tw: talks of child abuse, child experimentation,
murder,  manipulation & severe ptsd. could
be perceived as hallucinations but is not
intended as such, as dahlia's illusions work
as a piece of her powers.  proceed with
caution.

I WOULD HAVE DIED FOR YOUR SINS,
INSTEAD I JUST DIED INSIDE,  AND YOU
DESERVE PRISON BUT YOU WON'T GET
TIME.

“YOU'RE GETTING WEAKER,  Thirteen.”

It's like the darkness of her room has no pity on her.

Dahlia Cazarez prides herself on her strengths.  She always has.  An exceptional child she once was,  speaking in full sentences before she was three months old due to her enviably perfect memory and operating like a masterfully crafted machine well before most children would be learning cursive,  and an exceptional teenager she has become.  What she lacks in what many call personable traits she makes up for in powers only written about in the drawn picture books Tito and Max share such an affinity for.  She's a skilled negotiator and stone-faced even when the world seems to be dissolving in tears or confetti.  If she's nothing else,  she's one of the strongest machines known to man.

Reminding herself of this would be much easier if her hands were not shaking.

“You are not real,”  she reminds the man in the mirror.  “I know that.”

“Then why am I still here?”

It's an excellent question.  Dahlia wishes she could answer it in a way that doesn't discredit the belief she's clutching like a lifeline,  attaching the familiar smell of home to her ankle like a cinder block.  Her teeth press together to keep any potential reactors silent and it almost makes Brenner's form stronger,  watching her use his methods in the home where she's prayed to every God in hopes of simply staying there. 

She should have known this would be an outcome.

Traumatized still feels like a word that doesn't apply to her.  Papí,  yes.  Sinatra, of course.  Max,  El,  Mamá and Will are also givens,  as are Jo and Ash.  Traumatized fits them like a glove (a phrase that,  after six years in society,  Dahlia still doesn't entirely understand) while not fitting her in the slightest.   Not in her mind,  at least.  Reading up on the symptoms of complex post-traumatic stress disorder provided quite the insight that she wasn't asking for,  therefore it currently doesn't fit.

A simple conclusion,  one would think.  She understood what every research paper was saying enough to comprehend the probabilities of her developing such a disorder,  but she wasn't going to acknowledge it.  The research was not for her.  She was not a variable that required certain surroundings that she may or may not have been willing to accomodate at the time,  so any conclusions on herself were to be studied at a later date- if at all.

Never did she think later would come in the form of today.

Dustin, with his innocent insensitivities, happened to fiddle with a taser in the Wheeler basement.

The electricity crackled to life from behind her.  Dahlia didn't see it,  didn't recognize the sound of the very thing she has on her person at all times.  She had made the fatal mistake of being distracted by Max asking a question.

Logically it was idiotic.  The taser isn't an electrostaff,  not even close to the same searing pain,  and no family,  much less a child,  would have one at easy access.  Logically she shouldn't have blinked an eye.  Logically she should have brought out her own and reminded Dustin that they are hardly toys.

Logically she should have done many things, but while Dahlia would like to think she’s logical,  none of the above even began to apply.

Logic is nothing in the face of muscle memory despite Dahlia's utmost wishes for it to be such.  It's why she’d stiffened the same way she had when a yardstick would be brought down across her shoulder blades,  wheeling Max in front of her as she'd presented her back as an entire offering.  A childhood reactor, 'take me.  I'm the disobedience you seek out.'

She hadn't realized she'd dug her nails into Max's skin until her surrogate sister was pulling away in a manner too gentle for her displayed personality,  concerns breaking through a fog in Dahlia's mind.

“Hey, Lia, you okay?"

She hadn't been.

It's been three hours and she hasn't stopped shaking.  Her mind is out of control and while some factors,  such as her door being bolted shut and her lights turned down as a request to her family,  have been taken care of,  she cannot account for her mind.

It's humorous just how quickly her greatest asset can turn into her nightmare.

“Thirteen.”

Papa's voice snaps her back into place like the toy soldier she is.  With the stiffness of an army doll she turns,  eyes forward in the way he always commanded.   “Yes, sir.”

“You are growing weaker,”  Papa emphasizes,  tone painfully critical.   “Look at you.  You're shaking.”

“False.”

“Is that so?”  Mockingly a brow raises,  a correctional matter that makes her internally burn with shame.  “I taught you better.”

“Yo sé-”

“Wrong.”

The word makes her neck hurt,  memories of shocks ripping through skin while the darkness of her room seems to shrink in.  She controls the shadows yet here she is,  cowering in what she never could escape.  “I know.”

“So why do you fail me?”

Dahlia keeps her eyes forward as she watches Papa adjust on her bed,  willing Gatita to remain under her bed.  For now it will have to do for safety.   “I am not weak.  I was unprepared.”

“And why is that?”

“I allowed myself to become distracted,”  Dahlia allows, that same need for his approval overriding her pride.  “It was a flaw.  Fatal on the battlefield.  I should have cleared my surroundings prior to entering.”

“You should have told Henderson to use that taser to correct you,”  Papa corrects.  She feels that childhood futility open like a black hole eager to swallow her alive at the comment,  that little girl awaiting her punishment for infractions.  “It would have taught you.”

“It would have angered me,”  she counters.  “Irreparably.  The repercussions would have been dire. Would you have liked me to become a toy for the government once again?  I think not.  You would not be receiving any credit.”

That has him angry.

It's all in her head.  Dahlia knows this,  knows she creates his next movements the same way a child moves figurines,  but her mind is a runaway dog at this point.  There will be no controlling it.

Maybe it is all a test.  If she does well,  if she performs to her standards,  this will go away.

He stands before her now after three sharp strides across the room.  His eyes are dark in that same stone cold way they always were when his anger would outweigh the desire to create a lesson, foreboding in a way that tests the will she knows he built.

She will not break.  He will not see her break.

Her jaw is stiff as she glares upwards, refusing the satisfaction of truly looking up to him.

“You would be nothing without me,”  Papa seethes.  “Nothing.  I made you.”

“You made nothing of the sort.  You believe you can exploit my vulnerability from inside my mind?  I am the one who killed it.”

“And who did you kill it for?”

“Myself,”  comes the answer,  so easy that Dahlia remembers that this is the truth.  Her capabilities of lying can extend to herself if the situation is dire enough,  but the case isn't such now.   “To survive you.  You believe I would be here if I had not?”  Her arms fold then,  ink black sleeves soft against her skin in the same grounding way it always is.  “I killed the ones too soft to meet your standards.  At your orders, no less.  Just because I was first exploited at your hand doesn't mean the rest of the world would not be willing to try.”

In fifty years,  comes the wild, precariously hopeful thought,  perhaps it will all be declassified.  You will be long gone but the world will know,  they will know what was wrought upon children.  Papa will be posthumously charged.  The world will forget him but never forgive what he left behind.  It will forget him where you can't.

“Take a look at your wrist,  Thirteen,”  he says.  The coldness to his tone makes her brain pry itself away from fear,  the same steel she hears on her worst days echoing back to her.  “Find the one who made you.  You're making it to be as though I founded a bolter,  not a weapon of glory.”

“You founded nothing,”  she hisses.  “Nothing you did was ever true.  You would have killed me if my father had not prevented you from doing so.  Do not pretend you care for me when it is too late.”

“You're cantankerous.”

“I am finished with you!”  Dahlia exclaims,  voice rising before she forces herself to shush.  Her family can still hear her if she grows too loud,  and the last thing she wants is to involve them in her own self-made problems.  “You got what you wanted from me only to keep taking.  It is not your place to reside here,  to tell me how I should or should not be punished-”

“Whose fault is it that I am still here,  Thirteen?”  Papa interrupts,  his voice sharp as a razor.  “I knew you would never be happy once you left the lab.  You were destined to remember.  The kindness I graced you with in the form of routine was a gift compared to reality.  Look at you now,  building me from scratch because you can't handle the world.  You weren't made for them.”

It settles like a leaf landing in the midst of a bonfire,  this reminder that Dahlia always tries to shove to the back of her mind when she watches the world interact as a whole.  El understands,  she knows.  She's the only one.  

There's no way to tell it to her father or friends,  ‘I feel at home with you but I know I will never truly belong.  This is your life,  I do not think I was meant for one’.  Apá had a life before her,  friends and his family that didn't necessarily need her.  Her friends,  her siblings,  they know how to be human.  They have some basic understanding of the world.

Dahlia feels like a machine.  Something to touch,  something to admire,  something to aid and perhaps even something to love.  She doesn't doubt that her circle loves her,  but they must see it,  right?  Papa rusted a sparkling summer girl in a way no one can ever polish back up,  even if she tries to shine for them.  All a machine can do is kill in hopes to never be the also-ran in life's great competition.  If you are not the best,  you may as well be the worst.

Everyone knows the worst is disposable.  She may be loved now,  but what happens if she isn't better?

Is anything true enough to survive that?

That familiar sinking feeling sends Dahlia to the ground.  There's nothing left in here with her anymore,  the room cold and barren even though Papa's words echo in her head.  He still sends for her when he decides her time is running short,  reminds her to be better before it's too late.

A hollow sound kicks past her lips as Dahlia bows forward,  perfect posture broken as she pulls her forehead to her knees.  The dryness of her eyes ironically burns in the way she thinks tears are supposed to, no mourning allowed for the girl terrified within.

She will never forgive this.