Keeper of the Lost Cities: Rebuild [COMPLETED]

Chapter Forty-Four - STINA

Being an Empath made it really hard to dislike everyone.

As Stina wore a rut in the ground, she met the eyes of those waiting nearby. They didn't know Fitz personally, probably only realized he was a Councillor, and they stood with casual worry. She met their eyes and stared into their souls and blamed each and every one of them. She needed someone to blame, and Maruca wasn't here to take up the torch.

Human reference, her brain instinctively supplied, but Maruca couldn't be annoyed when she was gone, and Fitz couldn't do that snort-laugh thing he did when he was amused but didn't want to show it because he was dying.

Her stomach did a flip-floppy thing she wasn't too fond of at the thought of Fitz. Would he ever smile again? Because if he didn't—

It's your fault, she accused a middle-aged human, fidgeting uncomfortably as he looked on the medical tent like everyone else.

Except she could feel the waves of confusion and even a tinge of worry wafting off him like steaming mallowmelt. And if he, a random person who either knew nothing or very little about Fitz, could find the emotional capacity to care, that meant he wasn't the bad guy, and he wasn't to blame.

Thus why being an Empath made it hard to dislike everybody.

"How long does it take for a stupid procedure?" she snapped at Belisia. "It's been ages."

The Ancient's eyes were far away. "I know what ages feel like, and this is not it."

"UGH! Can you just shut up and give me a straight answer for once?!"

The humans and elves nearby shifted awkwardly.

"I know what you're going through—" Belisia started, but Stina laughed mirthlessly, cutting her off.

"Actually, you don't."

Even Stina didn't know what she was "going through." Besides, that phrase sounded like she'd chosen this path, and no, that was Maruca and Fitz who'd wanted to be stupid and go ahead with the heist-plus-some-fun-backstabbing plot Jonathan and his gang had cooked up.

She could've blamed Maruca for pushing so hard, but at the end of the day, Stina had agreed to go along. Plus, it wasn't like either of them had shot Fitz. That was the gang's fault.

Except she needed to be mad at someone right now, and no gang member was here.

She opened her mouth to lash out at the Ancient again when the medical tent flap parted and any words her lips could have formed died as ideas. Dr. What's-His-Name's wrinkly face looked like it had an anchor attached to it, pulling all the flaps of skin downward. Stina had figured when she'd first met him that he didn't smile very much, but still, seeing his face made all the worst-case-scenarios gallop through her head like a herd of angry unicorns.

IS FITZ ALRIGHT?! she wanted to scream, but seeing as no words would come out, she hoped she conveyed it with her gaze.

"The procedure went better than expected," the doctor finally said. "He's alive for now—unless he takes a turn for the worse."

"See, that last part wasn't necessary," Belisia said flippantly, but she was clearly relieved. "We're going to have to have another discussion on pessimism in the workplace."

"Can I see him?" Stina managed.

Wrinkly Face eyed her with obvious disdain, but eventually he stepped aside. "For a little while. He's resting."

Stina shoved past him and ducked into the tent. The inside seemed smaller than she remembered, a bunch of machines she didn't know how to identify cluttering up the space—or maybe that was because her tunnel vision made it hard to focus on anything other than a cot and the pale boy lying on it. Fitz had always looked like he needed a good ten hours in the sun, but this... He was practically gray. His breathing, offset by the beep of some obstruction connected to him by creepy-looking tubes, filled the space with a fragile sound, and she was afraid to move in case she somehow broke it.