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Claremont era


Author's Note: This is an ugly, horrible story. It is not appropriate for children or sensitive readers. Unfortunately, little of this besides Rogue is imaginary.

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Author's Notes

For disclaimer and credits, see previous section. This is an ugly story, so young and sensitive readers should stay away.


Chapter 2

Twenty minutes later, she was in considerable discomfort. Not as bad as when Danvers had beaten her half to death, but as bad as the last parts of that recovery. Asking for help would be stupid. None of the other women were saying anything. They all looked very, very frightened. The Genoshan prisoners approached the table one by one, and then were taken away by female warders. Several tattooed women were brought before the sergeant. She couldn't hear what was said, but two of them collapsed and had to be carried away.

A female warder with a Red Cross armband approached the sergeant, and they had a short discussion. The sergeant rose from his chair with a put-upon look and they both came over to her.

"This is the one," said the sergeant.

The warder put on latex gloves, then plunged in under the blanket. Expert hands ran up and down her sides. She shuddered.

"Nothing in there."

"Get her down to the bin."

"Can't. Magistrates requisitioned it."

"All of it?"

"Special security service."

The sergeant looked very worried.

"We'd best put her into the general population," he said.

"Can't do that. Headcases aren't supposed to be put in there."

"Only if they're citizens. We have no idea of who she is."

"That's dangerous."

"Letting her loose might be worse. She might even be a mutt." He chuckled derisively. "We must establish who she is before releasing her to the hospital."

"What are you going to charge her with?"

"Public indecency. Public nudity. Lewd & lascivious behaviour. Mopery? That should do it. She certainly looks miserable. Keep her in over the weekend, until she figures out who she is or we can get her ID established on Tuesday."

"If she turns out to be a citizen-"

"We can charge her with not taking her medication."

"Fine. Send her off with the next batch, but she goes in with the citizens."


They both left her on the mutt bench. That's what they called them. The places where the mutates sat, waiting for instructions. She knew it from Underneath. The children in his Montressori kindergarten class had made him sit on the mutt bench one day, when the teacher was out of the room. He had decided on that day to become a Magistrate for life.

Perhaps that was why she felt something was vaguely inappropriate when two mutates came in and sat down beside her. They could have been twins of the one she saw in the street earlier. No hair, pale features, thin bodies of similar height. The glassy surface of their uniforms seemed at odds with the pale beige walls of the room. They paid no attention to her at all.

"Hi," she whispered.

Their heads turned to her in unison, their faces blank. At exactly the same moment, they both looked down at the back of her hand.

"At your service, miss," they said in unison.

She froze, unable to think of what to say. One of them had replied in classical BBC tones, but the other had a distinct Indian lilt to its English.

"The basic phonemes are established within the first few years of life, but beyond the age of 12 or so no further changes in accent can be imposed."

She had felt very stupid about not being able to be precise about that, having left the notes for her lecture in the pouch on her other wheelchair, back in Westchester.

She went very cold. One of Xavier's, not hers. From Underneath. She fought back the panic, and followed the idea where it was leading. It meant that the mutate had been converted as a teenager or as an adult, not at birth. Of course it did. The lecture in Langley, in the high security lecture hall, paint still new on the walls. Two visiting delegates from the Colonists of Rigel in their shimmering green uniforms, bitching about the theft of their encapsulation technology by the Kree and its sale to certain parties on Earth. Were they male or female? Not knowing made him nervous. There was astenographer in the room, taking notes.

Danvers? Xavier? No, too long before. The Genoshans could encapsulate at any age. If they could do that, they must have a mind-wipe technology-

"Come on," said the warder, taking her by the hand. "Look, we'll have to give you an examination, but there's nothing to be afraid of."

The warder's smile did not look at all re-assuring. She smiled back, so relieved to know that they didn't know who or what she was that she almost burst into tears.

The examination was conducted in a large, white-painted room. After taking off the cuffs, the warder left her with an orderly and two other women. One was quite overweight and white, the other black with very short hair. The black woman was the prisoner with the red A patch from the big room where she had sat on the mutt bench. According to the fat woman's t-shirt, she wanted to save the whales.

"Disrobe," commanded the orderly.

She had difficulty. She wrists were stiff and her shoulders hurt from being cuffed for over an hour. Even worse, two male guards had come into the room. They had followed her there from the room with the podium. She couldn't manage the knot in the twine that held the blanket on.

"Here, let me do it," said the black woman, who had already stripped expertly to nothing. "I'm Thandie. Thandie Musabaeka. Remember my name."

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"Your name?"

She shook her head. "I stopped taking my pills, and they took me here."

"You shouldn't be here. Orderly!"

"Nah?" came the response.

"Why is this woman here? She should be confined under the provisions of the Mental Health Act, not the Criminal Justice Act."

"Look, Thandie, it's nothing to do with me. Put it in your next article when you're telling everyone what bastards we are."

"That won't do her any good."

"Take it up with the doctor."

"Is this enough?" interrupted the fat woman, who had stripped down to her underwear.

Laughter from behind. She looked over her shoulder. There were six male guards in the room now.

"Whale ahoy!"

More laughter.

"All of it comes off," said the orderly.

The fat woman flushed, and started to take off her remaining clothing with fumbling hands.

"Come on, love," said Thandie. "It will all be over in a moment." She turned back to the orderly. "There aren't supposed to be spectators. You're supposed to be a woman."

The orderly shrugged. "I'm the only one here tonight. Others are out in the wards, patching up what gets brought in. Doing the men next."

There was a scuffling behind them as a female sergeant and a male doctor came into the room. The doctor was 50-ish, like a family practitioner off of a picture out of a drug ad, until she looked into his eyes. The sergeant looked bored.

"Line up, back to the wall," the doctor ordered.

She had to turn to face them as she did it. She had one hand across her breasts, the other down below. The fat woman did too, much less successfully. Thandie stood defiantly, hands at her side, staring the doctor and the rest of the audience in the eye, one by one. Thandie had obviously done this before.

"Hands at your sides," the doctor ordered.

The fat woman put her arms down and started to weep. She wasn't going to weep. She followed suit. All eyes except the doctor's turned towards her.

"Raise your arms and turn around,"

She did as she was told.

"Hands at your sides."

She complied.

"You in the middle. Lift your breasts."


"Lift your breasts. You do understand English, don't do you?"

"Come on, love," said Thandie.

The fat woman, crying openly now, lifted her breasts. A small round of applause came from the audience.

"Now lift the flab on your belly." The doctor turned to the sergeant. "I don't know how they can let themselves go like that."

The doctor turned to the orderly.

"I thought I said that I wanted them completely undressed."

"They are, sir."

"Then what is this?"

The doctor strode forward and reached for a string hanging from between the fat woman's legs. He pulled it out with a swift jerk. The fat woman screamed and collapsed to the floor. The doctor threw the blood soaked-tampon at the orderly. It left a red stain on his white lab coat.

"All of it next time." said the doctor.

Thandie rounded on him.

"Just what the hell-"

The sergeant stepped forward and drove her mag-lite into Thandie's kidney. Thandie screamed and fell to the floor.

"Get up," said the doctor to the fat woman.

She helped the sobbing woman to her feet. The orderly attended to Thandie, still holding the bloody tampon in his hand.

"Right," said the doctor. "Bend over and grab that bar."

She did.

"Spread your legs."

She did. He shoved something hard and bulky into her rectum and felt around for what seemed to be a very long time. She bit down on her lip to stop from screaming.

"Stand up."

She did.

"Go and get into the stirrups over there."

She did. The doctor repeated his cavity inspection with the fat woman, who howled. She closed her eyes. She heard the sound of a slap and the howling stopped. The orderly helped the fat woman to a second set of stirrups beside hers, while the doctor inspected Thandie, who could barely stand at the bar. After that, the doctor came over to her, without changing his gloves. She shied away, by a single glare from the doctor's eyes froze her into place. He bent down to have a look, then stood up with a gasp of surprise.

"Morris. Come over here."

The orderly came over. The doctor was pointing to something down below.

"See that? That's an intact hymen. You don't see many of those in ones her age."

She felt the back of her throat cramp up. She wasn't going to cry. Not in front of them. She wished that she had Kitty's ability to turn to ice.

"Want it out?" the doctor asked, with a grin. She had to fight back the urge to vomit.

"No," she whispered.

"Suit yourself."

The orderly led her away from the examining table as the doctor went on to the fat woman. The sergeant had to help Thandie into the stirrups, as she could barely stand. She had the blanket and the twine tied around her waist when they brought the fat woman back. She wanted to reach out to her, but that might give the game away. Instead, she took a step back and huddled against the wall. Thandie limped back from the table, and helped the fat woman dress herself. The doctor sat at a table, filling in forms. No-one paid attention to her at all.

"Get rid of them," said the doctor to the sergeant.

"Cell 4 for the crazy," said the sergeant, pointing at her. "The other two go to the psych cells."

"Godspeed," whispered Thandie, before they led her away.

As they took her away, she tried to recall Thandie's last name, but could not. She started to weep.

"Should have taken your bloody pills," muttered the warder.

Sitting in a corner of the cell, she was glad that she had been able to keep the blanket. It was cold, and the paper dress that the medical orderly had given her didn't protect against the July cold at all. She didn't make eye contact with any of the prisoners, but was careful to watch them out of the corner of her eye. There were perhaps 30 women in the holding cell, penned in by the steel bars running from the concrete floor to the concrete ceiling. There were benches along one side that were occupied by what she decided were 20 members of a girl gang. Three of them had obscenities tattooed on the back of their hands. They all affected an appearance of being at ease in the room, unlike the ten women who huddled in the other corner. They looked terrified, and were being stripped of their designer clothing by some of the more enterprising gang members. They had checked out her paper dress and blanket, but she hadn't had anything that they considered worth taking. She drew the blanket around her and stared at a place in front of her on the floor and tried to think of a way out.

She could find no way that she could have avoided being locked in the cell. Every other option courted disaster, and even now she was convinced that this was the safest place to be. She might have overpowered the guard who had brought her there in any one of the long corridors that they had passed through if she had not been cuffed, but even then she would have had no idea of how to get out. There were police and warders and security checkpoints everywhere. She needed a name to get the machinery of bureaucracy working in her favour, but she couldn't think of one beyond that of the old man that Xavier had in to speak to them, and he was a political fugitive. Aside from getting broken out in some sort of mass jailbreak, she didn't know how she was going to get out of this one, and so she played an old game: what would they do in my place?

Momma wouldn't be in a spot like this, not unless she knew that she was going to get out of it. With Nana's help, Momma was always prepared, and no-one kept Momma chained up for long, even if she did get caught. The X-men tended to go off unprepared, almost on principle. No discipline or planning at all.

Monroe would have thought up something. She had a great head for tactics, even if she turned into a quivering nothing in confined spaces. No dignity there, cringing in the dark. She could imagine Monroe, no, Ororo, being very uncomfortable in here.

Betsy. Betsy would put on the stiff upper lip and die quietly. Not really into fighting, but then, Betsy was just too unpredictable. Betsy would have found a way out.

Kitty would have thought her way out of this, too. No. Kitty would have done would Betsy would have done. No. Pryde would have led them all smiling to the train, singing little songs all the way, keeping their spirits up. No. Kitty would have died instantly, dispersed to nothingness as soon as her mutant power had been taken away. No.

She buried her head in her knees. There was something else that she could have done. Something that she might still have the opportunity to do. She saw the bulge at the guard's crotch as he took her to the holding cell. She saw how he stood back so that he could look inside the paper dress, where it didn't fit properly at the shoulders. She could have turned to him, and kissed him, if she knew how. She suspected that experience wouldn't have mattered. If he had succumbed, then she might have persuaded him to take off the cuffs. If she had taken his uniform, she might have been able to escape. Either that, or he would have beaten her senseless and she would have sacrificed her virginity to some sweating animal, or perhaps a herd of them, before getting thrown into the cell anyhow. It was stupid to have even thought about it. She should have taken the risk. It was tissue, a meaningless thing for her to keep.

She slammed her fist into the floor. It was not meaningless. It meant something to her. It was something she would give to the man who would wait until she mastered the power, who would love her for who she was before he could love her physically. It wasn't something that Danvers would understand.

"Get the fuck out of my head, bitch," someone snarled. As thirty pairs of eyes fixed on hers, she wondered how long she would have to go on pretending that she was crazy.

They all stopped looking at her when the commotion started, somewhere outside. A company of guards was dragging a thrashing, manacled woman towards the cell. No one spoke. Several of the wealthy women were weeping, wide-eyed with disbelief. They dragged the still body into the cell, then lay into it with clubs and mag-lites, for all to see. The woman lay on the floor of the cell, her jeans and denim jacket covered in blood and dirt. The tattoo on the back of her hand read Fuck You, Dad.

"Jon-Jon!" she moaned, weakly.

One of the women from the benches went over to her, and gave her a thorough once over.

"They took my Jon-Jon."

"Sure, Georgie," said her companion. "Just stop there and be quiet, right?"

The woman on the floor began to howl.

"Quiet!" A male voice from the guard-room.

The woman screamed even louder.

"I want my Jon-Jon! Want him now! Filthy screws! I'll kill you all, tear your balls off with my teeth! Give him back to me, motherfuckers!"

Georgie somehow staggered to her feet, and looked at every face in turn. She tried not to make eye-contact, but when she did, she couldn't look away. Sallow skin, dilated pupils, wide staring eyes. "And the diagnosis?" asked the turbaned professor of surgery. PCP poisoning, or perhaps the very thing that she was pretending to suffer from.

"You," the woman said, pointing at her. "You took him, you whore."

Georgie snarled and leapt at her. She was pinned under her attacker, but quickly rolled on top and managed to get a good punch into the left kidney. The woman grunted, then landed a blow to her solar plexus. She rolled off onto the floor and lay on her side, gasping. The attacker was on top again, pummeling her head with light but painful blows. From somewhere behind, she heard the cell door open, and booted feet enter. Someone pulled her attacker off and threw the woman across the cell. They set to work on her again with their mag-lites, beating away rhythmically, until the screaming stopped. They paused for a moment, then went on with the beating, regular as a clock, four very large men. It was too much.

She rose shakily to her feet. All of the other women were pressed back against the bars, staring in silence. She walked towards the guards. A tattooed woman made a warning gesture of some sort, but she ignored it.

"Stop," she yelled. "There's no need. I'm fine."

They stopped beating Georgie. The woman's face was so covered in blood that her features were unrecognizable. Bone was visible through some of the wounds. The guards all turned towards her, smiling. The closest approached her. He was at least six feet tall, and must have weighed well over 200 pounds.

"What did you say?" he asked her, breath hissing between his teeth.

She hardly heard him. His eyes were magnetic, radiant blue under blond eyebrows. Just like Danvers' eyes, just before-

She was flying towards the bars. She hit them hard, but barely felt that next to the terrible pain in her ringing left ear. She hit the floor and rolled over, then lashed out automatically with a kick that once would have broken both of his legs. Instead, it almost fractured her ankle, if the pain was any indication. The guard kicked her in the ribs and picked her up by the hair, dragging her away from the bars.

She wanted a cigarette. They were so hypocritical, these Americans. It was supposed to be a video designed to show how the scars of torture came about, but he knew that it was not a re-enactment. What he was watching on the video was already well-known from countless sessions in the police cells with the worthless shits that challenged the honour of the state and the army. The soldier on the screen hit a woman lying on a concrete floor on the elbows, on the soles of the feet, on all the basic nerve clusters, in places where the damage wouldn't show. He knew those techniques, from long experience. He had learned them from the older officers who had learned them from their fathers, then added to their knowledge at this very school before the Americans passed their stupid laws that prevented them from being open about it. Hypocrites. They wanted cheap coffee. Perhaps they believed that if fell off the trees and into the shipping sacks of its own accord. He wondered if one day all of this would produce an economic miracle as it had in Chile. The Americans loved Chile, didn't seem to mind all the blood that had been spilled there, as long as it was a showcase for privatization. Everything in his country had always been private, and ten times as many were dead, but no Americans were singing its praises. Hypocrites. He was just about to leave the room for the crapper when the instructor came up to him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and lifted him off the floor.

"Never, never, EVER, speak to an officer of the LAW unless you are spoken TO!" he screamed. "You'll never do that to me again, you little piece of shit," Danvers screamed, as she stared at the crushed, corkscrewed remnants of her legs. She blacked out as Danvers picked up her head to smash it into the floor.

She was on the kitchen table at home, reaching out for Momma, who wouldn't come near. If Momma touched her, she could morph to normal, and she could norm to standard and be healed. Momma wouldn't come near. Instead, Momma was backed up against the wall, screaming while Nana tried to calm her down. St. John was talking to her, shaking her every time she felt as if she was greying out. Unimaginable pain in her shattered legs at each movement. Pain with every breath from four broken ribs. Dom was telling her Don't fall asleep or you will die.

There was a terrible burning across her back and buttocks. Searing pain from her shoulders and her wrists, which were locked together. The blanket and paper dress were gone. They were dragging her by manacled wrists across a concrete floor. She tried to help, tried to get her legs to lift her lacerated skin off the ground, but they were like wood. She had no control, no feeling, and it slowed them down. They hit her again, and she stopped trying to help. They didn't drag her much further after that.

"Here," barked a hoarse voice.

She heard a steel door open. A terrible smell. Cheese, leather, and urine, all mixed up together. They dragged her into a small concrete walled cubicle. Describe this cell! Ceiling 2m high, 2m deep, 1m wide. No light, no window, plate steel door with a slit in it, sir! The blonde one stood over her. Page, his name is Page. She could read it on his ID badge. There were two others in the cell. One had a handlebar moustache which he kept licking. Gendron. The other was very young and Chinese, and very nervous. Leung.

"Well, faggot, what'd you think of that?" said Page, still panting from the effort of dragging her into cell.

Leung's mouth worked, but he said nothing.

"The kid has an opinion," said Gendron.

"Rules," said Leung.

"What rules?" said Page.

"Have to undo the cuffs. We can't leave her like this."

"Very good, faggot. Unlock it." She heard a key hit the concrete floor. Leung vanished behind her and undid her cuffs. Her arms fell to floor like dead things. Somehow the pain had become worse, but she couldn't find the words to ask them to lock them up again.

"Anything else, boy?" asked Gendron.

"Has to have a bucket," said Leung.

"THEN GET ONE," screamed Page.

She heard the sound of running feet.

"Nice piece," said Gendron.

A foot kicked her over onto her back. Their eyes were all over her. She didn't have the strength to cover herself.

"Cunt," said Page softly.

"Shit. Apo's coming back," said Gendron.

The guards left her, and walked back into the hall.

"Couldn't find a clean one," said Leung.

"Who gives a fuck," said Page.

Something large and dark flew into the room, striking the wall with a loud crash. Its contents splattered everywhere, making the smell even worse.

The door slammed closed.

"Sleep, little angel," said Fred, gently laying her down in her bed to heal.

"Don't fall asleep," said the Professor of Medicine. "What you miss in your slumber during my lecture may kill the first patient that you diagnose in the casualty ward."

She woke up with a start, but she wasn't in the lecture hall. Instead, she was in the casualty ward, seeing her first patient. They all crowded into the cubicle, where a man lay on a gurney, covered in blood. The state of emergency had been in effect for several weeks, and she had already learned not to see things like this when she passed them in the streets.

"You," said the Professor of Medicine, pointing at her. "Describe her injuries."

"She's been beaten," she said meekly. There were snickers from somewhere in the back.

"Bravo! A statement of the obvious. Are you upset because this patient has been beaten by the police?"

"Yes," She said.

"Do you want to be a doctor?"

No. Not in a world that can do this. "Yes."

"Then remember that you are here to heal. What happens beyond our doors must not be considered. Now, describe his injuries fully."

She flexed her arms, gingerly. No sharp pains, no nausea. Bruises on the elbows and the wrists. Bruised ribs, that hurt every time she breathed. Not broken, that would have been worse. She knew that from Danvers.

She tried to lift her head. Her shoulders hurt, but she could almost move her arms, so they weren't dislocated. The legs? She almost lost her courage.

"You will, in the course of your career, see things that will threaten to shrivel you soul, " said the Professor of Medicine, throwing back his turbaned head on the first day of lectures. "You must always find the courage to face them, for if you do not, then who will?"

She moved her right leg, very slightly. A terrible ache, not a sharp, vomit-inducing pain. Her hand trembled as it moved towards her knee. It hovered over the joint, then she brought it down. It still felt like a knee. She almost wept.

"See? This is what happens to little girls who take things that don't belong to them."

Danvers had said that after pulling the cap out of one of her shattered knees.

"Every time I eat osso bucco, I'm going to think of you."

After Danvers had finished with her, she wasn't really there at all. Danvers kept shaking her awake to watch as she broke the legs, then crushed the knees and the ankles. Danvers had twisted what was left until she was looking at the soles of her boots sitting in her lap.

She twisted her head slightly. In the gloom, she could barely make out the outline of her leg on the floor. They were both in the right places, more or less. She closed her eyes with relief.

She woke up on the living-room sofa, with Momma standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the hallway. The morphine blocked the pain. She couldn't see Momma's face, only hear her words.

"Live, little one. Just a few more days, please."

She did what Momma asked, slipping in and out of the morphine stupor from pain to an endless waking dreams of the blonde bitch leering at her as she destroyed her legs. Two days later, she awakened to find a bearded man in a weird cloak looking down on her. He was very frail and could barely stand. Fred was holding him up. Momma was there, screaming at him, telling him that if he didn't fix her legs, that she would go down into that damn sewer where he lived and kneecap a dozen kids in retaliation. Nana was holding her hand, wincing. The little man laid his hands on her, and something happened that was better than the morphine. Something happened to her mangled legs under the blanket, as the gentle hands passed over her head.

"She will be walking within the week. Give her a few days, and then have her take a few steps. She will heal."

Momma hadn't been too happy about that, but the old man had collapsed, unable to do more. Momma and Dominic had gone on a job for four days after that, but St John and Fred had stayed, taking turns coaxing her into standing and taking small steps. It was so hard, forcing herself to believe that she had something to stand on instead of twisted, bloody meat. When Momma had returned from New York, she had taken her first steps alone, and there wasn't a dry eye in the house, except for her own.

Then she woke up, back in her room in the desert. There was something that she had forgotten to do before she went to sleep, but she knew that it had to be done now, before sleep took her again. Tight under the covers, she took her diary out of its plastic bag and wrote out the names. Page. Gendron. Thandie. Georgie. Who they were, what they did, what had happened. When she had finished, she put it underneath the bed, but close to the covers where she could get at it. She tucked herself in under the sheets and went to sleep again.

She had a very bad dream. They were standing at the door to her room, which was open. She couldn't see them because they were shining lights in her face. She tried to shield her eyes with her hand, but it didn't help. They were looking at her and she wasn't wearing any clothes. She put her right hand between her legs, and her left across her breasts. She tried to crawl further into the darkness, but there wasn't anywhere to go. The lights followed every move she made, some blinding her, others playing over her hands and her legs. The smell of alcohol from outside cut through the smell of shit. She felt her wrists. The manacles were missing and so were her claws. She was confused. They had always been part of her, ever since Papa had chained her in the basement.

He couldn't see the ones at the door, but she knew them. They had come in the night for her, many times in many different places. They always said the same things, in the same black words.

"It's not my fault," she slurred. Mistake. Never give them anything without a fight.

"Ohhhh. She can talk"

"Not her place to talk. Cunts shouldn't talk."

"You've never seen one."

"Twenty that she spits."

"No, she's a swallower. Look at those eyes. Bitch swallows."

She tried to withdraw further into the cell, to get away from the light.

"Look at that. She's modest."

"Naw, she knows what's coming and she's getting ready for us. Getting all lubricated to ease our passage."

"Hold the flashlight up."

She was blinded again. There was no place that she could further back into. The concrete was unrelenting.

"Get the apo."

"Where's the fucking apo?"

There was a scuffling sound from the corridor. The light vanished for a moment, and someone was thrown into cell with her. He landed hard against the floor. She pulled her legs and arms in tighter, trying not to touch him. He had the uniform like the other warders. except for the armband. Conscientious Objector, written in black capitals. He looked up at her, with wild, terrified eyes.

"Go get her."

"She's been waiting for you."

"She wants it. She's been getting wet for you."

"Cherry for the cherry."

They started chanting it, over and over, a chorus of drunken voices. His face was vaguely familiar.

"Help me?" he pleaded.

His eyes met hers for a moment, but then he turned and ran for the door. There was a scuffle, and series of muffled curses.

"Come back, you little faggot."

"Apo shit."

"Get back here or we'll give you what she's going to get."

More running, and the lights went away. Two were left, staring into the cell.


"So what?"

"Gonna do her?"

"Fuck no, she's all covered in shit."

"You shouldn't have thrown the bucket in,"

"Fuck you. Let's clean her up."

"Urine is sterile, " said the Professor of Medicine. "it carries no disease". The fact was of little comfort, but it was only a bad dream. A very bad dream.


Concluded in Part 3


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