Regulation 4 – Regular Inspection of your Home Base is Advised

I’d never considered the hiss of my door sliding open to be comforting. Right now though? It’s the single most soothing sound I’ve heard in hours. Taking a close second place is the cold air that blasts from inside of my apartment. Everywhere else is always too warm for me – set somewhere at an average for everyone in this LAGOON – but my apartment is set for my comfort alone. The temperature difference is enough that the initial blast of cold air comes with a visible curl of chill that evaporates swiftly.

…My thoughts are drifting.

My gaze has slid to the color of the paint near my door and the way some of it flecks in a recognizable but odd pattern. It’s hard to keep the my thoughts from floating aimlessly, caught in a current like jellyfish. Bad sign. I shake my head sharply and give the hallway another look – flesh eye closed while I link my bionic into the hallway surveillance. Even with jellyfish for a brain I’ve done this enough that it’s as easy as blinking. Views from the various cameras flick on and whirr as I direct them, scoping out the hallway for signs of anyone else. No one’s visible on any of the screens thankfully; every second of lingering risks that changing. I cannot afford to make any more mistakes tonight.

It takes too much effort to get myself to move. My body settled into stillness the second I gave it a chance and it doesn’t want to take even the few steps to get to safety. I could linger here, watching the hallway through a handful of security cameras, and just… stop.

I could.

I won’t.

With a grunt I disconnect my eye from the security cameras and force myself into motion. Staggering over the threshold feels like walking through cold molasses; every step a monumental effort that happily reminds me of the collection of bruises and the reason I’ve been clutching my side the whole way. My tail misses the button that tells my door to close the first time I bat it against the wall and again the second time. I debate making the impulsive choice of twisting to press the button with my hand. It’d negate my tail’s lack of accuracy in return for raising a whole host of other problems in its stead.

The hand I used for my biometric lock is the one currently putting pressure on my side. It being sticky with blood is the least of the problems there. Quickest is twisting my torso; ignoring the still bleeding gunshot wound that I know is on a timer that I only have an estimate for. Risking eyes in the hallway. Risking questions that I can’t answer.

It’d be another mistake.

I flick my tail again. There’s more force in it than I intended but the door slides shut at last so I’ll count that as a win. My ID logs will state that I went to the big training deck on level 3 due to insomnia. That’s true enough. But even those who don’t use the training decks know that there’s nothing in them that deals gunshot wounds.

The LAGOONs care about some modicum of privacy so there aren’t any cameras in my apartment to avoid. My own home system is what runs here, and I connect to it out of sheer habit. I wet my lips – when did they get so dry? – and close my eyes for a moment, leaned back against my closed door. It’s probably a mistake to be still again but I need time to fortify myself. It’s been a long day and a longer night. My own past choices haunt me – I know my couch is close. That familiar grey cloth that sings a siren’s song. My apartment is safe and my couch is comfortable.

Just lay down Kukali. Forget the last few hours; they were a nightmare anyway. One you can wake from if you just sleep. Lay down. Sleep. Succumb-

Absolutely not.

Even in this state I refuse to fall for such a trap. The gunshot wound will only get worse on its own and I cannot go to the infirmary without questions. That’s even presuming that I’d make it in time between the unknown timer and the way my thoughts keep drifting.

(And that’s without paying any attention to the echoes of the past reaching up out of my nightmares to put clawed hands on either side of my face. If I give those half a heartbeat of focus I feel firmly that I’d rather let the bullet explode than risk supposed caretakers right now, after all I heard.)

Every lecture and class on wound care that I have ever attended swims in the front of my skull, fighting past the jellyfish for a brain I have right now. I have it all memorized but I’ll take those over nightmares. That’s enough fortifying. It’s harder in a way I don’t have words to articulate to push myself into motion this time. I manage – dragging my sorry carcass over to my couch with a clenched jaw and tunnel vision. More blood has had time to leak from the most serious wound and several of the cuts. I collapse into the cushions with a sharp “Fuck!” and far too many spots in my vision. There are smears of red that I’ve left in my wake. Problems for the future.

Exhaustion and a gunshot wound blaring emergency work in tandem far better than either works for me. Blood on the couch now too. Ugh. There were no clocks on the transport deck; I don’t know what time it was when I was shot. I hadn’t exactly been focused on my HUD at the time. All of which means I don’t know how much time I have to get the bullet and its fragments out of me before this situation gets much worse.

I can just hear Yilmaz making a smartass comment about how gunshot wounds aren’t the solution to insomnia and a loss of consciousness is not a nap. I croak out a quiet “I know that.” in response despite the fact that he’s not here to say it.

I wish he was.

Focus!

Having only one hand available to pull out the first aid kit I keep under the couch is routine enough to make the corners of my lips tug upwards involuntarily. The Blades know I’ve done it enough following surreptitious spars that I snuck out after curfew to have. Flashes of freedom and understanding and–

I hiss at the way my hand tightened against the wound. This time is different as much as I wish it weren’t, and I would very much like to divorce myself from the floating jellyfish of a brain I have and the feelings connected and get this taken care of. Just… just shove them all away so I stop having to think about what happened on the transport deck and everything that that encounter means. Not enough of me is mechanical to make something like that possible.

So my feelings get to jam their sticky fingers into all of my joints and through the hinge of my jaw. I’d thought the LAGOONs were safe. That I’d never-

Peeling off my shirt means letting go of my side. It’s a motion filled with both relief and something I can’t name. The fabric sticks and clings around the spot with partially dried blood; I already know that I can’t risk repairing or washing it. Another problem to be handled later. Sticky feelings burble in sorrow for what had been a favored shirt. I’d worn it-

“Not. Now.” I murmur to those feelings. I can mourn the shirt later – I can already tell that my feelings will Demand As Such. My thoughts are getting harder to marshal. I need to hurry. Now I can hear the quiet ticking inside the wound. Another reminder of the timer I’m racing against.

I take a breath and stuff my ruined shirt in my mouth. Bite down. Douse the wound with disinfectant from the first aid kit. Do the same for the tweezers. Get to work. The kind of methodical repetition that always frees up my brain and calms me down. Time to push those jellyfish into some semblance of order.

I need to handle the gunshot wound well enough that no one in the LAGOON will know that it happened. The cuts and scrapes are fine with where I went first tonight, so I don’t need to worry about those at all. But the bullet… I learned my lesson back at the orphanage. I’d thought here was safe from such tales. I know better now.

Who can I count on?

Yilmaz… is… alive, I hope, but not here.

Who, then? He was my only friend in this place.

In less than eight hours celebration will consume this LAGOON. The exam results are due to be announced in the same spot as every other year. By the end of the day everyone will know who made Riptide this time. The expected excitement (I worked my ass off. I followed orders perfectly. I-) is missing. Instead I’ve got other sticky emotions all tangled into a ball I can’t begin to unravel.

…And a twinge of more acute pain as I have to dig deeper for one of the fragments.

Alright. Stop thinking along those lines. Count the fragments. Five. Six. Nine. …Four more.

This kind of bullet tops the list of most illegal substances by LAGOON regulations. Even several kinds of alcohol and drugs are more likely to be authorized on case by case instances than these. Frag-bomb bullets are a unique kind of cruelty that we’re not allowed to possess or use. Most members have only seen the (intentionally inaccurate in crucial places) replica of one in the classes that focus on safety. There are factions on the ground that loathe the LAGOONs and will happily use it against us. Or an enemy that didn’t or couldn’t hire us might.

Yet here one is. In my side.

(There are several in the walls of the transport deck.)

Not one. Thirteen. Thirteen ticking little fragments plus the base, all piled in the empty corner of the medkit where the tweezers had been. Thirteen time delayed micro-bombs that had activated and dispersed when the initial bullet’s casing had penetrated my skin.

I hear myself panting around the shirt more than feel it and my fingers are shaking when I drop the tweezers in the same spot. When did they start…? It doesn’t matter. What does matter is this – I’ve worsened the wound while getting the fragments out, but I knew that was coming. I pop out the small box that was the spot for the tweezers and dump the whole container into a nearby trashcan. After a moment more I pull the shirt from my mouth and toss it in there too. This is far from the first time I’ve tossed bloody cloth into this very trashcan – though it is the first time I touch the lid and focus on my magic enough to encase the whole thing in several inches of ice.

The classes had never defined the blast radius. Part of what was supposed to be protection against residents and cadets making their own.

Breathe. Wash and disinfect the wound again, paying attention to where it’s freshly worse. Apply the staunching salve that I keep stocked to slow the bleeding faster than it would on its own. Act like this is just one of those times I snuck out to spar – allow myself to think to distract from the taste of the low grade healing potion I slam down. It’ll help counteract the blood loss, at least for some hours.

Long enough to get some sleep before the announcement comes and I have to decide what my next steps are. I pack the gauze up against the wound as tight as I can; then wrap paper tape around the spot. Enough to put the rapidly forming disaster plan in motion to cover where I was tonight. This is my apartment – and I am, as far as my information goes right now, neck deep in enemy territory. Enemy territory that may or may not already know of me.

I was trained for this kind of thing, if nothing else. Appearances. Appearances.

I need to wash my hands and change clothes. That’s step one. Manufacturing excitement so I blend in with the crowd in a few hours can be done after I wake up. Maybe I’ll even find some real excitement, I reflect as I scrub my hands. Maybe I can tap into the small part of me that dreamed of making Riptide.

A series of sharp pops and thuds from inside the trashcan catches my attention. The ice is already melting from the heat – but the layer is too thick for it to melt entirely. Not yet. It’ll melt while I’m not even here.

Hands clean, I lift myself up onto the tips of my toes to get a look at my handiwork. It doesn’t need to be perfect. I have to repeat that out loud four times before the urge to pick apart the tape and gauze and start over quiets down even a small amount. Plan. Focus on planning. (The wrapping does not need to be perfect.) I need to get something that qualifies as rest enough to make it through the announcement. From there – slip away to one of the training decks. Get injured. Go to the infirmary.

Simple. Easy. I can hear Yilmaz saying it has four too many steps to be a plan of mine. The smile that creeps onto my lips feel bitter and I all but throw myself onto the couch. What ifs and maybes and ‘what about after that’ all crowd in my head so maybe I won’t get any sleep at all. But resting the body counts for something.

—

Sleep must have come for me anyway. I find myself blinking and peering blearily at the time displayed in my HUD. My side helpfully throbs as I get up and take a slow, deep breath.

I do not want to go to the announcement.

Not going would be suspicious. I can’t afford suspicion aimed at me right now – at least not until I have a heading. The idea of leaving the transport dock without so much as a heading is worse than the idea of getting shot again. I still don’t know if the enemy knows of me yet. My gauze situation hasn’t bled through overnight and for a shameful moment I consider going to the announcement in my sleepers. No one would know for certain because my sleep clothes are chosen with the same care as my training clothes.

But I would know.

So changing clothes it is, gingerly so as not to agitate my side. Loose training clothes is ideal to coincide with my plan and won’t stick out as odd behavior. I’m always too frustrated to linger after failing. Pale yellows aren’t a color most associate with training outside of me – and the semblance of routine brings an edge of calm to my mind. Food. I should – yes. I swing by my fridge to grab a pastry and freeze standing there for a heartbeat.

It’s the second to last of its kind.

Enough of me wants to put it back that my hands shake. I grit my teeth and force myself to shut the door before I can.

(“Made these for you!” Yilmaz had announced cheerfully. He’d placed the tray of pastries in my fridge before speaking and alerting me to his presence. I’d thrown a ball of ice at him – startled out of the care of one of my crossbows by the sudden noise. He’d ducked and laughed. “Stop missing meals, Ku, and I’ll stop breaking in to leave you food.”)

The memory and the taste of the pastry (flaky with a tang to the jelly that meant he’d made that too) occupies my mind on the way to the big park where the podium is set up. Another urge seizes me. If I miss all of my meals for a week, wouldn’t he be forced to show up to–

I set my jaw as I finish my pastry, already regretting the speed at which I ate it. Damnable wetness clings at the corner of my eye and I squint before rubbing my eye like an irritant had just gotten into it. Focus: what’s the situation like?

The crowd is far larger than it has been in previous years though I can’t recall anything special about this year’s go. There are twice as many as needed streamers in place and nowhere near enough seats. The Duce is already lingering beside the podium, fussing over one of the streamers hanging from it. Every now and again he looks over the gathered crowd with pride.

Sounds next – the announcement hasn’t started, so I can get a bead on what a good chunk of this LAGOON is thinking by listening.

“Look at her. Is that training garb? Does she ever quit making others look like underachievers?”

“I mean. This is what, like her fourth time trying to make Riptide? Eight years of working towards the exam just to fail over and over? I’d stop even showing up. Bet she’s here as a formality like most of us and is planning to blow off steam in one of the training decks after she fails again.”

…Are there no other topics but me? Surely I don’t command this much attention? I listen to another group.

“Man, if even our ice princess can’t pass what hope do the rest of us really have?”

“Strange that Yilmaz isn’t here yet. Is he sleeping in?”

“Probably doesn’t wanna be here just to fail again. Or watch his rival fail again.”

“Hey, wanna bounce early and see if we can get a good spot to watch the training decks? I heard last time our ice princess froze more than half the deck solid!”

…It does seem like most of the conversation turns to mention me at one point or another. My tail sways as I chew on that. I don’t usually bother listening to the crowd, so I don’t have anything to judge all of this against. What I do have is a buzzing sense of discontent and relief at once.

I don’t like being the main subject of conversation, but it seems like no one has any ideas of what happened last night. And it’s not like the crowd is wrong. I suppose I am as predictable as Yilmaz used to tease me about.

(I try not to think of eight years of training and disappointment, or how few that number is next to the amount of tries under Yilmaz’s belt.)

Movement in the front row catches my eye. The band has finished their preparatory steps and is getting ready to play. The Duce has climbed up onto the podium. It’s go time.

Wait.

My thoughts freeze over. A variable I failed to account for is in the front row.

McCrae.

Deep eyebags and a shit eating grin. A grey beanie shoved over his head – hiding where I know he was struck last night. The peak of bandages across his pale arms. He’s right there among all the other Riptide Agents that are here to welcome newbies to the fold. Right there, joking with the Riptide Agent next to him over something I can’t hear from this far away.

A crack forms and a thought slips out. McCrae’s presence throws a wrench in my entire simple plan. I should adjust for the possibility that he’s run and tattled to the Duce about what went down last night and got there fast enough to control what the Duce knows. Or that he’s told other members of Riptide for the same. If either of those are true then hiding the gunshot wound is a waste of time.

But I can’t know. I don’t have any way of knowing until I make a move. Damnit. Damnit. Was there anything about his Role that might relate to what’s going on? His was Fighter if I recall. Entirely martial. So I can’t think of any way it might relate to-

The hush of the crowd draws me out of my thoughts. It’s a preparatory, hungry kind of hush – like a predator that just spotted easy prey. The Special Commendations list must be next. This list will fuel half of the rumor mills for at least the next month so it needs my focus. I can figure out what to do about McCrae and what his presence means later.

And then the Duce calls my name.

As the first among the Special Commendations who have Riptide. I blink. Blink again. I don’t have any excuse to take refuge behind and my emotions have swirled into a thick cloud. I make my way through the crowd of folks sharing congrats and other well wishes and take my spot in the front row numbly.

I… I’ve made it.

Excitement and pride try to swell in my chest – Special Commendations and making Riptide at last! – and those feelings run right into the spikes of something sour and bitter that I have no name for. I want to be excited. I need to manufacture fake excitement to keep suspicion low. I’m instead struck with a sort of… disconnected numbness that dulls my senses to almost everything around me.

Beside me someone hums. I know that voice from the first syllable when he speaks. “Pity your rival isn’t here right now, mmm?” McCrae murmurs to me. Because of course. He’s the first of the line for the Riptide Agents for congratulatory commentary, and I’m the first of the Special Commendations. I have to stand right next to him for the rest of this. He leans in close enough that I can smell his cologne and I start debating how many of his bones I can break before I get stopped. My estimate skyrockets when he puts an arm around me, hand going right over the wound and pressing down. “Then again, after last night… maybe that’s for the best.” McCrae whispers while I dig my teeth into my cheek in the name of control.

Control. I am known for my control and cool head. I don’t know how much of this is enemy territory. I can’t risk acting out. I can taste blood in my mouth from how hard I’m biting. My own, but I can imagine otherwise while strangling my reactions in their cradles.

“Say, how’s that gunshot wound little kitty?” McCrae licks his lips after calling me a kitty, pressing harder on the wound under the guise of a hug for a picture as a photographer comes zipping by.

Control.

Control can be such a fragile, fickle thing. Mine is abruptly no longer in place, a mine without support shafts.

I punch him.

It’s not a decision really. The mine collapses, control snapped, and I don’t actually have time to think before I’m acting. It’s as McCrae goes down that I hear the Duce announce that Yilmaz has received a dishonorable discharge and is now considered a Kill On Sight target.

The Duce starts saying something else but the sound of everything has been reduced to a muffled roar from which nothing intelligible escapes.

I can’t think.

I can’t think.

I’m distantly aware of the way I pivot on my heel and ice crackles behind me. There are armed guards rushing in but they rush beyond me. Something else must be going on but I can’t think, can’t concentrate. I need-

The training decks.

The training decks will fix me.