I’ve been shot.
And, as it turns out, a bullet wound is even more uncomfortable than I had imagined.
My skin is cold and clammy; I’m making a herculean effort to breathe. Torture is roaring through my right arm and making it difficult for me to focus. I have to squeeze my eyes shut, grit my teeth, and force myself to pay attention.
The chaos is unbearable.
Several people are shouting and too many of them are touching me, and I want their hands surgically removed. They keep shouting “Sir!” as if they’re still waiting for me to give them orders, as if they have no idea what to do without my instruction. The realization exhausts me.
“Sir, can you hear me?” Another cry. But this time, a voice I don’t detest.
“Sir, please, can you hear me—”
“I’ve been shot, Delalieu,” I manage to say. I open my eyes. Look into his watery ones. “I haven’t gone deaf.”
All at once the noise disappears. The soldiers shut up. Delalieu looks at me. Worried.
“Take me back,” I tell him, shifting, just a little. The world tilts and steadies all at once. “Alert the medics and have my bed prepared for our arrival. In the meantime, elevate my arm and continue applying direct pressure to the wound. The bullet has broken or fractured something, and this will require surgery.”
Delalieu says nothing for just a moment too long.
“Good to see you’re all right, sir.” His voice is a nervous, shaky thing. “Good to see you’re all right.”
“That was an order, Lieutenant.”
“Of course,” he says quickly, head bowed. “Certainly, sir. How should I direct the soldiers?”
“Find her,” I tell him. It’s getting harder for me to speak. I take a small breath and run a shaky hand across my forehead. I’m sweating in an excessive way that isn’t lost on me.
“Yes, sir.” He moves to help me up, but I grab his arm.
“One last thing.”
“Kent,” I say, my voice uneven now. “Make sure they keep him alive for me.”
Delalieu looks up, his eyes wide. “Private Adam Kent, sir?”
“Yes.” I hold his gaze. “I want to deal with him myself.”
Delalieu is standing at the foot of my bed, clipboard in hand.
His is my second visit this morning. The first was from my medics, who confirmed that the surgery went well. They said that as long as I stay in bed this week, the new drugs they’ve given me should accelerate my healing process. They also said that I should be fit to resume daily activities fairly soon, but I’ll be required to wear a sling for at least a month.
I told them it was an interesting theory.
“My slacks, Delalieu.” I’m sitting up, trying to steady my head against the nausea of these new drugs. My right arm is essentially useless to me now.
I look up. Delalieu is staring at me, unblinking, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
I stifle a sigh.
“What is it?” I use my left arm to steady myself against the mattress and force myself upright. It takes every ounce of energy I have left, and I’m clinging to the bed frame. I wave away Delalieu’s effort to help; I close my eyes against the pain and dizziness. “Tell me what’s happened,” I say to him. “There’s no point in prolonging bad news.”
His voice breaks twice when he says, “Private Adam Kent has escaped, sir.”
My eyes flash a bright, dizzying white behind my eyelids.
I take a deep breath and attempt to run my good hand through my hair. It’s thick and dry and caked with what must be dirt mixed with my own blood. I’m tempted to punch my remaining fist through the wall.
Instead I take a moment to collect myself.
I’m suddenly too aware of everything in the air around me, the scents and small noises and footsteps outside my door. I hate these rough cotton pants they’ve put me in. I hate that I’m not wearing socks. I want to shower. I want to change.
I want to put a bullet through Adam Kent’s spine.
“Leads,” I demand. I move toward my bathroom and wince against the cold air as it hits my skin; I’m still without a shirt. Trying to remain calm. “Tell me you have not brought me this information without leads.”
My mind is a warehouse of carefully organized human emotions. I can almost see my brain as it functions, filing thoughts and images away. I lock away the things that do not serve me. I focus only on what needs to be done: the basic components of survival and the myriad things I must manage throughout the day.
“Of course,” Delalieu says. The fear in his voice stings me a little; I dismiss it. “Yes, sir,” he says, “we do think we know where he might’ve gone—and we have reason to believe that Private Kent and the—and the girl—well, with Private Kishimoto having run off as well—we have reason to believe that they are all together, sir.”
The drawers in my mind are rattling to break open. Memories. Theories. Whispers and sensations.
I shove them off a cliff.
“Of course you do.” I shake my head. Regret it. Close my eyes against the sudden unsteadiness. “Do not give me information I’ve already deduced for myself,” I manage to say. “I want something concrete. Give me a solid lead, Lieutenant, or leave me until you have one.”
“A car,” he says quickly. “A car was reported stolen, sir, and we were able to track it to an unidentified location, but then it disappeared off the map. It’s as if it ceased to exist, sir.”
I look up. Give him my full attention.
“We followed the tracks it left in our radar,” he says, speaking more calmly now, “and they led us to a stretch of isolated, barren land. But we’ve scoured the area and found nothing.”
“This is something, at least.” I rub the back of my neck, fighting the weakness I feel deep in my bones. “I will meet you in the L Room in one hour.”
“But sir,” he says, eyes trained on my arm, “you’ll need assistance—there’s a process—you’ll require a convalescent aide—”
“You are dismissed.”
Then, “Yes, sir.”
I manage to bathe without losing consciousness.
It was more of a sponge bath, but I feel better nonetheless. I have an extremely low threshold for disorder; it offends my very being. I shower regularly. I eat six small meals a day. I dedicate two hours of each day to training and physical exercise. And I detest being barefoot.