TWENTY-ONE
XEON
Dakota watches everyone.
Most people look around because they’re afraid. Dakota looks around because she’s learned that fear is only useful if it gives her information. That’s a very important distinction.
I notice it as we move through the transit station, staying above the platforms where the rain hasn’t reached as heavily.
The roof leaks in some places, steady streams of water falling through the cracked panels and splashing onto the old tiled floor below.
The air smells of rust, wet concrete, and too many bodies that have passed through over the years without leaving anything good behind.
The pilot is getting heavier, too. Not because his body weighs more, but because everything he knows does.
His breathing has worsened in the last hour.
Every sound drags out of him as if his lungs are catching on broken glass.
Fletcher carries most of him now, one of the pilot’s arms slung over his shoulders, his rifle hanging against his chest where he can still reach it quickly.
Kaito walks close enough to catch the pilot if Fletcher stumbles, but not close enough to take the weight unless asked.
And that’s not because he’s careless, but because he’s injured. Blood has darkened the side of Kaito’s shirt again, not badly but enough that he’s stopped pretending as if moving doesn't hurt. His jaw tightens every time he lifts too quickly, and his breathing changes every time he twists.
He hides pain well, but Dakota hides it much better.
That’s not to say it’s healthier.
She walks just to my left, close enough that I can see the limp she keeps trying to outrun, but far enough that no one could ever mistake it for comfort.
She has a knife in hand, her treasured cap pulled low, bandana up, and wet braid now tucked badly under her collar.
Her limp has become more noticeable since the skybridge and she hates it.
I know, because every time her knee catches, she moves faster straight after, as if speed can scrub away the mistake.
It can’t, but I understand the instinct.
There are three kinds of people in the world now.
People who show weakness and die.
People who hide weakness and survive.
And people who learn to read what others hide.
I’ve always been the third.
My mom would tell me I was born watching. Back in Seoul, before my family crossed an ocean and the world started falling apart in slower, quieter ways, she’d catch me sitting at the edge of rooms, analyzing people as if their silence could tell me more than their words.
She was right, because it usually did.
“Upper concourse is clear,” Fletcher says quietly from up front. “Lower platforms are crawling.”
Ewan leans over the cracked railing behind us and looks down at the station floor below. “Crawling was a generous word to use. That’s more of a damp shuffle convention.”
“Numbers?” Fletcher asks, voice even despite the extra weight he’s carrying.
“Twenty. Maybe thirty that are visible. More in the tunnels if the echoes are anything to go by,” Ewan answers, straight to business.
Dakota doesn't bother to look back when she says, “There’ll be more in the west tunnel.”
Fletcher shifts the pilot’s weight and asks, “Why?”
“Because the banging came from the east,” she explains. “Zeds drifted that way. Anything that didn’t move either can’t hear it or simply can’t leave.”
Ewan tilts his head. “That’s a bleak little compass you’ve got in your head, huh?”
She glances over her shoulder. “Thanks. I named it Survival.”
“Oh. That’s catchy,” Ewan quips. “A little intense for branding, but it’s catchy. I like it. I’d buy a T-shirt. Or maybe a mug.”
Her eyes narrow above the bandana, but there’s less bite in it than there was before, and Ewan notices. Thankfully, he says nothing, learning when not to fill the silence.
We move along the upper walkway, passing old ticket machines with cracked screens and faded maps blurred by water damage.
The city transit lines spread across one wall in colors that mean nothing in the new world.
Blue to Downtown. Red to University. Green to Airport.
All places people used to go because they believed their arrival would be guaranteed.
Dakota stops at the map, and her eyes catch on the green line, then she looks away.
Kaito notices from up front, and I wouldn’t have expected anything less.
His attention is tied to her in a way he doesn’t try to hide very well.
He knows things about her the rest of us don’t.
Not everything, which is very clear. If he knew everything, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t look so carefully at each new piece she offered, as if he’s trying to place it without cutting himself on the jagged edges.
But he knows enough to step away from doors before she demands it. Enough to give her distance when every instinct in him begs for less of it. Enough to say her name as if it was given to him in blood and not language.
Dakota reacts to him differently. With Fletcher, she braces herself.
Every order, even softened into information, still falls on old bruises we can’t see.
With Ewan, she bares her teeth but listens.
He irritates her without cornering her, and that seems to matter to her more than she wants it to.
With Kaito, she pulls away after already leaning in, which seems to be the most dangerous one.
Then with me, she watches. Not because she knows what I’ll do, because she doesn’t. It’s because softness makes her suspicious, and that’s a painfully sad thing to learn about someone.
We reach a staff-only hallway at the far end of the concourse. The sign is half torn from the wall, and beyond it are emergency lights glowing faintly from an old battery system that should have died years ago. Red lights stain the corridor in pulses, and Dakota lifts her hand.
We stop, and this time not even Fletcher questions it.
She crouches and touches two fingers to the wet floor. Then she lifts them to the air in front of her face, not exactly smelling but more testing. “Someone came through here recently.”
Fletcher shifts the pilot’s weight again, and Kaito raises a hand as if to help, then tightens around his own side instead. Fletch notices but doesn’t say anything, instead asking, “How recent?”
“Rainwater’s been dragged in from outside, but it hasn’t spread far. Mud’s still thick, too. Maybe an hour or less,” Dakota answers.
Ewan looks down at the floor. “Humans?”
“Unless Zeds have started wearing boots and developing route preferences,” she responds.
With a shrug, Ewan mutters, “At this rate, I wouldn’t put it past them. Evolution is deeply inconsiderate. Rude, really.”
Kaito’s hand moves toward his blade, then stops at his side. Pain flickers over his face, but he doesn’t want Dakota to see it. She does, though she says nothing. That, too, tells me she notices more than just threats.
Fletcher analyzes the muddy print. “Vector?”
Dakota’s scent sharpens at the name. It’s only a little, but it’s enough.
Lowering my voice, I say, “Possibly. Their people used the dead with planning. Transit routes would matter to them.”
“Transit routes matter to everyone,” Dakota murmurs.
“They do,” I say softly.
She looks at me then, as if she’s annoyed I didn’t argue back. Her eyes are lighter than I expected when she lets them stay on me. Hazel, but not simple. Green caught under brown, gold at the edges, brightened by fever, fear, and exhaustion.
She’s too warm. I can tell from the flush visible above the bandana and the way she keeps flexing her free hand. Heat symptoms, maybe? Or blocker failure. Or stress. Most likely a harsh combination of all three, braided together like a rope noose tied around her neck.
I don’t look at her for too long, and that’s a choice I willingly make.
Fletcher nods toward the corridor. “We need the old service bridge. It gets us closer to the compound route without dropping to street level.”
Dakota’s head snaps toward him. “Your compound route goes through here?”
“Close to here,” he answers.
She stares at him like he’s grown a second head before snapping quietly, “That would have been useful information to share before walking into boot prints and ominous red lighting.”
“You said you would travel near us,” Fletcher reminds her. “You didn’t request a full guided tour.”
Ewan makes a quiet sound. “Damn. Careful there, mate. That almost sounded like a personality.”
Dakota points her knife at Fletcher. “I hate it when he’s right.”
Fletcher’s mouth twitches. Only barely, but I catch the moment. “Which one of us?”
“Yes,” Dakota answers, stabbing the knife toward him with a vicious glare.
Kaito looks away, but I see the beginning of a smile he tried to hide. For a moment, despite the rain, the pilot’s blood, and the dead below us, something almost human passes through the group.
Then metal clatters somewhere down the corridor and everyone stills.
The sound echoes once. Twice. Then silence.
Dakota signs with two fingers before I expect it. Left. High. Distance unknown. They’re military signs but slightly altered. Survivor-taught and very efficient.
Fletcher sees and understands, nodding once. Ewan slides his headphones over one ear, leaving the other uncovered. He tilts his head before he whispers, “Two. Maybe three. Human steps. Trying and failing spectacularly to be quiet.”
Dakota shifts toward the wall. “Vector?”
“Could be scavengers,” Kaito murmurs.
“Scavengers run away from big groups,” Fletcher says. “Vector tracks.”
And then the pilot groans softly. It’s too loud, and Dakota moves first, grabbing his dangling foot before it scrapes over the floor again. Her injured arm protests, and I see her flinch, but she ignores it and lowers his foot carefully.
Kaito’s body tightens, but he doesn’t move from where he’s standing. Another choice made.
I step closer to Dakota, not toward her front, but next to her line of sight. It’s a place she can see me and a place that won’t make her feel trapped.