#self blame

Marcus’s wound was making excellent progress. It was. The torn flesh had begun to close, leaving puckered, pink skin where a bullet hole had been two weeks ago. He hadn’t bled in almost a week, and he’d been checking the bandage regularly. He was keeping it as clean and dry as a clinic would have, even though he was sleeping in alleys and in the occasional park. He had to keep moving, which was also probably good; Lars hadn’t been wrong about how fucked he would be if he developed a blood clot. Every moment he could, he exercised his legs, making sure his calf was regaining its strength. It was pretty much back to normal. It was the strength in his arm that was the main problem now.

Even two weeks in, he had almost no grip strength to speak of. He could barely raise his arm on that side. He could shrug, but the movement sent pain arcing through the wound like he’d been shot all over again. The one time he’d sneezed, he woke up on the ground, soaked in cold sweat.

He had no idea if this was normal. He’d taken two injuries like this before, and had recovered fine enough: a knife to his forearm, and a knife to his belly, so low it had almost been his groin. Both times, his team had arrived within minutes and had flown him to the best trauma surgeons on staff at AMTEC. Both times, he had been able to begin conditioning within two weeks – gentle conditioning, but conditioning nonetheless.

This time was different from those times, because of that incredibly important fact: the surgeons. The abdominal wound had taken an additional surgery after that. The only organ the knife had perforated had been his appendix, and for years afterwards, both enlisted and Levs alike called the occasional appendectomy The C9 Special. He still had no idea how the forearm wound had left him with full use of his hand, but he hadn’t questioned it.

Better that, than be consigned.

Now, though? Now, he barely had one good arm. He still felt weak from blood loss, no matter how much water he drank. His reserves had run out days and days ago. He scrounged what he could from drinking fountains. There wasn’t an hour that went by that his focus wasn’t drilled in on his arm, and what its weakness meant:

I can’t rescue Jake this way.

He always had to break that thought off before it grew too large. It would crush him, otherwise. Because the thoughts that followed were too much to bear: Jake is suffering, and will suffer until I rescue him. Jake is hurting more every single minute. Jake thinks I abandoned him.

They might have killed him already.

I might already be too late.

He might have already died, thinking that I left him to that. After everything. After we—

He couldn’t bear to let those thoughts linger for long. But there wasn’t much to do but think, with his arm still so fucked up.

He crossed back and forth through the town, constantly moving, constantly avoiding a threat that almost seemed one step behind him and invisible, all at once. There were a lot fewer cameras here. A lot more people with cars, too.

Once, Marcus saw Leena leaving a nondescript building. He’d been on his way from a park on the north side of town to one on the west side; he had stayed at both parks in the past, but he knew he had to keep moving. Constantly moving. The second he became comfortable, that’s when AMTEC could swoop in. But when he saw them, he ducked behind a car, cursing his suspicious-ass behavior. They didn’t seem to see him. He watched from behind the car.

They waved back into the building and headed for their car. Marcus stayed and watched for a while, noting the people who came in and out: a man with thin facial hair, but the shadow of a bound chest beneath a baggy shirt. A woman who clutched her bag to her side, eyes darting around the parking lot. A person with a haircut a lot like Lars’s and a shirt that said ‘If gender is what’s in my pants, then I’m your mom.’

Marcus blinked. This is the HRT clinic.

Maybe Lars was inside. He didn’t know their schedule, and that was dangerous. After he robbed them blind, they were now the most dangerous person in town, to him. They might have gone out and gotten a new gun. They almost certainly were carrying a grudge. They might even be willing to turn him in to AMTEC, even if that would put their clinic in jeopardy. He was a wanted Lev. They knew that, at the very least. He should get out of here, now, while he still could.

He moved between the cars in the parking lot in a low crouch. Bent over like he was, the backpack put weight on his shoulder. He gritted his teeth against the pain. He didn’t look back as he cleared the lot and kept walking. The last thing he needed was to look back and have Lars look out the window at that exact moment. He had survived this long on his own. He couldn’t be taken now. Not while Jake was depending on him to survive.

His heart was hammering by the time he made it to the park. He swung the pack down and pulled out a bottle of water, opening it with one hand. He drank it down as fast as he could to ward off the dizziness. Once he was done with that, he fished out a packet of jerky and crammed a piece into his mouth. He was almost out of food. He would have to find someplace to steal from if he wanted to stay healthy. There was no point in doing any of this at all if his body was just going to start eating itself in a few weeks. Maybe this town had a soup kitchen or something. He’d heard about those in a TV show once.

He was going to make it through this – he was. There was no other option. Jake’s life depended on it.

He kept moving.

Continued here

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