My hands support my head as I squirm to find a comfortable position in my bed. "Bruises heal. Duh. I know bruises heal. I've had enough of them to consider that my expert content knowledge. But what is that supposed to mean?"
John's faint buzzing fills the air to mimic snores.
The only one who was better at these stupid analogies was Simon, and unfortunately, there's no way I can get him to weigh in on this now. But I wonder what he'd say.
I imagine he'd lean forward on the Sink's bar, his grease-speckled apron hanging off the loop around his neck. His legs would cross at the ankles where his rounded-toe boot would dig into the checkered floor of our family canteen.
"Bruises, huh?" He would contemplate this by resting on his elbows, squeezing his nine fingers together. "Do they heal? I thought they just moved around because whenever you got one and I thought it was on the mend, another would show up in a totally different location. You must have had them on some kind of rotation, am I right?"
I would be behind the bar, leaning against the well where I kept our stockpiled Junk Juice. The blinking fluorescent bulb over the dining room would flicker and remain mostly unnoticed. I would sync my blinks with it.
"Don't worry about it, Kiddo. Little Mo's got one thing right. It's all going to be just fine."
"How is everyone so sure of that? Shit's looking pretty bleak to me."
He'd grab the corner of the counter with both hands and pulling his lower body backward, popping his spine in a feline stretch. When he rises, he'd grab my forearm. He'd reach over the counter with both hands and plant a kiss on the top of my head.
"Stop being such a buzzkill. Have a little hope, would you? Not everything is so bad."
Simon's image floats away as I calibrate myself back into the cabin. John's heat warms my toes that peek from beyond the too-short blanket. There's no way to get my whole body under the covers anymore when I'm taking up most of the material around my middle. But John's here. So I'm okay.
"Can't sleep." I sit up. "Any chance you're up for a walk?"
He doesn't respond. Of course. He doesn't understand a word I say.
When I get up, I throw the green dress over my body and stuff my swollen feet into my black boots. They're too tight to even bother with the laces. Once dressed, I head for the door.
I step outside and wave my arm into the entryway, stopping my cabin door from closing. John lifts his head and cracks it sideways, giving me his full tilt. A strand of drool falls to the floor.
I wave him over.
Taking the hint, he picks his whole body up from the cradle and follows me out the door. It snaps shut behind us.
Late-night passageways are the same dense nothing as morning or noon passageways. The only difference is that I don't harbor the fear of running into civilians. It's so late, not a soul should be wandering. We're the two most hated things on this ship, but not now. At this hour, he doesn't have to creep from shadow to shadow or lurk in the jagged angles of his own ship. He can walk out in the open. We both can. This might be the only time of day when either of us is free.
I lead us to my favorite spot – the empty room with the gigantic jelly window.
"Don't you guys have glass? Plastics? Knowing what separates me from the vast vacuum of space is a large slab of marmalade makes me question your engineering integrity."
John dances in place, tapping against the black floor.
"That was cute. Do it—" I'm about to make the incredible effort to slide to the floor and be entertained by my friend when the walls begin to rattle against my back.
I startle. After existing in fear and hearing that sound in so many nightmares, it's difficult to shake the subconscious terror. "What the hell is that?"
The tapping continues, but it's not just behind me. It's above, below, and at my side. It's everywhere. The noise permeates from the walls.
"Fuck. How many Xani are here?"
When I look back, globs of white goo slide down the clear, chunky window.
I detect a smell. It's faint at first, but the more I inhale, the stronger it gets. It smells like months-old sour milk festering in copper barrels.
"Holy freaking Lady on a Landmine, John. That reeks. What is it?"
John dances again. His head bobs up and down as he head-bangs to his own erratic beat. The Xani in the walls respond with a forceful echo.
Cold dread settles over. "I shouldn't be here. I'm sorry." I back into a corner, wrapping my arms around myself. Are these the noises that follow me? I assumed it was just my one friend all along, but there are more. With the echoes, it sounds like I'd find at least three or four more sets of legs if I were to peel back the slats of beryllium.
My fists clench my arms tighter. My hairs stand on edge.
But what trouble have my fearful conclusions gotten me into before?
Tons. So many. I need to think differently now.
I force my fear away and step up to John's side.
For long minutes, nothing changes. John performs his tap-dance, the Xani scuttle through the pipes, I stand my ground, and the window weeps.
Suddenly, it stops. All of it. The room returns to silence as space floats by outside.
When I realize the dance is over, I return to my spot. I don't know how to understand what the fuck that was. Asking John is more useless than trying to mend a leaky faucet with laughter.
Grime collects under my jagged, torn fingernails while I dig them into the material of my dress, waiting for some cataclysmic boom to pop the fragile facsimile I've put together. Nothing moves. I'm hyper-aware that they're around me, but I can't see them.
"Is this some sort of trap?" I unwind, nerve by nerve. "Like you're luring me here to get me comfortable so you can dismember me later when I least expect it?"
John shudders, shedding petals of his flaky skin. One strip lands like a feather on the floor. I watch it, recognizing it from somewhere else. It bubbles around the contours of the slanted metal slats on the uneven ground, forming a custard scab.
This yellow crust—I've seen it before. I've seen it every single day I've been aboard ARC10 and the image slaps me upside the head so hard, I tip sideways on impact. I can't believe it's taken me this long to see something that's been staring me in the face all along.
"Holy shit—they're eating it." I jump to my feet as quickly as possible and run for the door. I need Knuckles to confirm this. If I'm right, we're screwed. "Let's move, John."
I gesture the Xani forward, but he doesn't move. He stares at me with upside-down eyes and a slippery, dripping mouth. Returning to the room, I get behind him and push, poking at his legs to get him walking sideways. "Move! Move! Move!" I scream at him through the effort.
Knuckles will confirm it. He'll find a cure for Rind and he'll find a way to bring order to the ship that's falling apart by the neurons.
We rush through the passageways, the rapid ticks of my nightmare are alive beside me. This time, I have eyes on my monster. The passageways seem brighter. There's hope. We can fix this. We can make the Crust go away and make the whole trip a hell of a lot more manageable.
Maybe I'll be forgiven.
I get ahead of John and pick up my gait to wide, long strides on short, wobbly legs.
We round the corner of Quad1 to pass through the mess hall in order to climb the ladder up to the deck 2 where Knuckles resides. He's mad at me still, but he won't be when he finds out I've solved the biggest problem ARC10 suffers through. He'll be proud.
"Commander! Get down." Umpire appears from a corner and has his weapon pointed right at me.
I skid to a halt, John screeching behind me.
"It's behind you!" Avant is poised beside Umpire, her weapon pointed as well. I can hear the gears of John's body move in rapid agitation as he rises, flaring his legs and spinning his blades above my head. My ears fill with the whir of his drills spinning on overtime.
"Lower your weapons." I stand my ground and hold my hands out to steady my two stalwart VIPERs.
A crowd gathers. What the hell are they doing up?
I have my PAHLM back, but I never checked the time once. Rookie mistake.
They peek around the corner, gazing in terror at the sight of VIPERs versus vitriolic creature and commander. Their eyes and mouths make circles of disbelief. Umpire and Avant listen and point the muzzles of their guns to the ground, keeping them close to their sides. Their hard eyes never leave John's rearing, neck-bending head as it crunches on his neck.
"We're on our way to visit the clinic. I don't need an escort—I need to keep moving. Keep the crowds back."
"Traitor!" The word is hurled at me from somewhere in the small, gathering group. "It killed one of us and she's protecting it. Traitor!"
"Rat!" Someone else screams. "Rat!"
Here we go again. "VIPERs—clear a path. I need to get the asset to target location."
Umpire and Avant turn their backs to me to address the swelling aggression of the early risers.
With lurching Xani at my back and boiling civs itching to claw my eyes out at my front, I have to wait until a path clears. This shouldn't have been a big deal. No one was supposed to be out.
Opening my PHALM, I'm accosted with the blaring 0540. How did I lose so much time in the room? While waiting for the VIPERs to control the tiny mob, I type out a desperate plea.
PLEASE LET ME IN -- NEW DEVELOPMENTS
Angry, but receding, John and I are able to squeeze by the placated congregation.
Until something strikes me flat against the side of my head.
It's an orange. A small, perfectly round orange. It bounces and rolls to the ground, hitting the back of Avant's boot. Stunned, I catch the stolid, grim lips of a man who has done what he needs to do. I watch his contentment before the man is shoved against the wall, his hands behind his back as a regular militiaman makes his arrest. The cluster of angry civilians wilts around their fallen comrade as Umpire and Avant press in around them.
"Traitors!"
"Sympathizers!"
"What did the aliens promise you? How could you do this to your own people?" One woman in a mechanic's oily jumpsuit accuses.
They all look to us. Not just me and my Xani, but me, my Xani, and my VIPERs. We're all different cogs of the same enemy.
"Where's Hayomo?" one voice questions from the group.
I can't do this now. Not when I'm on the brink of solving my first problem. The people will always be dissatisfied. If I leave this here, I can pick it back up exactly where I found it. My path is ahead. The solution is somewhere on Deck 2 .
"Please, trust me. I'm doing this to help you." I say, but my voice is lost in the throng of hatred.
With the puddle of dissent behind me, John and I resume our trek to Knuckles. My PHALM vibrates softly.
[Incoming Message: MEDICK]
IM UP
Short. Curt. Without his sardonic bite — he's still pissed.
When we skid to a halt in front of the clinic, John's lights flicker under his belly. If I didn't know any better, this must be some kind of sign of approval or joy. I know I've never seen these lights directed at me. I get nothing but flopping, whirling, drooling, burping, misery in my space.
The clinic doors slide open and I take the hall to Knuckles' private exam room. He's there when I arrive, wrinkled white lab coat and askew glasses matching the disheveled tumult I currently feel buzzing through my blood. He wanders to the sink and aims for the waterless hand wash in the silver spigot.
"I think I've got it," I announce.
He pauses, hands mid-air.
"Rind. Crust. Whatever. I've figured out what it is."
He returns to his initial task and rubs his palms together vigorously, the suds spilling out between his fingers.
"Knuckles!" I shout, exasperated. "I figured it out. Aren't you—"
"Spill it, Lorn. I'm not here to entertain you today. I have work to do."
My over-spilling exuberance flatlines on the table. To the point. Fine. "It's Xani. They're consuming the orange bio-material on the ship. That yellow flaking shit on their faces. . ." I point to John behind me, blinking his jolly light-show in the halls, "it's his skin."
Knuckles positions the glasses on his nose so they don't slip right off the edge and inches closer. The more he moves toward John, the faster and brighter his strobe-light adoration intensifies.
"Knock it off. You're blinding me. What the hell is he doing? Will you calm down, you heinous carburetor?" Knuckles bends down to study the crinkly exterior of the Xani.
I hold down my laughter as John flirts incessantly with Knuckles.
"I need a sample from one of the Crust to be sure, but. . ." Knuckles holds up a large strip of skin the size of a pancake he pried from the Xani. "I'm sure this will be enough to test your hypothesis."
"I'll grab that sample ASAP. I want this shit dealt with now and then never again."
He takes the flake in his gloved hand and wanders away without another word.
It's hard to believe he's so mad. I made a mistake. It wasn't his fault and it wasn't my own—it's just how things played out. There's no reason for Knuckles to be such a prick about what happened on Heedeem.
Maybe this is what it feels like to be Dean.
***A/N***
Just wanted to pop in here to say "hello!" and "thank you so much for coming back every single day as I update through the break!" I love seeing all your stars and comments ❤️ and I hope you understand how much I appreciate seeing your names over and over again and getting to know you better. It's the reason Wattpad means so much to me. I love connecting with you!
I've seen this comment pop through a few times: I MISS DEAN.
Me too. So does Janika, for sure. But don't worry! He'll be back.
In case you're missing Dean so much you can't fathom another chapter without him, there is a sweet, steamy, romantic short, "Blue Valentine", in the 12 Days of Hawtness anthology (look for me on Day 5). It's a quick scene between Janika and Dean to tide you over until the two cross paths again. You can access it in the EXTERNAL LINKS or click on the profile HERE: HRCollection
I've been working hard to keep ahead of edits so I can continue posting on a normal schedule. Fingers crossed! 🤞🏽
Again, so glad to be here with you.
Love you all.
❤️L