“I really don’t feel like this is necessary.” The heavy metal door clanged shut. “Seems a bit overkill.” Thick iron keys turned in the locks. “One could even say, over-dramatic?”
The guard glared through the grate on the door. “I’m sure it is, considering the spectacle you made of yourself.”
I spread my hands wide, trying to summon every ounce of charisma I didn’t have. “I’ve already explained it twenty times over! It was an accident.”
“Naturally.” There was a glint of pointed teeth in his smile. “I believe you!”
The grate slammed closed.
A single lightbulb fizzled on in the darkness.
“I think that was sarcasm,” I muttered to the air.
Outside, I could imagine I heard the boot-steps of the guard crossing the narrow causeway, the only thing spanning my cell's moat of shadows and void. I ran my hand over the nearest wall. It seemed hand carved into one of the stalactite-like structures that honeycombed the area. From the perspective of law-enforcement, it was a fantastic containment facility. CENCA would be jealous if they knew it existed.
From the perspective of little ol’ me, stripped of my badge and utterly alone, the reviews were less enthusiastic.
The Catacombs.
I did not like the implications of that name.
“Okay, so you were right!” I said to the empty room—as if either Cal or Stanton could hear me. “This was a bad idea. Lesson learned. Moral achieved. So we can wrap up the production now.”
To everyone’s complete lack of surprise, there was no answer besides the faint clangy echo of a room with bad acoustics.
Plopping down on the rickety cot in the corner, I buried my face in my hands, ignoring how it felt like it would rip into a thousand pieces if I put my full weight on the cloth.
“Great,” I groaned. “I’ve been here for three seconds and I’ve already reached the ‘talking to myself’ phase of insanity.”
I had no idea how long I was going to be stuck here, but it was already far too long.
I stumbled in the snow, shivering, pulling the tatters of my jacket closer around my shoulders.
Can’t go back to Cal repeated in my head, over and over and over. Can’t risk them finding him.
Those were the only words in my head, covering the unformed idea driving my feet as I walked, half-falling against the trees. I needed help. I couldn’t do this to him, and yet there was no one else.
Distance blurred in my mind, an unending fog of pain and halting paces. I still don’t know how I made it, but I did, finally, floundering my way up onto the small porch. Somehow I managed to stand long enough to press the doorbell.
The tinny chimes rang out, muffled through the walls as I pressed it again and again, unthinking, just repeating it until the summons was fulfilled.
That’s a pretty blue grazed through my brain as I stared at the door.
Dimly, I was aware of movement and a muttering from the other side of the door, and then it was pulled open.
Whatever words had been on Stanton’s tongue sank unspoken to the ground.
“Hey,” I mumbled. “You don’t happen to have, um, first aid, right? Can’t hospital because they’ll find me.” That sounded like it could be a coherent sentence. Probably.
If he said something in response, I don’t remember. Next thing I knew I was sinking into the blessed relief of a soft couch, and someone—presumably Stanton since he was the only one there—was taking off my tattered jacked to probe at the ragged flesh beneath. I winced, and continued to do so, gritting my teeth as he peeled away shreds of my shirt, before scrubbing the wound clean. Whatever ointment he spread on it burned, but I didn’t care anymore, even as the ceiling and floor cartwheeled around me.
I eased in and out of reality, not quite passed out, but not quite present.
An unknown time later, Stanton pressed a warm cup into my hand—Earl Grey. The heat of it radiated into my frozen fingers like a touch from heaven. I sipped at it and felt a little more awareness come back to me.
“Sorry,” I managed, wrapping both hands around the cup as I glanced up with an apologetic smile.
Stanton frowned.
Oh no, I thought, I’ve upset him.
“Jeanne,” he said gently, searching my face, “who did this?”
What little remained of my thinking capacity fled instantly. I couldn’t tell him the truth, I certainly couldn’t lie to him. Why am I doing this to him?
“Um.” I opened my mouth, hoping words would occur to me. None did. “I, uh… it… uh….” My voice cracked. Liquid welled up in my eyes, obscuring the room and Stanton into a fuzzy miasma.
Tears.
Oh no, I can’t cry in front of him AGAIN.
It was, however, far too late. I tried to drown the impulse by gulping down my Earl Grey—instead, the hot tea burned my mouth and my throat and the tears kept dripping down my cheeks, too fast for me to properly wipe them away.
Stanton didn’t say a word. Or, if he did, I didn’t hear it. He stood up and pulled a blanket from the back of the couch, wrapping it around me as I cried into my tea, and placed a box of tissues on the small table next to me.
For a moment, the impact of him and all the little things he had done for me and kept doing crashed against me like a meteor; my sobs intensified as he quietly took a seat next to me.
I was a terrible person. I knew that well, and I knew that I was using his well-meaning grace selfishly. And that hurt more than any Mithae weapon ever could.
May: What do you mean by "weird things that have happened recently"? Do you mean I keep flipping out over passing the statue in the hallway weird or there was someone following me last night kind of weird?
Red: Oh, that's actually not weird.
May: Excuse me?
Red: I mean the statue thing not the following thing. That's not good.
May: I feel like the statue thing is weird.
Red: Maybe. But trust me. You have good cause for it.
May:....what?
Red: It's your automatonophobia.
May: My what?
Red: Fear of human-like things. You have good cause for it.
I had been stuck in the Catacombs for a week now. The pain—a constant background radiation to my every breath—made me wonder how much longer I would be alive to be stuck. Though, technically speaking, when one was dead one was still kind of stuck. Just. In a different way.
The metal of the cell door grated.
My eyes snapped open.
I had options. I could sit up and wait attentively for them to come in, on my toes, tense, and ready for anything. Or I could continue lying on the ripped cot and pretend I wasn’t bothered—maybe if I pretended to be asleep they’d leave me alone? Maybe I could get up and smack whoever was coming in the head with the cot. It wasn’t much of a weapon, and in the long run it’d result in more pain for me than my victim, but there would certainly be a cathartic value that might balance things out.
Funny, it seemed like this guard was having trouble getting the door open. The scraping continued. It also seemed to be making more noise than normal. Was the key was stuck? The hinges had rusted shut? The guard was so bored he was cleaning it with a steel wool sponge? That one seemed a little less likely.
I sat up. They could at least have the decency to get it over with. I gripped the edge of my cot, digging my fingers into the fabric. If they were going to drag me off, go ahead and drag me off. They didn’t have to prolong it.
I was a second away from yelling this at them when the door (finally) swung open.
It wasn’t a guard.
I stared.
The light streamed in around him, the contrast to the dinginess of my cell half-blinding me, but unless this was some cruel trick, some hallucination, there was no doubt as to who it was.
“Stanton?” My voice faltered.
The door clicked shut, and next thing I knew he was beside me, sweeping me into a hug. I froze.
This. It was too much. Too many surprises all at once. He was here, the door was apparently unlocked, I was getting a hug.
What. What was happening?
There were too many sensations for this to be a dream, right?
“Thank Ae we found you,” he said, pulling back.
I had a thousand thoughts flooding my head, things I wanted to say and ask based on his tone of sheer relief alone. I also maybe wanted to cry, even though I had promised myself I’d never cry in front of Stanton again. I did none of the above. “We?” I finally managed to squeak.
He smiled, and oh man was that the most beautiful thing to exist in all Mithaedrir. “Cal and I.”
“Cal?” I felt stupid, only able to speak in single words, but that was just one more unexpected impact. Cal was here, too, and they were working together.
Stanton shrugged. “He’s still on probation as far as I'm concerned. But we both agreed that we’d have to figure out our differences after we got you back.”
Got me back.
“How?” I glanced towards the door.
Stanton held up a slim pouch of slender iron tools. Lock picks. Stanton, CENCA’s golden boy and paragon of virtue, could pick locks. I hadn’t seen that coming.
I hadn’t seen any of this coming, sure, but it just goes to show you never know someone as well as you think you do.
“Guards?” I asked.
“Cal is taking care of them,” he said. “So far it’s been working great.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Shall we?”
I looked from outstretched hand to his face. This was happening. He was here. He came for me. Both him and Cal had come to get me. Slowly I took his hand, half-forgetting that I couldn’t use my foot. Stanton pulled me up, and I stumbled, hissing with renewed pain. He grabbed my arms to steady me.
“You alright?”
“Foot’s busted,” I said. “Long story,” I added, noting the frown of concern crossing his face.
He nodded. “Tell me later. For now, I’ll help you walk.”
“Wait, I need a second,” I said, holding onto his arm. It felt like my brain and body were catching up to what was happening, my head spinning from both surprise and vertigo from even the exertion of standing up.
I was leaving the Catacombs.
Looking up, I could see the worry and care in his eyes. So warm. So different from this past week.
I flung my arms around his neck, hugging him with what little strength I had, swallowing back the beginnings of tears. “Thank you,” I whispered, fighting to keep my voice from trembling. “Thanks for coming for me.” We probably wouldn’t make it. But that didn’t matter right now.
He hugged me back, holding me tightly and resting his head against mine with a chuckle that sounded just as shaky as me. “I told you I would always be there for you, didn’t I? No restrictions on location.”
We needed to get going. I knew that. But I also needed this, this moment of softness and comfort and warmth, this hug that fit perfectly. Half-dead as I was, it felt like I was physically recharging to be able to face the upcoming journey.
Finally—too soon—I stepped back. Stanton held my left arm in place, keeping it across his shoulders as he crouched a bit to support me.
“We will have to hurry a bit,” he said, “but we don’t have too far to go so don’t feel like you have to push yourself too hard.”
I nodded. I was still going to—I wanted to be gone from this place—but it was nice to hear. Stanton pulled the door open, and we began the trek along the suspended walkway.
