Music blares in my ears as I grab the weights, lyrics from Jason Derulo's "In My Head" sounding far less... appropriate than I remember. Still, I'm thankful I found an iPod with working earbuds while I was running decoy yesterday. After Jones and Evans ran off, we had to deter some of the zombies that had been around the fence, plus make sure the horde that had been coming wasn't still coming.
While I'm not the biggest fan of this song or the others that the previous owner of this device downloaded, they're a good distraction from the pain that comes in my legs as I do multiple sets of lunges. I've got a bit too much energy, but I have no runs today and only was scheduled to help with breakfast in the kitchens, so I've got a bit of free time until Phineas gets done with school and needs help with his homework.
I don't want to bother Sam. He's busy with supply runs. While those missions are normally less exciting that the one I had yesterday, there are still quite a few zombies wondering around, scattered a few miles from Abel. It's nothing serious, but there are a few clusters of ten or so zoms here and there, and Janine is true to her word when she states that only doctors are allowed to have vials of the cure on hand unless otherwise stated. I think she's afraid if we have it, we'll start to become sloppy.
I don't agree, since we runners know zombie bites are still extremely panful, and it can get infected and cause you to lose a limb or kill you. Bites in general can get infected easily, and seeing that zombies are literally rotting away, that type of bacteria could cause serious damage, even without the threat of turning into a rotting, moving flesh-bag.
I grunt, setting down my weights for a quick second. My legs are already burning, probably because of how taxing yesterday was, and it was all for nothing. All we got was a bit of damage to our fences and an AI core dangled in front of our faces, only to be snatched away when Jones and Evans fled.
And all I got was a nasty headache from Jones hitting me with his gun, twice. Of course, it had already healed when Maxine checked it out, and I simply shrugged and told her I must have overexaggerated how hard he hit me. She didn't look convinced, but there wasn't really any other logical explanation, none that she could think of.
I get back to my lunges, thoughts of yesterday now plaguing my mind. Was Jones telling the truth about the AI core? Was it something he just came up with because he was pissed we didn't tell what he wanted to hear? He ran off after he said it, and there were too many zombies around Abel for us to worry about going after him and Evans. Just because that device was destroyed didn't mean the zombies were just going to walk away, not when there were tasty humans they could all smell. That's why I had to head back out to run as decoy with Runners Seventeen, Twenty-three and Thirty.
Nicole insisted we go after him, force him to tell us what he knew about that computer core. She suggested capturing him, and while she didn't outright say it, I knew she had an idea of how to get him to talk. Nicole is still a Torrencer, and she doesn't feel guilty when she hurts people. She doesn't see a point in feeling guilt because she's doing what needs to be done. That's what she believes, at least.
But we couldn't. There were too many zombies around Abel already, and we weren't going to force Jones and Evans to tell us about that core. If we tortured them to get what we wanted, we'd be no better than Sigrid, and for all we know, they could have been lying.
I lose count of how many reps I do, but my legs are shaking by the time I stop, and seeing that I'm holding thirty-pound dumbbells in my hands, it must have been a lot.
I do feel bad for Millie, Jones's wife. She didn't deserve to die like she did, but there's nothing we can do about it now, just like there's nothing we can do about Jones and Evans now, or that computer core. I'm sure Veronica would have made great use of the thing, but it's gone, so if we do plan on getting something like that, it'll have to be from a different source.
Thankfully Abel's always been good at adapting.
The sound of someone clearing their throat behind me gets my attention. It's just loud enough to be heard over the music playing in my ears. I take out an earbud and glance over my shoulder.
"Oh. Hi, Tom."
"Five," He says, his face neutral. "Are you trying to wear yourself out before training today?"
A small smile appears on his face when my eyes grows wide and I curse under my breath.
"You forgot, didn't you?" He asks, clearly amused.
"No," I say defiantly, but then I sigh a moment later when he raises a brow. "Okay, yes, I did. We can still train though. I haven't been doing this for very long."
"Are you sure?"
I half-shrug. "Why not? I'd think you'd jump at the chance of making me fight when I'm lacking energy. Makes it more realistic or whatever."
"Maybe so, but I would rather you have some chance of taking me down."
"You sound a little cocky. I might have to restrict your Peter time." I put the dumbbells back in their spot, wiping off my hands. "But yeah, I think I'll be fine."
He hums, leaning against the doorframe. "How's your head?"
"Fine."
"Is it?"
I tilt my head to the side. He is talking about what happened yesterday, right? "Yes? Uh, is yours?"
"If I thought I was anywhere near unstable, I wouldn't offer to train in the first place," He deadpans, and my eyes widen at how insensitive I must have come off as.
"No, I didn't-I wasn't... sorry. I-well, I mean, you know I'm fine. Was healed up before I even got back into the gates."
"I'm surprised Jane didn't notice."
"She had other, more important things to deal with," I reply with a shrug. "I mean, you were out with me on that decoy run. We haven't seen a horde that large since... I don't even remember, when we saved Jaime from being executed? Although they were all huddled together by a wall, not a mass group that came together on its own, so..." I trail off before quickly changing the subject. "Enough remembering about yesterday. Time for you to kick my ass, because we both know that's probably how training is going to go."
The humorous, yet also curious look he gives me is something I've rarely seen from him. "You sound almost excited about it."
"It'll keep the boredom away for an hour." I say, heading outside to the training grounds, Tom following beside me. "I've already done my kitchen shift, so I'm basically free to do nothing all day. It's not really a bad thing, but when everyone else is busy... you get bored, ya know?"
He nods, understanding for reasons both the same and different as mine. "Sometimes it's hard to be alone. It's easier when you're around others. They help-"
"Distract you?" I finish.
"And entertain you."
"Yeah, having you slam me into the ground is very entertaining," I say with an eyeroll, and he huffs a laugh.
"We don't have to train today if you don't want to." It's a first for him to suggest such a thing, since he usually pushes for me to practice even when I don't want to. He shares certain qualities with his sister, one of them being to constantly push oneself to strive to be better. It's something I both admire and despise about him.
"Then what would you do? I doubt we have the same hobbies."
He raises a brow in interest. "Why do you say that?"
"Because I'm boring. Outside of nearly dying on runs, I live a very sad life."
"It's an apocalypse. You can't exactly have interesting hobbies like skydiving."
I shudder violently at the thought of being so high up and willingly jumping out of a plane, trusting flimsy fabric and rope to keep you safe. "I will never understand how people do that for fun. But I just read, or play cards-"
"Poker?"
"Try solitaire," I laugh. "I never learned how to play any 'adult' card games. I was a kid when the apocalypse happened, so things like drinking games or card games like Poker or Blackjack are foreign to me. Again, sad life."
He shakes his head. "Not sad, just... inexperienced."
"Same thing."
"Not really. And drinking games aren't all they're cracked up to be."
"Is it because you can drink everyone under the table so by the time you get tipsy everyone else has already passed out?" I ask, and he shrugs, not really giving an answer. "Well, what do you do for fun? Besides reading poetry in different languages and-and... I don't know, whatever other smart things you do because you and Janine are weirdly good at a lot of things."
A small pang of guilt hits me as I say that. I call Tom my friend, because I believe him to be so, but I barely know much of anything about him. We talk a lot, but the thing about me him and Peter is when we talk, we babble, chatter. It's mindless, fleeting. We never really say anything at all. It's not a very good thing to do. And it makes me feel bad that I don't know Tom all that well.
He shoots me a confused look. "I thought American schools taught second languages."
"They do. In high school. I never made it that far."
He frowns, the confusion only seeming to grow. "Why teach it to high schoolers? You'd learn it much better if you were taught it young."
"I don't know. Our school system was extremely flawed. They cared more about sports than they did actual education. I was on my school's volleyball team, and... the amount of work we put it for a plastic trophy kind of baffles me when I think about it."
"Do you still play?"
"Sometimes, but there aren't any volleyballs in Abel, so I have to steal a soccer ball from the playground."
I can tell he wants to correct me for using the word 'soccer ball', but he doesn't, instead nodding in interest. "Are you any good?"
"I like to think so. I tried teaching Sam once, but he ended up jamming his fingers when I tried to teach him how to set, so we haven't done that in a while. I've been meaning to ask Peter, but I keep forgetting."
"You could teach me, if you like," He suggests, and I gape at him. He seems surprised and... slightly upset at how shocked I am by his suggestion.
"Really?" I ask, and he nods, his face contorting to a neutral expression.
"Maybe you wouldn't see your life as so sad if you actually had someone partake in the sport you played in."
I roll my eyes at his slight jest, but still smile. "Yeah, okay. Do you know much about it or am I teaching you like you've never played before and know absolutely nothing?"
"Teach me as if I've never heard of the sport before." He almost seems excited at the challenge, even though I know he's probably just humoring me for the moment. Still, it's better than playing alone, and this seems a hell of a lot more enjoyable than him beating the shit out of me for an hour.
"Great. As soon as you learn the basics, you're gonna be a hitter. You've got the height, and the strength, and probably the vertical..." I nod, eyes bright. "Yeah. It's been awhile since I had to dive for a ball. That'll be fun when the time comes. And afterwards, if you want, you can show me one of your hobbies."
"Do you even know what my hobbies are?" He asks, and I shrug.
"I mean, you read a lot, and I've seen you painting a few times. I also remember that birdhouse you made a few weeks ago. Very pretty... But if you don't want to put too much effort into it, you could teach me curse words in one of the many languages you know."
He blinks once, twice. "That's oddly immature of you."
I chuckle. "I'm just kidding. I curse enough as it is in English." I clasp my hands together. "Right. Now let's go get that soccer ball. The first thing I'll teach you is how to pass, and once you've got that mastered, we can move on to setting and hitting. But passing always comes first. If you don't have a good first pass, the entire play can be ruined."
"Uh-huh," He says, smiling softly.
"Uh-huh is right. Now come on. Those kids shouldn't be outside so we should be able to get the ball without trouble. Why are you just standing there? Quit smiling and come on."
•
It shouldn't surprise me how quickly a learner Tom is, but it does.
I think he's been humoring me, listening to every word and rule I explain, nodding whenever I give him any instruction or criticism.
He learned to pass within the first fifteen minutes, which isn't hard, except it is when you're using a soccer ball to play instead of a volleyball. The amount of control he has when doing so leaves me dead impressed, and Tom seemed quite pleased with himself when I told him so.
I taught him to set next, warning him to be careful since he could jam his fingers. I've done that enough times to know how much of an annoyance it can be, since I was either a setter or libero for my team, depending on who we were going against.
Tom almost looked afraid when he saw my giddy expression when it came time to teach him how to hit. There is no volleyball net in Abel, so I just had him hit it back to me, trying to make sure it hit my arms so I could pass it back to him.
It's how we ended up where we are now, playing pepper. I pass it to him, he sets, I hit, he digs, giving me a good pass to set, and then he hits, and we go back and forth. It's a fun game, although it shows how rusty I've become with my not-so-powerful hits and barely average sets. Tom doesn't say anything on it, allowing me to keep my pride for the time being and blaming it on using an incorrect ball for the sport.
I appreciate that.
"You've got this down surprisingly quickly," I say, passing him the ball.
"Thank you," He replies, setting it high into the air.
"I should be thanking you." I barely smack the ball, and it goes right to him to pass it back to me. "Now I have someone who will play with me. I never realized how badly I missed this."
"You forget how much you like some of your old hobbies when you stop participating them in them," He replies, his eyes following the ball as it passes between us.
"Yeah? Any hobbies you miss?"
"Several."
"Any that would explain how you're so good at this for your first lesson?"
"Hand-eye coordination is a common skill for many sports. Funny how you can do this but can't knit to save your life."
"I can sew, though. It's just the patterns I can't remember. In volleyball you only have to remember four moves. Pass, set, hit, block. And serve, if you want to count that as a move. And the rules are easy if they were taught to you since you were in second grade."
I set him up again, the soccer ball flying surprisingly high. It's probably because it needs more air in it. Tom hits it hard, so I don't have to swing my arms much to get it back to him. I let out a small grimace at the sting it leaves on my arms before shaking it off. I used to make fun of girls who complained about their arms hurting from 'bumping' the ball.
How silly that seems now. How silly it seems looking back at how much effort I put into that, for a jersey and a team and a plastic trophy that's probably broken and collecting dust. Maybe someone's used it to kill a zombie. Maybe it has killed several. Maybe it still sits in its trophy case for no one to admire it.
"Callista," Tom calls, snapping me out of my trance, and I dive down, my body slamming into the ground to hit the ball.
It's not a good save. The ball goes up, but not high enough for Tom to get to it. It hits the ground with a soft thud, and I huff as I push myself off.
"Sorry," I say, dusting myself off. It doesn't do much. My shirt is now dirty, and the smudges will probably leave stains. I suppose they will look no different than the other stains on this shirt. "Wasn't paying attention."
"Bored already?" He asks, crossing his arms. "Want to take a break?"
I shake my head. "Nah, not unless you want to. This is fun. As much as I love playing board games, it's fun to play an actual sport, especially one that I know the rules to."
"Well, we aren't exactly playing a game."
"No, but my point still stands." I throw the ball up, closing my fists and pressing them together to pass the ball to him, starting the cycle over again. He sets it, I hit it, and he digs it so I can set him up for a hit.
I think he says something to me, but I don't quite catch it. The angry shout that reaches my ears grabs my attention instead, even though the words are inaudible. I take a second to glance around, but there's no one around.
I don't have time to think about it, since Tom is hitting the ball, and I have to bend to get under the ball to give it a good pass.
"You can't-you can't just leave me here alone!"
"What?" I murmur, passing the ball instead of hitting like I was supposed to. Tom frowns, passing the ball back. I pass it again, hitting it high enough to be considered a set. He hits it, and I dig.
"Give it a few years, Five-o, and then I'll be the one that's alone."
I blink several times.
Peter?
I blink again, not wanting to deal with this right now, not wanting to repeat having a vision I had a long time ago and very much remember. I try to get the thoughts of it out of my head as Tom sets the ball back to me. I hit it.
"No. Unfortunately, that's not true."
Tom passes the ball back to me. I set him up.
"Five, what are you... Put the knife d-no!"
Tom hits the ball, and I hiss when it makes contact with my skin. I hit it wrong, and the ball flies off, hitting the ground and rolling down the street. Tom waves a hand to me before I can even apologize, running off to go retrieve the ball.
My arms still sting, far more than they should. Horror drills into my bones when I see bright red dripping down my hands from my wrists.
My slit wrists.
There's no burning, no healing of the thick gashes, and I try to stop of the bleeding of my right wrist by covering it with my left hand, but blood still manages to slip past my fingers, pooling down onto the ground. The earth makes quick work of soaking up the liquid crimson, but I can't think about that, not over the panicked voices ringing in my ear.
I can't let anyone see me like this. If they see me heal, they'll know.
So, sending a silent apology to Tom, I run.
The screaming keeps going, the words all melding together.
"Don't you know how much we care about you?"
"Of course, I know! I just..."
"Just what? Just what?!"
"You wouldn't understand!"
"Stop assuming that!"
I grit my teeth, running and running and running, warm blood running down my arm, showing no signs of stopping.
It stings. I feel dizzy.
"I've already said I'm sorry. Isn't that enough?"
"That's not the point! I never wanted you to be sorry! I wanted you to talk to me!"
"About what? What did you want me to say, that I keep seeing everyone else living their life and then dying and leaving me here, stuck forever? Is that what you want to hear?"
It hurts-the yelling, the cuts, the running. It hurts.
My breathing picks up, panic spiking as my vision starts to get blurry, words and phrases repeating over and over and over again.
It's too loud!
My heart thrums in my chest, my blood seeming to burn my skin as it runs down my hands, dripping off my fingers. Everything just gets louder and louder and louder until-
I collapse behind the greenhouse. Everything falls silent, all the pain from before disappearing as if it were never there, and I'm left feeling oddly numb, with the only sound reaching my ears being my heavy breathing and the pounding of my heart.
That is, until I hear a surprised curse, and hands are pulling me to my feet.
I meet eyes with the very person I was hearing in my head.
I don't think it's a coincidence.
"Jesus, Callista, are you alright?" He asks, his voice rough around the edges. My eyes glance down at my wrists. There're no cuts, no blood, not even stained fingers from where it dripped down.
And I internally kick myself for being stupid enough to think my injuries were real.
"I..." No words come to mind, and I find myself grasping for even the smallest lie to tell. I mean, Peter does know about my visions. He sees them as odd and I still don't think he quite believes them, but he's seen enough to be convinced that I'm not a lunatic...
But how could I tell him about this?
"Callista?" Peter says, and that raggedness is there again. It temporarily pulls me from my own thoughts, and I take a second to really study his face.
Something's wrong. His eyes are puffy, his cheeks flushes and lips are slightly swollen.
"Have you been crying?" I ask, and he blanched, his hand going up to skim his fingertips across his face, under his eyes.
"Of course not," He replies almost immediately. "And you can't distract me from asking why the hell you just ran behind here looking like you were two seconds away from having a panic attack."
I don't answer. I'm not sure what to say, really. I feel something warm trailing across my lips. A swipe of my tongue and the taste of metal floods my mouth. I clamp my hand over my face to hide the real-actually real-blood dripping from my nose, but it's too late.
Peter's hand is already gripping my wrist, much tighter than his grip usually is during our runs together, and he's ripping my hand away from my face, showing the blood that's now running over my lips and down my chin.
"What the hell?" He asks, eyes wide.
"It's nothing. I just get them sometimes." The words come out too fast, too frantic, and the almost annoyed look he sends me tells me he isn't buying my lies for a second.
"The last time I think I've seen you with a nosebleed was back at Noah Base when..." He trails off, the gears turning in his mind much too fast for me to think up a fib to get me out of this, "You were having one of those-those visions again, weren't you?"
"Uh..."
"What happened? You said those usually don't entail happy times."
"They... don't, but I mean, most of our days don't entail happy times, and it was a repeat, so..."
He quirks a brow. "A repeat? What does that even mean, Five? I don't speak paranormal."
I roll my eyes. "I have visions. I don't talk to ghosts..." I cringe, remembering all the times I used to hear Sarah in my head. "I've had this vision before. Sometimes I'll have visions of the same thing more than once. Don't know why. Maybe they have more importance? I mean, I saw myself get bit like... six times before it actually happened."
His eyes widen to an almost comical size. "What was this one about then?"
"A uh..." I bite the inside of my cheek, "An argument."
"An argument?" He repeats, obviously expecting more than that, but I don't give it to him.
"Yeah, it's... all I know is whatever happened beforehand made me very upset. But it's garbled, hard to understand. I get bits and pieces and that's about it." I press on before he can interrogate me more. "What about you? Why are you back here? Why were you crying?"
"I wasn't," He replies, and I eye his face, which is still flushed and tear-streaked. Liar. "And I was hoping I could find somewhere private to smoke. Do you know how many people tell me how unhealthy it is for me to smoke, as if it matters at all anymore? Hypocritical if you ask me, since half these people would drink themselves to death if they actually had access to anything with a hint of an alcohol content."
"True," I sigh, pulling my wrist from his grip to wipe the blood from my face. "We're both running from something then."
"It's something we have in common," He sighs, and I want to question him more, find out why he was really back here hiding, but I know he won't tell me anything if I keep pushing.
Still, the thought of him being back here alone, unhappy, brings a dull ache to my heart. A spike of panic hits me like a truck, my thoughts going back to the words that echoed in my head just minutes ago, about the loneliness, the fear of everyone eventually leaving, of me having to prove that he's not the only immortal.
"You know you're my best friend, right?" I blurt out, and he blinks.
"Uh, yes?" He replies, more confused than anything.
"I mean, you know we like having you around, right? You're valuable to Abel, and not because you're immortal."
"Uh, is there a point you're going to get to?"
"No point. Just wanted to make sure you knew."
"Right," He draws out the word. "Are you sure you're alright? That vision didn't mess with your brain or anything? Not that I don't like the assurance, but it's a bit-well, this feels like it's coming out of nowhere."
"I'm fine. I just... wanted to make sure you knew." A moment of uncomfortable silence passes between us, and I sigh. "Now that I'm okay... ish, I should probably go. Tom's probably wondering where I went. I was teaching him how to play volleyball." I tilt my head to the side. "I could teach you too, if you like."
He shakes his head. "Maybe later. I'd like to actually get to the reason of why I came here."
"To smoke?"
"Exactly," He replies, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter.
"Okay," I sigh, but I keep the disappointment out of my voice. "But know you are always welcome to join."
I pat his arm gently, and again he gives me a weird look as he lights his cigarette.
"Um, yeah, sure. Are you sure you're alright?" He asks, and those words echo in my head again.
"About what? What did you want me to say, that I keep seeing everyone else living their life and then dying then leaving me here, stuck forever? Is that what you want to hear?"
I nod and force a smile. "I'm perfect."
A/N: Here you go, guys! Please be sure to vote and comment! Thank you and have a blessed day!