Page 114 of Immune

I’m not nesting.

I’m simply evaluating secure locations. You know, for tactical reasons. Very normal, almost warrior-like. Very much not an Omega problem wearing a tiny hard hat and taking measurements and noting color schemes.

“Dakota?”

Xeon’s voice comes from up front, and I snap my attention back like a taut elastic band. Everyone has stopped, all looking back at me save for the pilot.

Great.

Perfect.

Apparently I’ve been standing in front of a storage closet like it whispered sweet nothings to me about insulation.

“What?” I bite out, irritated and flustered.

Xeon’s eyes move only once to my... the closet, then away. “Nothing. The hallway splits.”

He doesn’t mention the uniforms, doesn’t mention the way my hand is even on the fucking doorframe, and doesn’t mention that my scent has probably just done something incredibly embarrassing, enough to demand a formal apology to the air. Both verbal and written, no doubt.

He simply points. “Left has more cover. Right is shorter.”

“Left,” I say too quickly.

Fletcher studies the hallway. “Left takes us further from the street.”

“Good. The streets are bitey,” I tell him shortly.

“That a technical assessment?” he questions.

I nod once. “Yup.”

“Left,” he says, and I should be relieved. Instead, irritation flares under my skin because he listened again. Everyone keeps doing that, and it’s starting to become inconvenient.

We move left. The hallway narrows and water drips through cracked plaster, running along the skirting boards in thin streams. The pilot groans once, a wet sound that makes Xeon adjust his grip and mutter something under his breath.

My skin prickles. The air is cooler here, shaded from the broken windows, and my body hates that it helps. The heat under my collar eases slightly, my breathing settling by a fraction.

Xeon chose this route on purpose.

I look at him, but he looks ahead. Of course. It’s privacy disguised as strategy.

I hate smart people.

At the end of the hall, the skybridge is still there. Well, technically. And that word is doing some heroic work that deserves a badge of honor and a statue built for it. The glass sides are mostly gone, the metal frame is beyond rusted, and one side sags toward the street like it’s become emotionally tired ofbeing attached to things. I’ve never related more to anything so much in my life.

Four floors below, Zeds wander through the rain in loose clusters rather than a packed horde, heads twitching toward some distant noise.

Ewan peers around me, muttering, “I’ve seen sturdier pasta.”

“Then don’t lick it,” I mutter back.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Ewan assures.

“Good,” I say. “Plans save lives.”

Fletcher looks at me. “Can it hold?”

I crouch near the threshold, ignoring the way my knee bellows in protest at the movement. The bolts are rusted but still firmly seated. The main supports have turned ugly, but they’re not broken. The sag looks to be from the glass frame rather than the walkway.