The Great Below

The Offer: Part 1

Her eyes were slow to adjust. The sensory details of her bedroom were all wrong, from the sterile alcohol smell to the relentless irritation of the wool blanket. She cursed herself for falling asleep. The Infirmary materialized from the static of morning vision and it was hard to tell how much time had passed.

Octavia shoved the blanket away, now suffocating under the heat of it. There was a sheen of sweat over her skin and her heart pounded away in her chest. She sat up on the flimsy cot. Deep breaths in through the nose, deep breaths out through the mouth.

In her dream, her instinct had been to turn to Victor for help. If he was in her situation right now, and she had been killed, how would he get out? Of course, he wouldn't want out. He had made some kind of deal. But if he hadn't, he would fight his way out. He would make it, too; he had talent.

Octavia touched at the grit of the floor in the dark until she found her sneakers. She got up and padded across the room, coaxing the doors apart. Alex had propped himself up against the wall a few feet away, upright but fast asleep. The angle of his neck would cause it to ache come morning, but his face was relaxed. It was a noble gesture, guarding her. Then again, he'd have more success if he were awake.

"Hey," she whispered. "Alex."

When it didn't rouse him, she came out into the hallway. His legs were stretched in front of him, the toes of his shoes drifting apart. She stood on either side and crouched down without touching him. The building was eerily quiet and she began to feel the cold again, the way it rolled off the concrete walls like fog. She watched his face. "Alex," she whispered. It was strange to have another man's name on her lips. The rise and fall of his chest remained steady, and that was all the permission she needed.

She slid her fingers into each of his outer jacket pockets. It wasn't an immediate success – the pads of her fingertips still felt like they'd been dipped in wax. The first pocket was only satin liner and heat; the second held a ring of keys. She pinched them tight and pulled them out silently.

Alex's eyebrow ticked a quick flash of annoyance.

Adrenaline surged in Octavia's chest and she froze. When his eyes didn't open, she stared at his neck and chest, watching him breathe. Inside the jacket, his dress shirt had been left unbuttoned to a spot just under his collarbone. She was momentarily fascinated by his nearness, by the smooth patch of skin there. But his breathing continued steadily, his forehead slack once more.

She reached a hand inside his jacket until her fingers could wrap tight around the handle of the gun. All feeling of exhaustion fell away. She had her own talent, and maybe it wasn't as practical as Victor's, but she was going to find her own success. God almighty – she had her hand in a strange man's jacket. There was a tiny latch hanging open on his holster. She cringed as the gun came loose, but the movement didn't seem to wake him, and then it was heavy and warm in her hands.

Octavia tiptoed back the way they had come.

#

She had to painstakingly try each key at the lock to Dominic's door. It was hard to go slow when every instinct shouted for her to hurry. And it had to be silent, because she was going to show Dominic that she was clever.

There was the possibility that someone might see her, or that Alex might wake up to check on her, but she stifled the thought. She had to. If there had been more time as she'd been robbing Alex, she might have acknowledged that she would have to shoot anyone who tried to stop her or anyone who raised an alarm. She might have acknowledged that her plan had no exit strategy or, more importantly, that it might not work at all.

The fourth key turned the deadbolt.

She slid inside, hoping the light from the hallway wouldn't wake him. There was a long, torturous moment of getting the door shut. Her eyes adjusted faster than she'd expected. In the corner by the bar cart she saw a tiny nightlight like a child would have. But then she realized it had to be there – in the absence of windows, the room wasn't maneuverable in the dark.

Octavia worked on making her breath as quiet and steady as possible, so that she could hear any movement from the bed. Dominic slept on his back under the glassy eyes of the stag, his arms at his sides. He looked less imposing than he did earlier. His face and neck had relaxed, and the judgmental crease of his brow – while still visible – had softened.

This was her moment. She'd made a few errors and sized up the situation poorly at first, but already she felt more confident. Alex, Doctor Townsend, Nick – they all did the bidding of this man. He had the ego to prove it. She lifted the gun and doubts crept in: had she seen a safety switch? Would there be a round in the chamber? Octavia hadn't seen or handled a gun since her father had taken her shooting as a teenager, but she assumed that if Alex was that much of a safety nut, he would have latched his holster closed.

She could walk right up and do it point blank; it would be a sure thing. Maybe the young soldier in the photo had it coming. But then, she didn't feel the least bit good about looking right into a man's face and ending him.

She leveled the gun from her spot at the foot of the bed. The noise would be tremendous – even knowing that didn't slow the choke-hold of her anxiety. It would be turning on a TV only to discover she'd left it on HIGH.

Octavia squeezed the trigger with two straining fingers, the recoil making her hands jump.

The bullet split the drywall above Dominic's sleeping head. He launched himself into the air like a sprung trap, screaming obscenities. Octavia lowered the gun, eyes and ears reeling from the flash and bang, her pulse pounding again. Dominic dove to the floor. There was a shuffling of blankets, and his hand appeared long enough to scrabble for his cell on the nightstand.

"Let me go," Octavia demanded. "Show me the way out of here." She came around the side of the bed, senses blazing, trying not to think about a moment in high school when she had dissected a frog only to discover its stomach in its mouth. Her science teacher explained that it was a self-preservation technique, that frogs could eject their stomachs through their mouths to avoid being poisoned. How guilty that had made her feel – that her frog in particular had been a fighter, and a losing one.

Dominic stabbed at the keypad of his phone, and even though she hadn't poisoned him, it was likely that his stomach was in the same place. She didn't feel quite as guilty.

Then she was blinded. A light flashed, alternately bathing the room in red and plunging it into darkness again. There was no accompanying bell or buzzer and the lack of sound lent the emergency light a strange urgency. Down on the floor, Dominic had regained a touch of his arrogance. He waited, legs splayed across the Oriental rug.

Octavia stepped closer, aiming the gun at his middle. "I want to leave. I don't know you, and I didn't see anything. I just want out."