TWENTY-FIVE #3
Dakota turns from the window and catches me watching her. I catch a pale eyebrow rise on her forehead and she asks, “What?”
I could say nothing. Could tell her to stay away from the glass. Could remind her sightlines go both ways. Could give her another clear, useful instruction and watch the moment her spine stiffens and her feathers ruffle.
But instead, I nod toward the window and tell her, “Glass is cracked close to your left shoulder. The reflection’s giving away movement every time you shift.”
She looks at the glass, then at the faint reflection. Then she looks back at me. She doesn’t bristle. Not right away. Instead, she mutters, “You couldn’t have led with that.”
“I just did,” I point out.
Her eyes narrow again. “You’re being weird.”
“Been told I’m charmin’,” I tell her with a shrug of my good shoulder.
“Not by anyone whose word is reliable, that’s for sure,” she says.
“Fair ’nough.”
She steps away from the cracked section a second later, just enough that it’s no longer an issue. Not because I told her to, but because I gave her something that was worth using.
Something in my chest settles. Not soft, and certainly not easy, just certain.
Ewan clears his throat softly then, informing us, “No boots close by. Couple of Rots lingering under the bridge like a handful of wet farts in a thunderstorm, but they’re just doing their own thing. Very independent and self-sufficient. Honestly, love that for them.”
Kaito opens his eyes, the pain clear in them. “Route?”
I look at Dakota, and she notices. Of course she notices, and with it comes that suspicion again. Only, this time, it seems thinner than before.
I point through the grimy window toward a lower access road that cuts west. “We got two options. Bridge takes us across fast, but we’re exposed through the windows. Downstairs keeps us covered, but it adds time and corners.”
Dakota analyzes the road, then the bridge, and then the pilot. It only takes two seconds before she says, “Windows are literally covered in filth. Visibility is worse outside than in here.”
“Agreed,” I nod.
“Move fast across the bridge. If anything sees us, we’ve already crossed it,” she adds.
“That works.”
She gives me a look. “You hate that I’m right.”
“I don’t,” I assure her.
“You do.”
“I hate that you’re limping around and pretending like you ain’t,” I volley, and her expression shutters.
Damn it. Too close.
I don’t take it back, though, because it’s the truth. But I don’t add to it, either.
For a few seconds, we stand in silence that has spikes. Then she says, “I hate that you’re bleeding and pretending like you aren’t.”
That’s a fair hit, so I nod once. “Then it looks like we’re both a pain in the ass.”
“You say that like it wasn’t something we’d already established,” she says.
I only nod, and her eyes drop to my bandage again. This time, she doesn’t snap her gaze away just as fast before she finally asks, “It’s holding?”
It’s quiet. Rough. Like the words have cost her something she didn’t want to part with.
I hold her gaze as I answer. “It holds.”
She looks like she wants to argue with that answer, with me, herself, and maybe the entire idea of bandages. Instead, she nods once. A small movement, but it’s enough. Then she turns toward the bridge and mutters, “Fast then.”
Once more, it’s not an order. It’s more of a decision, and so I fall into step right next to her, leaving Xeon to carry the weight of the pilot and the other two Alphas to follow.
I don’t push ahead, and I don’t fall back behind her, I simply walk beside her.
She notices that too, and her eyes cut to me as we start across the staff bridge, gray light scattering over the brim of her cap and the bandana across her face.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Walking,” I answer like it’s obvious.
“There’s that suspicious behavior again,” she murmurs under her breath.
“I’m trying something new,” I argue.
“Huh,” she mutters. “Don’t strain yourself too much.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’,” I tell her, only for her to glare at me.
I almost smile.
Almost.
Pain pulls at my shoulder. The compound waits not too far in the distance. Vector is still somewhere behind us. The pilot might just die before noon. And Dakota is limping, shaking, hiding, fighting, and surviving. And I’m walking next to her instead of putting myself in front.
This shit feels harder than taking the hit from that fast Rot. But maybe that’s the whole point.
At the far end of the bridge, a service door waits half-open, daylight sneaking in through the edges. Dakota reaches it first and she pauses. Not for long, but only long enough to glance back at me.
I give her information instead of instructions or commands. “Left side’s clear from here. Door opens inward. Could be blind space on the right, though.”
She nods, then opens it her way with her knife first, body angled, and choices all intact. I step with her, close enough to cover the blind side, but far enough that she never feels boxed in.
For now, that’s the line.
Not in front.
Not over her.
But beside her.
And if the world even considers reaching for her again, it’ll have to get through me first.