The Prince and the Punk [EDITING]

Chapter 34

Guilt creeps over me like a cloud blocking the sun. Slater would still be at the training center if it wasn't for me. I dragged him into combat, and then I went and got myself shot. Maybe if he hadn't had to carry me, he wouldn't have been in the path of that bullet. He died because of me. He died trying to help the sorry goblin of a girl staring back at me.

A tear falls from my eye.

"I know it'll be difficult," Dr. Forrest soothes, seeming to assume I'm crying for myself. "And I know what you're going through. I've helped a lot of people in very similar situations, and I can promise you, it gets better. Especially for you, given your youth and—" she pauses to look down at her tablet and nods "—pretty good-looking medical history. I'd expect for you to be out of here relatively quickly."

I turn my head so I'm facing her again. "Will you leave? Please?"

She seems to understand. "Go ahead and rest. We'll talk in the morning," she says, and leaves without another word.

I close my eyes, anxious to get away from my miserable thoughts, but even blissful sleep isn't enough of an escape.

My dreams are a sick, twisted montage of the last few weeks. I watch Slater die again and again, and I relive those agonizing seconds of suffocation on Mars. I battle hideous, cold-blooded Zinnans with their shark mouths set into permanent, mocking smiles. I see things that didn't happen, like the base on the moon collapsing with everyone inside. I see huge shuttles slamming into the Earth. I see Nita dying, Danny dying, Xavier dying, Max dying. Mostly, though, I see Slater, and I have a feeling I'll keep seeing him for a while.

In the morning, Dr. Forrest returns, almost inappropriately cheerful.

"Good morning, Janice. How did you sleep?" she asks.

"Bad."

"How bad?" she presses. "I-need-a-new-pillow bad? We-need-to-up-your-painkillers bad? Too—"

"Nightmare bad."

"Ah." She nods and makes a note on her tablet. "Sadly, we see a lot of that. We'll have you assessed soon and see if it's something we should be concerned about. In the meantime, if you feel like you need to talk, I want you to come to me, okay? Mental health is a big part of your physical health, and I want to keep an eye on it."

"Okay," I say, nodding. "I have some questions, though."

"Go ahead."

"First of all... do you guys have a TV or something in here? The portscreen doesn't count."

She chuckles. "There is. That remote—" she gestures to the remote sitting on the table by my bed—"opens a cabinet on the wall when you hit the power button. The TV is behind it. Obviously, you won't be able to watch any violent programs, but there's a decent selection."

I pick the remote up, my eyes widening at the excessive amount of buttons.

"Jesus, this thing could fly a plane," I gawk.

The green-clad doctor laughs. "Not quite, but it does control most things in this room. You can call a nurse with it, adjust the temperature, adjust the lights..."

She trails off as I turn the lights bright blue.

"Sick," I say.

"What's your next question?"

I turn the lights orange, pausing. "What happened?" I finally ask. "Between Mars and here?"

"What exactly do you want to know?"

"Everything. I blacked out—I don't remember a thing. Did the mission succeed? How long has it been?"

"Oh. Well, yes, you did succeed. There were very few casualties, actually, and when you blew the tower, you killed nearly every Zinnan on Mars. We got it back." She grins. "It's a massive turning point—it's been all over the news. Your entire platoon are heroes."

Heroes. It doesn't sound right. All we did was blow up a big pole, and look what it cost.

"It was like our very own atomic bomb," the doctor continues. "Widespread destruction. They know we mean business, and with the language barrier getting smaller every day, there's even talk of a treaty."

"That's good. That's good news." So why doesn't it make me feel any better?

"As for you, once you were unconscious, you pretty much stayed that way. You've been out for about a week and a half."

"A week and a half?" I exclaim.

"It would have been a very painful week," she says with a grimace. "Speaking of which, how are you feeling?"

My head is throbbing as much as my leg. My throat hurts, my back hurts, and my stomach feels like it's moving. I've never been so miserable in my entire life.

"Good," I lie.

++++

I was so close to making the song for this chapter "Shit" by Bo Burnham. So close.