ARC10

Chapter 6

I hear a buzz in the distance. The metal door opens, and two Maroon Coats stride through, yanking me by my wrist to seated position. I'm here for the ride, so I continue to let them adjust my boneless body.

Dean slowly rises and places a reassuring hand low on my back. It rests there for a few seconds before making languid, large circles. His PAHLM screen is cold against my skin.

I want to yell at him to keep his dirty hands off me, but I can't.

His words strike me again. "This isn't what I wanted either."

I relax under the pressure of his hand as the Coats press devices into my mouth, take readings, and make a mechanical fuss over my limp body.

I check out the girl sitting in the reflection of the one-way mirror. I recognize that it's me, but it's not. It looks like me, but only around the cheeks and mouth.

I catch Dean looking at me in the reflection, too, as he nods reassuringly.

Maybe I did leave my body, and I haven't gone back to it yet. Whatever is there, sitting in the black frame of the window is not me. I wouldn't tolerate the pokes and prodding fingers.

It's my eyes. Those aren't mine. Those are the eyes of someone who's at her breaking point.

"All right, Captain Lorn, you're free to go. We contact you with the results," the Maroon Coat on the left says while packing his instruments.

I test my hold on the floor with my toes, measuring how gravity might betray me today, too. I hoist myself off the cot with a push from the edge. I stretch my spine to its extreme, feeling each vertebrae pop. I melt on the inside, as if the structurally sound mechanisms in my body at some point last night became vapors.

If I can make it back to my pod, I can collapse there. But not here. Not now. Not in front of this mirror-window-audience. Not in front of Warren. Not in front of Dean. He's seen me slip too far already.

His hand slides away as I move to the middle of the room to collect my pants. With my back to him, I pull myself together. Yet, I realize with grim dismay that my shirt is still back on Level 3 with Kai.

Rolling my neck and shoulders, I prepare to face the corridors. I can do this. I paraded around Level 3 like this, and now I'm going to do it again. Let them look. See what I care.

Dean stops me before I reach the door. "Here." He slips his hands through his own shirt and opens it like a jacket, allowing me to push my arms through each sleeve. Leave it to Dean to hand me the shirt off his back.

But I hesitate before accepting. The shirt is one I've seen before. It's not new. But the movement, the acceptance, the thought of the material that touched him touching me is revolting.

I don't want to touch it, but what's the alternative?

The arms are nearly a foot too long, and the hem reaches my knees. I question whether or not it would be more telling to return this way or slink back out the way I came in.

"I think this makes things look worse."

"Fine then, it's cold down here, I'll take it back."

He moves to pull the shirt away, but I hug it closer to me. The earthy smell of it is entirely Dean-ish, and, from somewhere in my subconscious reflex, I find it comforting and warm. Furthermore, maybe I don't want to strut through Levels 3 through 7 completely bare-breasted.

"No, I mean, it's fine. I'll use it. Thanks."

He retreats to lace his boots.

Looking at the open doorway, I realize where I must go, but I don't want to show my face in the halls. The sudden wish to be shot dead right there flashes through my mind, unbidden.

Dean approaches behind me and presses the same reassuring hand to my back. He doesn't push, he doesn't move. He lets it stay there. The gurgling sickness of the situation causes my eyes to close in its overwhelming horror, but his hand stops me from retching violently like some kind of miracle cure. Have we known each other long enough that even something as disgusting as the HHP can't smear what we have built?

Borrowing his strength, I move forward.

Warren sneers at me as we leave.

He doesn't say a word, but it's not necessary. He won. He put me in my place.

Swollen lips open to scathe me, but Dean pushes me out of the room before his hideous father has a chance to gargle out a single word.

We rush past the other Maroon Coats. They don't even notice us as we exit. They're busy with beakers and test tubes and numbers and results. The rickety elevator doors jiggle open, and we step through silently with Dean's hand still pressed into me.

As soon as we're out, I can breathe again. I sag onto Dean, hoping he's still willing to share his stability for a while.

We exit at the Rotunda, which is blessedly empty. We don't hear anything except the soft whistle of steam releasing from overhead pipes. We don't see anyone except for the cartoon representation of our URE president, two-dimensional and imposing in his propaganda lining the concrete walls. He is a series of black squares, a shadow with straight lines who encourages us to work toward a greater future for humanity. Safety and Equality for Unity, the caption says under his boxy chin.

Other than the black eyes of our president, we don't run into a single person on the slow journey to my pod—a small mercy I am eternally grateful for. Since it's nearly 0400, I'm not surprised. When we arrive at my place, I slowly put my PAHLM to the reader.

Dean leans against the door to trigger the lock.

I frown at him and wonder what to do. What happened tonight was deplorable. It was lucky our old friendship came out to save us. Hints of gratitude continue pulsing under my skin. They carry memories of less complicated times.

"Thanks for the shirt." I unbutton the front and shimmy out of it, handing the faded gray fatigues back to him.

His eyes glaze to stone. "Nika," he mumbles, "I want to work together on this. We're contracted partners." His emphasis on the "partners" does little to take away the disgust of the "contracted" part. "You don't have to do this alone."

I gaze back at my room with deep longing.

"Thanks . . ." my grainy voice pushes out. I'm stuck. There's something here to express, but the right words float above my head, unwilling to come back. "Thanks for the shirt . . . again."

I don't mean to say "shirt." I don't understand why I say it. I mean much more but have no words to associate with the sheer extent of my thanks. For not being the one to rat me out to the HHP, even if it was his scum-for-brains father. For not being mean about it. For trying to make it better. For not making me feel smaller than I already am.

"Will you at least think about it?"

My head nods of its own volition before I can let the question sink in. Trust him. You've done it before, you can do it again. Trust him.