The Seventh Child

Musings from Huntsman upon the death of their seventh test subject, Iris. See Mysterious Letter for additional context.

Lucky number seven, hm? She didn't seem so lucky now, strapped to that uncomfortable chair, her body covered in injuries and my hands covered in her blood, her breathing slow and irregular. Helpless.
No, the lucky one had been me. I couldn't understand why the universe looked on the empty, twisted shell of the man I'd once been and decided that they deserved mercy. And yet it had given me an experiment- no, a child- that loved and trusted me unconditionally.
I had watched her grow, from a small girl struggling to survive on the streets, to a teenager mature beyond her years, to an adult assassin who would spill anyone's blood so long as it pleased me. Anyone else would have written that helpless child off as nothing, a nobody, a drain on society, but she had a ferocious spark I couldn't help but admire. Her very survival was an act of rebellion against the hand she'd been dealt in her youth, and to do so with such a bright smile on her face demonstrated an unfathomable depth of strength. 
Then her breath stopped. I unstrapped the corpse and held her for a moment, remembering the countless times that I had been her only help, stitching shut her many injuries and drying her tears.
I very will forever be sorry for the pain I caused you, my darling. But I have faith in the ritual, and you had faith in me. Soon you will rise, and you will never be helpless again.