Keeper of the Lost Cities: Rebuild [COMPLETED]

Chapter Forty-Seven - FITZ

"Let me get this straight: you want us to implant an idea into the gang members' minds?" Damel asked.

Fitz was grateful—he'd needed clarification too, except he couldn't stop coughing long enough to say a word.

"Mimic it in their voice, so they think the thought is coming from their subconscious," Stina instructed. "Make it something like, Put out the fire. I assume the more complicated the idea, the harder it will be to trick them."

"Even if they buy it, it's not guaranteed to work," said Damel. "People have ideas and don't go through with them all the time—especially if it's one that contrasts all of their thoughts thus far."

"We have to take that chance! Fitz can't leap without hurting himself. If you implant the sentence into Jonathan's mind, since you know what he sounds like, Fitz can do it in their leader's mind. Both men are leader figures, so even if only one sticks, they can order the rest to do the same."

Damel glanced at Fitz worriedly. "Obviously we have to try."

Fitz wanted to assure them he was okay, but another hacking fit prevented the words from leaving his mouth. By this point, the whole medical tent was filled with smoke. It wasn't thick enough to completely hide Stina and Damel, but Fitz's eyes were burning anyway, so he closed them.

None of them would be okay if they didn't try.

Okay, I'm working on it, he transmitted to them both before opening his mind to the humans'. It was a weak link—he could barely manage anything else—but, blessedly, human minds were easier to access than elvin ones. Almost immediately, he heard the mental voices of at least a dozen gang members.

Another cough wrenched his focus away, and he clutched at his chest as if he were holding his guts in. He could feel something wet beneath his shirt—his wound was bleeding again.

That's not going to matter if you die from smoke inhalation, he reminded himself, opening his mind again. Again, he heard the voices—but this time he strained to tell the difference between them. The lilt of an accent, the use of slang, or the emphasis on certain syllables... It all mattered.

Finally he landed on a familiar roughness, the voice of a memory: One of the twelve leaders, yes?

A gunshot rang out, and he sprung upward with a shout.

"Fitz? Fitz, are you alright?" A hand fumbled around the bedside until it reached his. The voice was Stina's, but she didn't sound alarmed.

I'm imagining things. He ran a shaking hand through his hair.

"Stop that," she scolded, smacking it down.

"Accomplished," Damel said suddenly, bending down with a cough. "We should get on the floor; smoke rises."

"Help me get him down," said Stina. She grabbed Fitz under the armpits and Damel his legs, hauling him to the ground.

"I'm not helpless," Fitz muttered, shaking them off.

Stina got on her stomach beside him. "Did you implant the idea?"

"Give me a sec."

He squeezed his eyelids shut, resolving to keep them that way this time. He wouldn't let some dumb memory kill them all.

Damel can do it; so can I. He repeated this in his head as he searched the forest for a third time. He found the leader more quickly than before, the man's voice—or a memory of it—following the mantra.