THIRTY #3
A little girl peeks from behind a stack of crates, and her eyes land on my bandana. Then my hat. Then my torn sleeve. I pull my jacket tighter and she disappears behind the crates again. Good.
The medical building used to be something official from the looks of things. A clinic, maybe. White walls under the grime. Clean plastic curtains. Handwritten signs taped next to doors.
TRIAGE. SURGERY. ISOLATION. SUPPLY.
Isolation.
My eyes analyze and catalog everything. Two exits visible.
One front, one side hall. Windows are barred but the hinges are old.
Vent is too small. Ceiling panels maybe removable if I stack the furniture.
Four guards in immediate reach. Three medics.
One radio on the desk. Cabinet with gloves. Locked cabinet behind it.
Possibly medicine.
Possibly blockers.
My pulse steadies around the inventory. Problems. Problems are good. Problems don’t give a shit if you breathe funny.
Valeria leads us to a triage area that is separated by curtains. The pilot disappears through double doors toward the back, the red-haired medic calling for blood, saline, instruments, and Ellis again.
When the door swings shut, the words go with him.
O’Reilly.
Immune.
Marker.
I take one step after him and a guard blocks me. I stop, but not because of him. Because Fletcher’s voice, low and steady, says, “We need him alive to answer questions.”
I look at him and he holds my gaze. He’s right, which is really inconsiderate of him.
Valeria points toward the curtained bays. “You’ll be checked one at a time.”
“No separating us,” Kaito cuts in.
Valeria, bless her soul, finally runs out of patience. “You don’t set the terms here.”
Dakota, don’t say it.
Dakota, be smart.
Dakota, think about the blockers.
“Neither do you,” I say.
Oh yeah. Nailed it.
Hale appears behind us like a fucking ghoul in tactical gear, his expression carved from tired authority. “I set the terms here.”
I look at him, and he looks at me. His nostrils flare slightly and my blood turns to ice.
Not enough to know. Not yet. But it’s certainly enough to remind me that blockers aren’t exactly the cure to all of my problems. They’re not magic, and fear is fucking loud.
Blood is louder. And I’m standing in a goddamn clinic surrounded by people trained to look too closely.
Fletcher steps half a pace to my side. Again, not in front. Hale’s gaze shifts to him, and Fletcher says, “Look, we’ve been hunted, boxed in, and baited with Runners.”
The way he uses my term for those speedy shits is so effortless I almost miss it. But I don’t, and something weird happens to my chest. Because it separates us from them. It draws a line, even if he doesn’t mean it to.
“He doesn’t trust closed doors,” he continues. “None of us do. Check us in the same room. Curtains open. Guards outside the line instead of crowding.”
Valeria looks like she wants to argue, but the red-haired medic strides back in before she can.
“I don’t care how many dominance competitions are happening in my triage.
If they’re bleeding, they sit. If they’re bitten, I need to know.
If they’re carrying NOVAC contamination, I need to know that too.
Commander, either let me work or shoot them outside where they won’t dirty my freshly clean floor. ”
Silence follows.
I like her. I refuse to like her, but I respect the floor comment. Mental high five for her.
Hale exhales through his nose. “Open triage. Guards at the door. No closed curtains unless it’s medically necessary.”
My skin loosens by a single thread. Not with relief. Never that. But more of a strategic reduction in immediate murder probability. Yeah. That.
The medic points at Kaito. “You. Sit before you fall.”
I point at him. “Told you.”
His eyes narrow, but then he sits. Oh yeah. That’s beautiful.
I’m only allowed to enjoy it for half a second before the medic points at me next and demands, “You. Mask off.”
Uh, no.
Every wall in the room tilts inward, and my hand goes to my bandana.
Not to remove it, but to keep it securely in place.
The medic’s eyes sharpen, and Fletcher stills beside me.
Ewan’s usual humor disappears so quickly that it leaves an actual hole in its wake.
Xeon turns his body slightly, blocking the sightline from the door without making it obvious, and Kaito watches me with those too intensely quiet eyes.
It’s too much. Too many people seeing the wrong thing.
The medic lowers her hand. Not soft, but practical, then says, “Fine. Arm first.”
I breathe once. Barely. Then I sit on the edge of the nearest bed, keeping my bandana up, my hat low, and every secret I own pressed hard under skin, fabric, and sheer willpower.
The medic steps closer with gloves on and she asks, “What’s your name?”
“Kota.”
“Age?”
“Old enough to hate every second of this,” I answer.
“Very useful,” she says. “I’ll write that down in my notes.”
The smallest, stupidest laugh almost escapes me, but I swallow it down as the medic unwraps the bandage from my arm. Her eyes pause on my skin. Olive under all the blood with pale patches scattered through it.
Vitiligo.
Only vitiligo.
It’s just skin, not a designation. It’s not a secret. Not yet.
“Cuts have been reopened,” she says. “Not bitten.”
“I know,” I mutter, already fully aware of the state I’m currently in.
“Good for you. I still have to check.” Then the medic’s eyes drop to my leg, and she points out, “You’re favoring your right knee.”
“No. I’m favoring being left alone,” I counter, raising an eyebrow she probably can’t see from under my hat.
She doesn’t bite. Instead, she asks, “Does it bend?”
“Depends. Are we talking emotionally or physically?”
Her expression doesn’t change. Rude.
I sigh and bend it enough to prove the joint still works, even though pain flares into a wildfire behind my kneecap and makes my teeth clamp together with an audible click. The medic notices that, too, because of course she does.
“Strain at least,” she says. “Possible bruising under the joint. You need rest, compression, and no climbing.”
I stare at her, and she stares back. Behind me, Ewan makes a funny little sound that might be a laugh doing its best to attempt suicide.
“No climbing,” I repeat. “In this economy?”
The medic tapes fresh gauze around my arm as she mutters, “I said you needed it. I didn’t say I expected it from you.”
I look over at the double doors where the pilot vanished, only to hear Hale ask from behind Valeria. “What do you know about the NOVAC cargo?”
Ah, there it is. The real checkup.
My arm under a stranger’s hands, my weapons laid bare on a table, my secrets hidden under unreliable blockers, and questions already floating into the air.
Fletcher answers first. “Enough to know Vector wants it back.”
Hale’s eyes move over all of us. “And what is it you want?”
Food. Blockers. Answers. Exits. The pilot awake.
My father’s name out of everyone else’s mouth.
My brother back from the dead.
A room with a door I can lock from the inside and a window I can climb through.
A life where every single offer didn’t feel like bait.
I don’t say any of that, though. Instead, I look at the medic cleaning blood from my arm, then at the hall marked SUPPLY, then at the double doors, then my eyes land on Hale. “I want to know what kind of place this is before I decide how honest to be.”
The room grows eerily quiet, and Hale studies me for a very long moment before he finally says, “Take them to Science when triage clears them.”
My stomach drops.
Science.
Of course. Medical would have been way too easy. The universe isn’t that merciful, the relentless bitch.
Valeria nods her agreement as the medic tapes fresh gauze over my arm and squeezes once. It’s not comfort, but perhaps a warning. Or an apology. I can’t actually tell. Either way, it’s brief and professional before she lets go.
A guard steps aside, opening a path toward the deeper hallway where the walls look cleaner, colder, and brighter.
SCIENCE/MEDICAL WING is painted above the door in bold, black letters, because apparently Haven Ridge decided medicine and science should share a hallway as if one couldn’t completely fuck up the other.
My body tries one more time to lean toward the exit. I have to actively force it still.
Behind me, Fletcher rises. Kaito too, against medical advice and common sense. Ewan’s jaw tightens, and Xeon falls into place close enough for me to notice frost and steel under the sharp tang of disinfectant.
The compound has offered food. Rest. Clean clothes. Treatment. Safety. And every single one of those things waits behind doors someone else controls.
I touch the edge of my bandana.
Still there.
Still covered.
Still mine.
For now.
Then I step toward the science wing, counting each and every fucking exit as I go.