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The king and queen...were less so. They knew Leo was training their son, teaching him how to survive--he'd been the king's own bodyguard. They trusted him.

They didn't need the details.

Mars was strong but gentle, slow to anger and quick to find solutions, and focused on the well-being of his people. Leo's job was now to make sure he could bend as far as needed to survive without breaking. To teach him that he was tough enough to stay alive, even in the most brutal conditions.

Leo hated it. Even when his whip tore into Mars' back, even when he held him underwater until he choked, it was awful. It was his duty.

Leo smiled and offered his hand out to his prince, his nephew, the man he'd helped raise from a baby, the man he helped come out to his parents. "You trust me."

"I do, yes." Mars said, placing his gloved hand in Leo's. "With my life."

"Good." Leo nodded towards the food. "Today, we're going to start teaching you how to detect common poisons, and begin building your immunity to them."

Mars' composure faltered just so, but he nodded. "I understand. And you...you have the antidote on hand?"

"Always, Mars. I would never willingly put you in that kind of danger." Leo said. "Now, one poison we'll be using tastes like pecans. Today I want you to tell me when you find that one."

Mars nodded, picking up a fork and delicately taking a bite of a white cake, piled high with blueberries. Leo watched him chew, consider, and swallow after shaking his head. Next, the slice of strawberry tart, every berry slice coated in honey. Another shake of the head. Slowly, surely, Mars sampled all the desserts, brow creasing in confusion.

Finally, he sipped the tea. A simple black tea with lemon squeezed in, something he'd had countless times before. Two swallows in, Mars froze.

Dark eyes went wide, and he set the teacup down. "This...you poisoned the tea."

Leo nodded, smiling. His chest warmed with pride as Mars reached for the tiny cup of water and rinsed his mouth out. "Good, Mars, you even remembered how to minimize your exposure."

Mars gave him a trembling ghost of a smile. "May I have the antidote? Please?"

Leo shook his head, pulling the vial from his pocket. "Not yet. I want you to learn how the symptoms manifest. If you're poisoned, it will be terribly helpful for your rescuers to help you if they know what you were given."

"I...okay." Mars said. "Okay." He took a deep, slow breath.

Leo watched his shoulders relax. He watched his prince's face smooth back over into calm. "There's my brave boy." 

He watched Mars' face as it started to flush, as he started to sway, just so. He watched his prince's breathing get labored as the minutes ticked on. He watched his brows crease. "Leo...I, I'm..." He looked at Leo, shoulders starting to slump and face paling. "I need the antidote."

"Mars, don't be dramatic, now. For someone your size, it won't be time for the antidote for another ten minutes--" Leo was cut off by Mars dropping to the floor with a dull thump.

Gloved hands, pristine even after sampling all the tiny cakes and pies, weakly tried to grip at his throat as Mars struggled to breathe. His chest heaved, not helped by the bindings Leo had taught him to put on.

"Mars!" Leo dropped to his knees, fumbling for the vial of antidote and popping it open. Hurriedly, he gathered his prince into his arms, his head hanging back over Leo's bicep. "Mars, keep your eyes on me. I'm going to help you take this."

Slowly greying lips parted just enough for the shimmering, emerald medicine to enter. Each swallow was pained. Leo felt like each one might be Mars' last. "That's it, that's it." He said, cradling Mars close. "This is all you have to do, take the antidote and keep breathing."

Leo had read that the antidote worked incredibly quickly. Once you swallowed it, as a general rule, you were safe. Mars' hands fisted into Leo's shirt, trembling like leaves. Each breath sounded reedier and more difficult than the last.

If you were one of the rare few who were allergic to the poison, of course, the results weren't nearly as guaranteed. Leo hadn’t considered Mars would be one of those people. It hadn’t crossed his mind at all, he realized, guilt threatening to swallow him alive.

All at once, Mars went slack in his arms. A panicked noise escaped Leo, one hand cupping Mars’ face as his dark eyes slipped closed. “Mars, Mars, my brave boy, my strong boy, you have to fight.” There was no fighting an allergic hypersensitivity, though, and he knew it.

Laying Mars down, Leo began working his shirt open. Mars wasn’t one for flashy clothes. The cotton shirt unbuttoned easily, Leo tugging it open to bare Mars’ chest. He hesitated at the bindings. It didn’t feel right to keep stripping him, but Leo knew that embarrassment was a small price to pay to keep his prince alive.

As he unwound the thick cloth, Mars’ breaths began to turn to gasps, thin and strained as his muscles began to fail him. “Almost, Mars, you’ll be able to breathe soon.” How many minutes did the antidote need to take effect? Five? He was pretty sure he just needed to keep Mars alive until then.

When the bindings were unwound and Mars lay splayed on the carpet, breasts freed and breathing only getting worse, Leo tasted bile. He’d done this. Dark lashes fluttered behind his glasses, struggling to look at Leo. 

Help, he mouthed. 

With a horrible, final squeaking breath, Mars fell still. His eyes slid shut. His chest still jerked, attempting to breathe past the effects of the poison. 

The crown prince of the Plains lay dying on Leo’s floor, by his hand. If he didn’t move, if he didn’t do something, anything, he’d be watching his nephew’s funeral from a prison tower. Before he realized he’d even moved, he’d folded his palms over one another at the center of Mars’ chest. 

The first press downwards forced a huff from Mars’ lips. The second made his ribs creak. The third almost felt worse than seeing him lying there still. 

Each compression rocked Mars’ shoulders forward and forced his stomach to round beneath his still-buttoned shirt. His head lolled half a minute in, cheek rocking against the fine carpet as Leo worked. His chest wobbled with each harsh thrust, every movement obscene. 

Leo shouldn’t be seeing this. He shouldn’t be seeing his prince like this. It didn’t matter what he felt. 

He had to keep Mars’ blood flowing. Litany had mentioned that blood flow was almost more important than getting more air into someone if they’d gone down recently enough. Leo hoped he was right.

How could he ever make this up to Mars? Every terrible gasp and wheeze brought on by his own hands brought tears to Leo’s eyes. His chest sunk deep and awful, his face still an awful pallor. 

Mars lay beneath him, too pliant, too still, only moved by Leo’s desperate efforts. How long had he been working? Beneath his weathered palms, at the very center of Mars’ chest, his smooth, tanned skin had already started to bruise. 

Leo’s breathing filled the room, harsh and desperate. It overshadowed every raspy, not-enough huff from Mars. Tears began to roll down his face. They dripped down his nose and chin, falling with near-silent pats onto Mars’ face. “I’m sorry–I’m so sorry, Mars, my prince.” He panted. “I’ll keep you here with us. I promise.” 

One thrust made Leo’s arms give out, and he just about collapsed next to Mars. He sobbed, frustration and hopelessness ripping through him. His arms were jelly. His back was on fire. Mars still wasn’t breathing. 

He hauled himself back up. He swung a leg over Mars’ hips. He planted his hands on Mars’ chest again. He promised Raul that he’d keep his son safe. He promised Mars that he would be okay. 

Leo didn’t break promises. He pressed his hands back to Mars’ chest, and–

There was a flutter– 

There was a ghost of a breath. 

Leo paused. “Mars?” He whispered, frozen in place. 

Mars’ chest rose, slowly, delicately. The air entered and exited him easily, gently. Leo’s prince was breathing again. 

He sobbed all over again, hands flying to cup Mars’ face. He held him close, curling over him to press his face into Mars’ hair. “Mars–Mars, that’s it, you’re perfect, that was perfect.” He bundled Mars into his arms, cradling him. “This won’t happen, it’ll never get this far again. Never again.”

I don’t think I ever gave this guy a name but he’s had a hard go of things and he’s going to continue having a hard go of things indefinitely

This is wynn ⬇️ I meant to have a rescuer more along the lines of the post in question and instead i got healer conwoman somehow

For the past two and a half years, Ava’s life had been beautifully intertwined with Leah Lawrence, a fellow professional athlete who specialized in middle distance running. At twenty-nine, Leah possessed the same driven spirit that had briefly carried her to the Rio Olympics, where she competed in the women’s 1500 meter sprint. Their relationship had blossomed during a chance encounter at a sports nutrition seminar in Melbourne, where Ava had been drawn to Leah’s infectious laugh and quick wit, while Leah found herself captivated by Ava’s gentle confidence and unhurried way of moving through the world.

Their romance had never lost its initial spark. They supported each other’s demanding training schedules with the understanding that only comes from the shared experience of professional sports, celebrating each other’s victories and providing comfort during inevitable setbacks. Leah would often rise before dawn to run along whatever coastline they were visiting, timing her return to coincide with Ava’s first surf session so they could share breakfast together. Ava, in turn, had learned to pace Leah during tempo runs, running alongside to encourage her.

Friends frequently commented on how well-matched they seemed, noting the way they seemed to communicate in glances and gentle touches. They had developed their own language of inside jokes and shared references, the kind of intimate shorthand that develops between people who have found their perfect complement. Both were fiercely independent individuals who had somehow created a partnership that enhanced rather than diminished their individual strengths.

Their shared apartment in Perth served as home base, but their careers frequently took them to beaches and tracks all over the world. They had grown skilled at making temporary accommodations feel like home, whether in hotel rooms overlooking a promising surf break or a sparse dormitory during a track and field meet.

Neither woman felt the need to rush toward traditional milestones. They were content in the knowledge that they had found something rare and worth protecting, a relationship that felt as natural and effortless. Their future stretched ahead of them with comfortable certainty- more competitions, more travels, more quiet mornings watching the sun rise over whatever body of water or stretch of track had called them to that particular place.

On one particular morning not too long ago, Ava found herself studying a restless ocean beneath a blanket of gray clouds. The beach remained unnamed in her mind- just another promising break they'd discovered during their travels, the kind of place that drew surfers by word of mouth rather than internet recommendations. The waves were running larger than the forecast had suggested, consistent four to six foot faces rolling through with the kind of power that made her check and recheck her leash connection.

Leah had claimed a spot on the sand about fifty yards back from the waterline, settling onto a faded beach towel with her phone and a bottle of electrolyte water. She'd finished her morning run hours earlier, timing it perfectly to return just as Ava was waxing her board. Now she served as Ava's unofficial photographer and safety observer, occasionally lifting her phone to capture video clips and pictures of her girlfriend's fluid movements on the waves.

The conditions were challenging but manageable- exactly the kind of surf that Ava thrived in. Strong rip currents were present, requiring constant attention to positioning, while the overhead cloud cover flattened the light and made reading the approaching waves more difficult. She'd already caught three solid waves, each ride confirming her initial assessment of the break's personality: fast, hollow sections that demanded commitment, followed by mellower shoulders perfect for turns.

After her third wave, Ava had paddled back through the impact zone with muscle memory, using the rip current to her advantage rather than fighting against it. The ocean had been generous so far: no hold-downs, no unexpected clean-ups, just waves that rewarded good positioning and timing. She'd positioned herself in what appeared to be a comfortable lull between sets, perhaps thirty yards beyond where the larger waves typically broke.

From the shore, Leah raised her phone again, framing Ava’s silhouette against the moody, gray sky. Through the small screen, she watched her girlfriend sitting peacefully on her board, blonde hair darkened with saltwater, scanning the horizon with the patient focus of an experienced surfer reading the ocean’s rhythm. The scene looked perfectly ordinary- so ordinary that Leah almost lowered the phone without recording anything.

Ava straddled her board with relaxed confidence, her tan, toned legs and bare feet dangling in the cool water as she studied the approaching swells. The last set had been textbook: three waves with clean faces and predictable breaking patterns. She expected the next sequence to follow a similar script, giving her time to choose her position and commit to the best wave of the group. The ocean’s surface around her showed the characteristic smooth, glassy texture that typically preceded the arrival of an incoming set.

What neither woman could have anticipated was the rogue wave building beyond the normal break zone, a product of intersecting swells and unusual bottom contours that had been amplified by the day’s particular combination of tide and storm surge. It approached from a slightly different angle than the previous waves, its face already steepening as it moved through deeper water.

Ava first sensed something different in the subtle change in water movement beneath her board. It was a deeper, more powerful surge that seemed to come from an unexpected direction. She turned to look seaward just as the wave’s shadow fell across her, its face already curling overhead with a violence that gave her no time to paddle, no opportunity to position herself, no chance to escape.

The wave broke directly on top of her with the force of falling concrete, completely enveloping her.

The world went white, then black, then white again as thousands of gallons of water drove Ava deep beneath the ocean’s surface. The impact stripped away all sense of direction: up became down, down became sideways, and her body tumbled through the underwater chaos like a rag doll caught in a washing machine. Her surfboard, despite the leash connecting it to her ankle, disappeared somewhere in the mess of churning water and foam.

Ava’s first coherent thought came as the initial violence of the wave began to subside. She was perhaps fifteen or twenty feet underwater, maybe deeper, suspended in a column of bubbles and debris. The familiar sting of saltwater filled her sinuses, but her breath-holding reflexes kicked in automatically- a byproduct of years spent duck-diving under waves and weathering two wave hold-downs. She had air in her lungs, maybe a minute’s worth if she stayed calm.

She began swimming upward, or what she hoped was upward, using the bubbles around her as a reference. The water felt unusually turbulent for this depth, suggesting the wave’s energy was still churning the ocean floor and creating unpredictable rip currents. Her surfboard leash tugged at her ankle, the board itself god knows where.

But as she swam, Ava realized she wasn’t making the progress she expected. The surface seemed no closer despite her steady kicks and arm strokes. Something was wrong with the current, or perhaps she had misjudged her depth. A slight flutter of concern crossed her mind, but she pushed it aside. She’d been held down before- not for this long, but the principle remained the same. Stay calm, conserve oxygen, and trust the ocean to release her when the energy dissipated.

On the beach, Leah lowered her phone and squinted at the water. She had captured the moment of impact perfectly- the massive wave engulfing Ava’s figure, but now the area where her girlfriend had been sitting showed only white water and foam. Ava should have surfaced by now, either riding the wave in or popping up behind it with that slightly annoyed expression she wore after being caught off-guard.

Leah checked her phone’s timer out of habit. Thirty seconds since the wave hit. Nothing unusual there. Ava could hold her breath for well over a minute when necessary, and two wave hold downs sometimes lasted forty-five seconds or more. But the water where the wave had broken continued churning with exceptional violence, and Leah found herself unconsciously holding her own breath.

She stood up from her towel, shading her eyes with her hand to better scan the waves. Other surfers would have seen what happened- surely someone was positioning themselves to help if needed. But the beach was quieter than usual, with only a handful of people scattered along the stretch of sand and perhaps three other surfers visible in the far distance.

Forty-five seconds came and went. Leah's internal clock had been calibrated by years of timing Ava's surf sessions, and she could usually predict within five seconds when her girlfriend would surface. The churning white water was beginning to settle, revealing the deeper blue beneath, but still no sign of Ava's bright white board or blonde head breaking the surface.

Underwater, Ava's confidence began to waver. She had been swimming upward for what felt like much longer than usual, her lungs beginning to send the first gentle signals that oxygen was becoming scarce. The bubbles around her seemed endless, and worse, they appeared to be moving in conflicting directions, some rising, others swirling sideways or even downward.

She paused in her swimming to reassess. The broken leash around her ankle pulled consistently in one direction, suggesting she was being dragged by current or wave action. This was not a typical hold-down. The wave had pushed her into some kind of underwater current system, possibly a rip current or an unusual bottom formation that was preventing her normal ascent.

A new strategy formed in her mind. Instead of fighting directly upward, she would swim parallel to the shore, following the path of least resistance until she found clearer water. She had perhaps twenty or thirty seconds of comfortable air remaining- not panic time yet, but enough to demand a more systematic approach.

Ava adjusted her position and began swimming what she hoped was shoreward, using long, efficient strokes to conserve energy. The water around her remained surprisingly turbulent, filled with suspended sand and seaweed that limited visibility to arm’s length.

But after ten more seconds of steady swimming, she realized with growing alarm that she seemed to be moving deeper rather than toward any kind of relief. The pressure in her ears had increased noticeably, and the water around her felt colder, suggesting she was being pulled toward the ocean floor rather than toward safety.

On shore, Leah felt the first real stab of worry pierce through her casual concern. She walked quickly to the water’s edge, letting the foam wash around her bare feet and ankles as she stared intently at the area where Ava had disappeared. The wave that had caught her girlfriend was completely dissipated now, leaving only normal sized swells rolling through.

“Come on, baby,” she said under her breath, scanning left and right for any sign of white fiberglass or blonde hair. The other surfers she could see were too far away to have witnessed the incident clearly, and none of them seemed to be paddling toward Ava’s last known position.

Leah pulled out her phone and checked the time, confirming what her internal clock had already told her. Sixty-eight seconds since impact. This was moving beyond the range of normal hold-downs and into territory that made her chest tighten with anxiety. Ava was strong, experienced, and comfortable underwater but even the experienced surfer had limits.

She began walking quickly down the beach toward a small pavilion where she had noticed several people in official-looking shirts earlier. Beach patrol, lifeguards, someone with authority and equipment. Her walk became a jog, then a run as her mind began conjuring up worst-case scenarios she had never seriously considered before.

“Help!” she called toward the pavilion, her voice carrying clearly in the still air. “I need help! Someone’s been under too long!”

By the two minute mark, Ava’s body was beginning to betray her confidence. Her diaphragm contracted involuntarily, sending sharp spasms through her chest as her oxygen reserves dwindled to critical levels. The urge to breathe- still manageable but increasingly insistent, competed with her rational mind’s understanding that opening her mouth would mean inhaling seawater instead of air.

She had abandoned her systematic swimming approach in favor of more frantic upward strokes, kicking desperately toward what she hoped was the surface. But the current system that had trapped her seemed to strengthen rather than weaken, pulling her in directions that defied logic. Her surfboard leash had become less of a potential lifeline and more of an anchor.

The water around her remained stubbornly turbulent, filled with sand and debris that suggested she was being dragged along the ocean floor rather than rising toward safety. Each stroke upward seemed to result in lateral movement, as if the ocean had formed an underwater trap that refused to release her. Her ears popped repeatedly as pressure changes indicated she was moving up and down in an unpredictable pattern.

Ava’s training told her to stay calm, but her body was entering the early stages of panic. Her heart rate accelerated, burning through her remaining oxygen even faster. The familiar underwater environment that had always been her second home now felt alien and hostile, governed by forces she couldn’t predict or control.

She tried to follow her broken surfboard leash hand over hand, it might lead her to the surface, but the line went slack unpredictably, suggesting the busted line was being tossed around rather than floating peacefully above. Worse, following the leash seemed to pull her deeper into the current system rather than toward any kind of escape route.

Three minutes. The number formed clearly in her oxygen-starved mind. Three minutes underwater was moving into dangerous territory even for someone with her experience level and conditioning. She began swimming with genuine desperation now, abandoning energy conservation in favor of pure survival instinct.

On shore, three beach patrol members materialized at Leah’s side. The woman who appeared to be in charge, named Natalie- mid-thirties with sun-darkened skin and intelligent brown eyes, immediately began gathering information while her two colleagues jogged toward a storage container filled with rescue equipment.

“When did she go under?” Natalie asked, her voice calm and focused.

“Three minutes ago, maybe three and a half,” Leah replied, pointing toward the churning water. “She got hit by a huge wave right there, and she just never came up! She’s a pro surfer… she should have surfaced by now!”

“What’s her name?”

“Ava. Ava Andrews. She’s twenty-nine, professional surfer, excellent swimmer. This isn’t normal for her!” Leah’s words tumbled out faster as she spoke, her voice rising with each sentence.

The beach patrol leader nodded, speaking into a radio clipped to her shoulder. “Command, this is Beach Patrol Seven. We have a possible drowning in progress. Adult female, approximately three to four minutes submerged. Requesting immediate backup and medical response to grid reference Sierra-Four.”

Behind her, the other two appeared with the equipment, carrying a rescue board, fins, masks, and what appeared to be emergency medical equipment. They moved efficiently and urgently, but Leah could see the concern in their expressions. Four minutes underwater was potentially serious business.

“She’s got a white surfboard,” Leah added desperately. “Bright white. And she’s wearing a black wetsuit with pink trim. Blonde hair.”

Natalie was already stripping down to her swimwear, pulling on fins and adjusting a mask. “We’re going to find her,” she stated to Leah with professional confidence that didn’t entirely mask her urgency. “Stay here and keep your eyes on the water. If you see anything-anything at all- point and shout.”

As Natalie entered the water with powerful strokes, Leah felt her knees go weak. The sight of official rescue personnel in the ocean made the situation undeniably real in a way that her own worry hadn’t up to that point. Ava was in trouble. Serious trouble!

At the four and a half minute mark, Ava’s control began to disintegrate. The pro surfer’s diaphragm contracted violently, and despite every instinct and years of training, her mouth opened involuntarily. Seawater rushed in- not a lot, just a mouthful, but enough to trigger an immediate coughing response that expelled what little air remained in her lungs.

The realization hit Ava with undeniable clarity: she was drowning.

The word formed in her mind with terrible precision, carrying with it a profound understanding that made her thrash in the water with even more terror. This wasn’t a hold-down she could wait out. This wasn’t a challenging situation she could problem solve her way through. The ocean had her, and it wasn’t letting go.

Panic flooded her system with adrenaline that burned through her remaining energy reserves. She clawed at the water around her, no longer swimming with any technique or strategy, just fighting against the liquid prison that surrounded her. Her broken surfboard leash wrapped around one leg as she kicked frantically, no longer a potential rescue tool but another piece of equipment betraying her.

More water entered her mouth as she tried to scream, the sound emerging as nothing more than bubbles that rose away from her toward a surface that seemed impossibly distant. Her vision began to narrow, the edges going dark as her oxygen-starved brain started slowly but surely shutting down non-essential functions.

But she remained conscious- horribly conscious, aware of every sensation as her body began the process of dying. The cold water pressing against her skin, the burning in her chest, the way her limbs felt increasingly heavy and unresponsive. She was still Ava Andrews, still thinking Ava’s thoughts, still desperate to live, but trapped in a body that was beginning to fail her.

In those moments of terror, her mind turned to Leah. Beautiful Leah, sitting on the beach, probably worried by now but not yet understanding the full scope of what was happening. The image of her girlfriend's face became the only clear thing in Ava’s darkening world- those gorgeous, icy blue eyes and that bright, encouraging smile she always wore when watching Ava surf.

She tried to swim toward that mental image of Leah, as if love alone could power her limbs and carry her to safety. But the current held her fast. The water kept winning its invasion of her lungs, and the darkness at the edges of her vision continued to spread inward despite her desperate desire to see her girlfriend’s face one more time.

The second rescuer, Jenna, hit the water thirty seconds later, and together the two beach patrol members began a systematic search pattern that reflected their years of training in water rescue operations. Natalie had already made three deep dives to scan the underwater terrain, following the likely path of the current that had caught Ava. Jenna worked a parallel search grid twenty feet to her left, both rescuers diving to depths of fifteen feet before surfacing to breathe and reposition.

The underwater visibility was poor, maybe eight feet at best, and the continued turbulence from the earlier wave action made systematic searching more difficult than either rescuer had anticipated. They could see disturbed sand and seaweed scattered across the ocean floor, evidence that something significant had churned through this area recently, but no sign of a person or bright white surfboard.

“Current’s stronger than it looks,” Natalie called out to Jenna as they both surfaced from their latest dive. “She could be fifty yards downcurrent by now.”

Jenna nodded, treading water while she caught her breath. “Bottom terrain’s weird here too. Lots of channels and drop-offs. Easy place to get trapped.”

The duo adjusted their search pattern, moving further down the beach while diving repeatedly. Each dive lasted thirty to forty seconds- the maximum time they could spend underwater while still maintaining the energy and breath control necessary for multiple attempts. With every unsuccessful dive, the mathematical reality of their situation became more pressing: six minutes underwater was approaching the absolute limit of survivability, even for someone with exceptional breath-holding ability.

On shore, their colleague, Stephanie, had transformed the beach into an impromptu medical station. An oxygen tank sat ready beside a portable defibrillator, both connected and tested. She’d laid out emergency medications-epinephrine, amiodarone, atropine, sodium bicarbonate, alongside IV bags and intubation equipment. Stephanie’s movements were efficient and practiced, but Leah could see the tension in her shoulders as she periodically looked up to check her colleagues’ progress in the water.

“She had breakfast this morning,” Leah found herself saying, her voice carrying a note of desperate irrelevance. “Avocado toast and coffee. She always eats the same thing before surfing. Always applies sunscreen in the same pattern- face, arms, legs. She’s so OCD about everything.”

Stephanie looked up from organizing medical supplies, offering Leah a reassuring nod that didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s good information. Helps us know she was healthy and alert when she went in. Every detail helps.”

But Leah could hear the subtle shift in her tone, the way optimism was beginning to compete with growing concern. Six plus minutes. She didn’t need medical training to understand that six minutes without air was moving beyond rescue and recovery territory.

“Her phone,” Leah began suddenly. “She has Leah’s information in her emergency contacts. Mine, I mean. Leah Lawrence. I’m Leah. She’s got my number, and her parents in Perth, and…” She was babbling anxiously now, not making sense sense, providing information that served no immediate purpose but gave her something to focus on besides the two small figures still diving repeatedly in the churning water.

At a little over six minutes, Ava’s conscious mind began fragmenting into scattered pieces of memory and sensation. The terror remained constant- a growing awareness that she was dying, that the morning’s routine surf session had unexpectedly become her execution- but her thoughts no longer formed coherent sequences.

She thought of Leah laughing at something on her phone, lying in bed on a Sunday morning, sunlight streaming through their Perth apartment windows.

The Image appeared and disappeared like a photograph flashed in darkness. Ava tried to hold onto it, but her oxygen-starved brain couldn’t maintain focus. The memory dissolved just as quickly as it appeared.

A second image flashed in Ava’s mind: Leah’s hand in hers during a movie a few weeks prior, thumb tracing small circles on her knuckles, a gesture so familiar and comforting that Ava had never really noticed it until now, knowing she would never feel it again.

She had woken up that morning thinking about wave conditions, breakfast, and whether they should drive further up the coast after this session. Ordinary thoughts for an ordinary day that was supposed to end with them sharing dinner and planning tomorrow’s activities. Instead, in just a few more minutes, Ava would be fighting for her life. The realization crashed through Ava’s fading consciousness with fresh horror- not just that she was dying, but that Leah would have to live with watching it happen.

Another image flashed: Leah timing her during breath-holding practice in their hotel pool the night before, calling out “two minutes, you’re doing great!” in that encouraging voice she used during Ava’s training sessions.

The irony was undeniable. All those practice sessions, all that preparation for exactly this kind of situation, and now she was drowning anyway. Ava’s body felt impossibly heavy, her limbs moving sluggishly despite her mind’s frantic commands to swim, to fight, to somehow find a way to the surface.

Water filled her lungs in larger quantities now, each involuntary breath bringing in seawater instead of air. The burning sensation in her chest had evolved into something beyond pain. It was a crushing pressure that made each heartbeat feel like an enormous effort. She could feel her pulse slowing, her cardiovascular system beginning to shut down as her brain diverted blood away from non-essential organs in a desperate attempt to preserve consciousness.

Another image flashes: Leah’s face that morning, sleepy and beautiful, asking if Ava wanted to share a coffee before getting ready.

Seven minutes. The number floated through her awareness without the sharp clarity it had possessed earlier. Her sense of time was dissolving along with everything else, but some part of her brain continued its grim countdown. Seven minutes underwater. People didn’t usually survive after seven minutes underwater.

She was still aware- horribly, persistently aware, but that awareness was becoming increasingly detached from her physical body. She could observe her own dying with a strange combination of terror and fascination, watching her nervous system shut down function by function while her consciousness clung desperately to the last threads of life.

Another image: Leah saying “I love you” before Ava paddled out to her final wave, the words casual, warm, and completely ordinary. But unknowingly the last interaction they would ever have.

The memory triggered a final surge of desperate struggling, Ava’s body making one last attempt to fight its way to the surface. But the current held her as firmly as ever. Her muscles lost most of their strength, and the darkness at the edges of her vision was spreading inward like ink dropped in clear water.

Eight minutes. Her heart was still beating, but irregularly now, stuttering and pausing as her cardiovascular system began to fail. Her brain tissue was beginning to die from lack of oxygen, though some cruel level of efficiency kept her conscious enough to understand what was happening to her.

She tried to form Leah’s name with her lips, but only bubbles emerged, rising toward a surface she would never see again. The last thing she saw clearly was the memory of Leah's smile from that morning: bright, loving, and completely unaware that she would be saying goodbye.

Then, at eight minutes and forty-three seconds, Ava’s consciousness simply ceased. Her body convulsed once in a violent, full body spasm that curled her toes and arched her back as her nervous system fired its final, chaotic signals. The bright, coral pink nail polish on her toes caught what little filtered light penetrated the murky water, a flash of color in the underwater gloom. Then she went completely still, her limbs floating loosely as the current continued to drag her unconscious form through the ocean.

Nearby, Natalie from the rescue team surfaced from her fifteenth dive, her breathing labored and her shoulders burning from the repeated efforts. She and Jenna had expanded their search pattern three times, covering an area that now stretched nearly a hundred yards from the original impact site. The odds of their situation had become unavoidable: nine plus minutes underwater and a victim with no flotation device. They were no longer conducting a rescue- they were attempting a recovery.

“One more sweep,” the lead called to Jenna, who was treading water about twenty feet away.

The young lady nodded, taking several deep breaths to prepare for another dive. The current had been consistently stronger than anticipated, and their victim could be anywhere along a quarter-mile stretch of coastline by now. But protocol demanded they exhaust every reasonable possibility before transitioning to more specialized equipment and techniques.

The more experienced of the two, Natalie, dove again, following the underwater contours that the current seemed to favor. The visibility remained poor, but she had developed a feel for the search area over the past handful of minutes. This dive took her deeper than the previous attempts, following a natural channel in the seafloor that seemed to funnel debris and seaweed in a consistent direction.

Fifteen feet down, at the edge of her visual range, Natalie saw something that didn’t belong to the natural underwater landscape. A flash of white- too bright and geometric to be seaweed or coral. She kicked harder, pushing through the water toward the anomaly, and her heart clenched as the shape resolved into a surfboard, its leash disconnected and disappearing into the murky water beyond.

Following the leash through the poor visibility felt like a nightmare version of a rescue drill. Hand over hand along the cord, Natalie found herself moving deeper and further from shore than any of their search patterns had taken them. The current had dragged their victim an impossible distance, far beyond where anyone would have thought to look during the critical early minutes.

The leash ended, but an ankle was seen a short distance away. The ankle belonged to a woman floating freely, her blonde hair fanned out around her head. The rescuer’s training took over completely- no time for emotional reactions, just the mechanical process of securing the victim and beginning the ascent to the surface.

But even as Natalie wrapped her arms around the unconscious surfer’s torso, she could feel that something was fundamentally wrong. The body felt too limp, too unresponsive, lacking the subtle muscle tension that persisted even in most unconscious drowning victims. Ava’s skin was cold beyond what the water temperature alone could explain.

Breaking the surface, Natalie immediately called out to Jenna and began the practiced routine of rescue breathing while treading water. But as she tilted Ava’s head back to open her airway, she found herself looking into wide, unseeing blue eyes that stared past her toward the gray, gloomy sky above. The surfer’s mouth hung slightly open, and her face had taken on the ghastly pallor that the experienced beach patrol lead had learned to recognize during her years of water rescue work.

“I’ve got her!” Natalie shouted toward shore, her voice carrying a note of grim professionalism rather than triumph. “Moving to shore now!”

Leah heard the shout and felt a surge of relief so powerful it nearly knocked her off her feet. They found Ava! After ten agonizing minutes of watching the two rescuers dive repeatedly into empty water, they had actually found her. She ran toward the water’s edge, splashing through the shallow waves as the two beach patrol members began swimming toward shore.

“Is she okay?!” Leah called out, her voice breaking with a mixture of hope and desperation. “Ava! Can you hear me?!”

But as Natalie and Jenna came closer, Leah’s relief began to transform into something much darker. The woman they were bringing to shore wasn’t swimming, coughing, or showing any signs of consciousness. She floated between her two rescuers like a piece of driftwood, her head tilted back at an unnatural angle, her arms trailing limply in the water. Jenna leaned in, pinching Ava’s nose, cupping her lips around the surfer’s, and firmly exhaled a few rescue breaths.

When they reached waist-deep water, Leah could finally see Ava’s face clearly, and the sight drove all the air out of her lungs in a single, horrified gasp.

Ava’s eyes were wide open, but they held no recognition, no awareness, no spark of the passion and warmth that Leah had fallen madly in love with. They were the eyes of a stranger, glassy and fixed, staring at nothing with a horrifying emptiness that made Leah’s stomach clench. Her girlfriend’s mouth hung slightly open, and her skin had taken on a grayish pallor that looked nothing like the sun-kissed complexion Leah had seen 10 plus minutes earlier.

“Ava?” Leah whispered, but even as she said her name, she understood with devastating clarity that the woman being carried toward shore was no longer the person she had shared breakfast with an hour or so prior.

The rescuers moved with urgent efficiency, but their faces carried the grim set of professionals who understood exactly what they were dealing with. This wasn’t a rescue anymore, it was an attempt at resurrection, and everyone present knew the odds of success grew smaller with each passing second.

As they laid Ava’s motionless body on the sand, Leah found herself staring at details that seemed impossibly irrelevant: the way Ava’s wet hair had darkened from blonde to brownish, the bright coral nail polish on her toes that contrasted so starkly with the pasty color of her skin, and the small scar on her shoulder from a surfboard fin that had caught her during a competition in Hawaii two years ago.

All the small details that made Ava herself, still present but attached to a body that no longer contained the essential spark that had made her alive

The moment Ava's body touched the sand, Natalie dropped to her knees beside Ava and began the systematic assessment. Her damp hands moved to Ava's neck, fingers pressing against the carotid artery while her eyes focused on the chest, looking for any sign of respiratory effort.

"No pulse, no respirations," she announced, shaking her head, her voice carrying the unusual calm of someone who had made this observation before. She immediately placed her hands on Ava's sternum and delivered a firm sternal rub, grinding her knuckles against the breastbone in an attempt to provoke any neurological response. Ava's body remained completely motionless, offering no reaction to the painful stimulus.

Jenna was already pulling medical equipment from the emergency kit, while Stephanie positioned herself at Ava’s head to assess her airway. “Pupils fixed and dilated,” Stephanie reported, shining a penlight into those unseeing blue eyes.

Natalie’s clinical assessment continued even as she began positioning herself for CPR. Ava’s skin had taken on the sickly pallor of profound hypoxia, a grayish-white color that’s associated with complete cardiovascular collapse. Her lips had turned a distinct blueish purple, and when Natalie lifted one of Ava’s hands, it felt cold and lifeless, with no muscle tone whatsoever.

“Water in the airway,” Stephanie observed, tilting Ava’s head back and opening her mouth. Seawater trickled out, and she quickly inserted a suction catheter to clear as much as possible from her throat and upper airway. The amount of water was significant- more evidence of the prolonged drowning that had claimed the beautiful surfer.

“Starting CPR,” the leader of the trio announced, interlacing her fingers and positioning her hands over Ava’s sternum. The first compression felt wrong immediately. It was too easy, as if she were pushing against an empty shell rather than a living human being. But Natalie continued with mechanical precision, delivering compressions at a rate of one hundred per minute while counting aloud. Ava’s chest caved in, recoiling hard, her toned belly rippling out from the force of the rescuer’s compressions.

Jenna had already begun cutting away Ava’s wetsuit with trauma shears, the black fabric parting to reveal skin that was ice cold and blue-tinged. “getting the pads on her!” Jenna called out, tearing open the packaging for electrode pads while CPR continued.

“Is she dead?!” Leah’s voice cut through the medical intervention, sharp and panicked. “Is Ava dead?!?! Please tell me she’s not dead!”

Natalie didn’t pause her compressions, but her voice softened slightly as she responded. “We’re doing everything we can. She’s in cardiac arrest, but we’re not giving up.”

Stephanie had connected a bag-mask device to their oxygen supply and was now providing rescue breaths, squeezing the bag every five seconds to force air into Ava’s flooded lungs. The process should have caused Ava’s chest to rise and fall in a natural rhythm, but the movement looked unnatural and artificial, like inflating a balloon rather than breathing life into a person.

“Clear for rhythm check,” Jenna announced, having placed the defibrillator pads on Ava’s bare chest. The monitor screen flickered to life, displaying a flat, horizontal line that confirmed what everyone could see. Ava’s heart had stopped completely.

“Asystole,” Natalie read from the monitor, never pausing in her compressions. “Continuing CPR. I need an IV line and push one milligram epi.”

“Is there anything I can do?!” Leah pleaded, dropping to her knees beside Ava’s motionless form. “I know CPR! I can help!”

“Right now the best thing you can do is give us room to work,” Natalie the team lead replied gently but firmly. “Can you tell us about her medical history? Any allergies, medications, prior health problems?”

Leah’s hands hovered over Ava’s body, desperate to touch her girlfriend but afraid of interfering with the medical efforts. “She’s healthy. Completely healthy. No medications, no allergies. She's a professional surfer, she’s in perfect shape. This can’t be happening…”

Nearby, Jenna had successfully established an IV line in Ava’s left arm, the catheter sliding easily into a vein that showed no signs of circulation. “One milligram epinephrine going in,” she reported, pushing the medication through the IV port.

The drug should have caused some sort of response- increased heart rate, muscle tension, some sign that Ava’s cardiovascular system was responding to chemical stimulation. But the monitor continued to display a flatline, and the Aussie surfer’s body remained as unresponsive as before.

“She had avocado toast for breakfast,” Leah blurted out suddenly, her voice taking on a desperate quality as she searched her panicked brain for any information that might somehow help. “And coffee. She always has the same breakfast. She’s so OCD about everything. She brushes her teeth for exactly two minutes, she applies sunscreen the same way every time. She’s so careful about everything.”

The two-minute mark of continuous chest compressions was reached, and it was time to switch positions with another member of the team. Stephanie took over the exhausting work of trying to manually circulate Ava’s blood. She pumped the surfer’s bare chest hard and fast, water trickling out her mouth in perfect sync with each individual compression. The rhythm of compressions continued without interruption, but everyone present understood the slim odds of their situation. Ten minutes underwater, no oxygenation, and complete cardiovascular collapse. They were fighting against odds that bordered on impossible.

Leah finally gave in to her need for physical contact, reaching out to grasp Ava’s right hand. Her skin felt wrong- absolutely freezing and pale. But she held on anyway, stroking Ava’s wet hair with her free hand while tears streamed down her face.

“Come on, baby,” she encouraged, her voice barely audible over the sounds of CPR and artificial ventilation. “Come back to me. Please come back. I need you…”

But Ava’s hand remained limp in hers, offering no squeeze of recognition, no sign that any part of the woman she loved was still present in the body the medical team was working so desperately to revive.

“Second epi, one milligram,” Natalie called out as another syringe was prepared. The first dose of epinephrine had produced no measurable effect on Ava’s cardiac rhythm, but protocol demanded they continue with pharmaceutical intervention every three to five minutes. The medication went in through the IV line, another chemical attempt to jump-start a heart that had been without oxygen for far too long.

Stephanie continued the exhausting work of chest compressions, her shoulders beginning to show the strain of maintaining the 100 bpm rhythm that was manually circulating Ava’s blood. Each compression should have been moving oxygenated blood to Ava’s brain and vital organs, but everyone present understood they were fighting against massive cellular damage that had already occurred during those ten minutes underwater.

“Let’s try atropine,” Natalie decided, checking her waterproof watch. The drug was designed to increase heart rate and improve cardiac conduction, potentially useful if any faint electrical activity remained in Ava’s heart muscle. The team administered it without comment, adding another pharmaceutical intervention to their growing list of unsuccessful attempts.

The defibrillator monitor continued displaying the flat, horizontal line that indicated complete cardiac standstill, but the team noticed a subtle change in the rhythm around the fifteen minute mark of their resuscitation efforts. Tiny, irregular deflections began appearing on the screen- barely visible waves that suggested some electrical activity was returning to Ava’s heart.

“I’m seeing fine v-fib,” Natalie announced, studying the monitor more closely. The rhythm was barely distinguishable from asystole, but it represented the first sign that their medications might be having some effect on Ava’s heart.

"Charging to 200 joules,” Jenna responded immediately, preparing the defibrillator for what would be their first shock attempt. “Everyone clear!”

The electrical discharge caused Ava’s body to jerk once, her back arching, chest shooting upwards slightly before settling back onto the sand. For a moment, everyone held their breath, watching the monitor for any sign of organized cardiac rhythm. But after a brief pause, the fine ventricular fibrillation returned, too weak and disorganized to produce any actual circulation.

“Resume CPR,” Natalie ordered, Stephanie immediately returning to chest compressions while the team prepared for their next intervention.

“Are you putting a tube down her throat?!” Leah’s voice cracked with horror as she watched Jenna preparing intubation equipment. “Oh God, oh God, what are you doing to her?!"

“We need to secure her airway,” Natalie explained gently, never pausing in her coordination of the resuscitation effort. “The breathing tube will help us get oxygen to her lungs more effectively.”

But the intubation proved more difficult than anticipated. Ava’s throat muscles had lost all tone, and the amount of seawater she had aspirated made visualization of her vocal cords nearly impossible. The team made two attempts with the laryngoscope, struggling to navigate the blade through water and swelling that hadn’t been present in their training scenarios.

“Can’t visualize,” Jenna reported, withdrawing the scope and returning to bag-mask ventilation. “Too much edema and fluid. I’ll try again in a minute.”

Leah watched this clinical struggle with mounting desperation, her hands never leaving Ava’s motionless form. The woman she loved was being subjected to increasingly invasive procedures, and none of them seemed to be making any difference. Ava’s face remained that horrible grayish-white color, her lips still blue despite the constant flow of oxygen.

“Ava, listen to me,” Leah began suddenly, leaning close to her girlfriend’s ear. “You have to fight. You have so much to live for! We have so much to live for!”

Leah paused, stroking Ava’s wet hair with trembling fingers, then continued in a voice that broke with every word. “I was going to propose to you. Next month, on your 30th birthday. I already picked out the ring. It's sitting in our apartment right now, hidden in my sock drawer…”

The rescue crew administered a round of sodium bicarbonate, attempting to counteract the massive acidosis that prolonged cardiac arrest and hypoxia had created in Ava’s system. The drug might help optimize the cellular environment for successful resuscitation, but it couldn’t undo the fundamental damage that had already occurred.

“The ring is perfect for you,” Leah continued, tears streaming down her face as she spoke to Ava’s unresponsive face. “It’s not huge or flashy because I know that’s not you. It’s simple and beautiful, just like you, babe. I had this whole plan about how I was going to ask you. We were going to go to that little beach café you love back home… the one with the outdoor tables, and I was going to wait until the sunset hit just right.”

The team made a second attempt at intubation, this time successfully threading the endotracheal tube past Ava’s vocal cords and into her trachea. The tube was secured it with tape and connected it to their ambu bag, finally achieving the airway control they’d been seeking. But even this small victory felt hollow given the overall trajectory of their efforts.

“Third round epi going in,” Jenna announced, pushing another milligram of epinephrine through the IV line. The medication represented their ongoing refusal to give up, but each intervention was producing diminishing returns, and everyone present could feel the weight of accumulated time working against them.

"You were going to say yes," Leah whispered, her forehead nearly touching Ava's as she continued her one-sided conversation. "I know you were going to say yes because we talk about everything. We talked about kids, and where we wanted to live when we got older, and what kind of wedding we might have. You said you wanted something small, just family and close friends, maybe on a beach somewhere."

The fine ventricular fibrillation on the monitor persisted, strengthening enough to warrant another defibrillation attempt. “still in VF, charging to 300.” Natalie called out. Everyone- including Leah, backed away in anticipation of the shock. A rising, high-pitched electrical whir clashed with the sound of waves in the background as the defibs readied.

“CLEAR!”

KA-THUNK! Ava’s body was tossed around effortlessly by the jolt of electricity as Leah watched in absolute horror just inches away.

There was a collective pause after the shock, all eyes darting towards the monitor: still v-fib.

“No change, charging again to 360. Everyone stand clear!”

The next shock caused Ava’s arms and legs to flail and shiver unnaturally for a moment before going completely limp. Ava’s blue eyes remained wide open, staring blankly into the overcast sky above.

Twenty minutes of intensive resuscitation efforts had produced no meaningful signs of life, but the medical team continued their systematic approach to cardiac arrest management. They had exhausted their first-line medications and achieved advanced airway control, but Ava's body remained as unresponsive as when they had first pulled her from the water.

"Charging to 360 joules again," Natalie announced, preparing the defibrillator for what would be their fourth shock attempt. Fine ventricular fibrillation persisted on the monitor, weak and disorganized but still technically a shockable rhythm.

"Everyone clear!" Shouted Natalie. For a brief moment, the beach fell silent except for the sound of waves washing against the shore.

The electrical discharge raced through Ava's toned body with violent force, her limbs stiffening and tensing momentarily before falling limp again. Leah let out a strangled cry at the sight, her hands flying to her mouth as she watched her girlfriend's body convulse under the artificial stimulus.

"Oh God, stop! You're hurting her!" Leah sobbed, but even as the words left her mouth, she knew they made no sense. Ava was beyond pain, beyond awareness, and beyond anything that resembled the life they had shared together.

The monitor showed a brief pause in electrical activity, then returned to the same weak fibrillation pattern that had persisted for the past several minutes. No pulse, no blood pressure, no sign that the shock had restored any meaningful cardiac function.

“Resume CPR,” Natalie ordered quietly. Stephanie wasted no time and immediately returned to chest compressions. The repetitive rhythm continued: thirty compressions, two ambu bag breaths, thirty more compressions- but everyone present could feel the futility settling over their efforts like fog rolling in from the ocean.

Jenna prepared another round of medications while Natalie checked her watch. Twenty-eight minutes since they had begun resuscitation efforts, which meant almost forty minutes since Ava had disappeared beneath that wave. The cellular damage from prolonged hypoxia was irreversible at this point, but protocol demanded they continue until all reasonable interventions had been exhausted.

“Fourth round epi, one milligram,” Jenna called out, pushing the epinephrine into the IV line. “Following with one more atropine.”

The medications went Into Ava’s circulatory system, or what remained of it, carried by the artificial circulation created through chest compressions. But her heart and brain tissue had been without oxygen for far too long, and the drugs found no viable cardiac muscle to stimulate.

“Let’s try another shock,” Natalie decided, though her voice carried less conviction than before. The fine v-fib on the monitor hadn’t strengthened despite their pharmaceutical interventions, and each defibrillation attempt was producing the same response.

“Charging to 360 joules,” Natalie shouted out, her professional composure beginning to show hairline cracks as the reality of their situation became undeniable.

“No, please,” Leah whimpered, but she didn’t try to stop them. She understood, on some level, that these violent attempts to restart Ava’s heart represented the last chances to bring back the woman she loved more than anything.

The fifth shock caused the same terrible convulsion, Ava’s body jerking against the sand like a puppet controlled by electrical strings. Ava’s bare feet kicked up, slamming back down on the sand ungracefully, showing off the large, soft wrinkles throughout the soles of her size 8 feet. This time, Leah couldn’t watch. She turned away, her hands covering her face as she sobbed.

When she looked back, the monitor showed the same weak, disorganized electrical activity that had mocked the medical team’s efforts for the past little while. No pulse. No blood pressure. No response to the most aggressive interventions available to them on a beach with portable equipment.

Natalie looked at her watch: 11:11AM. Thirty-one minutes of continuous advanced life support with no signs of recovery. She had seen enough drowning cases to understand when the damage had progressed beyond the point of viable resuscitation, and every clinical indicator told her that Ava Andrews had been dead since the moment they pulled her from the water.

“Stop compressions,” Natalie spoke quietly. Stephanie immediately lifted her hands from Ava’s chest.

The sudden silence felt profound. No more compressions, no more artificial respirations, no more electronic beeping from the monitor. Just the sound of waves crashing with the shots and Leah’s ragged breathing and sobs.

“Time of death, 11:11am,” Natalie announced, her voice carrying the finality that made Leah’s world collapse completely.

“No!” Leah screamed, throwing herself toward Ava’s motionless form. “No, you have to keep going! Please, you have to keep trying! Shock her again!”

Natalie knelt beside Leah, placing a reassuring arm around her, her voice gentle but unwavering. “I’m so sorry, but we’ve done everything we can. Ava was without oxygen for too long. She doesn’t have a heartbeat, and she’s not responding to our most aggressive life saving efforts. There’s nothing more we can do. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“But she’s strong!” Leah sobbed, her hands grasping desperately at Ava’s shoulders. “She’s a pro athlete! She can hold her breath longer than anyone I know! You have to keep trying!” Leah begged.

“We tried for thirty-one minutes,” Natalie replied with compassion that barely contained her own professional grief. “We gave her every medication, shocked her multiple times, and utilized every intervention available to us. Her body just didn’t respond.”

Leah collapsed completely, her forehead pressing against Ava’s bare chest as hysterical sobs wracked her entire body. “We should have stayed in the hotel room,” she wailed, the words barely comprehensible through her tears. “I should have made her stay in bed with me. We should have just watched movies and ordered room service. Why didn’t I stop us from going out there?!”

The medical team stood silent around the scene, their equipment still in place, their professional composure intact but clearly affected by the raw grief unfolding before them. They had done their jobs with competence and dedication, but the ocean had claimed poor Ava Andrews long before they ever had a chance to save her.

Leah’s cries echoed across the empty beach, a sound of pure anguish that spoke to the sudden, violent way that love could be stripped away by forces beyond anyone’s control. The woman she had planned to marry lay motionless beneath her, ice cold to the touch, already becoming something else- a body instead of a person, a memory instead of a future, an ending instead of the beginning.

The medical team moved quietly and efficiently around a grief-stricken Leah, beginning the solemn process of disconnecting the equipment that had failed to save Ava's life. Natalie gently detached the ambu bag from the endotracheal tube, unhooking it with a soft plastic click and a hiss of air. The silence that followed felt profound. No more artificial respirations, just the natural sounds of the ocean that had claimed Ava.

Jenna reached over and switched off the heart monitor, ending the electronic documentation of Ava's flatlined existence. The screen went dark, erasing the visual reminder that no electrical activity remained in the twenty-nine year old’s heart that had once powered her through countless surf sessions and competitions.

The team began the careful process of removing the defibrillator pads from Ava’s bare chest, peeling away the adhesive electrodes that had delivered five unsuccessful shocks. Underneath, Ava’s skin showed the dark bruising that resulted from aggressive chest compressions-purple and red marks across her sternum and ribs.

“Can I…” Leah’s voice broke as she tried to form the words. “Can I have a moment with her?”

Natalie nodded, on the verge of tears herself, stepping back to give Leah space while continuing to oversee the equipment removal. “Take all the time you need.”

Leah leaned down and pressed her lips gently against Ava’s cheek, her skin still carrying a faint taste of salt water. The kiss was tender and final, a goodbye that she had never imagined having to give that day. Ava’s face felt wrong against her lips- far too cold, too still, lacking the warmth and responsiveness that had been such an essential part of who she was.

“I love you,” Leah whispered against Ava’s ear, though she knew the words would never be heard. “I love you so much, and I’m sorry we couldn’t save you. I’d do ANYTHING to trade places with you right now...”

With infinite gentleness, Leah reached up and closed Ava’s eyes for the final time. The blue irises that had sparkled with life, mischief, and love disappeared behind pale lids, transforming Ava’s face into something that looked almost peaceful, as if she were simply sleeping deeply after a long day in the surf.

But the illusion of sleep couldn’t mask the reality of what just happened. The IV lines were removed from Ava’s arms, leaving small puncture wounds that would never heal. The endotracheal tube was left in place, the final invasion of her body in the name of failed resuscitation.

The team retrieved a toe tag from their equipment kit- a small, rectangular piece of cardstock that reduced Ava Andrews to basic identifying information. It was filled out with careful handwriting: name, age, date, time of death. The tag felt impossibly impersonal for someone who had been so vibrantly alive less than an hour earlier.

As Natalie attached the tag to the big toe of Ava’s left foot, the small piece of cardstock brushed against the soft wrinkles on the sole of her foot- an image that seared itself into Leah’s memory with terrible clarity. Those feet that had carried Ava across beaches all over the world, that had danced with her in their apartment kitchen, that had been cold against Leah’s legs on chilly mornings, now bore death’s most well-known accessory.

“No…” Leah babbled suddenly, her voice rising as she watched the medical team prepare a black body bag. “No!!! Don’t put her in there! Please, I just need to hold her one more time! Let me hold my baby girl one more time!!!" Leah plead, sobbing inconsolably.

But the procedures couldn’t be delayed indefinitely. With professional gentleness, the trio began the process of moving Ava’s lifeless body into the bag that would transport her away from the beach where she had died.

“Let me hold her!” Leah screamed, her voice breaking with hysteria. “Please, just let me hold her one more time! Don’t take her away from me!!!”

The contrast was unbearable: Ava’s body being treated with clinical efficiency while Leah’s world collapsed around the loss of everything that had given her life meaning. The woman who had shared her morning coffee, who had kissed her before paddling out into what should have been just another surf session, was being zipped into a body bag like a victim from a crime scene.

That morning felt like years ago now, though Leah’s phone showed it had been less than four hours since they had woken up together in their hotel room. Ava had been complaining about the coffee being too weak, laughing at something she’d seen on social media, and discussing whether they should drive to another beach after this session. Ordinary moments, ordinary conversations, the comfortable routine of a couple who believed they had forever ahead of them.

Now those mundane interactions had become precious final memories, transformed by tragedy into treasures that Leah would replay obsessively for the rest of her life. The way Ava had hummed while applying sunscreen, the casual “love you” she’d called over her shoulder before entering the water for the last time, the confident smile she’d worn as she paddled toward the waves- all of it now weighted with the knowledge that they were goodbye gestures disguised as routine affection.

The cruelty of it was overwhelming: decades of future plans, dreams, and shared experiences had been erased in just ten minutes underwater. The engagement ring hidden in their apartment would never be worn. The small beach wedding they had discussed would never happen. The children they might have raised together would never exist.

As the body bag was finally zipped closed, Leah’s sobs intensified to a level that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than her lungs, from a place in her soul that had been torn open and left bleeding. The sound carried across the empty beach like a primal scream of grief, the voice of someone whose entire world had just ended in the most sudden and violent way possible.

When Dr. Hudson had chosen the plot to build his home, Fireball Beach had been a quiet place. That is until they got the notice in the mail that NASCAR would be building a new training center for their racers. The beach went from a serene stretch of sand where everyone knew each other to bustling with tourists just trying to catch a glimpse of their favorite driver. Dr. Hudson started keeping his windows closed and moved his study to the back of the house to avoid the noise.

One morning, though, he made his coffee as usual and decided to sit on the balcony. He made himself comfortable at the small table with his mug and the paper. Before he can start reading the headline, a flash of red catches his eye.

He looks over the railing to see a young blond he'd never noticed before jogging past the house. His lips are parted slightly as his chest heaves under a tight compression shirt. His shorts are tight and stop just shy of mid-thigh. His feet bounce lightly off the sandy sidewalk with effortless rhythm. His large over-the-ear headphones and dark aviators shield most of his face but his golden hair shines in the sun.

The doctor watches the younger man until he disappears around the next corner leaving him with a lukewarm coffee and uncomfortably tight pants.

The next morning Dr. Hudson does the same. Pouring his coffee and heading for the balcony. He stands against the railing to get a better view as the blond jogs up the beach again. He watches the way his chest and thighs move with each step. Watches how his lips part with each sharp inhale. His eyes are still hidden behind the dark glasses, but the doctor can just make out where a flush reddens his freckled cheeks.

Dr. Hudson assumes the man is one of the drivers from the racing center. He'd quickly realized that most of them prefer the treadmills in their air conditioned gyms, but not this one. He seems to thrive in the fresh air and sunlight.

One morning that the blond had come by, he'd seen a bright yellow 95 emblazoned on the back of his t-shirt. Once he was past the house, Dr. Hudson let his curiosity get the better of him. He'd sat down in front of the laptop in his study and quickly typed, who drives the 95 car for NASCAR? A dozen articles quickly flashed on the screen.

Top Rookie of the Season!

First Championship!

And finally, a name. Montgomery “Lightning” McQueen.

Dr. Hudson clicked the link and the cover photo nearly stole his breath. There was the jogger, sans glasses and earphones, with the brightest blue eyes the older man had ever seen. He was being showered in red and gold confetti while holding a trophy half his size.

Hud had never cared for the sport, but now he finds himself checking the paper for the boy’s name. He'd begun to notice that the better this McQueen finished, the more pep he seemed to have in his step that morning.

One morning Dr. Hudson heads out to the balcony as usual. He waits, but the blond never shows up. That was unusual, since it had been months and it seemed like he never missed a day. Maybe he had come down with something?

Another day, another no-show, and the doctor felt a small tinge of worry start to eat at him.

When the third day had come and gone, he just assumed the young man had gotten his fill of the same old beach views and decided to stay inside with the others.

When the paper arrives on the stoop the next morning, the photo on the front page makes him sick. There is a car, or what used to be one, mangled and smoking as a driver is pulled through the open window. His arm seems limp where it dangles by his side. The headline reads, McQueen Out! Crash at Talledega!

The doctor’s heart sinks as he scans the page. There's a small sigh of relief as he sees that the young man was taken to a hospital but seems to be stable. He sets the paper to the side and picks up his coffee, taking it down the hall to his study.

After a few months, Dr. Hudson catches a flash of gold through his kitchen window. The young man is back! But he seems to be keeping an easy walking pace. There's a girl hovering next to him, her hand outstretched ready to steady him at any sign of a problem.

“I'm fine, Cruz! I don't need to be babysat!” McQueen spits, swatting the young girl’s hands away.

“The doctor says you need to take it easy,” Cruz whines, “I still think we should have stuck to the treadmills.”

Dr. Hudson watches as Cruz guides them to turn around and head back the way they'd come.

A week later, the doctor is back on his balcony. He watches as the racer comes around the corner in a half jog. His face is red and his mouth hangs open, his chest moving quickly with heaving breaths. The blond is trying, and failing, to hide the limp on his left side as he jogs past. Hud’s heart aches for the boy. He’s watched many strong young men have to fight back for mobility after an accident.

He's braced against the railing when he sees the blond’s knee buckle, body dropping like a sack of stones. He drops his mug and rushes down the stairs, grabbing his bag before racing out the door.

He crosses the busy street, cars honking and brakes squealing behind him. He drops down beside the young man, his fingers quickly finding the pulse point at his neck. His heart is hammering wildly against his fingertips but his eyes are already beginning to look distant and empty.

“Hey! Hey! Stay with me!” The doctor shouts as he reaches into his bag and pulls out a valve mask. He seals it tight over the blond’s mouth and nose, forcing air into his hyperventilating lungs.

Those beautiful, bright blue eyes roll back as he begins to convulse. His back arches tight, arms curling in close to his chest.

“No! Nonono,” Dr. Hudson pressed his stethoscope over the racer's apex, listening as his heart goes from fibrillation to full arrest. He drapes the stethoscope around his neck and interlocks his hands over the now still chest. He slams them down, crushing the blond’s sternum in and making his ribs flare and pop. Hud finds his rhythm, counting aloud as he pounds the boy’s chest, “15, 16, 17, 18, come on!”

Once he hits thirty, Dr. Hudson presses the mask tight over his patient’s face, pumping in two full breaths. McQueen's chest rises slightly, pulling his already tight shirt taut across his chest.

The doctor drops the mask and begins another round of brutal chest compressions. The racer’s flat stomach bounces in tandem with each harsh thrust into his stalled heart.

His lips are turning bluer by the second and his skin is beginning to cool when the doctor reaches into his bag and pulls out a pair of sheers. He snips through the blond’s shirt quickly and pushes the scrapped fabrics aside. His sternum has already started bruising from the CPR.

A golf cart screeches to a stop nearby as Hud starts another round of thirty compressions.

“Mr. McQueen,” the girl’s startled voice screams. When she gets closer and can see what's happening, her eyes go wide. “I-I told him he wasn't ready! I swear I did!”

“That doesn't matter now. I could use an extra set of hands,” the doctor grunts as he continues working.

The young girl takes a step back, “I'm not a medic, I'm just a trainer.”

Dr. Hudson stops compressions and pulls the stethoscope from his neck, pressing it hard onto McQueen’s chest. “Cruz. That's your name, right?”

“Y-yes, sir,” responds the shaking voice.

“Well, Cruz, you're about to get a crash course. Come over here and kneel behind his head.”

She does as she's told and Hud shoves the ambu bag into her trembling hands.

“Make sure that's tight over his mouth and nose. Squeeze the bag twice every time I say. Got it?”

The blonde nods, placing the mask over the other’s mouth and nose and squeezing twice, her frightened eyes searching the stranger’s for approval.

“Good. That's good. Keep doing that.” He can hear the hissing of the bag as he digs through his duffle. He pulls out an AED and lets it clatter onto the sidewalk. He quickly rips the packaging open with his teeth, pressing the sticky pads onto his chest. He watches the young trainer, Cruz, as she keeps pushing breaths into McQueen’s lungs. Her eyes are watery and her bottom lip is quivering as she follows his directions.

“Okay, stop,” he says, studying the readout as the machine boots up. The flatline makes his heart sink and he braces his hands for another round of compressions. When his palms sink in deep, he hears the girl’s quiet sob. He starts counting aloud, “13, 14, 15, breathe!”

She presses the mask into place and squeezes twice.

“Good,” Dr. Hudson says, continuing compressions. He can feel his own arms and shoulders start to ache and his knees sting where he's been kneeling into the pavement.

After two more rounds, the machine beeps. He turns to see a small, wiggling green line. “Vfib. Don't touch him.”

Cruz scoots back, raising her hands.

The machine charges the first shock at 150J. When he presses the button, McQueen’s chest jerks, his shoulders bowing inwards and his hands twitching. With no change, Dr. Hudson charges to 200J. “Clear!” He hears Cruz yelp as the young man’s chest arches off the pavement, his head falling back as a harsh grunt is forced through his lips.

“He's breathing!” She says, reaching out for him. Dr. Hudson reaches out, grabbing her wrist, “he's not. It's just air being forced out by the muscles contracting. Bag him again.”

She starts bagging him as the doctor presses his stethoscope against his chest again. The machine beeps again, charging to 300J. “Stand back,” he says before pressing his thumb into the trigger, “CLEAR!”

McQueen’s chest and hips lift off the sandy pavement as his arms and legs jerk violently. When his body falls back, the machine whines a harsh flatline.

“Damn it!” Dr. Hudson spits as he begins crushing compressions again. The young man’s ribs pop and crackle under his palms as he works, soft huffs and grunts pushed up through the boy’s lips. “13, 14, 15, breathe!”

Cruz barely gets the second breath in before the doctor is pounding on his chest again. “Come on! Come on! Breathe!”

As she squeezes the bag again, the machine beeps. She raises her hands and scoots back without needing to be told what was coming next. The doctor presses the button and McQueen’s body arches before slamming back to the ground.

“Again! Clear!”

His arms and legs jerk harshly with the surge of electricity. When he falls back again, his mouth opens and closes on quiet, wheezing gasps.

“Is he breathing? Is he alive?” Cruz asks, leaning over to try to see the small ekg screen.

“Agonal breathing. He's still fibrillating, and we're going to have to shock him again. Don't touch him.”

Cruz sits back, watching as the young man’s eyes flutter and roll and his blue lips twitch.

The next shock makes the blond groan as his eyes roll back. When his back hits the pavement again his arms come up to grab at his chest.

“Mr. McQueen!” Cruz lunges forward cupping his cheeks in her hands. The agonal gasps become shallow, hyperventilating breaths.

Dr. Hudson presses his palms back over the racer’s chest, kneading into his chest. “That's it, nice and easy,” he coos gently as he tries to help work his heart back into rhythm.

Golden lashes flutter open and the brightest blue eyes Hud had ever seen land on his face.

-

The first thing McQueen sees is the sky. Bright blue with a few seagulls circling diving and swooping overhead. He's just getting his bearings when the shrill voice of his trainer makes him wince. He feels her hands cup his face and her brown eyes and blonde curls fill his vision. The fear in her eyes makes his chest ache, and he opens his mouth to speak. “I'm fine, Cruz,” he wheezes, his voice cracking as it leaves his dry throat.

“Like hell you are,” a new voice to his left scoffs. The voice is gruff, with a sort of eastern Appalachian accent. He turns his head to see who spoke and his eyes land on a familiar face. That's the old pervert that watches me run every morning, he thinks as he blinks up at the older man.

“You stay still, paramedics should be here any minute,” the man says. McQueen feels the chill as something sticky is removed from his chest. He turns his head to see a duffle bag filled to the brim with medical equipment.

“What…happened?”

“You were clinically dead for 10 minutes.” The older man says bluntly, “I performed CPR and now you're going to the hospital.”

In the other cars, the lights had been going haywire. Brightening to terribly hot globes on the walls and ceiling, flickering, going dark and then reigniting with the Forge’s heart struggling to maintain him. The entire Pennydurren knew something was wrong. No one knew more acutely than the seamstress in the upper cars garment manufacturing. There was a great shudder running through the train and the sewing machines went silent for the first time that day.

She stared at the needle buried in cloth and folded her hands over her mouth. She knew better than anyone what that meant. “No,” she whispered, tears springing up before she could even register she was crying. “No, my baby…” The backup generators kicked in and once more the machines came to life and the lights popped back on, but it brought her no relief.

Adam’s heart had stopped. Her son was dying.

—

There was a moment, holding up Adam’s limp head with his shoulder, that Tav couldn’t comprehend what had happened. His brain short circuited. He held him there for- too long. Entirely too long. He couldn’t take a breath. What air remained in his lungs left his mouth in short huffs, his eyes wide and fixed on some inconsequential spot on the floor. He couldn’t look at his charge. He couldn’t begin to understand, or maybe accept the truth, that his Forge’s heart had just stopped.

He was dead weight in his arms. The seizure had faced, replaced with an earth shattering stillness. His hands shook where they had been braced against the larger man’s back. Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears, Marsh’s deep timbre was shouting. He realized, feeling something warm slip from his eyelash, that the ringing was the EKG. He’d flatlined. And Marsh was grabbing his shoulder hard enough to hurt.

“Gustav!” He bellowed. “Sit him back!” Why? He wondered at those words, He’s dead. I can at least hold him like this, I can feel his warmth until it’s not there anymore. I- Marsh slapped him hard across the face. Now his ear really was ringing, but only on the left side, a high pitched whine where he’d been struck. His cheek stung, reddened and almost immediately beginning to swell with an angry, hand shaped welt. Any harder and he might have knocked him unconscious. It was enough.

Tav was shoved back into his body and he moved, laying Adam back against the metal throne. Immediately the engineer tipped Adam’s head back into one of his large hands, supporting his neck as he forced air into his body. Adam was big, but Marsh had been working his whole life with machinery weighing twice as much as himself, and he looked like it. Even just pinching his nose for artificial respirations, he covered half of the Forge’s face so his slack mouth was the only thing really visible.

Tav scooted back as far as he dared on his charge’s lap, stacking his hands in the middle of his slick chest. He felt the air welling in his lungs once more, then he started compressing his chest. “One and two and three and four, five, six-“

The light was dimming in Adam’s chest. He tried not to turn back into a stunned bystander, forcing himself to focus instead on the rhythm of CPR and the depth. But even that was hard. Focus was impossible. Not when his fingers bent over Adam’s ribs as he pumped his heart manually. Not when his Forge’s arms swung limply off the arm rests of the chair.

He heard the hollow whoosh when he reached thirty and Marsh filled Adam’s lungs. Tav glanced over at the monitor, seeing the flatline making a comet trail over the display. He once more beat his hands against his sternum and the straight line was broken up by sharp, irregular peaks. It was comforting, as much as anything was comforting right now, to watch the line on the monitor. It was picture proof that he was doing something good. He was actually making his heart beat, and not just fracturing his bones needlessly.

A voice crackled over his comm watch, “Gustav? Gustav, what’s going on?” Father Shep. He ran the entire operation, the Pennydurren’s conductor and king and named protector. The one who had tethered Adam to the engine with ropes and cables. Tav swallowed and managed to huff, “Adam is in cardiac arrest. I’m trying to resuscitate him as we speak.”

“Damn it all.” There was movement on the other end before he continued, “We caught your little viper. He confessed to everything. They used some kind of poisonous mushroom powder from the back cars, distilled a cardiotoxin.” Tav nearly collapsed. He reached a count of thirty again and rested his hand over Adam’s heart as Marsh filled his lungs.

“I’m still waiting on the medic,” he ground out as he took up his task again, forcing his sternum inward.

“I had him diverted,” said Shep.

Tav’s stomach bottomed out. “You… what? Why? I need help here, I’m not a-“ “He’s preparing the next Forge candidate for surgery. The auxiliary power will just barely last two hours, the surgery and instillation of a Forge take a little longer. We’ve never had such short notice of replacement.”

Replacement. The strength nearly went out of Tav’s arms. They were going to let him die. Worse, they were asking his Keeper to let him die. “Sir, I can… I can bring him back, he’s only been in arrest a few minutes-“ “This isn’t a stroke or heart attack, or something we can treat. Even if he recovers, his heart will be considerably weakened. He’s of no use.” Tav felt like someone had punched him in the stomach.

Marsh stared down at him, holding Adam’s head up. Both had paused their efforts to revive him. Something clicked nearby and a panel slid open on the wall. An emergency measure he had only been briefed on his first day. Scalpels, bone saws, and other surgical equipment gleamed behind the glass case, upon which read IN CASE OF EMERGENCY in red block letters. “Go ahead and call him, Gustav,” said Father Shep. “Then retrieve his spark so it can be implanted in the replacement Forge. If we do this right, we should have just enough time before the backup generators go out.”

Tav was shaking. His hands trembled on Adam’s pectoral, his skin cooling under his palm. They weren’t just asking him to let him die. They were asking him to cut him open and peel away the thing that made him special. The device affixed to his left ventricle and glowing dimly now behind his sternum, the thing that had made him a Forge in the first place, and made Tav his Keeper. Marsh had stopped giving him breaths and looked on with an expression of pity.

“I can bring him back,” he rasped lamely, “I can save him. Just let me save him…” “You have your orders. It’s already underway, if you hesitate then you are risking the lives of everyone else on this train. We’re already losing power to the diving bells outside. Do as I’ve asked you, Gustav.”

He looked to the silver instruments, pristine in their glass case, and his own heart hammered painfully in his chest. Butchery. They wanted him to cut open the only person who had ever given a damn about him, who smiled when he smiled and laughed at his stupid jokes. He looked up at the engineer, pleading with his eyes without knowing it. Marsh shook his head, gingerly adjusting Adam’s head so it rested against the back of the chair. His throat made a limp arch and his eyes were closed. He looked small and ordinary.

Tav made a decision. “Get him to the floor,” he muttered, as much on his back as you can manage.” “Should we disconnect him?” “Not yet. Just lay him down.” It took them both to lay him in a heap on the floor. He was partially angled as the cables lifted one of his shoulders a bit off the floor, so he couldn’t lay flat. Tav settled back onto his knees beside him. He interlocked his fingers and began forcefully pounding on his chest again.

Marsh looked at him with wide eyes. “Lad? What’re you doing?” But it was obvious. Tav wasn’t giving up. “I can save him,” he said, his eyes never straying from Adam’s face. “Keep breathing for him.” “Lad,” Marsh said low and sympathetically, like he was trying to explain death to a small child, “We have to get the engine running again. We can’t waste time.”

“He is not some piece of machinery you can just replace when it malfunctions,” Tav snapped, “He’s not useless. Or a waste of time. Fucks sake, he’s a human being!” He threw his weight behind each thrust, forcing Adam’s chest to cave and rocking his body. His impassioned plea made it obvious that Adam was more than a human being to him. He had been his one constant since they were children. He’d protected the Pennydurren since he was a teenager, and Tav had protected him. “I’m not just gonna let him go,” he whispered in hoarse, aching defiance.

Marsh watched him for at least two cycles of CPR. Tav rocked against his chest, Adam’s shoulders shrugging inward with each compression. He pulled open his jaw, making a seal against his pale lips, and blew down his throat. The Keeper had started hyperventilating from adrenaline and exertion by the second round of breaths, and spit bubbled up at the corner of his mouth as he blew. Shiny strings of saliva connected their lips as he drew away to plunge once more against his unmoving heart.

The engineer moved to the other side and gingerly shouldered him out of the way. “Focus on giving him air,” he said in a gruff murmur, locking his hands between the Forge’s nipples. He had a lot more muscle to throw behind each pummeling thrust, and Adam’s entire body shook with them. His head danced back against the floor, his hand, angled against the cables, thumped quietly at his side. Tav did as he asked and focusing on giving him air. “…Twenty-eight- twenty-nine, thirty, breathe.” He breathed for him. The cycle began again, “One, two, three, four…”

In between rescue breaths, he sat on his knees, bent over his charge. He kept a hand on his cheek, panting, his forehead pressed against the other man’s. “Come on,” he whispered to him, “Come on, kid… Take a breath, just breathe… Breathe-“

It had been ten minutes since his heart seized and went still. The light between his ribs was nothing but a faint ember now, and his deep skin was waxy and colorless. Tav kissed his temple, clutched his face. “Anything,” he whispered, “Anything, Adam… just give me something. Tell me you’re not gone…” They beat his chest. They shocked him, the current making him jolt like a puppet shaken by its strings. His heart wouldn’t move. It didn’t budge under the efforts of both men to get him back.

“I have a courier headed your way now,” Father Shep suddenly announced over the comm watch, making them both jump. Tav, for one, had forgotten utterly that he was waiting for them to deliver Adam’s life on a platter. “I trust you’ve got it in hand?”

He didn’t say anything. He looked over at the surgical tools on the far wall, his thumb stroking Adam’s cheek. “Gustav? Do you copy? Have you got-“ He clicked it off. Maybe they’d throw him off the nearest platform for this, but none of that mattered half so much as getting the Forge back.

He went and retrieved the surgical equipment. Gloves, laryngoscopes, intubation tubes, rib spreaders, saws. He laid a few implements he might need on the tray and ferried them over. Adam had been without a pulse for nearly twenty minutes. He’d been without artificial pulse for a little over one. Tav knelt beside him. “Hold compressions.” Marsh warily eyed the surgical tools but obliged and leaned back in his heels.

“You know how to intubate someone?” “My brother’s one of the medics, I seen him do it a few times.” “Good,” said Tav, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. He set the ventilation device between them. “Intubate him.”

Marsh huffed, but grabbed the silver laryngoscope blade and slid it over Adam’s tongue. He fed the intubation tube down his throat and kept it in place with a endotracheal tube holder looped around his cheeks and the back of his head. Then he switched on the little portable ventilator Tav had brought over and it hummed as it worked, the accordion like squeezer in the glass tube rising and falling with a seesaw rhythm to his chest now. When it expanded, his chest fell, and when it squeezed down towards the bottom, his chest rose.

Tav liberally slathered iodine over the curve of Adam’s ribs, where they were slightly elevated against the wiring. It dripped in lazy amber rivulets, staining his skin as it went. Then he snatched up a scalpel and slid it over the hollow between two ribs. He kept the incision open with the spreader clamp, wide enough that meat and muscle were visible through the wound.

More importantly, wide enough to slide a gloved hand into Adam’s chest cavity.

His fingers probed blindly through the walls of his organs and ribs until he touched something hard and metal. The spark. Its light was mostly dead by now, but with the open wound, some of its soft orange glow spilled out in weak beams of light. Tav peeked at the outside of his sternum. He could see the shadow of his hand as it closed around the organ in the center of his chest. He felt the rubbery texture of compact muscle even through the gloves he wore, and the disconcerting sensation of his lungs expanding and shuddering with the ventilator, like jellyfish brushing up against his fingers.

He cradled Adam’s heart in his hand. It was bigger than he anticipated, athletic from the years training the cardiac muscle to their peak. Tav swallowed back a sob and a laugh at the same time. He really did have the biggest heart of anyone he knew. He would make it beat again, no matter what it took. He should have felt some kind of nausea or panic at performing a surgery he had little knowledge of, but a cold calm had settled instead.

He worked his thumb in against a ventricle. His fingers made a soft cradle around the organ and he slowly began to massage it, unsure, somewhat timid strokes at first, until finally he worked himself into a steady rhythm. His other hand he braced against Adam’s sternum, watching the shadow play reflected there. He could see the contour of his hand coaxing the silent organ, pumping and squeezing life back into it. And life was going back into it.

The light was beginning to grow hotter, the shapes more distinct in his chest as Tav worked his fingers around the dense muscle. “Come on,” he urged again, “Beat… beat already…” As if hearing his command, there was a brief quiver. The light grew hot for a moment and then dimmed into the dim half light again. Tav resituated himself up on his knees and pat Adam’s chest with his free hand. “I felt that, there we go! Cmon, Adam, gimme another.”

He did. The chambers swelled into his palm and a ripple of movement ran up into his fingertips. The monitor showed a blip, then another, then went still again. He massaged his thumb against it, squeezing it into the space between his thumb and palm. It ballooned and swelled up against him and he loosened his hold, allowing it to fill and empty a few times as he held it. It stuttered and he gingerly soothed it. It beat erratically and he held it still. He could have wept if he had any energy to give to anything but this moment. Adam was trying so hard, even lying there, motionless, looking dead.

Marsh’s attention darted between the grief stricken young man and the moving shadows under Adam’s skin. Tav lowered himself over the unconscious man, wrapping his free arm around his shoulder and half embracing him. He couldn’t hug him fully, but he wanted to so badly. “Come back,” he whispered, lips grazing his arm as he folded himself over the Forge. “Please…”

His heart thumped hard against Tav’s palm. His fingers stilled as he cupped the center of his entire being. It took a moment but it beat again, flexing between his fingers. The ventilator hissing was the only sound in the room, and he felt it expand inside him, again brushing the tips of his fingers. And again his heart moved against him, the chambers sluggishly moving as if remembering how. He brushed his thumb one last time over the left ventricle, as if trying to offer it comfort. You can do it, he told it with touch alone, You can beat again. Then it did.

Tav sat, staring at the strong light cast from the spark in Adam’s sternum. He could see more clearly now the silhouette of his hand, the light shining between his fingers as, for a few moments, he could only marvel at the feeling of his heart coming back to life. Once he was sure it was well and truly beating on its own, he slid his hand from the incision and for a brief second could only sit, stunned, blood up to his forearm. He’d never imagined a world where he failed, yet by the same token he never imagined a world where he’d succeeded either. Torn between a million different reactions, he leaned his forehead down against Adam’s shoulder and wept.

—

The engine room was filled with the quiet hum of machinery when Adam finally started to stir. He suck in a deep breath and his eyes fluttered open. He was in his cot. His limbs felt heavy, they barely obeyed his command as he stretched out his arms and legs, then winced as the motion pulled at something in his ribs. He reached up and pressed blindly at the bandages looped around his chest.

He had no idea how close he’d come to dying, though he had the sense something serious had happened. He remembered air being short in his lungs. The uneven thrum of his heart as it struggled to beat, the air forced in his lungs and the defibrillator on his chest. Then it was all black. In my vague shapes and feelings. He dreamed, and wasn’t entirely sure it was a dream, that Tav had held him and kissed him over and over again. Something had punched him in the chest, then as if in apology, had stroked him there instead. He dreamed of a snake going head first down his throat and constricting his heart.

He became aware in the dark of a warm shape at his side. He looked over and made out a familiar silhouette. His inner spark was the only nightlight he really had, and its light bounced off Tav’s face. He looked exhausted. The cot was barely big enough for Adam’s large frame, and somehow the Keeper had managed to squeeze himself into the space between the Forge and the wall, sleeping there deeply. Deep enough he didn’t stir as Adam touched his cheek.

He would never know the terror he felt. He was unconscious when Father Shep arrived himself and looked for any excuse to declare Adam a lost cause, even when they’d turned the engine back on and his heart had been as strong as ever. Tav would never tell him the full story of those long minutes of death.

But nuzzled against him now, Adam didn’t think of any of that. He slid his arms around the smaller man, ignoring the twinges of pain here and there, and drew him in close. All he knew was that somehow, his Keeper had saved him. Tav hummed in his sleep and nuzzled up against the wall of warm muscle he was dimly aware of. His ear pressed to his Forge’s heart and he sighed, content.

“Am I not enough plaything for you, chérie?”

Catarina playfully smacked her arm. “Don’t be so pathetic, love. You know my heart only belongs to you.” Angelique slid her long arms around her love and drew her in close against her body, staring out at the dark street of Paris. Lights burned everywhere, so Paris was never really dark, merely dimmed by night. The two of them were under the vampire’s shroud, for all intents and purposes invisible to the people of the city. They’d only be seen by those they wanted to see.

“I just think it would be fun to be the hero for once. And you don’t need a hero,” said Catarina, tapping at the beast’s chest and the long dead heart beneath. Angelique wanted to argue, but she also couldn’t be sure the organ hadn’t been eaten by worms before she returned as the undead. She went on, “You’ll take one for me, won’t you? I have one in mind.”

“How could I deny you anything?” replied Angelique.

So they walked through the nightlife in search of their damsel. Catarina adored her angel’s every form, when she took on the aspects of a man with a more rigid and bat like face, or a great black dog, or sometimes even when she was only a cloud of fog clinging to her naked skin and filing her lungs. Angelique had a better cock in some forms than any man she’d known, yet lately she had felt the ache for a living one. She missed taking a man in her hand and feeling it twitch with his heartbeat. Plus, if she got to be the hero for once, she thought it would be fun to ride someone in and out of the little deaths, the petit morte, that her beast had perfected. Their search brought them to the back alley of the perfumer’s shop.

“Lucien,” whispered Angelique, plucking the owners name from the ether, “Come down, Lucien, and let us in.” Catarina bounced a little on the balls of her toes. Ever since having seen this man on her last trip into the city, she’d thought about the older perfumer and what he would look like between her thighs, or with Angelique taking him in a masculine form from behind. Tonight though, she had something else in mind. She practically squealed with delight and clapped quickly as the bolt on the door audibly came undone and Lucien opened it for them.

Angelique could not fault her for her attraction. He was handsome and broad, old enough to be Catarina’s father, but he wore each line well. A little gray peppered his beard and temples, stark against his otherwise dark hair. His rich coffee colored eyes were dull under her spell, mouth slightly agape. The two of them entered with his permission and stood amidst his workshop.

“This is well enough,” Catarina announced. She shoved a few of his implements off his work table, which smelled of every oil and perfume which had ever soaked into its wood, and took him by the shoulder to sit on the edge. She hiked up her layers of skirts and petticoats and climbed so she sat astride him. She nodded to her beast and the beast rolled her long fingers in the air. Lucien sucked in a breath, eyes regaining their light. “Wh-What? Where…” He looked to find himself in his workshop. Upon seeing her he gasped and tried to scramble back, only to find himself pinned under her, and his strength oddly lacking. “I was sleeping, I- what’re you doing here?” Catarina pressed a finger to his lips. “Hush, dear one. You’re still asleep.”

He stared at her with wide, entranced eyes. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. With her mane of gold curls and the freckles going down her nose to the top of her breasts, rounded by her corset. Something whispered in his mind that she was right, he was still asleep. He had to be. She urged him down with his back against the workshop table and he went without complaint. He saw her eyes slide to the far corner, but he didn’t see the thing in the shadows.

“My mind has conjured a beauty,” he whispered in a sort of reverent tone. Catarina smiled, leaning over him to place her delicate fingers against his jawline and tilt his head up. Her mouth devoured his with a hunger, and she reveled in the feeling of his warm aliveness. She felt a pang of foreign sadness inside her the same moment she allowed herself to appreciate his body, and she sent a soothing pulse of thought back to her creature. ‘My heart only belongs to you’, it said without words. The shadows seemed to hum appreciatively, and the pitiful feeling melted away from her mind.

The dream woman, who felt all too solid and real to Lucien, slid her hand up over the soft down on his belly and trailed up to his chest. She shifted, and he moaned a little in his throat when he felt she wore no underthings, and her warmth and wetness soaked against him. She was already deeply excited, but he didn’t know the real reason why. He couldn’t have imagined what lay in store for him.

She coiled her hands in the hem of his nightshirt and with surprising strength, ripped the thing to the middle, then grabbed hold of it again to rip the rest of the way to the collar. Lucien tried to assure himself this was merely a dream, and the garment would be well when he woke up. Then she leaned over him and sealed her mouth over one of his nipples and he thought no more of the torn shirt.

“Slower.”

Something whispered in his mind and he jolted slightly. His heart, which had been speeding up and beginning to pound under the dream woman’s hands and warm mouth, suddenly stumbled as if at war with itself. It was as though some invisible hand had clutched the organ and held it still before it beat too fast.

Catarina smirked, still suckling at the hard bud of his nipple. She dug her teeth into it a little and rolled it between her jaws, winning a small hiss. She released it, laying her body across his to claim his mouth instead. He made a muffled noise of surprise when her tongue plumbed between his teeth, but relaxed after a moment and returned the kiss.

“Slower.”

Another stumble. This one hurt though. He felt the uneven beat in his temples and in his stomach, hissing in a breath. “Mmh,” he mumbled, pulling away slightly. “My heart… feels funny,” he told the dream woman.

Catarina circled one of his nipples with her index finger. “Oh? Poor thing. Maybe you’re dying in your sleep.” His eyes went wide and she giggled, tongue poking out between her teeth. She glanced at Angelique again, and again her angel whispered, “Slower” into the air and into Lucien’s heart. He groaned, clutching his chest with one hand. She slid down and freed him from his trousers, and despite his growing panic, he was still growing hard at her movements. His cock jumped when his heart tried to correct for another stumble and beat particularly hard.

“What is this?” he groaned, feeling the sluggish beat as his heart struggled seemingly without cause. It moved slow, he could practically feel each lapping wave of blood in his circulation. The growing spaces between tides was beginning to hurt, and more than that, they worried him.

Catarina sat back up astride him, her hands braced against his chest. She rolled her hips so her sex merely brushed against his hardness, teasing between her lips. Her aching clit throbbed with her pulse, and when she slid his shaft over the hood there, both of them moaned. Her head fell back as she continued to rut against him, feeling the flushed heat of him. Angelique, when she took on a man’s shape, would be kind enough to warm her dead flesh at the fireplace so she could mimic these sensations while inside her, but this was different. Real alive warmth. It was the only thing she really missed from human partners. That, and lying in the afterglow with an ear to their chest as they drifted back down from heaven.

Lucien was sprawled against the workshop table in a tug of war between panic and ecstasy. Her wet cunt slid up and down the length of him, and he wanted to grab her hips and spear her to stop this agonizingly slow game. But his limbs felt weak. His head was growing fuzzy. It didn’t feel like a dream, but some twisted and sinful nightmare. He expected to wake up and see a succubus draining the breath from his lungs. Maybe she was right. Maybe he really was dying in his sleep. Air was becoming harder to draw in, and his heart wasn’t contracting all the way.

Catarina tugged at the neckline of her dress, her ample breasts spilling over the hard ribbing of her corset. She lay down across the perfumer’s naked chest, her weight constricting his breathing all the more. “Shhh,” she soothed, cupping his face in her palm, her thumb tracing over his quivering lips. “You have nothing to fear, dear one.” Then she slid her hand up to pinch his nostrils, sealing her mouth over his to give him a breath. His chest rose under her and she felt his lungs expand with her air. He expelled the excess in a puff when she broke the life giving kiss. Reaching between them, she finally took hold of his stiff cock. The fear and adrenaline warring with her beast’s instructions to his heart had done little to soften him. She gave him another breath, and when she reached the end she gave him a little more than needed, his ribs rounding beneath her. Then she slid him inside her as she let go and he gave a breathy moan.

She felt amazing. Her tight, warm walls enveloped him and the aching need he’d felt waned. He bucked his hips once, twice, but his body was too weak to thrust up into her. Her arousal dripped down the crease of his thighs and cooled against his skin when it hit the air. The succubus, which he now was convinced she was, began to rock against him. His length tapped now and then against her cervix and she groaned, still holding his nose closed for respirations. He was not aware, but he was the largest cock she’d ever taken from a human. He wanted to moan and voice his pleasure the same as her. He wanted to grab her hips and drive himself into her again and again. But his breaths wouldn’t come, and his heart refused to speed up into that delirious, hammering bliss he’d always known during sex. The succubus was kind enough to give him breaths between thrusts, and all he could do was rumble in the back of his throat when he had the breath to make noise.

Catarina sat back, pressing her palm firmly against the apex of his heart. She slowed her gyrations to be in time with the slow beat she felt there. His fingers tightened against her hip, his mouth gaping without her breaths. He tapped a few times in a mute plea for her oxygen. She smirked down at him. “Angelique,” she called to the shadows. The corner of blackness chuckled as two eyes reflected in the sparse moonlight tilting from the nearby window.

The creature rolled her fingers in the air again and spoke her command to the poor trapped man. “Your lungs…” The perfumer looked towards her corner and finally saw, with wide and naked fear on his face, what lie there. “Do you feel the last wisp of air being squeezed from them?” As she said this, she rolled her fingers into her palm and tensed her hand. His chest spasmed. Then it went still as his lungs arrested.

Catarina began to buck her hips faster as his hand fell away from her leg. His head lay tilted to the side, his eyes wide and mouth hung open. His heart stumbled beneath her hand, and she kept one against his ribs and slid the other against his thigh to feel the weak swell of his femoral. Her stomach tightened, her breath quickening as her climax drew near. Hands appeared from behind and slid over the planes of her corset. Angelique took hold of the middle of her restrictive finery and tore it in one motion. Catarina sucked in a completely unobstructed breath and cried out. Arms encircled her as she slammed him into herself, smoothing over her exposed belly and dipping between her legs to her and Lucien’s joining. Her swollen clit was a raw bundle of nerves when the vampire’s claw glided across its surface. It took only a few moments of Angelique’s cool hand fingering her there before she came, screaming and bucking. She felt the perfumer’s heart, which had been locked in a sort of half death- beating, stopping for long moments, beating twice, shaking, lub… lubdublub… lub…- until finally it ceased at the moment of their shared orgasm. His warm seed spilled inside her and she collapsed back into Angelique’s waiting arms, bosom heaving. Lucien’s cock twitched inside her, the last movement of his body before he began to soften with the lack of blood flow.

Catarina swiped her hair back from her face and took a moment to catch her breath. “Ah,” she sighed, “Thank you, darling. You’ve given me quite a gift. I’ll grant you one in return.” She took his face by the chin and rolled his head back up to look at her, his eyes empty, his pupils blown wide. She chalked that up to his pleasure fueled heights before the drop into cardiac arrest. It would be a shame if he remained dead.

She laid across him again and gave him her breaths, his body pliable and yielding to her. She briefly rutted against the curve of his cock once more, shivering with sensitivity after being so thoroughly sated, then planting her hands in the middle of his chest. She shoved up into his heart, forcing his ribcage in. His shoulders shrugged inward and the force rippled out through his entire body. Her breath quickened and she grew excited all over again. She grunted as she drove another quick compression down into his sternum, watching how it rounded his toned, furry stomach, rocking his head back. Catarina had never been the one doing the saving. The rush was immediate and consuming as a wildfire. I am holding his life in my hands. I am the only thing between this man and oblivion. She found herself panting out little breaths as she started the compressions in earnest, rising up a little on her knees so she could use all the strength in her body for his sake.

Angelique slid to the head of the workbench, her eyes flickering between the dead man and her dove. There was a light in her love’s eyes that set the vampire alight. She truly was enjoying this. It gave her every sort of satisfaction to have given her this gift, something she knew her love had longed for so long. The jealousy she had harbored began to ebb as she watched her dutifully pound into the perfumer’s chest. She leaned down, her lips just brushing Lucien’s ear, her cold cheek pressed to his, which was growing paler. “My lady will be awfully disappointed if you do not live,” she whispered so only his barely tethered consciousness heard, “Your heart must beat again for her, Lucien. Come back.”

Cold lips brushed his ear. The succubus’ sex brushed warmly against his soft cock, jerking against her with every brutal pump against his heart. His heart had stopped. He really had died in his sleep, he thought. But he knew he wasn’t sleeping now. No corner of his imagination could conjure this up. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even roll his eyes in their sockets. They were planted straight ahead where they had drifted at the moment of his death, staring up at some point between the ceiling and the succubus’s face. His vision bobbed with his head, every compression forcing it to swing her face in and out of his line of sight. She really was beautiful. A belle mort. He knew somehow she had been responsible for his death. Now, she was working desperately for his resurrection. It didn’t make sense. But he wanted to do as the voice commanded. He wanted to come back.

Truthfully, there was little left in Lucien’s life worth continuing it. His wife had died last spring of the fever sweeping the lower city. His daughters had died in their cradles the years before that. He had nothing but the stinking perfume shop to fill his days. If he had died, buried inside this beautiful demon sat astride him now, currently shoving her delicate hands against his chest, he wouldn’t have complained. He would have met the devil, for surely a succubus would have damned his soul to hell, and he would have accepted an afterlife of punishment for those few moments of bliss.

She paused her rhythmic pounding and leaned over, kissing him again. Her breath was so warm. It smelled sweet, and tasted of ambrosia when her tongue briefly flicked his own. He knew then that he wanted to come back. He wanted to please her. He would dedicate the rest of his life to this vision who had stolen it from him. Beat. Beat for her, useless thing. Bats pour elle, espèce de sac inutile.

Catarina was panting by now, sweat standing out on her skin and beading between her breasts. Dread had started to well up in the bottom of her stomach. Had she really killed him for good? “Angelique?” she asked, looking over at her beast, “Is it too late? Have I lost him?” The yellow discs of her eyes in the darkness turned towards the dead man’s chest and focused on the vanishing warmth within him. His heart struggled behind his ribs. It beat once, then stopped. Half the chambers moved, but the others wouldn’t pump. “Listen,” she told her. Catarina lay down on top of him and rested her ear against his chest.

“Poor dear,” she breathed out, “You really are trying to be strong, aren’t you?” She had no way of knowing how badly he was trying. Screaming in his mind for his heart to beat, trapped in a dying body. She pinched his nose shut again, tipping his head back as she rose once more. “Then I won’t give up either, dear one. Your heart is safe in my hands.” It was a contradiction to her actions, considering she had been the one to make it stop in the first place. But Lucien believed her. She didn’t want him to die. For the first time in so long, he didn’t want to die either.

She returned to her compressions with renewed vigor, throwing her whole weight behind each measured blow. It had been about twelve minutes of struggling cardiac activity, and her arms, her shoulders, the core of her stomach, were all getting sore. Angelique never tired when she played the hero, and Catarina was on the verge of asking her to help. “You’ve got this,” her beast purred. It wouldn’t be so sweet a victory if she wasn’t the one to claw him back. Angelique tipped her face against his once more and whispered again, “Come back, little one. Focus on those weak beats and make them strong again.” As she spoke, she skated her hand down his ribs and felt them bow to Catarina’s thrusts. Her preternatural eyes watched his heart struggle, and went from unevenly beating now and then to fluttering.

Catarina let out a frustrated growl when she felt his heart stop altogether, no longer even trying to beat. The quivering was too weak for her to detect. “Please, take a breath. I won’t be able to take if you really died,” she panted. Angelique moved to the side of the workbench, easing Catarina back a little. “Just a moment, dove.”

She raised her fist up and thumped him hard between the line of his nipples. The quivering heart, jolted by the kinetic force, beat once and then descended again into fibrillation. She struck him again. This time, it beat for a few seconds, then shook uselessly again. The third time, Catarina tried. She brought up both hands, clutched together in a fist, and beat the organ hard enough his entire body jolted from the force of the blow. But his eyes closed and he drew in a rasping breath as finally, it worked. Lucien was alive. She was giddy with endorphins as she sat back, breathing hard.

“Good show,” Angelique chuckled, wrapping an arm around her love and squeezing one of her breasts, soaking in the way her heart pounded from the exertion of resuscitation.

Catarina giggled, cupping Lucien’s face. “Apologies, dear one. That was more than you bargained for, wasn’t it?” She leaned down to give him a breath and ease his rasping. She startled a bit when he lunged up and, with what little strength was left in him, kissed her passionately and with great desperation and hunger. She pulled back, a little shocked. He propped himself halfway up on his elbows, looking up at her. His eyes were manic and round, black as a deep well given how blown out his pupils were.

They sailed through the air like starving panthers, plasma at the front of their masks and at their gloved palms. Metrie took the leader, swiping his brilliant, sun-hot sword twice as he darted forwards. The man's torso fell one way, his head fell another.

Behind him, he heard Litany hauling Mars out of the water. "Your highness--your highness, we're here."

Metrie ran over, his knees smarting as he dropped to the floor next to them as Litany began to straighten Mars out. He drew his dagger, slicing Mars' waterlogged layers off for their doctor. "Litany, what do you need from me?"

"Breathe for him when I tell you to."

-

Mars felt...heavy. Everything felt heavy. He was too tired, too cold, too everything.

He couldn't remember why. He remembered being afraid, terrified even. Now it was just dark.

Something kept pressing into him, down against him, he couldn't breathe from how rough and harsh it was. Mars' throat felt too full, all at once, and he couldn't cough.

He did anyway, though, when his stomach was pumped again. Before he could stop himself water spilled from his mouth and nose. He wanted to stop it, wanted to swallow it back down. He had to be making such a mess.

He was too tired to clean it up--this was impolite. The cleaning staff would be so afraid if they found him like this. His arm twitched as he tried to roll onto his side, a choked noise escaping.

"Mars--that's it, c'mon, give me something to work with."

Doctor Litany was there? Mars felt shame roll even higher in his chest, following the rush of more water spurting from his mouth. His stomach kept getting shoved against, harsh and insistent, as though Doctor Litany thought he was choking.

"Now, Metrie."

The awful, painful pressure ceased, and then lips were pressed to his. Hot air rushed down his throat instead, down into his chest. It was almost like the time Dallas had helped him breathe.

It lessened some of the heaviness, brushed away some of the cloying fog in his head. When he exhaled, an awful, rattling gurgle escaped. Again, Mars' mouth was covered by Metrie's and he was forced to accept another deep breath.

Calloused, burned fingertips pressed to either side of Mars' face, almost cradling him as instead of his stomach, this time the awful pressure started pumping his chest. Water still bubbled up from his lips, and Mars tried to remember why that would even be happening.

He didn't remember seeing Leo.

"Mars--c'mon, I just--I need something." Litany's voice was tense.

Off to the side, heavy footsteps ran over, and Kostas' voice drifted in.

"Let me take over after this cycle." The warm baritone washed over Mars, easing something in him.

Sure enough, Litany's slender hands were replaced with larger, softer ones. There was so much more strength behind them, too. Mars' chest bowed deeper with every compression.

It hurt. It hurt like the time that Leo taught him how to cope with the pain of broken ribs. Each pump forced a soft whimper or whine from him, his brows creasing.

More hands wrapped around one of Mars', and Dallas' voice joined the sounds around him. "That's it, your highness. It's safe to come back, they won't hurt you anymore." His thumbs traced the back of Mars' hand.

"Yeah. Cough it up, brat. Take a breath." Metrie's voice sounded thick with emotion, even as the rough nickname stirred something else in Mars' chest.

"Again, Metrie, give him more air." Litany said, just as the compressions stopped.

Like before, Metrie's mouth sealed over his and Mars' lungs were filled. His chest jerked when he hit the limit of what he could take, and when Metrie lifted up Mars started to cough.

It was a wheezing, rattling, harsh bout that threatened to rip Mars' throat to shreds. The four Shadowguard all began to move, talking low amongst themselves. Hands, warm and soft and safe helped him onto his side, rubbed his back, pressed to his chest and forehead and side to steady him.

A cloak was draped over Mars as he began to gasp, fingers burying themselves in the soft rabbit fur as he coughed up what felt like the entire tub of water that he'd been forced under. He really was making a mess this time. Metrie's fingers slid through Mars' hair, puling it away from his face and off of his throat.

It all rushed back in, leaving Mars shaking like a leaf. He'd been kidnapped. He'd been tortured. He'd drowned, over and over and over.

He thought he was going to die, and that left him clutching the cloak even tighter.

Kostas lifted Mars into his arms as coughing settled into gasping, cracking sobs. "I'm--god, I'm sorry, I didn't--" Mars wanted to promise that he hadn't given anything up. "I didn't say an--anything, I'm s--"

Kostas shifted him in his arms, letting Mars hide against his chest. "We know, your highness. You wouldn't, just like you wouldn't just leave us like that." As they left the building and Dallas and Metrie began to set fire to the place, Kostas settled himself and Mars on the largest lesser dragon of the group.

Once they were situated, he tipped Mars' head back, giving him another breath. It soothed more of the panic, calmed his racing heart a little bit more. "I...I shouldn't sleep." Mars mumbled, even as the intoxicating warmth invited him down.

"No, you shouldn't." Kostas agreed, helping him sit up more as the others hopped on their dragons. They started off, the sway of the dragon sending magma through Mars' ribs.

He shuddered, blinking back tears. Pain would keep him awake. This pain was fine. It was just a sensation, and sensations could be endured.

Kostas' voice brushed away the worry as surely as strong arms kept him upright. "I'll keep you breathing, your highness. Just focus on staying awake and keeping your heart beating."

“Sounds like a plan. And we’ll come up a lot for air, okay? I set us up a lot closer to the shallows than the deep end. I’ll be able to stand up and breathe most of the time, and I’ll pick you up with me. Oh, and when I first put that belt on you, take a big breath.”

“You’d better not drown me for real.” She narrowed her bright blue eyes at him.

“That would be murder. Or something.”

“I’m just saying.”

“I won’t drown you for real, but if for some reason that happened, I will bring you back. I know CPR.” He quirked an eyebrow, then briefly made his face serious. “No, seriously, I do. You’ll be fine.”

“We should at least act that out for the cameras,” Kim said. She winked at him. “It would be hot as fuck.”

“Hell yeah. Ready?”

Kimberly stripped off her white cover-up, leaving little to the imagination in her hot pink string bikini. She had moderate-sized, perky breasts and a snatched waist that flared out to rounded hips. Logan admired her curves as she walked away from him and jumped into the pool.

She spent a few minutes swimming around, familiarizing herself with the location of the underwater cameras.

After a while, she swam to the side of the pool, grasped it with one hand, and got down to business. Her soaking, bleached blonde hair trailed in the water as her eyes closed and her head tipped back. First, she rubbed her breasts through the cups of her bikini top. Squeezed them. Then she ran her hand down her stomach and slipped it inside her itty-bitty bikini bottoms. She spread her legs for the benefit of the underwater cameras and started rubbing.

Above the water, she moaned and licked her lips.

What she couldn’t see was Logan, playing his part for the camera he’d placed outside the pool. He was fully clothed, carrying the weighted belt slung over his shoulder. He watched her for a while before he unzipped his pants, taking his dick out and starting to jerk himself off.

A few minutes passed like this and he started stripping off his clothes. He flexed a little for the camera, then picked up the dive belt. Then he made his way, naked, to the edge of the pool. Logan slipped quietly into the water.

Swimming up behind Kimberly, he stared at her for a long moment, trying to portray perverted lust on his face. Then he lunged, quickly fastening the belt around her waist and then dragging her underwater.

She didn’t have time to do more than suck in a breath. Logan wrapped his legs around her and pulled her bikini top up from the bottom, exposing her breasts. He pivoted around, showing her off to the camera, then started fondling them, pinching the nipples and watching the way they moved in the water. He lifted his head above the surface and took a deep breath, then grabbed her breasts with both hands. Her nipples were erect, pressing against his palms.

Kimberly flailed, kicking her legs and striking him with her fists. He ignored her, squeezing her breasts together and rubbing her nipples with his thumbs. Air bubbles streamed from her nose, and he looked at her face, watching as her wide eyes blinked three times.

Logan nodded and grabbed her by the waist, standing them both up with their heads above the water.

That’ll be a cut, he thought. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Kim was gasping for air, but she nodded. “I’m gonna hyperventilate myself and then when I give you the thumbs up, pull me back under.”

Logan held her up with one hand, reaching under the water for his dick, trying to keep his nascent erection from wilting. He watched Kimberly’s naked chest heave, then she sucked in a deep breath and gave him a thumbs up.

He dragged her underneath the water again. He pulled her bikini top the rest of the way off, then reached for the bottoms. This time, he just yanked on the ties, ignoring her flailing fists as the scrap of fabric drifted away. She struggled hard for a while, thrashing and kicking, scratching at his chest. 

That’s gonna sting later.

He shook her, watched a cluster of bubbles stream from her nose.

Kimberly’s movements slowed. He grabbed the belt for leverage, taking a long look at her face to make sure she wasn’t blinking. She winked at him, so he took that as a sign to continue, reaching between her thighs with his free hand. He found her slit and slipped two of his fingers inside of her, making sure the motion of his hand was visible to one of the cameras.

After a moment, he released the dive belt and squeezed one of her breasts.

They moved slowly in the water while he groped and penetrated her with his fingers. He kept his eyes on her face until she blinked again, three times. Then she expelled the remaining air in her lungs, creating a dramatic cascade of bubbles as he pulled them both to the surface. 

While she was breathing, he moved his hand back between her thighs, fingers rubbing her clit. He heard her breath catch in her throat, and she reached down to press his fingers harder against her. “You ready, babe? I’m ready to be inside you.”

“I’m ready. On the count of five pull me back under.”

He kept rubbing as he counted out loud. “One… two… three… four… five.”

Then he pulled her underwater again and slipped his fingers inside her for continuity. He watched her go limp, lips parted, blue eyes staring. 

Withdrawing his fingers, he maneuvered her up to his erection, nudging the head of his cock between her folds. Surging his hips forward, he thrusted himself inside. A few bubbles escaped her nose, and she thrashed on his dick, her head shaking side to side under the water.

He gripped Kim’s hips, grinding into her, watching the force ripple up her body. Her arms floated, platinum hair streaming out in every direction.

Logan lifted his head out of the water and took a deep breath. 

Fuck, I ain’t gonna last for shit.

A short while later, Kim blinked her eyes three times. He winked at her. She furrowed her brow and narrowed her eyes.

Instead of letting her up, Logan waited until she expelled the dead air in another cascade of bubbles. Then he lifted his head, took a deep breath, and used one hand to pinch her nose closed. He pressed his mouth to hers and exhaled, hard. 

Most of the air blew out in a spray of bubbles around their heads, and when he pulled back, her eyes were wide with surprise. He tried again with a fresh lungful of air, and this time he felt the difference. Her chest swelled against him. He gave her another breath, and when he leaned back, she nodded. Then she resumed her futile struggle.

Logan pulled out, turned her away from him so that her face and body were visible to one of the cameras. Then he took her from behind, gripping her trim waist and pushing against the bottom of the pool for leverage. In his head, he was aiming for a dynamic scene where his dying victim was starfished in the water, breasts bobbing rhythmically, a distant look of fear on her face. All while he fucked her underwater.

He pounded away, thrusting in and out of her as fast and forceful as the water permitted. His dick felt amazingly hard slamming in and out of her. Her body was limp in the water, arms and legs floating, hair streaming by his face. He almost got lost in the moment.

Almost. Her arms stiffened, reached down to pry at his grip on her waist. Logan pulled out again and turned her around in his arms.

She was pale and panicked, blue eyes blinking rapidly. He gripped her hips again and thrust inside of her, watched her chin jerk and bubbles escape both her nose and mouth. He thrust again and again, staring into her eyes.

I’m close, he tried to communicate with his gaze. So fucking close…

She bucked against him, grabbed at his hands, though he couldn’t tell if that was sexual arousal or air hunger or both. Kimberly did like breath play, though that was usually limited to light choking during sex.

Still, it wouldn’t do for her to inhale pool water. Logan grabbed her throat with both hands, tightening them around her airway. Her eyes bulged; her hands came up to scrabble uselessly at her throat.

Don’t worry, I’m keeping the water out.

Her eyes rolled back.

So close…

He lifted his head above water and took a deep breath. His hips were thrusting erratically now, and he had to grab back on to the dive belt for leverage. Kimberly was clawing at him, her movements growing weak. He released her throat, trying to fend off her clawing hands and get a better grip on her body.

Kim went still, then her body jerked, her mouth opening wide as she started breathing in water in huge, painful-looking gulps. He was enthralled, grasping her hips tight, staring as she kept taking in water. Finally, she stopped moving altogether, staring through him with her open eyes.

He did soften a little then, unsure what to do with the mixture of titillation, confusion, and concern he was feeling. He went with the last feeling and pulled her up with him, their heads breaking the surface together. Her head sagged back on her neck, eyes partially open, water trickling out of her nose and mouth.

“Kim. Hey, come on. Take a breath.” Still buried inside of her, Logan took a deep breath and grasped her jaw, holding her mouth closed. He sealed his lips around her nose and blew hard into her nostrils. Repeated this five times, her breasts brushing his chest each time. She didn’t respond, and he stared at her for a long moment, breathing hard, his hips slowly humping up against her. 

Then he sank back down into the water with her.

Unbuckling the dive belt, Logan let it sink to the bottom. He turned with Kimberly and pressed her against the side of the pool. He gripped the lip above him with one hand and pressed his feet to the bottom, continuing to pump in and out of her. Her flesh, pale under water, rippled with each thrust of his hips. He was fully hard again, and she was still warm inside.

He did this for a minute before he pinned her against the wall with his pelvis, releasing the edge of the pool. Then he clasped his hands together, pressing them to her sternum. He shoved hard into her, forcing her breastbone toward her heart, the water churning and bubbles escaping her lips as he performed compressions. His dick remained buried in her the entire time.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, one, two…

The angle was awkward, but he kept his elbows straight and managed a two-inch depth, trying to circulate the blood in her body. He didn’t know what he wanted, but he didn’t think he wanted her permanently dead, or in a coma. 

…four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, thirty, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, forty…

He pumped her chest until he hit fifty compressions, then he took a deep breath above the surface. He pinched her nose closed with one hand and held her mouth open with the other before dunking his head underwater and pressing his mouth to hers.

He forced air into her, only managing about half a lungful before the air escaped them both in a rush of bubbles. Then he stuck his head above the surface and repeated the process.

After, he gripped her hips and started pounding away again. He ran his hands down and grabbed her thighs, bringing her legs up around his hips. The unprotected skin of her back scrubbed against the rough side of the pool as he fucked her.

Eventually, he brought his hands back to her chest, pinning her to the wall again with his hips. He thrust hard and fast into her sternum with his clasped hands, driving the heel of his hands hard into her body. A small number of bubbles trickled from her mouth and nose and then stopped.

…six, seven, eight, nine, thirty! Holy fuck, I’m gonna come!

Logan pulled out of her and ejaculated into the pool, his hips jerking in the water, and his hands still on her chest, pinning her in place. He pushed his own head above the water, gasping for a bit before he remembered to pull her above the surface. 

“Alright Kim, I’ve got you.” He wrapped an arm around her chest, letting the rest of her body drift while he towed her toward the pool steps. As soon as he could stand easily above the water, he scooped her limp body up in his arms and bridal carried her up the steps and onto the concrete.

Logan laid her flat, then got up, hurrying over to grab the single dry land camera. 

He brought it back over to where he’d left Kimberly, and quickly set tripod up and checked the positioning through the viewfinder. She was laying on her back, perpendicular to the camera. Her wet hair covered her face.

“Kim!” Logan kneeled beside her. He swept her wet hair off her face and tipped her head back to open her airway. Then he pinched her nose and sealed his mouth over hers, giving her what should have been a deep breath.

Instead, their cheeks bulged and air escaped her mouth in a spluttering rush.

He pulled back and opened her mouth, peering inside. She was so full of water he could see it at the back of her throat.

Logan’s face grew hot. He was starting to feel ashamed and afraid. Ashamed at what he’d done, afraid that it wouldn’t be as easy to undo as he’d assumed. She was lifeless in front of him, and he was keenly aware that he did not have an AED, and that if he called 9-1-1 there would be questions he did not want to answer.

Logan straddled her hips and tipped her head to the side, mouth toward the concrete. He stacked his hands and interlocked his fingers, then found his landmark before shoving the heel of his clasped hands into her diaphragm.

Water trickled out of her mouth.

Logan shoved his hands into her again, harder. This time, a surge of water erupted from both her mouth and nose. The pressure made her chest bulge and her shoulders shrug as she vomited up pool water. He kept at it, shoving his hands repeatedly into her upper belly. Her body made a gurgling noise each time, more water burbling up from her throat. 

To his surprise, his dick began to harden again. This time he tried to ignore it, staring intently at her face as he shoved his hands into her body over and over again.

He was hoping that once he got most of the water out of her, she would start breathing. After several more abdominal thrusts, however, Kim just laid there, empty eyes staring off into the distance. Her lips were purpling, and her face was ashen.

“Fuck!” Logan blurted out loud. He leaned forward, turning her face toward the sky before he pinched her nose closed and pressed his mouth to hers. Her lips felt cold and slack. He forced a breath into her and this time her chest rose, her pebbled nipples brushing against his chest. He gave her four more deep, lung-filling breaths.

Then he sat up and pressed his hands between her breasts. 

Logan started rapid and forceful compressions. Beneath him, Kimberly’s breasts wobbled deliciously. The force made her abdomen bulge. Gurgling and huffing noises escaped her lips, and he could hear her cartilage crackle.

Something about the way her ribcage dipped as he forced his hands into her sternum made him even harder, and he let out a moan as he counted.

“…twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty!”

Logan leaned over to give her mouth-to-mouth again. He closed her nostrils with one hand and gripped her jaw with the other, holding it open as he forced his air inside of her. He gave her a second breath, then he resumed chest compressions.

“One, two, three…” He could hear water still in her lungs and stomach; she made a gurgling sound with each compression, an unusual un-ut, un-ut, un-ut sound. As he watched, foam began to leak from her nose and mouth, bubbling up and sliding down the side of her face. 

“…fuuuuuuck! Uh, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty!” Two more deep breaths. He enjoyed the feeling of his mouth on hers, and took a few seconds to kiss her, his tongue plunging deep into her mouth. He might have thought the foam would gross him out, but all it did was lubricate the kiss. Then he gave her another breath before resuming compressions.

Un-ut, un-ut, un-ut, un-ut, un-ut… The noise burbled up out of her along with the foam. Otherwise, she showed no signs of revival. He was confused again, super aroused by the way her body moved under him but concerned by her lifelessness.

This would be better, he thought, if she were just pretending. I think. Fuck!

“…eleven, twelve, thirteen… come on, Kim, cough up the water and breathe for me! Uh… twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…”

He looked down at her senseless body. Her breasts wobbled and her shoulders twitched. The force of his chest compressions made her stomach bulge and ripple. Under his hands, her chest collapsed, making him feel like he might break bones or separate cartilage. He was still straddling her, and he could see his swollen dick every time he looked down.

“…thirty!” He leaned over, pinched her nose and pressed his mouth to hers. The foam was slippery between them as he inflated her lungs twice in quick succession. Then he was back on her chest, performing rapid fire compressions. His erection rested on her rippling belly; a distraction so pleasurable it was starting to hurt.

“…twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four… Come the fuck ON, Kim, my arms won’t keep this up forever! Don’t make this fucking murder!”

He leaned over to give her breaths, his hips humping against her involuntarily as her breasts brushed his chest. His cock ached, almost like he hadn’t come in a month instead of having just done so. He started compressions again, but they slowed, then stopped. 

She was sprawled beneath him, her perky breasts pointed toward him, her distended belly a soft resting place for his engorged member. He reached down and closed her eyes with one hand so she couldn’t look at him. Then he pushed two of his fingers into her mouth, thrusting them in and out in concert with the movements of his hips.

“Fuck it,” he muttered. He backed off of her long enough to push her thighs wide and spit into his hand. He rubbed the spit into her pussy, then positioned himself in a wide-legged kneel. Logan grabbed her hips and pulled her closer until he could thrust inside of her. 

Then he leaned forward and pressed his clasped hands back to her sternum.

“One, two, three…” Logan discovered pretty quickly that he couldn’t perform good chest compressions and pump his cock inside of her simultaneously, so he just let himself soak inside of her in favor of the life-saving maneuver. When it was time to breathe for her, he pumped his hips a few times before he gave the breaths. Then he was back on her chest.

“One, two, three, four—”

Kimberly suddenly heaved, her back bowing, a gagging sound coming from her mouth and a wave of water surging out of her. Logan turned her head to the side and started thrusting his hips again, watching as she vomited and wretched. Her body tried to flop onto her side, and he grasped her hips, pinning them in place as she gasped, choked, and shuddered.

He reached between them and found her clit, circling it with his thumb.

For a while, she laid limp on the concrete, body twisted, eyes closed and her breathing labored. Her body moved rhythmically with his thrusts. He’d gone a little soft when she started breathing, which was probably something he ought to be concerned about, but he was quickly regaining lost ground.

After a while, Kimberly took a deep breath, coughed, and let her torso flop back over, laying herself flat in front of him. He could see a reddened bruise between her breasts, watched as she reached up to press her hands there. Her eyes opened, darted around in confusion, then settled on his face.

The entire time, he was pumping in and out of her, his cock reaching rock hard status as a wave of shame rolled over him. He pinched her clit and watched her flinch, her brow furrowing.

Her eyes darted around, spotted the camera. She looked back up at him. He leaned over and kissed her, his tongue plunging deep into her mouth. He felt her legs come up, wrap around his back. 

When he broke the kiss, she popped him hard in the side of the face with her open palm.

“Ow!” he exclaimed, though he kept fucking her. She was making her own lubrication now, and his eyes almost rolled back in his head at the feel of her around him.

“You fucking bastard!” She rasped out. “My chest fucking hurts.”

She coughed, then moaned as he rubbed her clit. 

“Just wait until you see the video baby. Oh God, I’m gonna come just thinking about it!”

“Not until I do!” Kim unwrapped her legs and planted her feet, pushing up her pelvis to meet him with each thrust. She was wheezing a little as she breathed, but she kept writhing beneath him, her back arching up off the concrete.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, watched as her face changed, felt her tighten around him. Then she let out a low groan, her back bowing even higher and her muscles clenching and releasing around him. He kept thrusting through her orgasm, gritting his teeth.

He felt his balls tighten, but he held on until she went limp. Then he pulled out, stroked himself a few times, and emptied his load on her stomach.

Logan fell onto the concrete beside her, groaning.