THIRTY-THREE #3
The name changes the air all through the hallway, but Dakota doesn’t move, and that’s honestly worse than if she had lunged.
Because, for one second, I understand exactly what she's doing. She’s taking the name and trying to pin it to an image beyond the glass.
She’s trying to force six years of memory over the bloody fragments in the room.
The hat.
The name.
The folded paper inside her jacket.
The way Dakota has gone quiet around a hope she blatantly refuses to even touch.
I don’t know the memories she’s trying to force onto the man on the other side of the glass, but I do know they’re not fitting.
The man inside that room isn’t the boy she remembers, and I can see enough to know that.
He’s broader now, harder around the edges and worn down in ways that don’t come from aging alone.
The parts of him I catch in pieces don’t belong to the memory Dakota has carried all through the apocalypse.
Blood darkens his shirt, his movements are sharp, defensive, and half-feral with pain, and when a medic tries to reach for the bag again, he twists so fast that one guard slams back into the table.
He’s not weak, and he’s not safe. He’s certainly not familiar.
Alive can be painfully merciless.
From inside the room, a medic shouts, “Ellis, either sedate him or get out of my way!”
The red-haired medic from earlier pushes into view, jaw tight. “No sedative until Mercer clears it. We don’t even know what’s in his system yet.”
“Then he’s going to rip his stitches before we even get them in.”
“Yeah, well he can join the queue of people making my day a misery.”
Ewan makes a strangled little sound before saying, “I like her, too.”
No one responds, especially not Dakota. Her gaze hasn’t left the glass for a single second.
The pale-haired man inside shoves away from the medics again, but this time, the crowd parts for only a single breath. Just the one. It’s not enough, but it never is.
I see a hard jaw darkened with stubble, a cheek hollowed by hunger and blood loss, and a flash of gray eyes, unfocused and furious. I see that little before a guard blocks him again, but Dakota sees less than I do, and that’s the problem.
She sees pale hair. Blood. A man fighting medics. A body older than memory and roughened by six years of surviving places she couldn’t follow.
She doesn’t see Maine.
Not yet.
And I understand it the moment her scent tightens into something sharp enough to cut.
She sees a threat. A stranger. A stolen possibility wearing the wrong shape.
Mercer reaches for the keypad but Hale catches his wrist, snapping, “Doctor.”
With a flat voice, Mercer says, “Remove your hand.”
“I am not letting emotional compromise dictate security procedure,” the Commander declares bluntly.
“No,” Mercer counters. “You’re just letting fear do it for you. And to be honest, Commander, it’s wearing a cheap disguise.”
Hale’s mouth tightens and for a weighted second I think he won’t budge. Then something crashes inside the room again.
The pale-haired man slams a shoulder into a guard, but not cleanly or strong enough to be intentional. The act is more like a wounded animal reacting before thought can intervene.
The guard stumbles into the door, and the whole panel rattles in its frame.
Dakota steps back, but not away. More like she’s preparing.
Fletcher notices and mutters, “Kota.”
She doesn’t hear him. Or, she does and simply decides the sound belongs to a world that can wait for a little while.
Valeria looks over at Hale. “Open the door before he hurts himself worse than he already is.”
“Or hurts someone else,” Hale finally relents.
I catch Dakota’s eyes close around her hidden knife, and I shift forward despite the pain that burns through my side. I don’t know what my intention is, whether it’s to stop her or follow her, and that’s becoming a really big problem of mine.
The lock releases a second later. Maybe Mercer enters the code, or maybe it was Valeria. Maybe Hale finally pulled his head out of his ass, understanding that keeping the door shut won’t keep the control inside this hallway.
It doesn’t matter, because the clean mechanical click slices through every voice, and the door opens inward.
Cold air spills out first, followed quickly by the copper tang of blood. Antiseptic and rainwater come next and, underneath it all, so faint I could convince myself I’m smelling things that aren’t there, I smell something like fresh-cut grass dragged through smoke.
Dakota inhales subtly just as the pale-haired man turns toward the opening door. Not fully, and not clearly, but quickly. Way too fast for someone injured. And way too fast for someone surrounded.
His hands come up. Maybe to block, or maybe to reach. Maybe because survival has eaten the difference out of him too.
Dakota moves.
No hesitation.
No recognition.
No soft, broken whisper of his name.
Just six years of grief, blockers, knives, and old instructions snapping her into motion. She goes for him like he's the danger standing between her and the truth.
And, for the first time since I met her, I’m not quick enough to stop what happens next.