Lucy. You stood still, perplexed, for a moment, watching the dinosaur's lifeless body, deaf to your internal screams. Finally, you snapped out of your stupor and tried to think. The door was locked, surely the key was somewhere and it wasn't too difficult to find it in the pocket of the president's overcoat, who was watching your movements with clear awareness, but paralyzed by the poison coursing through his veins. You avoided looking at him - you didn't want to imagine that in a few minutes you'd be next.
Valentine was the president; there was probably no one with more authority in the Independence Hall. So he could certainly use the premises to create a sanctuary for himself as he pleased. But as far as you knew, there wasn't any kind of infirmary in the place; so where could Lucy Steel be?
You took a deep breath, resolutely pushing out of your mind any thought of what might have happened since the morning and rushed to the door, unlocking it abruptly and then bumping into a soldier who was rushing in. The president had probably ordered him to ignore any unusual noises such as shouting or gunshots; that soldier had been ordered to do so before, for sure, so he wasn't bothered by the clear sounds of fighting inside the place.
The man staggered backward and tried to keep his balance with several zigzag steps. You also lost your balance and crashed into the doorframe, your left side going completely numb and hitting your head. You clung to the door for support, the ringing of a bell in your ears with the echoes of Diego's words: ''I have two plans, but that's not something you need to worry about... just know that I'll be there.''
It was hard to say, you thought dazedly, who was more surprised. You groped wildly for your pocket knife, cursing your stupidity for not having armed yourself before opening the door.
The guard, once he had regained his balance, stared at you in shock with his mouth open, but you could sense that your moment of surprise had already slipped from your grasp. You yanked out the pocketknife, leaning over and in a motion that continued upwards with all the force you could muster. The tip of the blade hit the soldier right under the chin as he brought his hand to his waist. His hands rose halfway to his throat, then, with a look of surprise and pain, he staggered back to the wall and slid down it slowly, as the life drained from his body. Like you, he went to investigate without bothering to draw his gun first and that little carelessness cost his life. God's grace had saved you from this mistake; you couldn't make any more. Feeling cold, you stepped over the writhing body. The sudden brightness came when you pulled a knife much sharper and much heavier than a pocketknife from his holster. A gun would be too noisy; you couldn't attract attention.
You ran back the way you came, to the bend in the stairs. There were no guards; the president's orders to deal with the press required every man in the building. There was a place by the wall where you couldn't be seen from either side; you leaned on the wall and allowed yourself a moment of nausea and trembling.
Wiping your sweaty hands on your clothes, you took a firm hold of the guard's tactical knife. It was now your only weapon; you had neither the time nor the stomach to retrieve the pocketknife that was at the man's throat. Maybe it would be better this way, you thought, rubbing your fingers on the handle of the knife; there was very little blood and you shrank at the thought of the gush that would follow if you had removed the knife.
With the knife firmly in your hand, you cautiously peered into the corridor. The guards who had inadvertently gone to control the crowd outside had gone to the left, down the stairs, and you did the same, returning to the second floor. You had no idea how long it would take them to complete the task, but you certainly knew that there must be some guards with Lucy. With no reason to prefer one direction over the other for your search, it made sense to approach any whispers you heard.
The light that penetrated through the high window sash fell on you, so that was the west side of the building. You had to keep your bearings as you moved, since Diego would follow the same logic as you and would be waiting for you to the south of the building, where people had no access and therefore there were fewer guards.
Stairs. You forced your numb mind to think, trying to reason out where the place you were looking for should be. If you wanted to hold someone captive, you'd probably want privacy and soundproofing. Both considerations pointed to an isolated room at the end of the corridor as the most likely place.
Reaching halfway down the corridor with the rustle of your clothes and your heavy breathing, you stopped to hear. Dead silence all around, but it was clear that that part of the building was being used.
"Where is Mister President?'' A whisper interrupted the other. ''Right now...''
"He's with that witch.''
"No, it's been a long time... he must have taken care of her.''
"Where is his location, then?''
The words sometimes sounded nonsensical, and choppy; you didn't know it was the poison that was impairing your senses.
"The president ordered Steel's injuries not to be treated...''
"So... get rid of him?''
''No... not to go so far, only... not to treat Steel's injuries. He meant nothing more than that. He just made it clear for us to take care of the girl.''
"She doesn't look stable at all, shouldn't we anesthetize her more?''
"In her current state, that would be dangerous.''
Bastards, you thought. But the thought was interrupted by a long-suffering groan from inside the same room. It was undoubtedly Lucy, and now the two men, who looked more like doctors, were standing back for you. Cutting their throats seemed like an easy task.
Both men looked morbidly like the president, except for their gray hair and beards. But otherwise they were like twins - defective, perhaps - of the same character. You tried to ignore it.
There was only one way to go from there. You followed, knife ready in hand. It was strange to walk silently down the corridor. You had seen other buildings like this, but on those occasions the tall windows were stripped of their menacing air by the blinding light of the setting sun. When you reached the door, the men were already inside the room. You stopped to listen, kneeling on the floor.
"My, oh my. She's awake.'' One of the men said with clear disdain in his voice. ''The drugs we gave her should be working... Maybe an extra dose isn't such a bad idea. We'll make you like a winter catfish... Docile. As per the president's orders.''
This was followed by a loud thud and a few shards of glass falling to the floor. Lucy Steel was trying to get away.
Suddenly, the door slammed shut and startled you, but luckily they didn't notice you. The noise inside the room didn't let the men hear when you turned the handle.
''Calm down, Lucy Steel! You mustn't do anything rash...''
Then a scream of agony interrupted him.
''Ah! Why is my husband hurt?!'' She cried and screamed more. ''He's been shot! You have to treat him right away! Please, get Stephen medical care!''
"I understand, Lucy... we're trying to help you and him. We're thinking of your welfare!"
"So, please, don't get wild...'' The other man added. "Think of the child in your belly.''
The last sentence made your stomach turn and a fury took over your body. You weren't an expert on what you were going to do, but you were agile as the devil. When you opened the door, one knee was still on the floor. The two men restrained Lucy Steel as she screamed; one of them held a needle, the other her arms.
It was clear that the fight wouldn't last much longer.
Despite your preference to slit the throat of the man holding the needle, his companion had his back to you, much to his misfortune. You approached, not caring about bumping into the glass shards on the floor, as Lucy's screams could drown out any other noise, and in one leap you pulled the man up by his hair.
Frightened, he struggled, but didn't want to let go of Lucy. Until he was no longer confused, it was too late. The hair pull left his throat perfectly exposed and you cut it without much effort, imagining that tactical knives were made specifically for this.
A curtain of blood gushed over Lucy and the man holding her was nothing more than a limp corpse, allowing her to break free and crawl away from the man with the needle.
To your good fortune and miracle, the blood had gushed into the other man's face, temporarily blinding him and limiting him to the disgusted grimaces you expect when you have someone else's blood in your mouth.
Without wasting any time, you stabbed him. The first few stabs were easy, although it took a few shallow cuts to pierce the skin. Ironically, that knife wasn't made for stabbing. The skin on a man's belly is as tough as buffalo leather, you thought. On the next attempt, you tried a direct blow from above and hit what looked like a bone, probably some part of the hip.
For a moment, you thought your arm had fallen to the ground. The shock of the impact reverberated throughout your shoulder and the knife fell from your numb, blood-slick fingers. Everything below the elbow went numb, but a terrible tingling warned you that it wouldn't be for long.
"Goddamn bastard...'' You grunted between your teeth, breathing hard. ''Goddamn poison.''
Although the knife fell, you didn't have to worry, that man was dead and as immovable as a sack of wheat. You needed a few seconds to regain your sanity even with Lucy's incessant crying behind you.
When you turned around, you managed to pull yourself together. Lucy looked at you as if she saw a blood demon, a thin layer of sweat and tears all over her skin. Her eyes were cerulean, bright and pained, her mouth open like a fish out of water, trying to come back to reality. But none of that mattered because all you could do was stare at her belly, swollen and heavy as burdens. Pregnant and pale, with the weight she was carrying on her body.
''(Y/N)! Oh, is that you?!'' That's all she managed to say.
''I think so.''
''You... what? Why?''
"Don't ask me, I don't know either.''
You approached and crouched down in front of the girl, who seemed on the verge of fainting. You put your hand on her belly, trying to feel some life there. You still couldn't understand how the hell she had gotten into that state. Any possibility other than a child was plausible to you.
"Jesus Christ, Lucy... What did that son of a bitch do to you?''
Using her little strength, she grabbed your arm, leaning a considerable part of her weight on it, and then you looked at her.
"It doesn't matter... ah! Stephen!'' She sobbed. ''Is he hurt?! Please, (Y/N), save my husband!''
Recovering from the shock, you held her by the arms, helping her up to sit on the stretcher again. Without realizing it, all that effort took a considerable amount of time and your strength, which was already gradually being taken over by the poison in your blood. You stumbled on your way with a dry heaving but managed to control yourself and leave Lucy sitting up, who collapsed almost unconscious the instant you touched her.
Lucy was not only pregnant; she was doped up and probably starving. After a long time trying to overcome your awareness of the poison, you turned the girl on her side, in case she vomited, and the position made her belly stand out against her thin, frail body. The girl looked like the queen of some social order of insects, ready to give birth by the thousands, but you refrained from mentioning it as she was still awake.
"Listen, Lucy, I... ah!'' You choked and coughed, feeling like you were going to throw up again. ''Mierda... Lucy, can you hear me?''
A cry was the answer, low and weak, but conscious.
''Lucy, I can't... ugh... I can't get you out of here...'' You continued to babble, giving in to the poison. ''You need to run away by yourself.''
"What? No!'' She mustered the strength to say. ''Stephen... no! I can't leave him!''
"He'll be fine! Listen, I'm going to stay here and take care of him!"
"No! I can't... Oh! Where is he?''
She was trying to get up, and you couldn't stop her, after all, you were wondering the same thing. He can't be far, you thought.
"Lucy, listen to me! I don't have as much time as you think!'' You exclaimed roughly, shaking her by the shoulders. "You're doped up, I can cut the effect of the drugs, but just enough for you to get away.''
She didn't answer, and you didn't need answers. You staggered over to the small table where dozens of medicines and solutions were stored.
Since Lucy was young, skinny, weak and, above all, pregnant, you restrained the urge to stimulate the adrenaline in her body to cut the effect of the anesthesia. Any hormonal or chemical alteration in her body, in her current state, and if there really was a damn child in there, would cause an immediate miscarriage that her body would never be able to cope with. Without your herbs, you had to make do with the strange medicines on the table, hoping in your shallow knowledge of Latin that you could decipher their uses by their names and components.
If there was a child in there... you thought, unable to shake the thought. A damn child. Even though you were out of your mind, you were still a healer, you couldn't think of neglecting that child, even though you put Lucy as your top priority. Any harm to that child could mean harm to Lucy. The level of drugs was affecting the baby, you were sure by the crying and whimpering you heard from Lucy with each painful contraction.
Would such a newborn be able to breathe? The child wouldn't vomit, since there was nothing in its stomach. But you knew very well the effects of a high dosage of drugs on the body of a nine-month pregnant woman. The baby could evacuate inside the uterus and aspirate the material, and that was absurdly dangerous, as the child would die in there and Lucy would die soon afterward. Despite this, the possibility of carrying out an emergency birth was vague and just as absurd as injecting more drugs into her blood.
However, you felt too ashamed to admit to yourself that you could accompany Lucy to the exit. Your biggest fear was that she would need you along the way, as she would barely be able to protect herself and her mind would be flooded with worries about her husband. The best thing would be to ensure that Stephen survives and that she escapes. You couldn't, according to your principles, abandon a patient in extreme need. But both Lucy and Stephen were in extreme need.
But you wouldn't let any of them die, and you'd cling to the slightest possibility of leaving that building without any significant fatalities. Besides, with Lucy, you couldn't take the time to think about Gyro and Johnny. You knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that they would soon be going ready to fight for the corpse. Not without you.
Something deep in your heart told you it wasn't over. The president's conscious eyes of poisoned fury as you searched his pockets still haunted your mind and appeared behind your eyelids all the time. That wasn't the look of a dying man, it wasn't the same look you had now, on the brink of death.
Thinking about the president added another layer of guilt to your complex feelings - even though the logical part of your brain firmly rejected this unwanted feeling. Still, the doubt of whether you had really done the right thing couldn't be dismissed so easily.
A noise snapped you out of your hypothetical moral dilemma. Lucy was regaining her strength and control of her breathing. She was starting to get up and bumped into a table next to the stretcher, dropping a forceps on your foot. She got up and crouched down to pick up the tool and mumbled something that sounded like a curse. Her rapid recovery was impressive, but perhaps it was just the adrenaline rush of watching one man being stabbed to death and another having his throat slit.
"Oh, my God, forgive me, Miss (Y/N).'' She said it a little late, both because she had dropped the tool and because she had cursed.
Even though the moment didn't allow it, it made you smile. She had Stephen's elegant manners. Polite, even in a critical situation like that.
"Don't worry, Lucy, don't strain yourself.'' You said, picking up a tiny vial labeled epinephrine. You had no vast knowledge of medicines and their chemistry, especially those that didn't have Latin nomenclatures or didn't seem to be derived from plants. But you did know that the effects of epinephrine were as similar and as risky as those of an adrenaline pump - if not practically the same.
But what could you do? As much as the idea of keeping Lucy and the baby safe was impossible to dismiss, it didn't fit with reality. Despite the risks, Lucy was the priority, and you reached for an injection on the table, feeling an involuntary satisfaction from working with clean equipment.
The vasoconstrictive effect of epinephrine could slow down or prevent the flow of the other sedative drugs from staying in Lucy's bloodstream. Perhaps saving a dose for Stephen would also be wise, you thought, remembering the bullet in his chest and not intending to go into detail about it with Lucy.
''This will give you the energy to run away, defend yourself, or whatever you need, Lucy. Stay still.''
She didn't answer but expressed her inviolable confidence by extending her arm to you. Despite everything, she seemed firm and willing to put an end to all that hell once and for all.
The application was quick, as you saved a considerably larger dose for Stephen, giving Lucy small amounts so that the side effects wouldn't be so strong.
"Where is my husband?'' She asked. She was still crying, but her voice was steady as if the effect of the epinephrine had been immediate. "Where is he?''
"Lucy, we have to go.''
"No!'' She said, getting up and looking around, lost and staggering like a drunken spider. ''I need to see him!''
You were willing to look for Stephen, but at the same time, a part of your mind didn't want Lucy to be distracted by the sight of her husband's deplorable state. But would that be right? To prevent her from seeing him, knowing that it might be the last time she would see him? You no longer knew which side of your moral compass to follow, as it was spinning wildly.
The room had three doors, only two of which were closed and Lucy staggered carelessly to open them. Without wasting any time, you rushed to the body of the stabbed man and pulled the knife out of the stiff oblique muscle, causing a reasonable, but not dramatic, amount of blood to ooze out. The floor was slippery with a mixture of medicine, shards of glass and blood, and you tried to be careful not to trip.
"Lucy, listen to me!'' You said before she opened one of the doors. "The guards are all busy with the journalists, you need to escape through the south door!''
"I can't leave my husband!''
And then she opened the door. No sign of her husband, but as she crossed the threshold, you could hear heavy breathing, very different from the breathing of what could have been a guard. That motivated the girl enough to move on.
Stephen Steel was a tall man, you concluded when Lucy returned, opened the second door, and found her husband on a hard steel stretcher. Stephen's feet stuck out over the edge of the stretcher. Lucy ran over to him, slipping on the blood-streaked floor because she was barefoot and weak. Luckily, you managed to grab her by the arm before she fell, clumsy as a cockroach, and couldn't get up.
When you held her, you looked at her face. You expected her to scream and cry, but instead she was pale, completely immobile, every bone and tendon as tense as death. Her face was just as shocked, but Lucy's eyes burned, expressionless, black holes in her skull. She stood for a moment in front of Stephen, then blessed herself and solaced something.
"Oh, my dear...'' She said, reaching up to hold his swollen hands.
From Stephen's state, it made a lot of sense that she thought he was dead. But then he groaned. Lucy froze again and stared at you, her eyes wide with disbelief. It had been a very discreet sound; it was only Lucy's reaction that convinced you that you had indeed heard it. She looked at her husband again and held his face with a silent desolation, and you - so perplexed that for a moment you couldn't move - began to think as quickly as possible.
"Stephen!'' She said, whimpering not at all discreetly. ''Stephen, dear! Can you hear me? (Y/N), please help him! Please, I beg you, I can't leave him!''
His breathing faltered. No, maybe not. Maybe it was just the sound of the residual air leaving his body with the movement, but it wasn't; you could see Stephen's face framed by Lucy's thin, delicate hands, and you knew it wasn't.
This man must be, at the very least, good. You could see it in Lucy's trembling hands, in the desperation in her voice. She loved him and she had reason to. But at what cost? You came here to save her and a possibly dead man would do nothing but get in the way, no matter how cruel it was to think that way. But she loved him, nothing would change that fact, not even the coldness of death. It made you feel sick, seeing her in such agony, and you wondered not for the first time what kind of relationship they had.
You moved quickly, reaching out to tear Stephen's filthy clothes, to ask Lucy to hold his head to stabilize him while you searched for tweezers, scalpels, and lines. He was cold, but firm, because he was alive. You had prepared yourself for the touch of the flaccid flesh of the dead, and the shock of feeling life in your hands was considerable.
"One shot.'' You said breathlessly as if you'd just been punched in the stomach. "One shot. Look at his back, is it bleeding?''
Then Lucy quickly lifted him, carefully so as not to drop him and with difficulty.
"No, Miss (Y/N).'' She confirmed. "He's not bleeding!"
"The bullet is lodged.''
"What does that mean? Will he survive?''
"Maybe.''
You didn't know. In your opinion, it was a better situation than if the bullet had gone through his chest. You wanted to be the hero who removes a lodged bullet with a knife and saves the day, but you knew it wouldn't be possible.
The bullet is an inert object, you thought as you analyzed the hole in his chest, close to his heart. The bullet has done its damage and it's over, now it's just a harmless foreign body. It's made of a material that the body itself doesn't react to and, even if it did, in that situation Stephen's body could simply ignore it.
Removing the projectile was an unnecessary risk, you didn't want to damage any more tissue, and you had already certified that no vital organs had been hit - perhaps only one lung had been damaged by the heat, but nothing fatal. How would you explain this to Lucy? How would you say that in the best-case scenario, you should keep the bullet lodged in her husband's chest?
The bullet itself was already sterilized by the heat generated by the shooting process, so there was no considerable risk of infection. Perhaps, as it is in a highly vascularized area, it would be a good idea to keep it there to prevent further blood flow.
"Listen, Lucy, he can't lose any more blood.'' You said. "I'm going to operate to clean and repair the damage the bullet caused, not to remove it. I'm also going to give him a vasoconstrictor injection, which will stop him from losing blood.''
"What? Are you going to leave the bullet there?''
"Yes. It's too delicate an area and removing the bullet, especially in the situation we're in now, could cause more damage.''
"So he will...''
"He's stable, yes.''
''And why did they hurt him? Why?!''
"It was a... ah...'' You interrupted yourself, taking a deep breath. ''It was a terrorist, a mercenary that the president probably hired. I don't know why they would kill him. But that doesn't matter, he's in good hands.''
"But he's... oh, I need him to wake up!'' You looked at her face. It was still pale, still serious, but the eyes now burned with a black light capable of tearing apart any soul foolhardy enough to approach. Thick drops of tears trickled down her cheeks again and you concluded that Lucy Steel's condition was undoubtedly the most critical. ''We need to get him out of here!''
"He's lost a lot of blood, Lucy, he's not going to wake up.'' You said, placing a piece of gauze over the bullet hole, watching the bloodstain expand on the pristine white tissue. You then carried out all the procedures you needed in an absurdly short space of time, administering the remainder of the epinephrine dose into his vein in a matter of seconds. "We can't waste any more time here.''
"No, we're not wasting time! We're saving him!'' She exclaimed, her voice hoarse as tears trickled down her lips. ''I'm not leaving here without him!''
You were getting impatient and you knew very well that the poison in your body was the reason. You couldn't pay attention to interference or delays. Stephen Steel wasn't breathing visibly; there was no perceptible movement of the chest; the lips and nostrils weren't moving. You searched in vain for a pulse in his wrist - there was no point in palpating the mass of swollen tissue in his neck - and finally found a pulse, beating lightly.
"Lucy, there's a pulse in him, he's alive and he's going to stay that way.'' You said gruffly. ''But you can make him a widower when he wakes up, can you understand that? You need to get away!''
Any slightest exaltation on your part was enough to turn your insides upside down and make you squirm as if you were possessed. Lucy let out a startled exclamation, and took a step back, watching in shock as you coughed and choked, running for the nearest bucket or garbage can.
You opened your eyes and vomited. The burning of the bile that went up your nose and the vomit that ran down your hair was nothing compared to the stabbing pain in your stomach. However, when you wiped your mouth, there was nothing but blood. Not even a trace of the poison expelled by the vomit, just blood, pure and crimson.
"Ah, (Y/N)!'' She screamed as if you were a creature out of control. ''What's going on? What have they done to you?''
You coughed some more to clear your throat. A disgusting mixture of blood and saliva dripped from your lips and you wiped it away with your wrist, making Lucy's eyes pop out of their sockets at the sight.
"Fuck...'' You said, hoarsely, as if you'd finally thrown up the needles in your stomach. ''Nothing... it's nothing. I just don't have much time and neither do you.''
Taking courage from the fact that you were still yourself and not a body possessed by the devil, she approached you, touching your shoulder so that you would turn around and she would attest to your condition. Although you intended to rush the girl, you regretted having said the last sentence. It made her despair and didn't stop the tears from falling.
You had nothing else to say or do. You could only try to reassure her, but how could you do that? She had just seen her husband with a hole in his chest and her savior choking on blood. All this while feeling the weight of a cursed life in her womb. How would you calm that poor girl down?
Your blurred vision didn't allow you to see much beyond the sheen of tears running down Lucy's unblemished face. You reached out your clean hand and touched her cheek, wiping the tears from her face.
"Lucy, please, you...'' You choked before you could finish what you were going to say, but it wasn't because of the blood. You choked suddenly, a common reaction to a sudden burn or cut. And now what was supposed to be your clean hand was smearing her face with warm, thin blood.
Have you cut your hand without realizing it? No, that was just now. You'd see it if you had a cut that made it bleed like that. Lucy was so feverish that she hadn't noticed the heat or the smell of blood, but she could see from your face that something was wrong.
''(Y/N)... what happened to you? Were you hurt? Was it the president?''
"No, I...'' You said to Lucy, trying to sound calm. ''That was... Lucy, your tears... What the hell is happening to your body?''
She looked down at her hand, a long, painful cut on her palm that was oozing blood. There was no doubt about it, you had cut yourself touching her face. Her tears, once in contact with the air, crystallized into sharp, breakable shards. Lucy touched her own face, feeling the hard layer on her cheek and pulling out a large splinter of her tears mixed with your blood. It was sharp, no doubt, but she hadn't cut herself.
"Ah, yes... yes, of course... so the voice...''
"Voice?'' You asked. "What voice?''
"Something or someone was trying to talk to me.'' She explained, and thank God she seemed calm. "It told me not to cry, but to cut.''
You took a deep breath, there was no longer any trace of reason in your mind. Any information you were given, you would accept without question.
"Then obey the voice.''
She remained silent, shocked, and slowly the blade of tears in her hand fell apart, but others were forming, an infinite and dangerous arsenal, judging by the pain you felt in your hand.
"But...''
''Lucy, listen to me. You need to leave, get away as quickly as possible, and for that...'' You flinched a little, but put a hand on her shoulder, staining her pink dress with blood. ''Well, some throats will be cut, that's for sure.''
"I... I'll do whatever it takes, but I won't leave my husband here.''
Her voice was firm, without hesitation. The only response you could give was a sigh of defeat. You feared it would be a fatal delay, but you knew there was no changing the girl's mind.
''Okay, damn it... all right, Lucy, get Stephen on the stretcher...'' You sniffled, still feeling your throat ache. ''It'll be easier if the press is still keeping the guards distracted...''
The only virtue of a terrible emergency is that it gives a person license to test and say things that could never be done in cold blood. Once you had made up your mind, you let Lucy get ready, uncoupling Stephen's stretcher from the stand, while you walked to the door you had entered to check the corridor.
Obviously, you hadn't forgotten your knife, although it was hard to keep it steady in your cut hand. Slowly, you protruded your head outwards, looking in all directions, and a slight stirring caught your eye. You didn't know if you were delirious from the poison, but you knew you saw something. A flutter of blond hair, a rustle of other clean pink clothes; a horribly familiar and agile figure that didn't give you enough time to reason, only to return to the shelter of that room with two cold corpses.
Was the president alive? No, he isn't, you thought. It was you who was delusional. There's no chance, you can't let your mind give way to this thought. He's dead, you killed him, it's over. The guards are the only threat that the building can offer. That's it.
You peeked down the corridor again. Empty, thank God. You looked back and saw that Lucy was ready to follow you, pushing the moribund Stephen on the stretcher. It was less noisy than you thought it would be; it was a relief.
"Do you see something?'' She asked.
Just ghosts. You thought.
"No. The path is clear, come on.''
And so she did, following you cautiously to a corner where you stopped to check for any dangers; and nothing. The building was practically abandoned, there was no guard there.
Before you spoke, you sniffled, cursing the damn poison and thinking about the president. How the hell was he dead if he didn't show any of the symptoms you were having now? You thought of the vague possibility of an allergy. Perhaps you had the misfortune to be sensitive to any of the four deadly toxins you had put in that coffee - if not, allergic to the coffee itself - and the president was simply more resistant.
But he was fighting, no doubt about it. You could see it in his bulging eyes and his attempts to drag himself somewhere you couldn't tell. As if there was some secret alcove or hiding place that only he knew about in that room.
But it wasn't time for that now. You'd have time to wonder why he didn't cough or vomit blood once you were out of that building. Right now, your priority is Lucy Steel - and her husband, a possible delay, however much you knew how wrong it was to think that way.
''(Y/N)... Are you all right? You're pale as a ghost.''
"It must be because I've just seen one.'' You murmured.
"Ah?''
"Never mind.'' You said. "The path is clear. Listen, Lucy. This is the west side of the building, you can't just walk out of the south gate with your husband on a stretcher, so you need to stay somewhere easier to hide if you need to. You need to take the southwest side. I saw some wagons stored there when I was being escorted, you can hide and escape in one of them.''
"You're coming with us, right?''
"No... I'm sorry. I'm doing everything I can to help you, but I can't go with you from here.''
"But...''
"Listen, I'll make you as late as your husband if I go with you. I'm... well, you see. I need to sort this out and I'm not going to put you in danger because of my little nausea."
She seemed to have a lot to question and disagree with, but she kept quiet and you mentally thanked her for it. Before you parted, you saw a gleam of relief in Lucy's eye at the clear farewell.
"No man in this building could take half of what you've put up with, girl.'' You said, putting your hand on her shoulder, afraid that touching her face was still unsafe. ''You're strong. You're armed and energized; your husband is stable.''
She didn't say anything, as if the crying had closed her throat, but she nodded with pained eyes and a clear expression of pain. She was still having contractions and from then on they would only get more painful, but there was nothing you could do but warn her.
"I know you're in pain, and that pain is only going to get worse.'' You said. "But it won't kill you, trust me.''
"I trust you...'' She murmured. "But are you going to be okay?''
''I can't promise that. Whatever happens, you're more important. You're the one who has to live, you hear? Now go! Keep southwest until you see wagons. If you see necks instead, cut them with those tears or whatever. But cut them.''
She nodded again, this time with a firmness that made you feel relieved.
"Thank you, (Y/N).'' She said without blinking before leaving. You could see new tears welling up in her blue eyes. "I'll never forget this... I'll never forget you, whether we get out alive or not.''
Despite the pain, the dizziness, and the agony, you smiled. An inevitable, involuntary smile that didn't let you say a word, just stood there, watching Lucy run away with her husband, mentally begging her to go faster.
You clenched your teeth, which actually gritted, as she rounded a corner and disappeared from your field of vision. Such desperation in the air. After the brief farewell, you moved on, heading for the south. You were breathing as if you'd gone around the Tower of London. Your arms and legs were seized by numbness, which ran all the way down to the base of your spine.
The anger over the situation had been rekindled now that you were on your own. Miserably unable to do anything about it, you stopped when you heard footsteps. They were coming towards you, organized, strong, but it seemed to be just one man. You hid behind a large potted plant, crouching down, knife ready.
The footsteps were now beside you, and then in front of you, passing right by without noticing your presence. In a less critical situation, the rational side of your brain would leave that guard alive and pass behind him unnoticed. But you couldn't risk being seen - and a dead man can't see anything.
You reflexively bent your knees and gave in to the impetus of violence, immediately turning to a rush of blood, which left you stunned.
Then you recover your calmer state. Even though they had both been killed the same way, that guard had bled a lot less than the doctor holding Lucy, and that was a relief. The blood ran down his clothes and was absorbed before falling to the ground. You kicked the body to hide it behind the same vase lid, preventing a pool of blood from forming clearly, and left.
The hot blood was rushing to your face as you scampered like a rat in the corners, hiding in the ornaments and walls. But there weren't many guards, as expected.
With a lump in your throat, you shuddered and looked at your bloodied hands. How many men could a healer kill? Two? Five? You didn't get to count.
It's all right, you thought. You're alive, you're in one piece, everything's fine. You managed to escape, now all you had left was a dozen or so steps to the exit. Your eyes were glazed over, unable to blink, wet with tears. You weren't sad, you weren't shaken. You were doing what was necessary for your friends and yourself and you would never regret it. Drying your face on your clothes, you stopped crying and took a deep breath when you heard more footsteps.
You felt physically awful, your stomach churning, your psyche cracking. Just one more, keep your heart strong.
Your fist gripped the knife, your feet lifted off the ground in smooth, agile movements. However, when the knife came close to the man's throat you hesitated, holding the guard hostage as he grunted with fright.
You could feel your own throat burning, whether from bile or tears, you didn't know. The shock and grief choked you like a ball of yarn stuck in your esophagus; you could barely manage a squawk.
"Drop your weapons, keep quiet.''
The man raised his hands in surrender; he had no weapons.
"I know there's a guard outside, just behind the door.'' You continued, deeming it necessary to press the blade harder into his throat, making him recoil. ''You're going to tell your friend to change position. Tell him there are intruders somewhere so he'll leave.''
The guard said nothing in shocked silence, but agreed with a nod and started walking when you encouraged him with a strong kick behind the knees. There was no certainty that the guard would do as he was told, but you didn't have many options now.
Approaching the door, the man stopped abruptly and you looked around to make sure there was no one there - after the president had left and you had knocked out half the guards in that building, the corridors bore a bloody, deserted air.
''Huh?'' You muttered, frowning and still threatening him with the knife. ''What's wrong? Why did you stop? Come on, I don't have time!''
The man remained still, with a brief flicker on his face, smelling something. For a moment, you thought he smelled something burning, but you saw for yourself that there was nothing wrong. You pressed the knife harder, sure that it would cut him, and the pulse in the hollow of his throat was strong and regular; you let out the deep sigh you hadn't realized you'd been holding back and, with a thud, the man quickly spun around, grabbing your wrist and throwing you against the door.
You let out a strangled grunt of anger and surprise as you were thrown, and pulled the man with you to the ground. In one swift movement, you punched and kicked him, managing to break free. But it took both of you the same amount of time to get up, and you couldn't run when you were attacked by another wave of coughing and nausea, so your hostage pulled you up by the shoulders and held you against the wall.
"You...'' The man muttered, as if he didn't want to be heard either, and moved closer.
You knew him. You knew that voice. That recognition must have been clear on your face because he paused for a moment and then turned his head and let his hat fall.
"I thought so...'' Diego said.
You didn't say anything, you couldn't. You didn't know what you were feeling; fear, joy, anger... it didn't matter, because along with it came an overwhelming relief. A sudden feeling that now you weren't alone. A certainty that made your legs weak and you collapsed on the floor, your back against the wall, still fighting.
In a war, saving a life was the kind of thing that made a man sweat and tremble more than taking a life. Most soldiers were young, ignorant, with no basic idea of what to do when they saw a partner without an arm or a leg; but they still carried the burden and the awareness that they had to save that person. The situation Diego found himself in was similar.
Saving requires more strength and guts than killing. He knew this the moment he saw that there was something wrong with you, coughing and choking non-stop, exploding into dry heaving, as if your body wanted to expel something that had latched onto your insides and wouldn't come out.
"What the hell happened to you?''
''Datura... aconite. Poisonous.'' You babbled, coughing as you crossed your arms over your stomach.
Thank God, you thought, Diego took care of the few guards there were in that area, it would give you a bit more time, but it wasn't as if it was the equivalent of the time you had.
"Poison? You've been poisoned?! Was it the president?!''
"Wagon...'' You coughed again. "My wagon!''
"Shitting hell, you're almost green!''
More than green. Your hands were sweaty and you knew that your shaky knees wouldn't support you for long if you tried to walk. You swallowed, coughed and thumped your chest. Diego, undeniably frightened, supported you in his arms.
He narrowed his eyes at you, thoughtful, and then turned to the park just across the street, far away, with no people except for a few children.
"Shit... We don't have time for this!'' He grumbled.
So he gently left you sitting on the floor. Your first thought, however, was that he would abandon you there, poisoned, to die on the pavement. And that thought became more confirmed with every step he took away, becoming tiny in the landscape, his eyes absent-mindedly searching for something.
So, after crossing the street, he turned to an old painter who was quietly smoking a pipe on his break. What's more, he seemed to be enjoying an enviable lunch of fruit, bread and water. He couldn't see you, as the dry trees and the distance protected you.
"Hey, you, old man!'' You only heard Diego shouting, moving away from your blurred vision. "You there, who's painting!"
Then the voices became murmurs and you lay on the floor, writhing with every contraction, feeling somewhat guilty for having offered the president such a cruel death - and yet frustrated to know that you will die the same way, and he will answer to you in hell.
That's what you expected.
You shrank your body, bringing your knees up, as you fought against the poisoning, your hands groping and striking your belly. You felt your skin warm to the touch and your intestines contracted, turning into snakes themselves, biting and slithering from side to side as they intertwined.
''(Y/N)!'' You heard something or someone shout.
But you couldn't answer the call. You remained stubbornly curled up like a ball, clutching your stomach, trying to contain the sharp pains that were tearing you apart. You couldn't pay attention to anything but your inner turmoil. Your ears rang and a cold sweat bathed your face.
That's when someone put their hands on your shoulder and forced you to sit down. You opened your eyes and saw Diego, kneeling beside you with a pipe and a glass of water, frowning in concern. You should have been flattered by the jockey's generosity, but you weren't in a position to pay any attention to it. The characteristics of the pain seemed to be changing; although it grew in spasms, it was more or less constant and yet it seemed to be moving, traveling from a higher point in your abdomen to a lower point.
"Are there no other wounds? This blood... are you bleeding?'' He questioned, hovering anxiously above you. ''No... this isn't your blood. Not all of it. If it's just poison, you need to vomit.''
"Idiot...'' You cursed through your teeth.
He looked arrogantly at you from the top of his nose. He put his hand to your sticky forehead, incidentally closing your eyes so that you wouldn't see what he was going to do.
You managed to free yourself from his grasp and, with a slap, you pushed the restraining hand away from your forehead.
''Get away from me, you rat! Don't touch me!''
''Calm down, (Y/N)! You're delirious, let me help you!''
"Fuck you, you fucking lizard! Don't touch me!''
The pain increased again, a tourniquet squeezing your insides, and you gasped and shrank once more. When it eased a little, you opened your eyes, seeing Diego's eyes vigilant and fixed on your face, clear as unpeeled grapes.
"This will help you, (Y/N), trust me.''
Your eyes lowered to his hands. He took the filthy pipe from the hand of a confused painter, stuck his thumb into the stained space and began to scrape away the sticky, burnt residue inside.
Turning the pipe over, he tapped it on the glass of water, causing a small shower of brown crusts and moist pieces of half-burned tobacco, which he mixed into the water with his dark thumb. When he had finished, he looked back at you over the rim of the glass in a completely sinister way.
"No way!'' You protested. "No!''
"Yes.'' He said. "Drink it.''
You were too sick to fight. He put his hand on the back of your neck and pressed the glass against your lips.
"It'll be quick, I remember my mum doing it, trust me.'' He assured you.
You closed your mouth tightly, as it was the only thing you could do with your meager strength. The smell of the glass was enough to make your stomach churn, combined with the stench of tobacco, the brown, resinous surface of the liquid, the crusts swimming beneath the surface, and the thought of the old painter's brown catarrh.
Diego didn't bother to argue or convince you. He simply let go of your hand, pinched your nose, and when you opened your mouth to breathe, the stinking liquid came out of the glass.
''Ah! N... no!''
"Swallow!'' He said, closing your mouth tightly and ignoring your movements and the muffled sounds of protest you made. He was much stronger than you, and he didn't intend to let you go. It was swallow or suffocate.
So you swallowed it.