ARC10

Chapter 3.3

I hesitate, but merely for the entirety of one full second before bolting back. Past the garish lights of doorways, past the pipes where steam pressure screams through poorly patched cracks, and past the stairwell where two or three PTSD patients pace the corridors at night because they can feel their hands exploding again when they close their eyes.

I run quickly, not bothering to hold my coat closed anymore.

Once I make it to the Rotunda, I lope over the treads three at a time to fall farther away from the most terrifying battle I've ever faced. At Level 6, I sprint toward the East Wing and fling myself through the corridors as if I were a pebble in a slingshot.

Before I arrive to Level 6, a slight nudge of panic bites tentatively at my gut.

The checkpoints are ahead. There's usually someone there, making sure there is order. We all need order.

What if someone's there?

How do I slide past him? How do I explain myself? How do I continue?

When I turn the corner, I don't stop to stare at the deserted station.

I thank the Lady of the Impenetrable Heap for the luck, because it must have been some miracle that cast away the security tonight. I sprint, wondering what the second checkpoint has in store.

This time, I slow when I notice the second checkpoint is also abandoned. While my feet move, my mind races faster. What is happening here?

To my surprise, only one guard meets me at the final checkpoint.

Catching my breath, I place my hands on my hips and gasp in the dank puffs of air. I barely register the questioning glare in my direction.

"Name?" the guard asks in a voice so gruff and harsh, I immediately straighten my body to working position.

"Captain Janika Lorn." I click my heels together and hold out my PAHLM face up.

His right hand grabs mine in a tight grip. Our joined hands emit a subtle trill while my information transfers to his PAHLM. He quickly scans it and nods me forward.

I don't consider for a second that they must be expecting me.

Winding through the maze to reach the room, a fourth checkpoint I had never seen before appears around the corner. This one consists of two guards. After scanning, the rush of my excitement carries my through.

"Captain," one whispers before I continue my sprint down the hall.

I'm already gone.

What the hell kind of setup is this? No checks at points one and two, but there is someone at three and an added fourth one?

I fly faster down the halls, scanning for the inconspicuous sign of Combat Room 4.

When I spot it in my peripherals, I barely even wait to barrel through it. My mind assembles images of large convoys, guns, operation plans drawn out in numbers and lines, and, especially, long rides out of this sinkhole.

Instead, I'm face to face with the stranger from the bar. I halt right before her. If her body hadn't stopped me in my tracks, I would have flailed into the room and begged them to put my name at the top of the recruit list, no matter what the mission may be.

She stares directly into my eyes with distrust and suspicion. "I can see this was a last-minute decision."

"I'm ready. Whatever you got, I'm ready." I don't normally talk so informally to my superiors. Panicking, not knowing her rank or status, I overcorrect, standing to attention once again and shouting, "Ma'am!"

With the sideways smile, she pivots. "Follow me, then, Captain Lorn." She disappears into the darkened room with her hands twisted behind her back, one palm holding the other.

As she departs, I consign myself to her hands. Those are what I want. I already feel so much safer in their hold.

As I am about to enter, another soldier appears behind me—a man with a confused yet determined look about him which must mirror my own face.

"Combat Room 4 super secret mission?" the black-haired, bulky man about my age asks. I don't remember ever seeing this guy before.

I nod my head and let my gaze return to the mysterious woman through the doorway. Once the shadows swallow her form, I return my attention to the guy. I extend my arm graciously, bowing awkwardly as I'm unsure of his rank or title.

There are plenty of surprises in the militia of the URE. Who knows if this man outranks me or not. I've let my guard slip once already, I don't want it to happen again.

"After you, sir."

"The lady is quite the gentleman." He smirks, his dark eyebrows rising in surprise as he passes.

I'm too busy being curious to appreciate his humor. I follow him close at his heels.

We stride through a dark corridor. The damp air matches my gut that is rolling and spinning like a thickening stew. Nerves buzz up and down my arms. My body hums as if it were a match already hot from the anticipation of being struck.

I follow the strange woman's brisk pace until I finally see a light at the end of the hall.

"The others have already arrived. We were only waiting for the two of you." What she says barely registers. Once we've entered the room, a group materializing at a U-shaped table stuns me.

With large, yellow paper containers before each of them, the rising superstars of the URE sit before me. My mouth drops as I recognize some hard-hitting soldiers whom I've had the pleasure of fighting with and some faces I only recognize through descriptions of grandeur. They are heroes.

"Please." The strange woman puts her hand on my shoulder and gestures to the two empty spots at the far end. "Have a seat. You will be read-in shortly."

I slip behind the table and take a chair. The black-haired man follows my movements. With my chin raised and my back as rigid as the barrel of a shotgun, I give my attention to the middle of the 'U' where the woman now stands.

She silences us with a graceful nod. "We will have an opportunity for introductions later. As of now, I must brief you on Operation Homecoming. Please, open your packets for details."

Each person reaches for his or her yellow paper object—something I've never seen before. It's massive and dull colored, like the hard cheese Simon buys from the dairy booth. I furtively glance around to figure out what to do with this foreign object.

The few older recruits seem to be tearing into a hidden fold with nostalgic glee. The rest of us under thirty are struggling to remain calm. Without trying to make a fool of myself so early in the meeting, I take it and attempt to rip the thing open where the little folds meet in the middle.

While discreetly opening the enigma in front of me, I stare down the row and identify the distinguished profiles of the men and women sitting at the table. Instead of focusing on their hands, I now examine their faces and recall names, ranks, and acts of valor. As I continue down the table, my awe grows greater and greater and—

Ah! Goddammit!

The yellow paper slices my finger down the middle. I frown at the blood and quickly suck it up before it drips on the white sheets that have emerged from the yellow paper's belly.

A soft chuckle radiates from the other end of the table.

Looking up to check who has the balls to laugh at me right now, I spot Dean, shaking his head and pulling out the white papers without hassle.

Seeing him here throws me for a loop.

I would never have been able to visit him tonight regardless whether I came here or not. He wouldn't have been there. Only his empty cot and cold sheets would have met me.

Sudden loathing flares.

I hate him with every damn fiber of my being.

I want him dead.