CRYPTID

The woman stared through the static field that contained her to the cell, eyes unseeing for a moment, before they roved to the young man standing before her. Nothing in her countenance gave any indication that she found it strange to have a visitor in the early morning hours, but perhaps she couldn’t tell the time anymore.

“Out again?” she asked. He cringed, he hadn’t realized she would already be this far gone, it shouldn’t have been more than a week since the last time she was transported for recalibration.

“No, I’m sorry,” he began, but found the rest of the words dried up in his mouth and he was now choking on ashes. He had nothing to say to this woman, no words that could atone for his actions, no reassurances that she would ever be released, that she’d ever get her old mind back. He’d doomed her. He’d been told to make amends, but how could he? One mistake had cost this woman her life as she had known it, and there was nothing that could be done to solve it. Getting access to the prison block had been difficult enough, stealing his brother’s keypass- while Ruther wouldn’t be that upset- was technically a federal offense. And what was it for? A useless, three word apology that started with the word “no”?

The woman shifted forwards, soft hemp uniform sliding over the polished concrete floor with ease. He didn’t know why she wouldn’t sit on the furniture, it looked comfortable, if industrial. He could see her more clearly now, though. The short, chestnut hair she had sported when he’d first brought her here had grown out considerably, with a few inches of natural salt-and-pepper roots now showing. Once so full of fight, the woman now looked spectral, as if she was mere moments away from dissolving completely. He couldn’t help himself, closing the distance between himself and the edge of the static wall. He could hear the faint crackling of the barrier as he knelt, recoiling slightly at the icy floor beneath his knee.

“Stephen?” the woman’s husky garble made his eyes snap up to hers from where they’d been focused on the unexpectedly offensive ground.

He blinked, “Stephen was my father.” how could she-

The life returned to her features in an instant, as if she had simply been waiting to flip a switch. Glancing up and down the short hallway of the cell block, she leaned closer, tone soft, conspiratorial, “You can help me.”