My precious

Nicolas awoke with a splitting headache. He had barely opened his eyes and immediately a bright light blinded him. To his dismay, his headache intensified. He was tied up, and securely bound to his chair, in an enclosed place with a heavy atmosphere.

A strong stench of leather and sweat filled his nostrils. He could also smell a mix of urine, vomit and unwashed bodies and was relieved to see that his own clothes were dry. He hadn't soiled himself, even after losing consciousness.

He tried to remember the details of his capture: in his memories, there were soldiers, rather violent but not those monsters of the Special Forces. Maybe he and Clara still had a chance to cope.

He heard – he couldn't really see as he had a hard time opening his eyes – a movement behind the spotlight. His kidnappers hadn't seen fit to immobilize his head and by choosing a good angle, he managed to make out a few silhouettes. The door opened and the outside light poured in the room, allowing him to better grasp his environment.

He was confined in a small room. The bed, that was discarded in a corner and without bedding, was showing its iron carcass while standing against the wall. The door, that had been closed too quickly, was on the right. There was no bathroom nor any kind of facilities and he felt relieved. He had a very bad memory of interrogations where he had almost been drowned.

A throat clearing, indistinct whispers, a chair cracking. Probably four or five people were with him in that cramped space, obviously, waiting for something or someone. He could feel a tension, even an anxiety, and he knew his pitiful self wasn't the cause of it.

Long minutes went by and the door opened again. Nicolas only had time to see a stone staircase covered with Lichen and to feel a gust of hot wind. An afternoon air, no doubt. He noted in the back of his head that the door opened directly onto the outside, which could be very useful for an escape.

The daylight, flooding inside, let two men through, one of them seemed to carry a package. With the heat, the air of the room became even more stifling after the door closed. There were many movements, people switched seats and the newcomers finally sat down in front of him.

The light dimmed to a bearable – almost cozy – level. By the time Nicolas' eyes adjusted to the new brightness and the halo created by the spotlight disappeared, everything was quiet. Thanks to the utter silence, the prisoner heard weak groans, curdling his blood. The package that seemed inert a few moments earlier had come to life. His face turned deathly pale, even his mouth seemed to dry out and he could only croak a pitiful "Please, don't hurt Clara."

He had never been and would never be as strong as Daphné. Losing his beloved had devastated him but this time, it was much worse. The thought that someone could harm his precious, his fragile jewel, struck him with terror. He caught a glimpse of the newborn in the arms of one of the soldiers. The one with a strangely round head. Clara was eagerly suckling the soldier's fingertip and this pseudo-teat was soon replaced by a small nursing-bottle.

Nicolas felt jealousy engulf him. His daughter's affection was stolen from him! He was her father, nobody else had expected this little baby girl during the long months of gestation. He had loved her, even pampered her, for so long without being able to touch her. Every day, he had spoken to her and made sure that everything was going well. He had made a lot of plans, known many doubts. But the ungrateful one allowed herself to be craddled and fed by a stranger.

After drinking her milk, Clara fell asleep peacefully and a collective sigh of relief could be heard, as if they had all been holding their breath, dreading the piercing screams that could drive them crazy. Nicolas did not have time to wonder how long he had remained unconscious, leaving his daughter in the care of this soldier, when the latter spoke.

His voice was perfectly normal, he made no effort to whisper and the tension in the room stepped up a notch. The others were worried about the noise that might disturb the infant.

– You're lucky, I'd worked in the Materna for a long time. It reminds me of my youth. She has the same eyes as a little girl I had to flush. You know, I remember every fetus I dissolved, but, well, rules are meant to be followed. Anyway, congratulations, Clara is a very nice name for a lovely little girl.

Nicolas did not answer. Under his good-natured image, this soldier could be dangerous for Clara.

– I also extracted a lot of unborn ones from their Artificial Wombs. I was always enthralled by such tiny hands, and their fingernails! No bigger than the head of a pin and yet so perfect.

At these words, he took a pin out of the lapel of his collar and for the first time in his life, Nicolas rebelled. No plan, nor scheme, nor stratagem. He couldn't think anymore and was struggling like a madman. The leather strip holding him under his armpits cut into his skin and almost choked him, but the pain was elsewhere. He pictured the pin piercing the little eyes of his precious and then sticking in her flesh. Between the soldier's fingers, the little piece of metal was replaced with a scalpel, the prisoner was petrified.

– I remember dissecting a frog with this blade. We had to fix the skin and flesh on a board with pins similar in all respects to the one I always keep on me and then we watched the heart beat until it stopped. But I've never done it with a kid, even the ones we threw away.

Powerless, Nicolas watched in horror the hand holding the scalpel, flitting according to the words and memories of this psychopath. Clara was still sleeping as the sharp point, drawing arabesques in the air, was inexorably approaching her throat. A drop of blood appeared, little Clara opened her eyes and began to bawl. Nicolas jumped, knocked over his chair and fell heavily onto the floor, then the scalpel disappeared into the sleeve of the soldier who smiled at the child, and gently rocked her back to sleep.

Then it was silent again. The observers were able to relax and some of them could lower the hands that were already covering their ears. Nicolas took advantage of this quiet moment to catch his breath. Fortunately, his chair had rotated before he fell and he could still see his precious, less than a meter from him.

Someone dropped a jacket on the floor and placed Clara on it, so close to Nicolas that he could smell her scent. She was defenseless, Nicolas was truly worried and scared. Any one of these potential tormentors could have crushed her under the heel of his boot. Then the baby was laid on the side to palpate her head.

Clara opened her eyes and looked into Nicolas's eyes. She was not afraid as the scalpel moved closer to one of her fontanels. She was just looking at her daddy, not knowing that this might be the last image that would be etched in her brain before joining Daphné in death. A tear ran down Nicolas' face as he was trying to convey to his daughter, through this final exchange, all his love.

– Please, don't hurt her. I beg you, have mercy. He repeated once more.

Time as well as the scalpel dance seemed to slow down. For the first time in his life, he was willing to sacrifice anything. He knew he was selfish and cowardly, he had the soul of a schemer more than of a hero or a martyr. Yet, he now had a responsibility that transcended everything. He was Clara's father in a city where no one knew his genitors.

The birth of his daughter had upset the order in his scale of value, it even overtook the one principle he had never departed from: "Thou shalt not kill." He was not a poisoner. In spite of the relentless pressure from the Special Forces or the rebels, he had always stood firm, up to this day. He was not defeated but resigned. No matter whether to kill or die, his love for Clara saved them and condemned them at the same time. The lives of arkians, the lives of the rebels, even his own life didn't matter.

He was still looking at his precious baby, mesmerized, and searched for Daphné's features in their daughter's face. Thanks to his words, they had earned a moment of respite. Nicolas used this opportunity to gaze at his little wonder and he was basking in bliss. He longed to hold her in his arms again. Despite the situation, it was the best day of his life, the day Clara was born. He didn't need any psychoactive supplements nor any pills. In his mind, the unbreakable emotional bond that had been formed with Clara was something magical or divine. He wanted to think it was Daphné's intervention, like a posthumous gift that helped the father and his daughter step into real life as one.

Clara's eyes suddenly gleamed with what he could only describe as mischief, if it were possible for a newborn child. Then her face turned red and twisted in a grimace. The stench spreading in the small room could have been akin to a real chemical attack.

Wrapped in the jacket, the little baby girl was quickly picked up and the soldier hurriedly went out, shouting to no-one in particular:

– Notify the Capitan while I wash the little miss!

A set-up? Did they really intend to hurt his baby? In retrospect, didn't it look like all this was to manipulate him, to condition him to accept their demands? Once Clara left, Nicolas's brain started working again. These soldiers went to great lengths to get something. Apparently, they needed him to be in good physical condition since not a single blow had been dealt to him, it was an advantage for him. Clara was probably still in danger, but if he could control himself and obey, maybe she would come out of this situation unharmed.

He clung to this hope with all his might as his chair was straightened up and he felt his tight restraints loosen. The ropes through the clothes had grated the skin of his forearms, which also showed early signs of bruises. These marks, almost at elbow level, would be easily concealed under his clothing. Every detail had been anticipated.

Nicolas felt trapped but he had yet to say his final word. A little tense, he waited to know what they wanted with him. During the other interrogations he had undergone, the demand was clear from the beginning and the tortures, physical rather than psychological, gradually managed to break all resistance. It seemed he was easy to bully and a veteran victim, he thought wryly.

His experience had taught him that he was not strong enough to dig himself deeper in his refusal to cooperate. He thought his reply carefully over: to surrender quickly, in appearance, but to negotiate the maximum against promises he would not keep. He was basing his survival plan on lies. He needed to buy time and his great resilience allowed him to retain all his means to escape.

That the hostilities began even before the demands were stated indicated two things, according to him: that the other party was in a rush and that the demands were so high that it seemed unrealistic to reach an amicable agreement without too much damage.

The Capitan entered. Nicolas remembered clearly her scornful expression before he lost consciousness. This facade, which made the features of an ordinary arkian look ugly, was skillfully shaped to appear harmless. The prisoner saw straight through her, the Capitan was anything but harmless.

He was himself a master in the art of forgery. Hypocrisy, concealment. He knew the whole range of tricks and had used it extensively in the past. Who knew it was the uncompromising Daphné, so beautiful and so pure, who taught him the most about how to appear as something else?

Nicolas was barely listening to what the Capitan was saying. He did not even bother to look interested. In any case, he agreed to everything – provided that they let him take care of Clara – and demanded to stay in the same room as his daughter, night and day. He was aware that he was hardly in a position to impose his terms, but he felt that his counterpart would have no objections, especially if she could get the psycho-soldier everyone treated with deference back.

The Capitan left unsatisfied after their interview. Once alone in the darkness of the room, Nicolas heaved a sigh and the corner of his lips trembled, giving a faint smile, so slight that it was almost unnoticeable. He had been able to buy time, or rather, to make his enemies lose time. He kept on hedging, pretending to misunderstand or to accept anything and everything and especially things unrelated to the matter at hand. Almost forgetting his or Clara's situation, he gloated inwardly to see the growing impatience become exasperation and hatred. It was a dangerous game, he had to aim accurately to avoid reaching the point of no return that would lead to his death and his daughter's death.

The next day, the soldier with the round head entered the room alone. He wore a broad carnivorous smile and in his eyes shone a glimmer of cruelty that frightened Nicolas. At the same time, the fresh morning breeze had burst into the small room saturated with stale air. The prisoner shivered whether it be because of fear or cold.

Still tied to his chair, his sore muscles were protesting and starting to hurt. He had not eaten nor drunk and had no choice but to soil his clothes, relieving his bladder and intestines. He felt ashamed and much more vulnerable than the day before. Hungry, thirsty and deprived of dignity, Nicolas could only endure, dreading the next abuse devised by the psycho-soldier.

– I came here to reach a quick agreement. It's simple: We need to go outside to fetch one of our own and bring her back. In exchange, we'll let you go and give Clara back to you.

– I can't do that. It's impossible with a level-three curfew.

– Of course you can. All you have to do is negotiate on our behalf with your Shadow Girls friends. Your life and Clara's depend on it.

Nicolas kept quiet, pondering over his options and what would be the smartest play. The discussions of the previous day actually came down to this ultimatum, which seemed, in the mouth of this psycho-soldier, very tangible. The threat was crystal clear. If only he could free himself, he would go and take Clara back and then find shelter.

The soldier stood up and laid on the ground a blood-stained handkerchief with a tiny object sticking out from it.

– It's a little piece of Clara to keep you company. I'll be back in an hour with the next one.

Tears began to flow without restraint from Nicolas' eyes. His sight blurred but he continued to stare, stunned, at the tiny finger.

Dolick closed the door behind him and walked up a few steps smiling. It had been a long while since he had so much fun, unfortunately, he was running out of time. Capitan Chloé needed to be rescued urgently. That doctor was really an easy target to manipulate. He lost his cool as soon as it was about his precious little Clara, resulting in overflowing emotions that would quickly exhaust him.

The section leader took out a piece of almond paste from his pocket and resisted the urge to bite into it. He then began to shape a second finger. What a chance to have caught the doctor with his baby! Even if Capitan Gili felt restless, the results were close at hand, it was obvious.