I’m dangerously close to losing it on the entire station, just like I lost it on Natalin. Deep breaths: one, two, three. Four.
One breath for every one of us who no longer breathes.
I cross the invisible barrier, kneel to examine the body.
A single glance is all it takes to realize: this death is not like the others. I don’t even have to run tests to confirm it—I will, of course, but I don’thaveto. There are no bloodbubbles, noNautilus-style nosebleeds, no pretense of virus-related cause. This is what happens when fear turns to escapism turns to too much to drink, in too small a body, with too little food to offset it. It is a poisoning, but not the kind I feared, I’m almost sure of it: this is chaos in motion.
We’re all losing it a little. We’re all losing it alot.
I open my mouth to speak but can’t find the words or the breath or the anything I need to reassure them this is all going to beokay, because I’m not sure it is, and I’m not sure it will ever be, and shouldn’t I have all the answers? Shouldn’t they have someone who can give them the peace they need—the peace they deserve?
I want to.
I want to.
Haven clears her throat. “We’re going to get through this.” I immediately recognize this as hergood morningvoice, herlet’s start the day right!voice. Fortunately, it is tempered to minimal brightness, the perfect mix of hope and realism that even I need right now.
If I can’t give them what they need in this dark moment, perhaps Haven can. Normally, it would irritate me to have her step in like this—to give a statement when I, their actingcommander, should be the one doing it.
Right now, all I am is relieved.
“We’ve been living in nightmares lately, every single one of us,” she goes on. One by one, people begin to look up. Look at Haven—like they couldn’t look at me. “It’s time towake up. Do you want to end up like this?” She gestures to Indigo’s lifeless body in front of us. Gives us a minute to see her, reallyseeher:
Indigo, with her long black hair and long black lashes and lips that always had a kind word for everyone—with her beautiful voice, often found singing in harmony with Sailor Salvato as he played his guitar in the alcove. I scan the room, find Sailor in the crowd. His face is all numb shock.
“Do you want to end up like this?” Haven repeats. “Like Indigo?” Her words hang in the air. “Do you think we put you on lockdown for no reason? Are youtryingto die?”
“We’re not trying to die.” A deep voice speaks up from the far side of the room. Jono Deering: everything about him is exaggerated, from his height to his long black bangs to the kohl he uses to line his piercing green eyes. “We’re only trying to forget.”
“Try a little more responsibly next time,” Leo says, and not gently. His voice catches me off guard; I didn’t realize he was so close behind me.
The words are incendiary, flame to a fuse: everyone erupts at once.
Who gaveyouall the power?
Is it true we can’t eat the food?
Is it true Mila died from the mutation? What about Jaako? Kerr?
Is it true is it true is it true
Is it true
Is it true
Is it?
Each voice is a hammer to my skull, driving nails down deep to where they stab at my conscience. I want to shoutNO—no, it is NOT true! None of those things are true!
But then I’d be forced to tell them what is.
They aren’t ready.
I’mnot ready.
A small voice in my head, pinned to death by the sharp tip of a nail, whispers:You’ll never be ready. You’re notmeantto be ready for something like this. Serialized murder is not a thing that should happen.
So what am I waiting for?
