by Amanda Cyr
“I’m just standing up.” I chuckled. There was something endearing about his snappy concern. “Besides I’ve—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve had worse.”
“Well I have. One time I even had to use dental floss to stitch myself up.”
Even though I couldn’t see them, I knew Val was rolling his eyes. I set the phone on the counter once he returned. The light spread over the wall behind us and provided somewhat better visibility, just enough to illuminate whichever half of our bodies pointed at it.
Val checked the time on the screen. He sighed and leaned in further until his arms were folded over the countertop, his chin resting on top of them. “It’s really not even nine o’clock yet?”
“The worst nights are always the longest,” I told him.
Val shrugged, shoulders moving awkwardly, thanks to his position. He turned his head to look up at me with a smirk. “Well, tonight could’ve gone worse,” he said in a perfect blend of sarcasm and optimism. He straightened, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders and changing the subject. “So, which minty scar is the dental floss incident from?”
I moved to point at the scar on my hip when a thought occurred to me. All this time, I’d been telling Val the stories behind my scars, yet I knew nothing about his. Despite a voice in the back of my head warning me not to, I asked the question.
“What about the ones on your back?”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished I could take them back. The lighting was poor, but not quite bad enough to hide the way Val flinched. I stepped in front of him and took his face in my hands, an apology already on my tongue, when Val shook his head.
“No, no, Nik, it’s fine,” he insisted, moving my hands off of his face and wringing them within his own. “I’ll tell you… You’ve probably already guessed what they’re from anyway.”
I’d had my suspicions since that night he told me about California. Seeing how uncomfortable the topic made him, I was reluctant to voice any of them. The silence was stoic, and the second I started to open my mouth, Val squeezed my hands a fraction tighter. He didn’t want me to say anything; I wouldn’t have known what to say.
Val let go of my hands and turned around so his back was toward me before he pulled the sweater over his head. The darkness wasn’t enough to conceal the long lines of scar tissue carved into his skin. There was no pattern to them, no symmetry to their lengths or angles. Some started high enough that they licked the back of his neck while others crossed over his hips and disappeared under his jeans.
It was a work of pure brutality. Something akin to helplessness coiled in my chest and made me sick to my stomach. Even if the scars were years old, given long before we met, I hated that I hadn’t done anything to protect Val.
“I got caught during a raid in San Diego, back in ‘74. A supplier sold us out,” Val told me. His shoulders rose and fell, scars stretching with the deep breath. “It was early on in the crackdown, back before… Before we were getting sent east. They only wanted names… I got lucky.”
It didn’t look like luck, but it was. Compared to the fate he would’ve faced had he been sent to D.C., Val was very lucky. Knowing that, however, didn’t make the mutilation any easier to look at.
I placed my hand on his shoulder. Val stayed still and silent as I grazed a thumb over the scar on his neck. It was shiny and smooth now, but the width of the damaged skin told me it had once been something gruesome. My thumb skimmed the scar over one of the vertebra at the base of his neck.
Goosebumps rose underneath my hand. I paused, waiting for Val to tell me to stop. The vertebra underneath my thumb shifted as he swallowed, but Val himself said nothing.
Soon, my index finger followed the same path. I traced the scar down from his neck, mindlessly ghosting my fingers along. They lingered on the sharp curve of a shoulder blade. I felt the muscles there soften as Val sighed.
My other hand rested on his hip. Val tensed. I froze, worrying I’d read the signs all wrong. That fear was chased away the second Val said, “Idiot. You got shot in that arm, remember?”
“Not really,” I replied.
Val sighed, this one with hints of frustration. “Well I do, and I don’t want to have to stitch—”
“Val?”
“Hmm?”
I pressed a kiss to the back of his head, smiled into the mess of blond hair, and said, “Shut up.”
Val’s shoulders shook when he gave a short, patronizing laugh. I couldn’t see his face, but I recognized the laugh well enough to know he was smiling.
The tension in his body eased again as my fingers on his back resumed their exploration. I followed the scar over the bony ridge of Val’s shoulder blade. It tapered off, halfway through one of the numbers tattooed over his shoulder. Up close, I could finally make out the combination; I finally realized what it was.
“948-569,” I read aloud.
“I never said I gave those names up easily.”
I’d been wrong all along. The marred, black ink wasn’t a brand from some cartel boss. It was a signature—the six-digit, identifying number of the S.O.R. agent responsible for his scars. Someone I probably knew. Someone I almost became. At that moment, I realized Val wasn’t the only one lucky to have escaped.
I dropped my hand from the tattoo and stepped closer to Val, wrapping both arms around his waist, in a way which was definitely too tight to be comfortable, and pulling our bodies flush. I rested my head against the back of his, staring at the tail end of the scar on his neck. Val rested his hands over my arms with a small nod, assuring me he understood everything I was trying to say with the embrace.
I’m sorry that it ever happened. I’m here for you now. I’ll keep you safe, no matter what.
Val’s thumb traced light patterns on my arm. I loosened my grip, just enough so he could breathe easily, then pressed a kiss to his shoulder as an apology for the constraint. As my arms slackened around him, my hands slid a fraction lower. They caught on slender hips. Val’s breath caught in his throat.
I smiled against the skin under my lips and kissed his shoulder again, then again, moving closer to his neck with each one. Val’s heart beat faster, the hint of a moan muffled in his throat. He played the noise off with a scoff.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
Undeterred, I kept working a leisurely trail along his shoulder as I replied, “I thought it was obvious enough.”
Val shrugged me off and turned in my arms, facing me with a smile most fitting. He draped his arms over my shoulders, one hand winding through my hair. “You’re new at this, though.”
“I’m a fast learner.”
In one fluid movement, I tightened my arms around his hips then turned and hoisted him onto the counter. I stepped between his legs and reached to slide him toward me when Val pulled himself forward. His nails scraped into my scalp as his other hand shot between us to grab my belt. The legs on either side of me tightened, demanding everything I was eager to give him.
“Fast learners,” Val said, leaning in and smirking just shy of my lips, “Still need good teachers.”
Russell Medical Ward, Eisenhower Building—Washington, D.C.
Thursday, November 26th, 2076—1:44 a.m.
omeone was saying my name. No. Someone was cursing my name at the top of their lungs. I listened through the fog suffocating me, slipping in and out of consciousness. The involuntary twitch of fingers. Eyes rolling behind heavy lids. Every movement felt stiff, wrong. My skin was too tight for my body.
A dull burn, smoldering in my lungs, pulsed in time with distant beeping. The cursing grew louder. The fog lifted as I exhaled again and unwillingly drifted into consciousness.
Blinding lights scorched my eyes as they opened. I tried to shield them, but my hand only made it a few inches up. Something held me down. My hand fell to my side, and I curled my fingers to feel the cold metal around my wrist. I was in handcuffs. Again.
A figure appeared above me, outlin
ed by the bright lights beyond their silhouette. I could hardly hear him swearing, the words indistinguishable and his body shaking as he shouted obscenities at me. My eyes were heavy. They slipped shut as the figure above rushed from view.
I felt a quick jab of pain in my arm. I thought nothing of it until the distant beeping sound grew louder and faster. It was my heart. My eyes flew open, and I gasped in lungfuls of cold air. Suddenly, I was incredibly aware of the hospital bed I was in; the shot of epinephrine burning through my body; the wires pinned to my chest; the pain in my lungs; and the gauze around my hands.
I bolted upright and clutched the bars along the bed, hands burning underneath the gauze but gripping tighter and tighter; I couldn’t let go. An irrepressible roar ripped its way from the depths of my stomach and out my mouth like a feral animal. Blood boiled under every inch of skin as my body shook. Panicked chatter alerted me I wasn’t alone, and I looked to the door as three Grey Men and several nurses rushed in. A familiar voice, the one which had been cursing my name moments ago, shouted orders at them.
“Out! Everyone!”
“But, Brigadier McKee—”
“Get out!”
Aiden rushed everyone from the room and slammed the door behind them. He lingered at the door with his back to me, hands white-knuckling the frame. When he finally turned to face me, my body was still on fire, and I clung to the bars along the bed. I couldn’t remember how to relax the muscles in my hands to let go. Aiden’s face was as red as his hair. I watched his shoulders tremble, his lips work back into a sneer and then press tight into a thin line, like he didn’t even know how to deal with me. “You… You sorry little prick…” he said, low and slow.
“Aiden—”
Aiden ran across the room, grabbed the front of my prison jumpsuit, and before I could say anything more, his fist struck the side of my face. My ears rang and my vision swirled. The scar inside my mouth tore, blood coating my tongue. I would have been knocked out of the hospital bed had I not been cuffed to it.
Aiden yanked me upright, his hands closing around my throat and shaking me. “You know what I did, Nik? When they told me you were fighting alongside those rotten delinquents? I laughed! I laughed at the joke someone must have been playing on me!”
Nothing I could have said at that moment would’ve been enough to quell my friend’s rage. Even if I wanted to say anything, Aiden was choking me too tightly to allow the words out. His brows knit closer as his hands tightened. “And then I find out it’s not a joke. You really did it. You really betrayed us!”
I couldn’t breathe. With my unrestrained hand, I tried to pry Aiden’s fingers off my throat. There was no way I could overpower him, not in my condition. I tried to reason with him instead, managing only to wheeze his name.
Had it come to this? I’d survived eleven years in the Y.I.D., Operation Oxford, and electrocution only to be strangled to death by my best friend. My head felt heavy. My vision blurred, and my grip on Aiden’s hand slipped. Any second now, my lungs would burst. Any second now, it would all be over.
I would never see Val again.
The thought raced through my head, and the next thing I knew, I’d balled my unrestrained hand tight into a fist. Strength and energy I shouldn’t have had rushed through my veins alongside the epinephrine, and I socked Aiden in the stomach as hard as I could. He grunted and staggered away from the bed. Hastily, I worked to catch my breath, convinced that at any moment Aiden would be back at my throat again with a vengeance.
For the better part of a minute, though, Aiden remained doubled over. I knew I couldn’t have hit him that hard, not in my broken state. Finally, Aiden fell into the chair by my bed, his face still hung from sight. His hands moved to cradle it as if it were of enormous weight.
“They weren’t going to resuscitate you,” Aiden said, clearing his throat and sitting upright. He didn’t look or sound angry, anymore. In fact, it was the most deadpan expression I’d ever seen on him.
His eyes focused on the handcuffs binding me to the bed. I moved my free hand to cover the metal around my wrist. I couldn’t explain the reflex, just like I couldn’t explain the shame I felt under his stare.
“But then…” Aiden paused to mutter a curse under his breath. It was one of those “I give up” noises of resignation I heard so rarely from him. “But then, one of the nurses spotted that damn note you wrote and decided to look into your power of attorney.”
When we signed the legal documents last year, neither of us expected them to be necessary for at least a few decades. Yet somehow, here we were, one year since New Zealand and on very different terms. This time, I was trapped, facing an early death I didn’t deserve, and he was the only one who could save me from it.
Aiden laughed. It was a horrible, bitter sound from somewhere in the back of his throat. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”
“I needed to talk to you,” I said.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Then why did you let them resuscitate me?”
Aiden didn’t reply. There had been a time when he would’ve said it was because I was his best friend, or because he owed me one. Thanks to my actions in Seattle, though, it was safe to assume those days were over. Honestly, I hadn’t been sure whether or not he’d come to my aid in the first place. I’d taken a risk in electrocuting myself, knowing my only chance of survival rested in Aiden’s hands and the hope that he might not hate me.
“Aiden, I’m sorry.”
“Then tell them that! Tell that shrink, Nik, or anyone who can help you fix this,” he snapped, slamming his fists on the arms of the chair.
Aiden had it all wrong. “I’m not sorry for what I did… I’m sorry for dragging you into it.”
“Christ, Nik.” He folded his hands over his face and leaned his head over the back of the chair, as if it had become heavy again. A slurred groan, getting louder, came muffled through his hands. They flew away, and his temper flared. “Why did you do it? Why did you have to turn a simple survey mission into this?”
“You were watching that stupid therapy session, Aiden. Don’t make me say it out loud.”
Aiden’s anger subsided abruptly. He looked as uncomfortable as I had that night Val and I sat together, soaking wet and waiting for the train. I couldn’t blame him. “Really?” he asked. “I mean you’re really…”
It struck him as so unusual; he couldn’t even say the word out loud. I didn’t feel like saying it out loud either, so I merely nodded. Aiden leaned forward, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth and resting his elbows on his knees. He must have thought I was joking. His eyes darted from mine to the monitor displaying my vitals to search for some indication I was lying to him. After a long moment, he looked back to me and sighed.
I could have wasted hours trying to explain to my friend what had changed during our separation. There was no time for that. “Aiden you heard that woman… He’s alive. He’s in here.”
He must have known where the conversation was going, because he shook his head and said, “Nik, I… I can’t.”
“Please, Aiden. I love him,” I said suddenly.
The corner of Aiden’s lips twitched, his hands folding together under his chin before pressing over his mouth. He shot another look at the monitor displaying my vitals. I suspected my latest confession shocked him more than my prior one. It shocked me too, hearing myself say it out lout, and I wondered how Val would react when I finally told him. To find out, I’d first have to find him. To find him, I’d need help.
Aiden didn’t reply right away. I imagined this all still seemed like a cruel ruse to him. “You’re my best friend, Nik… But you’re a traitor. Everyone in this place, even the grunts who you trained and who worshiped the ground you walked on, are calling you a traitor. I can’t… I can’t help you.” He finished somberly and rose from his chair.
“Aiden, please!”
“I’m sorry, Nik.”
“Aiden!”
I shouted aft
er him, but it was too late. He was gone, and I was alone, handcuffed to a hospital bed with four hours left to live. The gentle beeping from the monitor next to me hastened. My bandaged hands began to tremble. I swallowed, hard, as reality sank in. There was nothing more I could do.
Destrek & co. Distillery—Seattle, WA
Sunday, November 22nd, 2076—10:33 p.m.
eintegrating into the revolutionaries’ lives after Aiden blew my cover was surprisingly easy. A few of them tried to put a bullet through my head, at first, when Val and I returned. Having him there to vouch for the fact I wasn’t a true traitor, though, kept our reunion painless. Once I explained who I was, why I was there, and why I was staying, the evening turned into a Q&A. I told them anything they wanted to know, from the hierarchy of Special Forces to my favorite places to eat in D.C. In under an hour, tensions eased, suspicions vanished, and everything was back to normal.
The next two days passed by in an exhaustingly stressful, sleep-depraved blur. When we weren’t busy managing the evacuation process, gathering funds to bribe the train conductors to work quickly and quietly off the clock, and enlisting people to fight the Grey Men, we were training. It was like new recruit week all over again, like I’d been handed a fresh battalion of misfits and told to whip them into combat-ready state.
We split our early morning hours. One team would oversee the evacuation, leading civilians to the train station via back roads and staked out routes to avoid Grey Men patrols. The other team spent that same period of time running through the city, using main roads as little as possible to familiarize themselves with parts of the city the Grey Men might not know about, the sort of places which could be used as refuge or rendezvous locations if we got separated.
Around noon, we regrouped topside. The frozen city above was a much quieter and safer place to work on marksmanship. The dockworkers there were happy to help us by providing additional cold weather gear, training tips, and even setting up targets for us. Almost all of the dockworkers were Grey bastards—not like Val or Anya, but more like Tibbs or a small bulldozer. Naturally, they were some of the first people we recruited to join in the fight.