Chapter 2: Old Thoughts, New World

Elias is already working, his gloved hands moving with astonishing speed and precision despite his age. He barely looks up at me, his attention focused on the task at hand. The world outside the tent fades into the background—a swirl of distant yells and the low hum of the generators—leaving only the three of us in this cramped, dark enclosure.

“Hold the light steady, Dev,” Doc barks, jolting me out of my daze. He isn't one for comfort or questioning. There's no time for that here. “I need to see what I'm doing.”

I fumble with the little, portable light, attempting to illuminate the most severe wounds on Lylla's chest. The bullet holes appear deep, and the surrounding tissue is bloated and black from infection. Blood pours through the flimsy bandages and soaks into the fabric below her.

Doc mutters under his breath as he works, something about a lack of adequate medical equipment, yet his hands never stop moving. He has seen this a hundred times before. Lylla is simply another patient to him, another life on the line.

But, to me, she's a ghost from the past, a remembrance of a time when things were different. When my most pressing worry was whether I'd pass the next exam or who would top the school rankings. Is this who I am? To not raise a finger to help someone over my hatred? So blinded am I by my personal hatred? Something I mocked others for? I make my decision, one my mother would not be ashamed of.

I swallow hard, attempting to put those memories away. They don't matter now. What counts is that she is here, bleeding out on this table, and if I don't hold it together, she will die.

Doc Elias growls gently, “She has lost too much blood. I need to heal these wounds, but we don't have enough to restore what she lost. Dev, get over here. I need you to keep this wound closed while I work on the others.”

I move unconsciously, my body on autopilot, pressing down on the ripped skin and feeling the warmth of her blood pour through my gloves. My mind is still reeling, still whispering insidious thoughts.

Lylla's face twitches in pain, but she does not wake. Her breathing is shallow, and her chest rises and falls so slowly that it's difficult to determine whether she's still alive at all. I press harder, hoping to stop the flow of blood and get her to hold on for a bit longer.

Doc pauses briefly to collect a set of tweezers-like devices. He then talks in a soft and sympathetic tone, which caught me off guard: “Dev, I need you to monitor her pulse while I extract the bullets. If it dips, tell me. It has been a long time since I have had to deal with such serious kinetic injuries, especially since plasma weapons became common some decades ago.”

“Right,” I respond, my voice barely audible above the hammering of my heart. The room feels smaller now, and the air is dense with the smell of blood and disinfectant. I turn my attention to Lylla's wrist, looking for the faint beat of her pulse beneath her pale skin.

As Doc Elias works, time seems to slow down. The sound of metal clinking on metal as he gathers the bullets, combined with the gentle squelch of blood-soaked gauze and Lylla's short, laborious gasps, creates an eerie and mesmerizing cadence. I time the seconds between each beat, the rise and fall of her chest. It's all I can do to avoid being overwhelmed.

The first bullet exits, and a little spurt of blood follows. Doc Elias quickly clamps down on the wound, using pressure to stop the flow. “Her pulse?” he asks, not looking up from his work.

“It’s... it’s still there,” I said, relieved to feel a slight throb against my fingers.

He nods and moves on to the next bullet. I watch him dig into the wound, his hands firm. He's in his element: focused and unyielding. I, on the other hand, am battling to control my emotions and keep the same level of detachment.

As the first bullet is removed, Lylla's breathing becomes more erratic. When the second and penultimate bullet is out, her pulse slows, and so does my heart, causing panic to rise in my chest. “Her pulse is weakening!” I yell, terror in my voice.

Doc Elias does not flinch. “Start CPR,” he says, his voice calm but forceful. “We're not losing her now.”

I hesitate for a few seconds before obeying his command and beginning chest compressions. My hands press against her delicate form, feeling the stiffness of her rib cage beneath me. The universe narrows down to this one act, pushing, counting, and hoping against hope that it will suffice.

Doc shifts gears; his attention is sharper than a knife while I work on Lylla. “Dev, keep those compressions steady. Do not stop, no matter what.”

His voice is steady, almost robotic, yet there's an edge to it—a sense of urgency that makes me work harder. I count aloud to keep myself grounded, but it feels like I'm counting out my own sanity.

“One, two, three, four...” My voice wavers as my arms begin to ache, but I persevere.

Doc is now deep into Lylla's third wound, his brow wrinkled in concentration. Sweat forms on his forehead, but his hands remain steady as ever. It's difficult to think that an elderly man, who has a small tremble in his fingers when idle, can operate so methodically in the frenzy of surgery.

The seconds feel like hours. I try to forget about the past—the times Lylla outperformed me in school, the petty rivalry that grew nasty as we got older. But the recollections persisted, running through my thoughts like a toxic vine. I recall her smug look when she received the top marks and how she flaunted her accomplishments. I recall the ache of each of my failures and how her victories always seemed to amplify them.

Doc’s eyes flash up briefly, making contact with mine. “Good job; you can stop,” he mutters before diving again into the next wound.

The blood bags attached to her wrist have done their job, combating the blood Lylla lost. Her pulse is far more steady now, stronger than it was when we started.

“Damn it!” Elias curses, snapping me out of my thoughts. He grabs a surgical knife and cuts open the wound in her thigh, making it even wider. “One of these bullets is lodged deep. Dev, I need you to stop the bleeding—there’s a packet of coagulant in the red bag. Hurry.”

I rush to the bag, my hands shaking as I struggle with the zipper. When I find the coagulant, I run back to Lylla's side and rub the paste on the sides of the cut while Doc sprays disinfectant quite liberally. The bleeding slows, but I know it's only a temporary solution.

“What if we can't save her?” The question escapes me before I can stop it. It's a thought that's been nibbling at the back of my mind, but saying it out loud makes it real.

“We will,” Doc Elias answers firmly, though his expression shows a touch of hesitation. “But I need you to remain focused, Dev. We don't have the luxury of what-ifs.”

Doc Elias finally removes the final bullet with a violent tug. A torrent of blood follows, but he quickly covers the incision with an improvised bandage. “That's it,” he says, his voice full of relief and tiredness.

I drop into a neighboring chair, my arms burning from the exertion. Lylla's chest rises and falls gently, yet she remains alive. For now.

Doc Elias joins, taking a deep breath before saying, “If anyone asks, we used half a bottle of disinfectant and three bags of blood.”

I raise an eyebrow at the three bags of blood attached to the IV stand. “They will notice the missing bag during the weekly inventory.”

Doc waves a hand, “I always label the bags a couple of days earlier than when they were collected, just in case. Easy enough to say they expired.”

I nod. Just a couple of hours ago, this would have been unacceptable to me but now... now things feel different, I don't know why but I don’t really hate it. But Doc is not done speaking. With a voice filled with unusual intensity, he says, “I don't know what history you and that girl have, but promise me, boy, that you will not leave her up to dry when the council comes knocking. Given her condition, I doubt she has the papers. Even if she doesn’t have any good skills, lie or make something up. I didn’t waste so much effort to see someone die.”

I sit on the chair for what seems like a lifetime, Doc Elias' words resting on me like a heavy shroud. The world beyond the tent gradually returns—the distant bustle of the camp, the hum of generators, and the odd bark of instructions from guards. But inside this small, blood-soaked area, it's only me, Doc, and Lylla.

Elias leans back and wipes his forehead with the back of his palm. “All we can do now is wait,” he says, his voice leaking exhaustion. “She's stable for the moment, but the next few hours will tell.”

“I'll take her to the recovery tent,” Doc says, returning to his customary gruff tone. “Go tidy up. You've done enough here.”

“Right,” I mutter, suddenly conscious of the blood on my hands, under my nails, and all over my clothes. The ion shower I took earlier feels like a lifetime ago. I stand up, my legs unsteady beneath me, but I force myself to continue moving.

As I step outside the tent, the blinding light from the sun causes me to squint. The noises of the bustling camp come back into my ears—people talking, the clatter of homemade tools, and the occasional angry shout. It's a long cry from the calm intensity of the operation tent.

I look back at the tent, feeling an unanticipated sense of responsibility. Doc Elias’ words echo in my mind: Don’t leave her up to dry when the council comes knocking.

After a quick ion shower, I fold my apron and leave it at the edge of the tent. Amari, who is hurrying in the distance, catches my eye and nods his head towards the director’s office before turning away.

So, I walk toward the camp director's office, the dirt squelching beneath my boots. As I go across the packed paths, I see that people are looking at me. Some others nod in acknowledgment, while others avoid my gaze. A couple attempt to pique my interest, offering whispered bargains or favors in exchange for improved job advertisements. But I brush them off since my mind is too absorbed in what just happened.

The camp director, a tall lady with sharp features and a harsh demeanor, stands outside her office, engaged in conversation with two officers. She sees me approaching and gestures them away.

“Dev,” she greets me curtly, her gaze flicking over my disheveled appearance. “What’s the situation?”

“Lylla’s stable for now,” I report. “Doc Elias managed to get the bullets out, but she’s in bad shape. She’ll need time to recover.”

The director's eyes narrow as she considers my words. “No paperwork. No ID. Nobody recognizes her. She came into the camp half-dead, and we're supposed to waste resources on her recovery?”

I stiffen, the weight of her words hitting me hard. This is the moment Doc warned me about. Yet I hesitate, doubt creeping back in. Do I really want to help her?

Sensing my hesitation, the director pounces, her face softening into an almost motherly smile, and says in a hushed voice, “Between you and me, you know that I want to help her, right? It's just the council that’s the issue; tell me what's wrong? Did Elias use too many medical supplies? I doubt even he can do such a massive surgery with the limited supplies.”

I shake my head, mumble under my breath, thinking hard. “No, he didn’t. He was not very happy about having so little medical supplies. Grumbling during the whole operation, you know how he is.”

Stolen story; please report.

I take a deep breath. I'm probably gonna regret this but... well, some risks are worth taking, I guess. Even if I hate giving away such a valuable trading commodity, given that the only way to earn it is to do a lot of work for the camp and only ever 10 are in circulation, “I... I want to use my vouch and vouch for the girl.”

There’s a shocked look on the director’s face, I have always given exactly what I have received and have never gone out of my way to help someone.

“She's... she's a top student,” I add, trying to keep my voice level. “Straight A's. She can help with logistics, paperwork, and anything else we require. We don't have enough skilled workers as it is.”

The director looks at me for a long time, her expression opaque. Then she sighs and rubs her temples, as if to relieve a headache. “Fine. Normally, this will be enough to grant someone entry. But we will have to spend resources until she recovers. So the council will have to decide but your vouching for her will be taken into consideration. But she’s your responsibility now, Dev. If she turns out to be a drain on our resources, it’s on you.”

"I understand," I respond, feeling both relieved and anxious. The director waves me off, and I take that as a sign to go.

I leave the director's office, the weight of my decision bearing down on my shoulders. The sun is now high in the sky, its around noon by my estimation. The air smells vaguely of smoke and sweat, along with the aroma of something cooking in the adjoining mess hall. My mind is a jumble of ideas as I navigate the congested corridors toward the old staff quarters.

A group of individuals gather near a makeshift stall, their gaze following me as I pass. One of them, a man with dark, wrinkled skin and a scraggly beard, moves forward and blocks my path. His eyes are keen, and his smile carries a menacing edge.

“Dev,” he adds, his voice low and smooth, “word is spreading that you're the one to call if somebody needs a favor. A little assistance with job duties, perhaps?”

I pause, meeting his gaze. “Not interested,” I respond curtly, attempting to avoid him.

He moves closer, his grin broadening. “Come on, there's no need to be so cold. We can make it worthwhile for you. I hear you have a need for some vouchers after that. How about we trade?”

My mind races and my hand falls to the knife, that I like everyone else, keep hidden away. For word to reach him so quickly, it must be one of the bigger gangs.

The offer is tempting, but I shake my head, attempting to keep my voice firm. “I am not in the mood for games. Find someone else.”

The man's smile falters, and I believe he is about to press the issue. But he takes a step back and raises his hands in feigned submission. “Suit yourself. But don't think we won't come calling again.”

I push past him, my heart increasing as I create space between us. The experience leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, reminding me of how rapidly things—and I—have changed.

I am stopped again by a feminine hand that lands on my shoulder. The voice that speaks up is one I know well. Well, everyone does—anyone who has been in the camp for any decent length of time has heard the leader of the top scouting team speak during one of her famous speeches. Getting her ever closer to a seat on the council while winning the hearts of the public for her good and helping nature. She is also the leading information broker, one whom I have traded with in hopes of finding my parents attackers.

Reza's hand rests firmly on my shoulder, and when I look around, I am met by her piercing, calculating eyes. Her caramel skin is a shade darker than mine, and her jet-black hair is twisted back in a tight braid. She has a way of looking at you that makes you feel like she already knows everything about you, but tonight there's a flash of something else in her eyes—concern, perhaps? But with Reza, it's difficult to tell.

“Dev,” she says, drawing it out like a cat playing with its food, “I heard you just vouched for a girl you dragged in half-dead. That’s... interesting.”

I shrug her hand off, but she doesn't back away. “Word travels fast.”

“In this place?” She laughs quietly, a sound that is more frightening right now than reassuring. “Information's the only currency that never loses value.”

I shift uncomfortably, knowing that Reza's curiosity is never casual. She is constantly looking for an advantage. “I am not looking for trouble, Reza. I'm simply doing what I believe is right.”

“When did you begin caring about what is 'right'? You've always been the one who keeps his head down and does just enough to get by.”

Her comments sting, primarily because they are true. I've always been more concerned with survival than with portraying a hero. “Maybe I'm tired of just getting by.”

Reza's eyes narrow, and her grin fades as she observes me. “You know, Dev, a lot of people would kill for the opportunity to have a vouch from someone like you. However, you used yours on a girl who may not even make it through the night. That does not sound like you.”

“She deserves a chance. That’s all.”

Reza stares at me for a little longer, her face unreadable. Then she takes a slow breath and relaxes her stance. “You are either an idiot or something else entirely. But you are correct; she deserves a chance. Just take care. People are watching, and not everyone wants you to succeed.”

I nod, wondering what to say. Reza gives me one last, evaluating look before turning on her heel and disappearing into the crowd, her presence hanging like a ghost.

Finally, I get to the baths. It's one of the last remaining luxuries in the world—a place where, if you have the appropriate connections or the right coupons, you can take a hot bath in actual water. I hand in one of my coupons, earned via hours of mind-numbing effort, and enter the sweltering room.

I remove my blood-soaked garments, grimacing as I notice the crimson stains that have crept through to my skin. The water scalds as it pours from the showerhead, but I don't mind. I clean vigorously, attempting to remove the blood, grime, and weight of everything that has happened. The hot water stings, but it's a welcome distraction from the ideas racing through my head.

As I sit there, the events of the day play out in my head. Lylla, the operation, the director's words, Reza's warning—each thought weighed more than the last. The water surrounding me turns a shade of light pink as the last of the remaining blood is washed away, swirling in exquisite patterns before vanishing down the sink.

I lean back, close my eyes, and let myself forget. Forget everything, including the camp, gangs, and council. But it does not last. The memories are constantly present, hovering just below the surface.

When the water starts to cool, I eventually get out of the bath. I put on a fresh set of clothes, feeling slightly better, but the weight of the day still weighs down on me.

I make my way to the mess hall, my stomach telling me that I have not eaten since the morning. The food court, once a busy hub for families and tourists, is now a somber reminder of what we've lost. The colorful murals on the walls have faded and peeled, and the tables are grimy. The stench of overdone vegetables and weak soup fills the air, which is enough to send my stomach grumbling.

I grab a tray and join the line, keeping my head down while waiting for my turn. The guards are on high alert, monitoring the crowd for any indication of disturbance. Tensions rise over mealtime—too many people jammed into one space, too few resources to go around.

When I finally have my food, I find a seat at the far end of the hall, away from the crowd. The soup is lukewarm and watery, with chunks of unknown meat floating in it, but I eat it anyhow. The bread is stale, yet it helps to fill the gnawing ache in my stomach.

I eat fast, eager to escape the gloomy atmosphere of the dining hall. As I step outdoors, the sun is still high in the sky, casting a soft, golden glow across the campsite. For a minute, all appears serene, as if the world has not gone to shit.

But I know better.

I return to my workstation. The remainder of the staff is already present, chatting lazily while sorting through heaps of documents. I ignore their repeated attempts at conversation and concentrate on the stack of documents in front of me. It's meaningless work, but it keeps my mind active.

An hour or two later, Doc and Amari enter, with the former looking half dead while the latter is as energetic as ever and carries a large stack of papers to everyone’s dismay.

Doc Elias slumps into a chair, his eyes dark with tiredness, and murmurs, “If I see one more paper or one more patient today, I might just lose it.” He scans the room, first focusing on me, then on the stack of documents that await him. With a tired groan, he removes a sheet from the top and begins skimming over it.

Amari, on the other hand, is all grins and vitality, seems unconcerned with the task. “Come on Doc, don't be such a grump. Look at this stack; this is the easy stuff!” He claps his hand on Doc's shoulder, prompting a frown. “Just a few forms, some inventory checks... a breeze, right?”

Doc Elias moans, his voice rough, “You say that now, but wait until you've been doing this as long as I have. I swear that paperwork will be the death of me.”

Amari laughs and shakes his head. “Well, at least we have something to do, right? It beats sitting around and waiting for the next calamity.”

I look up from my own pile of forms and see the unusual interaction between them. Amari's unwavering optimism contrasts dramatically with Doc's tired pessimism, but they get along like an old married couple. In some ways, it's almost comforting—a little piece of normalcy in an otherwise crazy world.

As I return to my work, Amari pulls up a chair beside me, leaning in with that familiar, mischievous grin. “So, Dev, what’s the story with this girl you vouched for? You’ve been quieter than usual today. That’s saying something.”

I stiffen, unsure of how much to share. Amari isn’t just a colleague; he’s also a friend. However, secrets can be dangerous in this place, and trust is a fragile thing.

“Just someone from my past,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. “She needed help, so I helped.”

Amari raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “You? Help someone out of the kindness of your heart? I don’t buy it, man. There’s gotta be more to it.”

Doc Elias looks up from his paperwork, his eyes bright despite his weariness. “Amari, let him be. We each have our own motivations for doing what we do.”

Amari shrugs, but he doesn't seem totally content with the response. “Okay, alright. But just so you know, if you ever need to talk about it, I'm available. That is what friends are for, right?”

I give him a noncommittal nod, appreciating his offer even if I'm not ready to accept it. The truth is that I am still trying to find out why I did what I did. Why did I put so much at risk for someone I hadn't seen in years, someone I should be resentful of?

Amari grunts, gets up and walks away before turning back and saying, “I almost forgot. Council wanted you to know that they are helping the girl.”

With that, he walks away, oblivious to me and Doc straightening up and exchanging smiles.

The subsequent silence is filled by the sound of shifting papers and Doc's occasional sigh. I concentrate on the materials in front of me, but my thoughts keep returning to Lylla—her pale face, the way her pulse felt beneath my fingertips, the weight of her life in my palms.

Footsteps approach, breaking the silence. I look up to see Reza, her countenance as impenetrable as ever, strolling into the room with the confidence of someone who owns it.

“Evening, gentlemen,” she replies smoothly, her gaze traveling across the gathering. She flashes a big, winning smile. “Hard at work, I see.”

Doc Elias grumbles something under his breath, but Amari greets him cheerfully. “Reza! What brought you here? Got any hot information for us?”

Reza laughs, but there's an edge to it. "I always have something up my sleeve, but that's not why I'm here.” Her gaze falls on mine, and I feel a chill down my spine. “I need to speak with Dev. Alone.”

“But I have something to make it worth your time.” She says this while pulling out and placing a battery pack near the music player. “Heard you lot were in the market for one.”

Judging by the fact that there are more joyful expressions than offended ones, I know I have been and start to follow her, giving a quiet nod to the offended ones. She leaks tension as she guides me to a quiet corner, away from prying eyes and ears, then turns to face me.

“What’s going on, Reza?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

She crosses her arms, her expression unreadable. “I know you don't particularly like me but I feel like I have to say this again. You’ve stirred up a lot of interest with that vouch of yours. People are talking, Dev. And not just the usual gossip.”

I frown, a knot of anxiety tightening in my chest. Reza is not one to repeat conversation unless for a good reason. Dozens of horrible scenarios run through me, each worse than the last. “What do you mean?”

Reza sighs, her gaze softening just a fraction. “I mean, there are people who are curious about why you vouched for that girl. People who don’t like it when things happen they can’t control or predict.”

“Like who?”

She hesitates before shaking her head. “That isn't important right now. What's vital is that you exercise caution. You've attracted attention to yourself, and not all of it is friendly.”

I swallow hard, feeling the weight of her words on me. “So what should I do?”

“Keep your head down, for one,” she says, her tone surprisingly soft. “And guard your back. I have my eyes and ears out, but there is only so much I can do. You have to be clever about this.”

I nod, letting the gravity of my situation sink in. “Thank you, Reza. I appreciate the heads-up.”

She gives me a little smile that appears genuine. “Just don't make me regret it.”

As she turns to leave, I scream out to her. “Reza, wait.”

She pauses and raises an eyebrow at me. “Yeah?”

“Why are you helping me?” The question comes out before I can stop it. “You have your own issues to deal with. "Why put your neck out for me?”

Reza smiles again, but this time it is laced with sadness. “Let's just say... I don't want to repeat a past mistake. Doing the right thing is not always about convenience or ease. It's about doing the necessary tasks.”