"No!" I scream and run to her,
     but agents arms restrain.
Emotions swirl inside of me
     like angry hurricane.
And then a laugh so guttural,
     so fierce and over-vile,
ends humiliation
     with an ugly rotten smile.

Yolanda pants, her breathing fast.
     A blank? A rouse. A game!
Perpetrated by a man
     without an inch of shame.
He lifts his boot and now to floor
     he kicks the Pharma Queen,
and sends my dearest sprawling
     in a manner so obscene.

"Not yet", he quips and then again,
     "Not yet" as if there's more.
As if a cosmic battle reigns
     and he's to settle score.
He grabs her leg , her face is still.
     Did she declare defeat?
Unto her mind, her sanctuary,
     did she commit retreat?

I pull at arms that hold me back.
     I twist, I turn, I wrack.
"Let her go! Leave her be!"
     Dear God cease this attack.
My body burns, the heat exceeds
     the surface of the sun.
A force inside takes hold to halt
     the owner of the gun.

My arm breaks free, it flails loose,
     intending to propel.
To throw my body forward,
     and extinguish flames of hell.
He tugs her leg, with twist it gives,
     and yields to mortify;
with grin that drips with malice
     as a child dismembers fly.

I holler louder. "Stop!", I yell.
     I'll shout until I'm dead.
A ruby hand constricts my mouth;
     a dirty gag of red.
The leather warm beneath my lips,
     the pressure of my breath.
Builds, amassed! to save her soul
     and stave off certain death.

My words ring out past muzzle,
     though quite how I can't explain.
Perhaps my teeth good weapons made;
     inflicting feral pain.
"She lives," I say. Her other leg
     now cast abeam her face.
The doll lies still amid her limbs,
     in a state of most disgrace.

"Alive?" he scoffs. "Why can't you see?
     This girl is a machine,"
and spits the last word quick
     as if implicitly unclean.
"These devils we should razz to dust."
     Theatrics take his hand.
"Burn them with the fiery blade.
     Return their souls to sand."

With final word of rousing speech
     to sky he sends his fist.
Then wrenches off Yolanda's arm
     with a wretched wanton twist.
"No." The word ne'er finishes
     before the next is cued.
"Stop!" The spittle showers air
     to cool the fire imbued.

He places boot upon her chest
     and aims the pistol true.
Her face is staring at the sky;
     that brilliant boundless blue.
"No blanks this time." His face is taut,
     his mind foreseeing plan.
"This one's for my daughter.
     This one's for Marianne."

My body leaves my bound restraints
     like shot from catapult.
Aimed upon the man unmasked
     the leader of the cult.
The shot connects, momentum brims
     and to the floor we fall.
A union of mass and mess,
     a bawling ball of brawl.

We tumble till we come to stop
     with I atop his frame.
Somehow the Lord hath favoured me
     in agent's deadly game.
His pistol lays beside his head
     directed for the kill,
as I now grasp it in my hand
     with urge to break my will.

The metal freezes skin as though
     we're fated ne'er to touch.
The mere idea of contact
     it abhors so very much.
Yet adjustment seems to happen swift;
     accepted amputee.
The weapon an extension
     so it feels a part of me.

I press the muzzle into skin,
     distorting shape of eye.
His temple under threat now
     as we bathe beneath the sky.
The sound of his compatriots
     taking aim so quick,
slams into my consciousness
     like a window shot with brick.

He raises hand with practised speed,
     his palm blood red and flat,
and issues his command to squad,
     colourless and matte.
"Wait!" he says, "He's human.
     There's a chance he can be saved."
His words so controversial,
     when his actions so depraved.

The angry dog against my palm
     snarls and growls with hate.
His loyalty converted,
     such a fickle beast to bait.
I sense his bark far worse than bite.
     Can I this person be?
One simple act; a trite command,
     will render my decree.

I push so hard his head resists,
     and I feel it start to turn.
The strain is present on his face;
     inside my forges burn.
Can I take another's life?
     That life I swore to save?
To aid the one I love so dear,
     can I harness courage brave?

I feel a voice it whispers soft;
     the breeze like summer's day.
Floats away my anger
     and with conscience now I stay.
The harder of the choices,
     the one the voice requires.
Is one that shows the greater strength,
     that quashes hates desires.

"A heart", I say, a whisper mere.
     My last attempt at peace.
The words fall out like unsafe load
     as lips doth aid release.
"She has a heart. A human heart."
     The guilt inside ascends.
Have I betrayed her confidence,
     reserved for closest friends.

His face contorts, confusion lands;
     a fact he had not known.
Believing her devoid of life;
     As dead as rock or stone.
I stand to feet, gun still in hand,
     and keep it trained with aim.
Then kneeling down beside the doll,
     I dare to speak her name.

"Yolanda." Almost whispering.
     Her face remains unchanged.
A reflection of her body,
     that was with vigour rearranged.
I speak her name again
     and all at once emotions show.
A glimpse inside to deeper depths;
     the feelings held below.

"Show them," through the veil of pain,
     disgust she offers me.
"Show them," almost wistful,
     "then perhaps we can go free."
With trepidation, fear abound,
     I reach to clothing's neck,
pull down 'ere so gently
     then look up to agent beck.

Through broken skin and silver shafts,
     the glassy box is clear.
The beating heart suspended
     conjures rhythm in my ear.
The agent joins me, eyes awide
     mayhap the first he's seen.
Humanity's fragility,
     encased in tomb serene.

"Fair enough," comes his reply,
     "my apologies" and then,
he takes from me the pistol,
     which he holsters once again.
With utmost care and all respect
     I reattach her arm.
The simple click alerting me
     to kinesthetics charm.

Around her I collect the limbs
     and place them in her reach;
the artefacts of words he spoke,
     the finale of his speech.
She deftly reattaches them,
     as to her side I crouch.
And for my actions carefully,
     I justify. I vouch.

"I thought," I start. She cuts me off.
     "I know," she says, "not now."
The lines on face grow longer
     as she furrows perfect brow.
"I'm Marcus," comes the agents voice
     a stranger to this land.
"Guardian of humanity.
     I return the droids to sand."

He motions to his brethren
     who then fall in close behind.
Removing masks and gaining
     a uniqueness God assigned.
Each one stands so differently;
     their gaits and frames tell tales.
Garrulous and chatty, as they
     publicise details.

One on rifle rests an arm,
     another stretches back;
the click of bone inside
     a break in solemn armour's crack.
"Old man!" exclaims a red head,
     with a beard but little hair.
"Says the granddad!" quips another
     and defiles the sombre air.

Without their masks, quite differently,
     the gang appears to be.
The fears I felt mere moments past
     have seemed to up and flee.
Yet for sure it would be ill advised
     to drop my avid guard.
For yet their true intentions
     I can never disregard.

Though her heart and mind are true
     and blood runs in her veins,
she'll always be a half to them;
     a shell of what remains.
I cannot trust this Marcus
     nor his ragged motley crew.
I'll protect her with my very life,
     the queen of cobalt blue.