15. Cassia
CASSIA
Iwake to gray light and silence. The power died sometime after midnight—the entire district grid dropping out at once—and the freight bay Rhykor moved us to sit cloaked in cold shadow.
Sometime during the few hours I slept, Rhykor removed his shredded tactical vest and pulled on a fresh one from the supply crate a runner delivered overnight.
I sit on top of a steel crate, working to twist a fresh roll of gauze.
A dull ache throbs behind my forehead from yesterday's blast, but the minor concussion leaves my mind clear enough to focus on the work ahead.
I line up three dented steel trays across a level packing container, organizing the remaining antiseptic vials by their fluid levels.
The mechanical air scrubbers whir faintly high above, powered by temporary thermal blocks that emit a smell like burning brass.
My fingers move with deliberate precision from one glass ampoule to the next, sorting the pain-blockers from the clean water bags.
Each piece of equipment needs an exact placement so I can reach it in the dim lighting rather than shifting my posture too drastically.
Wen corners me at the supply shelf before the first patients arrive, blocking my path with the immovable authority of a woman who has survived worse than my stubbornness. "You have a concussion, Cassia. You should be horizontal for at least another twelve hours."
"I should be doing a lot of things. Right now I'm doing this." I sidestep her and grab the antiseptic tray.
"When you collapse mid-stitch and I have to treat both you and whatever patient you're working on, I want it noted that I objected." She follows me to the triage line, already pulling on gloves, because Wen's protests are never refusals—they're documentation.
Rhykor stands tall and vigilant, monitoring the perimeter. Pale, thin beams of daylight stream through the cracked cargo doors to catch his broad shoulders. With unwavering, painstaking care, he reaches down to intercept my fingers, lifting the gauze roll to help me keep the edge perfectly clean.
"You need to stop pushing yourself, Cassia," he says, the usual commanding snap in his voice replaced by a rougher and more careful timber. "Sit and rest."
"People are bleeding out in the corridors, Rhykor," I argue, focusing on the gauze. "The blackout killed the auxiliary power to the lower ward's ventilators. Setting up a triage line right here in this loading bay will protect everyone from the soot. I’m fine to work."
"You have a slight tremor in the fingertips," he asserts, leaning closer.
His gaze traces the dark bruising along my hairline.
The sheer proximity of him acts as a strange balm, calming my pulse and sending a wave of phantom warmth through my shivering limbs.
He hovers his large palm a mere inch from my temple, letting his physical bulk shield me from the cold draft.
"Fine, but you have to be my hands out there. The human refugees need to see you guiding your remaining enforcers to trust them."
Outside the bay doors, the first cluster of civilian survivors emerges from the smoke-veiled alleyways.
They come in small, limping groups—families clutching thin blankets and laborers dragging injured peers, all of them coated in the gray, powdery residue of the pulverized district infrastructure.
When the front line of the crowd spots Rhykor standing at the mouth of the bay, an immediate, collective halt ripples through them.
Fear is an old habit in District Seventeen; they see the crimson-and-charcoal armor belonging to a Kraaj warlord, and their instincts scream to retreat back into the freezing dark.
An elderly merchant I recognize from the southern market stall, a man named Garrow, clutches a young girl to his chest. His knees buckle from sheer physical exhaustion, his face pale under the grime.
As Rhykor steps forward, the crowd flinches, a few younger men raising broken pipes in a futile defensive display.
Instead of drawing his sidearm or barking a directive for submission, Rhykor drops to one knee, lowering himself until his eyeline matches Garrow's.
The movement is heavy, his boots grinding against the grit-strewn concrete floor.
He extends his broad, calloused hands palms up, an ancient gesture of non-aggression among his people, though completely foreign to the standard military protocols the humans expect.
"The bay is secure," Rhykor bellows, his words projecting cleanly across the damp yard while maintaining a calm cadence. "The air scrubbers within this specific sector are functioning on independent thermal cells. Enter; your young will receive shelter first."
Garrow stares at Rhykor. His gaze catches on the exposed stretch of Rhykor's neck where the collar of his structured vest hangs open, skin bared and vulnerable above the chest plate inside. The old merchant looks past him, catching my eye inside the illuminated bay.
"Is it safe, Doc?" Garrow shouts, shivering against the morning frost.
"He brought the medical crates out of the burning clinic himself, Garrow," I shout, leaning forward against the crate so everyone can hear.
A collective murmur passes through the refugees, a quiet acceptance of the shelter offered.
Garrow bows his head once, his shoulders sagging as he steps over the threshold.
Behind him, a stocky mechanic drags a heavy trunk brimming with communal bedding, his boots skidding on the icy frost. Before the man can collapse under the weight, Rhykor rises from his knee and reaches out, effortlessly gripping the eroded iron handle of the chest. He hoists the entire mass onto one shoulder, his muscles straining under the load, and carries it toward the dry center of the bay where the children are gathering.
The man halts, blinking in astonishment, before offering a sharp gesture of gratitude to the giant warrior's back.
The remnants of the crowd follow in a slow, halting line, their eyes on Rhykor as they pass him.
He places the supply chest down exactly where the elders can distribute the blankets, then bends again to help an injured woman stable her crutch.
The suspicion in the room thaws by inches while the immediate necessity of survival takes priority.
Rhykor remains near the entrance until the final limping straggler goes into the bay.
When he stands completely straight, his joints emit a harsh, metallic click from the hours he spent holding up a strengthened support beam during the midnight evacuation.
Turning immediately back toward my makeshift station, he picks up a heavy container of sterile water to begin the distribution.
The clear liquid fills small plastic cups, passed to the parched children with a gentleness that contradicts the sharp edges of his body.
Despite this tenderness, his focus remains total.
By placing himself between the cold entrance and my station, he ensures that the survivors who enter see him working under my direction.
The rhythm of the loading bay stabilizes as the morning advances.
I remain sitting on top of the steel crate, wrapping a fresh layer of linen over an injured laborer's wrist while utilizing the supply crate dropped off earlier by our runner.
Rhykor stays within arm's reach of my shoulder, a wall of heat that blocks the worst of the oily breeze rolling off the main terminal grid.
When I reach for a fresh roll of synthetic tape, his hand shoots out to secure my forearm, ensuring my balance remains completely true despite the dull ache lingering behind my eyes.
He treats my minor concussion like a structural flaw in a defensive wall, watching my eyes for any sign of a flicker.
"I’m perfectly stable, Rhykor," I murmur, cleaning a shallow laceration on an infant's arm.
"Your heart rate spiked when you lifted that container, Cassia," he counters, his deep tone dropping low so the family nearby cannot overhear. "You will remain seated for the next ten minutes, or I will personally carry the remaining water canisters myself."
"If you carry them, you'll terrify the grandmother in the corner," I quip, though I let him slide a low metal stool into place for me anyway. The furnace warmth of his body punctures the chill of the blackout, grounding me against the exhaust fumes filling the air.
Before he can argue further, a sharp mechanical click sounds from the heavy security door at the rear of the loading dock.
Junia slips through the narrow opening. The wisecracking scavenger who usually breezes into my workspace cracking jokes about stolen tech is gone.
In her place stands someone unrecognizable, wearing patched scavenger gear torn at the shoulder and smeared with dark grease.
Sweat plasters her hair to her forehead, and grime dulls her silver accessories.
Clutching a secure data-pad to her chest, she sweeps the crowded bay, ignoring the refugees until her eyes lock onto me.
Rhykor steps between her and my crate, his hand dropping to the pommel of his blade before she can draw close.
Junia plants her boots and stares up at him, refusing to look away.
"Cassia," Junia gasps, her chest heaving as she forces her way past a stack of crates. "I need both of you right now. Somewhere the enforcers are unable to track our signal."
Rhykor glares down at her, his posture unyielding. "The civilian perimeter requires my presence, so speak here."
"I can't," Junia asserts, dropping to a harsh whisper that barely carries over the humming air scrubbers. "If the central network picks up the telemetry on this drive, the automated defense turrets in the upper sectors will re-route within ninety seconds. We need a physical hard-line block."