Chapter 20 Amy
AMY
Waking up is like clawing my way out of mud.
The bed is too soft. The light is too white. The air smells sterile, like bleach and disappointment. Machines beep softly near my head, a lazy rhythm that doesn’t belong to me. My mouth tastes like gauze and copper. My body feels wrong—too light, too untouched after so much ruin.
For a second, I think I’m still dreaming.
Then I try to move and every nerve screams nope in six different languages.
The ceiling doesn’t collapse. No sirens or smoke. Just a little patch of synthetic tile and a humming vent and the faint buzz of something fluorescent.
I’m back on Earth.
I wish I wasn’t.
There’s a nurse beside me—young, blonde, wearing a half-smile like she’s been told to. She notices my eyes flutter and gasps. “Oh! You’re awake. Just a sec—let me call the doc—”
“No,” I croak, my throat dry and cracked. “Footage. Where’s my recorder?”
She blinks, clearly thrown. “Um… I don’t—”
“My recorder. Where is it?” The panic starts like a cold finger at the base of my spine. “I need it. I need—”
The nurse glances toward the hallway, nervous. “Security detail took all personal effects. Standard protocol for warzone evacuees. You’ll have to talk to—”
“Get Rex.”
That stops her. She nods and disappears out the door, shoes squeaking on polished tile.
I lie there, pulse racing. The white noise hum of the machines seems to get louder, angrier. I stare at the IV line trailing from my arm like it’s a leash. Darun wouldn’t have let them take it.
I clamp down on the thought.
Time passes. Could be minutes. Could be hours.
Then Rex walks in.
Not the Rex I remember—not the sharp-eyed editor with a bite in his voice and a cigarette tucked behind one ear. This Rex looks deflated. Pale. There’s a tremble in his hands he’s trying to hide by clutching a data slate.
“Amy,” he says. “You look like hell.”
“You sound like someone who’s here to lie to me,” I rasp.
He flinches a little, and that’s how I know I’m right.
I sit up, ignoring the flare of pain in my side. “Where is it?”
Rex exhales slowly, drops into the chair beside me. “The Alliance seized everything. Your recorder. Your notes. Debriefs. All of it.”
“They can’t do that.”
“They did.”
I stare at him, heart pounding. “I had it all, Rex. Everything. The attack, the mutiny. Kanapa ordering the execution of civilians—”
“And Kanapa,” Rex interrupts softly, “died a hero.”
The words hit like a gut punch.
He leans forward, eyes heavy. “That’s the story. It’s everywhere. Broadcast footage, field medals, a full honors funeral. They even reissued his bio with a fabricated final log about ‘defending the frontier against extremist insurgents.’”
“That’s bullshit.”
“It’s survival,” he says. His voice is calm, but there’s something in it—something frayed.
I shake my head, fury bubbling in my chest. “So what? They get away with it? Again?”
“Don’t yell at me,” he says. “I pushed. I called in favors. I threatened board members. You know what I got?”
He lifts the slate. Swipes. Shows me a message. A kill order on the story. Redacted. Sealed.
I stare at the screen. My heart thuds in my ears. “How many?”
“Everyone who had access. Your whole embedded unit was scrubbed. You’re the only one left.”
I laugh. It’s a sharp, bitter sound that doesn’t feel like mine. “Of course I am.”
Rex looks at me, face pulled into something I’ve never seen on him before. Regret.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and I think he means it.
“I should be dead.”
“Yeah. You should.”
We sit in silence for a while.
“I’ll go back,” I whisper eventually. “Find the ruins. Find something.”
“There’s nothing left,” Rex says, voice flat. “They cleaned it. They always do.”
My throat tightens. “They’ll bury him, too.”
Rex doesn’t answer.
Because we both know they already have.
Two days later, they discharge me.
On paper, it’s medical leave. In reality, it’s exile. I’m not fit to return to the front. Not cleared for reporting. Not trusted with a pencil, let alone a platform.
They drop me at my apartment like a bad shipment—no fanfare, no goodbye. Just a uniformed driver who won’t meet my eye and a medical kit they toss on the kitchen counter like that makes up for the hole in my chest.
The silence is worse than the noise.
No hum of war machines. No distant gunfire. Just the slow tick of the analog clock on the wall and the occasional creak of pipes in the ceiling. My home doesn’t smell like home. It smells like chemicals and disuse. Like someone else’s memories. Like mine got lost in the mail.
I sit at the kitchen table for hours, staring at nothing. The sunlight crawls across the floor like it’s trying to get away from me. The walls are too white.
Then I remember.
The test.
I drag myself into the bathroom. Dig through the kit. It’s still there. Unopened. Marked “emergency.”
I rip it open. Follow the instructions. Hands shaking.
Wait three minutes.
I sit on the edge of the tub. My heart slamming against my ribs like it wants out.
When I look down, the result is clear.
Positive.
I don’t cry.
I don’t scream.
I just sit there. Breathing.
Darun’s gone. Or missing. I don’t know which is worse.
But I’m here.
And I’m not alone.
Not anymore.
Later, I go back to the table, the test strip clenched in my fist like a lifeline. The sun’s gone. The shadows are long.
I stare at the recorder’s twin on my shelf—a backup model. Dead. Silent. Just a shell.
“I’ll tell her about you,” I murmur to the quiet. “Even if the galaxy never hears your name.”