Moments later, Xander's face popped up next to the open living room door."Thanks again so much!" he said. "I'll leave you to whatever you were doing, then." Wait," I said. "You still can't go in, right? Do you want a cup of coffee? I could use one myself."Xander hesitated for a moment. I was sort of friendly with his wife, but Xander and I had never really spoken to each other, besides the occasional Hi, how are you in the hallway. I had to give him one more nudge, so I stood up and walked to the kitchen."Sit down," I said, "make yourself at home."As I put two cups under the coffee machine, Xander shouted some more thank yous and I hope I'm not bothering yous. When I returned to the living room, he was sitting on the couch, his back turned towards the TV table, so I wasn't sure he had seen what I had casually placed on top of it. But if Sasha wasn't coming home anytime soon, I had plenty of time to make him aware of that.I handed Xander a cup and sat down on the couch, with my back. His face was angular and bruised, his lips split from a recent fight. A large, suppurating wound disfigured his jaw line. Verity looked away, unable to meet that broken, hopeless gaze. Her other self: the boy she'd been before her induction at the Facility. Another lonely, aimless refugee from the gangs and poverty of the Red Zone."Is that what you want, Verity?" Scott asked quietly, "Do you want to return to the ghettoes?" No," she replied, her final shred of self-esteem torn away. She was trapped, snared, beaten. There was no escape, no way out. Her memories of the streets were as vicious as the edge of a shattered mirror. There were far worse things than reconditioning: she'd suffered most of them out in the Zone. Descending into that nightmare once more was unthinkable. Clothed in a woman's body, she'd be dead inside a week. Verity crumpled like a crystal ornament, reduced to a hopeless, pleading child. "Please, Scott," she wept, covering her face with both hands, "please don't.
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