ARC10

Chapter 13.4

I regain consciousness and pry my eyes open a little at a time. The white, pock-marked ceiling and stiff, cold table underneath ease me back into subdued anxiety. I'm back. It feels as if someone ran over my abdomen with a battle tank. "Holy fucking Heap, that hurts like a bitch."

"What hurts?" Dean's low voice wafts from a corner of the room.

There's no name for it. I can't pinpoint the exact location of my suffering. It's everywhere. "It's fine. Not so bad if I take it slow."

Dean approaches with small, tentative steps. He extends his hand. I grip it and pull myself to a seated position, my aching lower half seizing with pain.

As my chorus of groans subside, my personal maroon demon enters the room. "Your extraction was a success. We have the necessary materials and will be in contact soon for the next step. Captain Freyer, may I assume you are capable of escorting Captain Lorn home?" He scrutinizes me with a bored, lazy smile. "She may be tender for a few hours."

Dean nods and averts his gaze.

"Tender?" I scoff, squeezing Dean's hand as another roll of pain flares through.

He pauses on his retreat and faces us, his hand already on the doorknob. "I will be in touch."

"It feels like it was all some weird nightmare." As the pain ebbs, I drop my head in my hands to shake out the foggy feeling of waking. "But not my regular nightmares. It's like the weird ones I get from being Junk Juice drunk—you know, like the ones where sometimes I'm you and you're a tree . . . "

Dean retreats to the chair across the room. He drops into in.

"What was yours like?" I ask, blinking rapidly, hoping my eyes will adjust to the light.

He doesn't answer for a few minutes. I slip to the floor on unsteady legs and stuff feet I can barely feel into my wide-lipped boots. The laces flop around as I stumble upright.

"Let's just get out of here," he says, abruptly striding to the exit and opening the door for me.

I couldn't agree more.

The clean hall and lab facilities are pristine and inviting in comparison to the decaying horror-show I had inhabited. This place, where all the new mothers stroll in holding their bellies and their patriotic sneers, seems like a warm, comforting cave of blankets and kittens hugs or some shit.

When we exit the HHP, we realize hours have passed. The exhaustion returns as I imagine the distance between here and Level 7. Heaviness drags my body down as we reach the entrance to the ever-populated Rotunda. As we initate our descent, my boots become bricks.

"I don't think I can make it to my place. Can I crash at yours?"

His eyes roam over emptiness, searching the ceiling as he floats away.

I reach out and tug at one of his fingers. He jumps as if startled and faces me with a grim frown.

What the hell happened in there?

"Yeah, let's go." His hand engulfs mine completely. I don't have time to react before he drags me down the halls.

We make it to Level 4 where the other animal handlers and agriculture technicians reside. Even the retired engineering geniuses are allowed to keep residence here. They're the ones who helped construct the greenhouse system that keeps our vegetation thriving fifty feet from the surface of the earth. And Warren Freyer is their king.

The humid air smells awful. It's a different kind of heinous aroma than I'm used to. It's nothing metallic or corroding. It's sour and reeks of all things natural.

We muck around the halls as I trip over my feet. By the time we arrive, the door slides open, revealing an empty common room in immaculate condition. The metal sheen of lustrous silver walls compliments the tweed couch that doesn't spot a single tear. It's a rusty red that matches the toolboxes lining the shelves of the wall. In the corner of the wide, darkened common room, the purple UV lamp glows over the blooms of Warren's cherished flowers. The orchids lean against their posts, their stems and white blossoms glowing like ghosts in the darkness. I've always been fascinated by Warren's bizarre obsession over them.

Freyer men. I swear to the Lady.

Dean's grip loosens, and I slide to the couch, pulling my legs up to rest on it thick cushion. I'm leaning over the arm on one side when he plops down beside me. The couch dips with his weight, and gravity pulls me into the sinking point.

My head nestles on his bicep. It slips and falls to his chest and then his lap. I should be weirded out being close to his particular crotch, but considering what we've been through these last few weeks—no, it's not weird anymore.

Dean's lap is soft and warm. My legs kick back in the other direction, and I crawl closer to find a more comfortable place against him. He tenses.

"What happened tonight?" I ask again. I stare into his empty common room, hoping his afternoon wasn't as hellish as mine.

I can feel him relax, muscle by muscle until he finally becomes malleable again. He twists in his seat to drape a blanket over my body and rests an arm across my shoulders. But he doesn't answer.

"Wake me in an hour?"

His fingers are in my hair, brushing the little fly-away pieces back from my face. He's so far away.

"Dean," I say with a bite of irritation. "Wake me in an hour. Please."

He makes a noise of acknowledgment and continues tracing my dark hairline with the calloused pad of his finger.