put her back and get the monitors on her. His Majesty won't be pleased if we lose his template."

She's not his template. She's his goddaughter.

That doesn't seem to matter one bit anymore.

Hansel and Gretel haul her back to the table. Gretel replaces the monitors and puts some new ones on her chest, snaking under the neckline of her hospital gown, while Hansel replaces her restraints. He pauses at her wrist, where the cuff she slipped out of is still closed.

"Gretel, did you check her restraints when you were finished with her?"

"Of course I did," she says as she connects Rose's new monitors to another looming machine.

"Her wrist was loose. She must have been able to slip out and tamper with the rest of the restraints." His tone is accusing.

Gretel glances over at them. "Well, your failsafe worked. She's safe and sound."

Hansel hmmphs. "Don't let it happen again. You know how valuable a subject she is."

She strokes the top of Rose's head again. "I'm no more eager to lose her than you are, Hansel. Not when we've not even reached the most exciting parts of the research."

Rose snaps her teeth at her hand, knowing she can't reach her. It works to make Gretel pull back, though.

Hansel swats her on the arm, hard enough to sting. "None of that, Rose. You've caused enough issue tonight. Gretel, we'll need to set up a rotation to monitor her for cardiac symptoms…"

As he and Gretel walk away, bickering over who takes the first shift to monitor Rose, Rose pulls at her restraints. Both wrists are held even tighter than before.

Her whole body still aches terribly. The places the collar rubs against the skin of her neck scream at her. A sob catches in her chest.

That was her only chance. They'll be watching her even more closely now.

Until they take her somewhere else, she's never going to leave this lab.

…

The experiments get crueler after that.

The simulations are stranger, more nightmarish. It isn't just regular battles anymore. Sometimes her only weapon is her bare hands. Sometimes she's unarmored and standing alone before a fleet of Behemoths. Sometimes the situation isn't just fatal, but actually impossible— she's made to fight a two-story-tall monstrosity, or find a way to extinguish an enemy system's star, or to escape the depths of a black hole.

It's not always simulations anymore, either. There are different tests— carrying heavy weights, solving puzzles and logic problems, endurance challenges. Hansel and Gretel put her through these again and again, changing something every time. She might have to run on a treadmill in icy cold or sweltering heat, or lift increasingly heavy weights without having been allowed any food or water. Sometimes loud, discordant noises blast through speakers Rose didn't know were there, even more cacophonous than a battle and infinitely more pointless. Sometimes she has to work in near-complete darkness or blinding light.

They call it stress testing. Finding her limits to be able to push the clones beyond them. Every evening she collapses back onto the table, and by morning she still feels like she's at her limit from yesterday. No matter how she argues or begs, though, Gretel and Hansel make her keep going.

Even once the lights and noises start feeling like they're burrowing into her brain, crawling down her throat and reaching into her chest to choke out her lungs, there's no mercy. When she stumbles on the treadmill and collapses to her knees, unable to breathe, the collar sends a painful jolt through her. It sends her over the edge.

Some part of her is distant, watching from outside and aware of the humiliation of her screaming sobs, of the way she clutches at her ears and squeezes her eyes shut. The rest of her is an animal, beyond reason. Every flash of light stabs through her again, and she can only choke in enough breath to fuel the next strangled cry. She's doubled over, muscles locked in place (if she moved, she thinks she'd shatter into pieces). She wishes they'd shock her again hard enough to kill her. If they did that, it would drown out the noise for a moment, and then it would all stop.

Slowly, she becomes aware there are no more flashing lights, and that the only sounds are coming from her. From there, her muscles begin to uncoil, and she realizes that Hansel's shoes are right in front of her face.

"Get up," he says.

Her face is wet, her eyes swollen. "I can't," she whispers. "I— no more. Please. I can't—"

"I'm the one responsible for determining when you can no longer function," Hansel tells her coldly. "I'll inform you when our observations show you've reached that point."

Another shock makes her sob again, but prompts her to try to stand on trembling legs. She stumbles every step back to her place on the treadmill. Every other breath hitches.

She collapses again almost the moment the treadmill starts moving. And again after they make her get up. That time, there's no shock and no instructions. She closes her eyes, huddled on the floor, and tries to gulp in a full breath. Her face and fingers tingle.

Finally, Gretel approaches and pulls Rose to her feet. Rose begins sobbing again as soon as she puts her hands on her, but Gretel simply coos reassurances to her and guides her back to the table. Her sobs turn from fear to relief as she's again restrained and left alone.

The next few days are easier, but Rose feels something amiss the moment her next simulation loads. It looks fairly normal— another lunar battlefield, regular gear but no troops with her, a seemingly clear objective. She doesn't remember the last time they ran her through such an everyday scenario. Wasn't that part of the testing over?

She's on edge as she begins, jumpy, waiting for the catch. It comes the moment she begins crossing the field to the base she's meant to be finding a way into. Autoturrets that weren't in her briefing emerge from the walls. She barely has time to register them before her vision goes white and the entire world narrows to the end of her arm and searing, rending pain.

She broke her arm falling out of a tree when she was ten. She was hit with shrapnel across her shoulder and jaw on Hamelin, and she was grazed by a bullet on Braham. Those things combined don't come close to the all-consuming agony radiating from her forearm. If they'd fed her this morning she'd vomit; as it is she retches up bile.

Rose tries to use her other hand to find the wound, to stanch the bleeding until she can get to a medic. She's going to need one for this; she doesn't even know how she's going to stand again to get to one. Her arm isn't where she thinks it should be. There's only air as she feels around. Then there's heat, and then blood, and—

She retches again as her vision clears just enough to see that the bottom half of her right arm is gone.

She can't think. She can't move. She can only stare in horror. It's gone. Her arm, her good arm, and her pistol with it— fuck, where is it, even? What the hell hit her to— fuck, it hurts. It hurts so badly that her heartbeat makes her sick; it hurts so badly that she can barely understand she has a body outside the bloodied, shredded point of severance. Blood and torn muscle and the white gleam of her own bone—

"Rose," someone calls. She doesn't recognize the voice, though part of her feels like she should. She looks frantically around— maybe it's an ally, maybe it's someone who can get her the fuck out of this— but there's no one. "Rose, it isn't real. Concentrate."

Hansel. It's Hansel, and this is a simulation. This is— how? The battlefield, the turrets that could send artillery like that through her chest or her skull next, the bloodied remnants of her arm…

It feels so real. The agony is real. "Did you—" she chokes, finds her voice hoarse from screaming. "Did you fucking—"

Maybe that's how she finally dies. Maybe they cut off bits of her to see how little of her it takes to still fight. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She finds herself laughing hysterically. She's nothing but a lab rat anymore. Maybe now it's time to dissect her, one piece at a time.

"Focus," Hansel says. "You still have an objective."

"I don't care!" It's not real. There's nothing to fight for. There's just a missing arm and a collar around her throat and most of the people she loves dead. "Just fucking kill me! Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck this, fuck you."

The shock barely even registers next to everything else. She spasms and keeps laughing. Maybe she's crying. She doesn't know.

Her body spasms. The stump of her arm screams at her. She smells burning flesh.

Stella died this way. Years ago, because she couldn't take living anymore. Rose never understood before how she could have been so cowardly. Now she does. She understands. She waits to slip into oblivion with her, with Cinders, with Snow.

And then the moonscape vanishes, and with it all but the echo of the pain in her arm. Her neck burns and her limbs and chest ache. She tastes something like metal. But she's huddled on the floor of the simulation room, and when she looks down at herself there's no blood. There's no bone. Her arm is whole.

Through blurry eyes, she watches her fingers as she flexes them and finds they work just as they should. Her wrist twists; her elbow bends. "How—" she whispers.

Hansel was telling the truth. None of it was real. All of that, everything she felt, was part of the simulation.

She starts laughing again, then sobbing. She barely even notices as Hansel and Gretel pick her up and carry her back to the table.

…

It's dark, quiet except the humming of machines and the beeping of monitors. The skin of Rose's neck burns and stings, more so any time she shifts her head. Hansel put a salve on it before he left for the night, but there's no bandage and no relief from the rough weave of the collar.

The lower half of her right arm still sends pangs through her. It feels the way she always imagined a phantom limb would, and she has to look down at herself several times to make sure it really is there. The image of it blown away is just as vivid as that of her wrist shackled down to the table; she doesn't know how to keep track of which was which.

Cinders used to talk about feeling like a living ghost. Like she died with her father on Perrault and only a shade of her was left to take prisoner, like she only remained to be a memory of what had been. That's another thing Rose thinks she understands better now.

And now Cinders really is gone. She described her parents as resting with the stars. Now she's there, too.

Cinders is there, and so is Snow, and the last of her friends from school, and Rose can't follow any of them.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles aloud. The words come at the same moment as the thought, inseparable. There's no barrier. "I was supposed to protect you. I'm sorry."

She closes her eyes and realizes they're wet. "You weren't supposed to get hurt. Either of you. I wanted you to be safe at home. 'S what everything was for. You were supposed to be safe."

How would Snow look at her now as she said that? Would her nose wrinkle with distaste at the allusion to Rose's military career? Would she be biting back a comment about pacifism? What about Cinders? She looked happier than Rose had ever seen her at the wedding, outside of the prison, on the verge of freedom. Now that's all been snatched away. Rose can almost hear the strain in her voice of trying to hold in her heartbreak.

"I failed," she continues. "I failed you. I was wrong, I fucked it up, I didn't keep you safe. I should have just agreed. I should have let him have what he wanted, and he'd have left you alone. I wasn't brave or strong enough. I wasn't the protector you deserved. They killed you and it was my fault."

Her chest is a void. Rose doesn't know how she doesn't implode with the weight of it.

"I don't know what they're going to do to me when they're done," she whispers. "I thought they were going to take me apart. I don't—" Her breath catches. "I tried to let them— I tried. I don't want this. I should have just shot myself then." Maybe they'd have still taken the tissue samples, but at least she wouldn't have been alive to care, or to be tested on for the rest. "Maybe they'd let me. When they're done with me. Maybe if I please him he'll allow me to go."

Godfather has had to do terrible things before. It doesn't mean he likes doing them. Like putting down a rabid animal, he always tries to act with mercy.

There was no mercy to the way they died. There was no point, either. Maybe Rose just doesn't understand. Maybe she's small and fragile and mortal. But she can't imagine why he couldn't have had his army without killing them.

Why would she understand? What's the point in understanding? They're dead because she made him take what he needed. Now she's here. Now she's nothing. Now all she can do is hope that one day, there will be an end to all this, and that that day comes soon, and that the people who believe in more than this life are right and she'll see Snow and Cinders again when it happens.

…

Rose doesn't know how long it's been since she's slept.

That's the new test— keep her awake, make her solve puzzles or run on a treadmill or answer questions. She doesn't know. She barely remembers most of it. All she can think about most of the time is how fucking exhausted she is. Her head aches and her body trembles from it. She's allowed to close her eyes, maybe because they have no real way to stop her. But the moment she starts to drift off, her collar activates and shocks her awake again.

She swears it hurts more than it used to. She doesn't know if the skin is burnt or if they've turned up the voltage.

When the lab is dark, she feels things brushing her skin and sees flashes out of the corners of her eyes. At first she thinks it's Hansel and Gretel keeping her awake— every time something touches her she startles, and she has to keep her eyes open to track the flickers of movement. But it happens even when neither is there, and she can't figure out how they'd be doing it. What could be moving around her? What could be touching her? Are there rats down here? Is the lab fucking haunted?

Rose doesn't believe in ghosts, but she didn't believe something like this could ever happen to her either. She doesn't know anymore. She doesn't know anything.

The longer it goes on, the worse it is. Rose flinches when she feels the touches, then cries out. Her heart races every time she sees a flicker. When she asks Hansel what one of them was, her words slurred as if she were drunk, he just tells her she's seeing things.

She's not crazy, is she? She keeps seeing it. And she feels something— if it weren't real, it couldn't touch her.

Or maybe they've finally broken her for good.

She drifts. She wishes they'd just finish up with her and throw her away like medical waste. She wishes they'd just let her sleep for five fucking minutes.

When she feels a hand on her forehead, a full, solid hand, she thrashes in her restraints. "Leave me alone!" The scream is so loud it hurts her throat and echoes off the walls.

But then a face comes into her vision, blurry at first, then familiar as it leans in. Godfather, with the most heartbroken expression she's ever seen him with. His black eyes shine; tears run down the lines in his face. "It's only me, Rose."

"Godfather?" she whispers, her own tears blurring her vision.

He strokes the stubble at the top of her head. "Yes. I'm here." His voice is so gentle that Rose has to sob.

"'m sorry," she pleads. Her mouth won't quite work right to form the words. "I'm sorry. Please. Help me."

"Oh, Rose." He gently touches along the collar, shaking his head at the angry skin around it. "I'm so sorry it came to this. I'm sorry I didn't prepare you better. I never wanted this to happen to you."

"Snow and Cinders—" her voice breaks, choking her.

"I know, child. I know." He keeps smoothing back her hair. "It's awful business. They're grieving them across the Empire."

His hand is the kindest thing she's felt in ages. The warmth of it, the familiar papery feeling of his skin, the softness of his touch, all make the tension drain from her muscles. "Please, Godfather. They're hurting me. They shock me when I fall asleep. Let me go, please." Tears drip down her temples and into her hairline.

"I'm so sorry. I wish I could. It breaks my heart to see you like this." He shakes his head. "I wish you hadn't refused me. That it could have been easier on you."

She shudders with shame. "I'm sorry," she repeats. "I'm sorry. I'll do what you ask, I'll trust you. Just make it stop hurting."

"My dear girl." He leans over her to wrap his arms around her. "You're doing so well. I know it hurts, but this is exactly what I need from you. You endure it so well. Just a little longer, all right?"

She can't help but openly weep. "And then I can die with them?"

"No." Godfather wipes her tears away, his face tender. "It's not time for you to die. But as soon as I can, I will bring you home."

The next thing she knows, there's no sign of him. The lab is dark and empty, except the movement in the corner of her eyes.

"Godfather?" she asks.

There's no answer. It's as if he was never even there.

…

Gretel tells her she sleeps for twenty-eight hours when they finally allow her to. She takes in this information and struggles to muster a feeling about it. She wants to sleep longer— she wants to sleep forever.

After that first sleep, whenever she drifts off she soon startles awake feeling like there are hands all over her. They tap her shoulders, brush her arms, slide down her thighs. Sometimes they cup over her chest or grope between her legs. She wants to vomit at the touches, but no amount of squirming away from them makes them stop. All she can do is ignore them until they go away and she can go back to sleep.

The flickers in her vision don't entirely go away, either. They come less often, but they seem more defined now— she can almost see figures, and she knows they're watching her. They make her skin crawl, but Hansel and Gretel don't pay them any attention even when she points them out, so she tries to pretend she doesn't notice them.

She doesn't flinch anymore when they poke her with needles. She doesn't argue when they undo her restraints and lead her to the simulation room or the treadmill or the bathroom. Her meals have become thoroughly unappetizing, but she eats them when she's prompted, mechanically placing each bite into her mouth and chewing and swallowing without tasting a thing.

Time pours through her hands like tar. One moment lasts an eternity, until she blinks and finds herself in the next. The distinctions hardly matter. She's speaking to Gretel. Her blood is being drawn. They're shaving her head again so the monitors can be placed. Hansel and Gretel whisper just behind the divider, sounding excited. It's night and the shadows are touching her. It's day again and Hansel stares at her, impatiently waiting for her to eat.

They give her orders and she obeys. There's nothing else left for her to do.

…

Rose wakes and tries to shrug a hand off her wrist, only to find that it's Gretel.

"Shhhh," she coos. "Today is a very special day. I know you'll be good for us."

She doesn't remember the last time she had a real feeling. This, though, sends some distant facsimile of fear through her. Gods, she just hopes whatever it is is over soon.

Gretel undoes all her restraints, then instructs her to sit up. She puts a hand on Rose's back to guide her upright, then tells her to wait.

Rose stares dully at the black tile floor while Gretel goes back behind the room divider. A shadow runs a long, bony finger down her back. She shudders and bites down on her tongue.

When Gretel returns, she has a bundle of white in her arms. She beams as she holds it up, letting it unfold to reveal her wedding clothes. "Surprise! Look, we got this all clean for you."

She can't muster a response, though her guts twist and she thinks of Cinders. Gods, she deserved so much more. She deserved better protection than Rose could give her. She's dead because of Rose.

The shadows chuckle, startling her. She can't help but look to the corner where they congregate— they've never made noises before.

A hand turns her face back to Gretel— Gretel's hand. "Focus, dear," she chides. "Let's help you get dressed, now."

Gretel unties the hospital gown and pulls it off Rose, leaving her sitting bare on the table. By now, Rose doesn't flinch at her nakedness. There's no piece of her body that hasn't already been exposed and studied and recorded in detail in their notes.

After setting the hospital gown aside, Gretel unbuttons Rose's pants and holds the legs down near her feet. She gently holds her ankles and guides her legs into them, helps her stand, buttons them. She does the same thing with the shirt and the vest, maneuvering Rose's arms as if she's nothing but a doll. She tucks in her shirt, pins the cape and fine golden chains to the shoulders of the vest, then stands back, the ruby tie in her hands.

"Now, before we finish, I need you to promise me you'll be very good. Can you do that?"

Rose nods. She doesn't have anything else in her.

"Good girl." Gretel approaches and reaches for her neck. Rose flinches back, just slightly, until Gretel's hands come around the back and unbuckle the collar.

Her neck feels cool and light with its absence. Her hand drifts up to where it sat and finds toughened, ridged skin there.

Gretel clicks her tongue. "A pity, though I suppose the scars will mostly be under your shirt collar." She sets the shock collar aside and loops the tie around her neck.

It's surreal. The clothes don't feel like hers, though they're so familiar. The same kind of structured vest she used to wear, the shade of tie she chose in another life, the weight of fine jewelry bearing symbols of her family name. None of it belongs here. She feels like she's six years old again and stealing Papa's suit coats to play make-believe with Snow.

God, Snow. She was so worried about this suit, about how Rose didn't have time to get it tailored. She was fretting about it so much Rose wanted to remind her she was breaking a prisoner out of her former station and marrying her. The suit (and even more so Cinders' dress— Rose was relieved to see it even fit her, since she'd had to guess her size) were the least of their worries.

Rose laughs brokenly. They had no idea.

Gretel pats her on the shoulder, adjusting her tie. "Now, now. You're just fine." Once she's tucked the tie under the chains and into the vest, the look is complete except the shoes Rose wore. "Aren't you handsome?"

She winces. One hand slides down her back while another reaches between her legs.

When Gretel leads Rose around the divider, the most open area of the lab is taken up by a mobile stasis pod, the kind they used on the battlefield to keep soldiers with severe wounds stable while they were transported to a hospital that could handle their injuries. Sleek curved glass makes up most of the body, while silver caps seal it off at each end. It's the size of a large coffin. Hansel stands beside it, fiddling with the settings. He glances disdainfully at Rose as they approach.

"I still don't understand his insistence on all this frippery. If we need her again, we'll have to take it all off her."

Gretel sighs. "You're no fun. Won't it look far better to have her like this than in that ugly gown?"

He shakes his head. "It's a stasis pod, Gretel." There's a hint of fondness in his voice, though. "In any case, it's nearly ready."

He continues to work with it. Aside from his occasional muttering, the lab is silent.

Rose swallows and tries to speak. After a moment, she croaks, "What is this?" Is it a new test? Are they bringing her somewhere?

"We're finished with you," Hansel says. "The rest of the work can be done without you."

Her knees nearly give out under her; she has to stumble to catch herself. "It's over?"

Gretel takes her arm to steady her. "Yes. You've given us everything we needed from you."

Rose's eyes burn. She squeezes them shut, trying not to let any tears fall. It's done. It's finally done. Thank the stars, thank every god in the empire. She can rest.

"Oh, my dear," Gretel murmurs sympathetically. She pats her on the shoulder, or maybe that's a shadow. "You've done so well. You should be very proud of yourself, and of your daughters."

She flinches, but the horror of the clones quickly fades compared to the knowledge that soon, she'll be able to forget all of it. She'll get to sleep for as long as they keep her there. However many copies they make, whatever they use them for, whatever the galaxy looks like without Snow and Cinders and herself in it, it won't matter to her anymore.

Hansel finally gestures to the pod, instructing Rose to step over the lip of the stasis pod and lie back against the glass. They'll seal it, he says, and then it will fill with fluid. It will keep her suspended, preserve her body as it is now, keep her from needing to breathe or eat or pump blood through her veins. She'll be frozen forever in the moment she falls asleep, gently floating in a bed of greenish gel.

When Rose steps inside, she does it willingly.

Notes:

This fic has been in the works since... 2024? It's taken a lot of time to percolate, write, rewrite, and edit, but I'm finally happy with it. I'm so excited it's finally posted :)

I do have a short sequel to this exploring more about Rose's psychosis and her relationship with Cole after this, which I hope to get edited and posted sometime this week. A lot of fascinating things came out of the writing of this and I'm looking forward to exploring them further.

If you made it this far, thank you so much. This thing has been my baby forever and I hope you enjoyed it. I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments, or, as always, I can be found on tumblr @miralines!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 15 of One Thousand and Three