ARC10

Chapter 8.4

My alarm buzzes at 0500, but my body hurts too much. Breathing is laborious to the point of surrender. If I can't breathe, how can I fight? If I sleep here for a few more hours, I'm sure my lungs will be in perfect working order around 0900.

The covers disappear with a sudden jerk, and the rush of cold air slaps against my skin. Tapping my calf, Simon says, "Com'on, Kiddo, it's a beautiful day underground."

I crack my eyes open. He's already showered and smiling, his arms loaded with bandages and biscuits. He sits next to me on the cot and starts to unravel the white cloth. He flips my hands over and over in his own, cleaning and wrapping them in fresh gauze. A few times, he clucks with disapproval when he discovers the abysmal state of my PAHLM.

Finally, after enough fussing, he pulls me forward and parts my hair where the small bump has formed. He places a cold compress on it and holds me tighter when I dodge out of his grip. "Dad, leave it, I'm fine. I'm not twelve anymore."

He ignores me.

Checking the lump again, he palpates his fingers over the spot, testing its size. Satisfied, he shines his lowest PAHLM light in my eyes, one at a time. He performs the same routine we've danced during most of my accident-prone years.

When he finishes, he taps my cheek. "Let's go, Honey, it's time to get up."

I'm reminded of my teenage years when I was shoved into school. Thrown back in time, it's my tenth year of GenEd, and I'm buried deeply in my cot and blankets, pissed off like a boxed-in tornado. Pissed off because Simon and the rest of the URE have the audacity to take my energy during the day and never let me recharge my cells to max capacity at night. With heavy limbs and rapid-fire loathing, I dragged my tired body out of bed then, and do it again now.

This is the same scene, except Simon would be bandaging my knuckles, not my palms. And I'm not sixteen anymore. I can't be late to the mission briefing because I'm too tired to move. This is not the lunch shift at the Sink.

I'm on a mission, and I'm pregnant with Dean's spawn. This is much worse than being sixteen. I would pay anything to be feisty, weird, and pudgy again. Back then, Dean and I actually liked each other. Now, I want his dick for target practice.

I muster enough determination in my lethargy to hoist my legs over the cot. The bones in my toes ache as if they have been crushed by reckless explosives. The space between my shoulders burn as if they have been pierced by a spear made entirely of fire. I can list off my ailments for hours, but as I observe Simon work his four fingers around my whole hand, I remember I need to be somewhere. Sure, I'm sore, but it could be much worse.

My dad holds my battered hand in his, and I wonder if I'll be as decent a parent as him. Will I be doing this for my child one day, when she comes home, bruised and bloody from playing on the black-bark trees of NOHA? Will I be the one to pull the brown hair back from her scratched forehead, kiss it, and release her back into the wild to pummel some unsuspecting neighbor kid?

Or would that be Dean? I imagine him as a father, dealing with the bumps and bruises of our child, and for a second, a fraction of minuscule time, my heart warms.

But no one could be a better father than Simon. No one in the entire URE. Throwing myself over him, I wrap my arms tight around his neck and shoulders.

"You were one hot mess when the cat dragged you in last night. It scared me half to death. I thought you were dead." Simon never lifts his head while he speaks. "Speaking of cats . . ." he pushes back and wags his eyebrows at me.

"There's nothing going on anymore. We're being strictly professional."

He sighs in mock exasperation. "At any rate, Reprieve told me you two have a special mission. He said he can't say what, but you need to be there at oh-six hundred. So let's go, Nika." He finishes wrapping the bandage and puts both his hands around mine and kisses them, squeezing them together gently.

"I know things have been rough, but they can always get worse. You know it more than anyone. Let's see some of that Lorn family gusto." He pulls me toward him, effectively flinging me out of my cot.

"How did you know about my head, though?"

His smiles softly. "Dean PIM'd me to tell me about that one. He's really sorry. Poor kid."

"You always take his side."

Putting on my boots aches like stuffing my battered feet into concrete, but I carry on. I shamble through the common room with a slow stride to avoid as much pain as possible. When I push against the broken switch of the door, the bones in my shoulders and spine protest accordingly. When I enter the hall, I stand there, still, immobile, and completely statuesque for a few moments before bursting forward into a reluctant jog over to Combat Room 4 for the first day of training on my new mission.