I tap my armored foot against the floor, feeling reasonably nervous for the situation—or at least I’d say so. I know I’m not the one telling them that they have to live on leased life, but even being a part of the talk has me feeling uncomfortable.
“You can still back out, if you want. I mainly invited you to get Duff some alone time, you don’t actually have to come with me for this. There’s no scenario where it won’t suck.” Catherine says, staring at the wall we have to go through. A pulse of light slides along the wall, the heartbeat of the building feeling almost ironic here.
“No, I’m not just going to force you to take on the painful part of the job on your own. It’s not your fault these people got hurt, in fact, I’m not even sure why you’re the one who has to tell them the bad news.” I look at her expression and revise my comment. “Nevermind, I know exactly why. You’re the type to take on these sorts of responsibilities because you blame yourself for them happening.”
I sigh, leaning my head on her shoulder. “You said I’m the one making everyone cry here, but so far it seems more like everyone here is just reaching their breaking point all at once.” I say, keeping the part about how I think Silo’s presence was what kept everyone from falling apart to myself.
Catherine stills for a bit at my comments, the words clearly biting a bit more than I thought they would. “It’s quite hard to keep a brave face around you, Brooke. You’re frustratingly easy to spill your guts to, and twice as perceptive besides.” She says wistfully, giving me a side eye. “But thanks, it’s nice not having to do this alone.”
The wall slides open, a section of it retreating into the floor as she walks forward past its threshold confidently. I follow, trying to match her posture but wilt a little under the intimidating gaze of thirteen battle-hardened old men. Most of them are still sitting in their hospital beds, but a few tables have been pushed together and the rest are sitting around their makeshift setup playing cards.
“Uh oh boys, looks like we’ve got some bad news. You don’t send two Vangies for a clean bill of health,” One of the men jeers playfully from his bed by the door. One of his eyes is missing, though the wound looks to be far older than anything he could have gotten yesterday.
“Bah, more like they’re here for you, Dale. That tumor you call a brain must have gotten too big for your skull.” Another man calls from the table, his laugh loud and wheezing. He knocks what looks like an empty pack of cigarettes out of the air that the other man, Dale, threw at him.
The atmosphere feels chummy, but there's an undertone of tension that I’m sure only got worse once we got here.
Rising up from his chair, a third man walks towards us, at least a head taller than the rest of them. His smile is wide and full of charisma, its appearance a bit out of place on his otherwise wrinkled and tough complexion. “You’ll have to forgive them; we’ve all got a bit of an idea of what's going on, so tensions are a bit high. Regardless, though, how are you lovely ladies? I’d offer you a drink, but we’re a bit dry in that regard.” He jokes, miming holding an empty bottle upside down.
“I’ve certainly been worse, Jack. And I know what you’re up to, don’t think you can sleaze your way into using my drink fabricator again.” Her grin is mirthless, but she at least tries to interact with the soldiers. The room starts to stifle me, and I lean on a chair to steady myself as she talks. “That aside, Dave was right for once. I don’t have great news.”
Her joke gets a few chuckles, but it’s clear everyone is far too concerned about what she has to say to throw any further jabs at him. “As I’m sure you’ve all noticed during your treatments, my healing is somewhat on the fritz. Any injuries received from what we’ve dubbed the ‘antithesis’ Fathom are impossible for me to heal. More specifically, I can mend them, but over a series of days, the wounds will label the flesh I repaired as unwanted, and they will begin necrotizing.”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
A hush goes over the room as her words sink in. Thirteen soldiers, each one having lived through a decade of fighting off creatures beyond reason and comprehension, must now accept that they’re going to die. They’ve built families and lives; the safety they earned for themselves and the rest of humanity through blood and self-sacrifice torn from their fingers.
Their responses vary; one or two place their heads in their hands, their thoughts on those they’ll leave behind. Others lay back in their beds, an almost understanding apathy on their expressions. A pair of them light a cigarette for each other, the action seeming almost reverent and ceremonial.
“This isn’t to say I’m giving up.” Catherine says, though her tone doesn’t give off much hope. “The necrosis doesn’t show up for around three days, so other than coming here two to three times a week, there’s no reason you couldn’t just continue living as normal.”
Jack groans as he leans against the table, its legs scooting noisily. “I sense a ‘but’ there.” He says, folding his arms.
“Things aren’t looking great, Jack.” She says, sighing. “The attack on the funeral won’t be the end of things, and when push comes to shove, I might have to choose between you all and my Vanguards.”
The words are like blades as she speaks, based on the pained expression on her face. Everyone here knows that any choice involving the Vanguard as an option is really no choice at all. Humanity simply doesn’t have the means to protect itself without them. That doesn’t stop Catherine from agonizing over it, though.
Before anyone can continue speaking, the wall behind me opens up to reveal Sergeant Duff, his leg clanging against the floor as he steps into the room. There’s a tinge of redness to his eyes, but it looks more like something irritated them than that he was crying.
A few of their faces light up at the sight of him, but none more than Jack's. “Mad Dog Duff! Come to slum it with your old mates before we melt?”
Catherine looks visibly ill at his words, and I put my palm on the small of her back, unsure what else to do in this situation.
“I’ve done some thinkin’, lads.” Duff announces, his voice hoarse. A few of them jeer things along the lines of ‘Impossible!’ during his long pause before he speaks again. “I know you lot bettar than me own kin, and I jus don’t see any of ya’s wantin tae go on livin if it means owin’ some other bastage for every breath ya take.”
“Whatcha got in mind, sergeant?” Jack asks, looking almost giddy with anticipation.
“Insteada’ actin like yer gonna come back fer treatments, I’d bet you decrepit basard’s woulda just gone home and rotted like tha corpses you are.” A few chuckles go around, but none of them deny it. “How bout, instead o that horsepiss, we cram the lot of yous on a mission tae give the bastards who did this a right nasty keeker?”
Jack barks out a laugh before spreading one of the scariest grins across his face I’ve ever seen. All at once, the room bursts into laughter and cheers behind him, the old soldiers gaining a bit of life back from Duff's speech, ironic as that is. “You’re insane, you old bastard. Only the Mad Dog himself could tell a platoon of men to off themselves and make it seem like a good idea.”
Just about resigned to the sidelines, I’m shocked enough to let out an undignified “eep” when the one-eyed soldier Dave comes up behind me and Catherine before speaking. “I’d like to thank the two of ya, if you don’t mind. You—”He says, looking to Catherine.” for treatin us like somethin equal to you Vanguard and given us the choice to keep on living if we wanted to. I know going to that kind of effort every week would have been hellish.” He then turns to me, his smile full of crooked teeth. “And you, for saving our dear sergeant. Watchin this petite little Vanguard carry the Mad Dog like he’s some kinda princess ain’t gonna be somethin we forget even in the afterlife.”
I stammer, not really sure how to respond to something like that in the slightest. “O-oh, sure thing.”
I’m saved from further awkwardness when one of the other soldiers—one half of the cigarette pair—pulls him away towards the rest of their group, who have somehow acquired alcohol. While I’m pretty sure both cigarettes and beer are contraband—scratch that—I’m definitely sure that they aren’t allowed based on Catherines scowl, I can’t realistically see someone try and take away from them.
Not long after that, me and Catherine head back out. She has to get back to work, and I need to figure out some backup plans for if my mom doesn’t believe that I was sleeping over at Sydney's last night. Movies make it seem way easier to hide your identity as a superhero, I’m simply unconscious too often to have an excuse every time. Maybe I should just tell them? It went pretty fine with Sydney I think…?