Members of the Senate walked around the latest part of the wall. The construction thus far had taken years. Retrieving supplies, and finding and training competent workers took time. The soldiers were present at all hours to eliminate the threat of eight-balls attempting to enter through the gaps in the wall. The residents of Vega still remained wary in their new found sanctuary. Everyone had a story, and every single one of them were tragedies. No one made it through the Extermination War unscathed.
Consul Becca Thorn hadn't. Physically, she remained relatively unscathed. Many would consider her profoundly lucky. Those people didn't know the long list of names she kept in her heart. Her father had died in the first days, before they understood what an Eight-Ball was, or what it could do. She didn't even remember a time in her life where she felt safe.
"There are only three miles left," Consul David Whele said. "The north side is already being equipped with motorized weaponry, the control station is nearly complete."
"Good." General Riesen nodded.
"We need these workers on the Agri-Towers," Senator Frost said.
"We need the protection," Whele argued.
"We don't need it if we all starve to death," Frost retorted.
"Gentlemen, we can work this out," Riesen said, ending their argument before it could build up any steam. "The wall does need to be finished, but it won't be if our workers are famished."
"There are more V-1's that could be trained," Senator Romero suggested.
"I can help at the Agri-Tower," Becca offered. When Frost looked surprised, she suppressed a sigh. Everyone still looked at her like she was nothing but a pretty face with no brain. "Six of the floors in the tower have already been designated to grow medicinal plants, I believe I know best how to care for them."
Frost barked out a laugh. "Have you ever grown a thing in your life, child?"
The insult stung. She'd survived thirty-one years, and that was no small feat these days. She had a reply, but it was cut off by the sudden shouting of guards. "Stay back! Let's see your hands!" Vega's leaders turned, and saw a group of three walking for the break in the wall. The gait was uneven, and eerie in its awkwardness.
They're eight-balls. The thought barely formed before the 'dogs of heaven' attacked. Gunfire and shrieks of pain; barked orders, and vicious snarls. Becca's survival instinct told her to run, but a wounded soldier held their side and cried out for help; the healer in her couldn't ignore it.
"Guard the Committee!" One of the soldiers shouted. "Move, Move!"
Becca ducked around the guard trying to herd her in with the others on the committee. The two-inch heels didn't make the run easy, especially not when the uneven ground was littered with rubble, and tools. She dropped to her knees at the soldier's side, ruining the hem of the burgundy dress for sure. "You're going to be okay," she assured, having to yell over the gunfire. Applying pressure to the wound, she looked at the soldier's face for the first time.
No. No, no, no, this can't be happening!
Her cousin, Ellery Thorn stared up at her, face scrunched in pain. "Beck," she ground the nickname out through her teeth. "Too dangerous. Get out of here."
Becca shook her head. "No. I'm not leaving you." In fact, she kept pressure, and used her body almost as a shield from the battle going on around them. Feisty Ellery, the only family Becca had left. She'd be damned if she let the soldier bleed out in a construction site. "Stay with me, Elle. I'm going to get you to the hospital. I can fix this," she shouted. "I can fix this."
With her typical impatience, and cold practicality, Ellery pushed Becca's hands away. "You have to go!"
"No!" Becca bore down with her own stubbornness and applied pressure once more, her hands covered in blood. She refused to lose anyone else. She couldn't stand it.
"Beck, behind you," Ellery warned, her voice getting weaker.
Becca turned, and threw her hands up to defend as the eight-ball struck out. The blow hit her arm instead of her face, but knocked her to the ground. The momentum forced her to roll, a jagged piece of metal stabbed into the back of her shoulder. A whimper escaped her lips as she rolled away, pulling her body off the broken beam. The eight-ball smiled down at her, showing off a row of jagged teeth. This is it, she thought, this is how I will die. The dark eyes turned its attention skyward suddenly, and hissed. She took looked up, and saw the outline of wings against the sun. Michael. Relief flooded her system so suddenly she nearly cried.
The eight-ball was strong, but the Archangel was stronger. While they fought, Becca took the opportunity to return to her cousin's side. "Ellery?" She dropped back down onto her knees, and had no time to think about infection as she once again put pressure on the wound. "Ellery?" Her cousin's eyes were closed, breathing uneven. "Stay with me."
She looked over her shoulder to see blood and bodies. Some soldiers still stood, some were crouched and performing first-aid on their comrades. Michael stood, wings tight against his body, blade sheathed. Raw energy practically radiated from him, and she was hopeless to do anything but stare. His eyes found hers, and he rushed to her side. "You're hurt." His hand on the wound made her remember, but she hardly felt it.
"I'm fine. I need your help." She stared up at him, blinking away tears. "Ellery needs to get to the hospital and fast. She's lost too much blood."
He appeared to be considering the options for a minute. "I'll take her," he finally replied. He turned. "Sergeant Banks!" The young soldier rushed over at the Archangel's call.
"Yes, Archangel?"
"Escort Consul Thorn to the hospital. With haste."
Sgt. Noma Banks nodded. "Consul Thorn, please come with me."
Becca shut her eyes tightly. "Stay with me Ellery." She stood, and Michael gathered the soldier into his arms. Wings flared and he easily became airborne. Becca watched, awestruck at his simple display of his power, and grace. "Sergeant, can you radio the hospital?" she asked as her wits returned. "They need to prepare for incoming wounded."
"Yes, ma'am. Wounded like you," Noma pointed out. "Come on, the Archangel said with haste, and I don't want him angry with me."
::
Dr. Dale Green had been a doctor before the world became a battleground. Since he'd come to Vega, he'd worked closely with Portia Thorn, and by extension the equally brilliant Becca. The young woman absorbed new information like a sponge absorbs and retains water. He enjoyed having her as a pupil, teaching her had become one of the few joys left in his life. Having her injured disturbed him, especially since it hadn't even been a year since Portia died.
Luckily, whatever had sliced Becca got caught in the muscle and bone of her shoulder and didn't go deep enough to cause any lasting damage. He stitched her shoulder with care as she stared resolutely at the wall. "Am I hurting you?" he asked.
"No," Becca replied.
In her lap, her still bloodied hands had balled into fists. He doubted the sincerity of her answer. "Ellery will be fine," he insisted, despite the fact that he didn't know one way or the other. People often told each other what they needed to hear, rather than the facts.
"Can you hurry up?" she requested. "I'm needed elsewhere."
He sighed. "I'm just about done. Hold still."
::
Becca studied the medical chart. "She lost too much blood."
"We don't have any more in stock," Finley, the surgeon- once a veterinarian- replied.
"I'm a match," Becca said. She then shot him a dark look over her shoulder when he failed to move immediately. "Go and get the supplies." Ellery had made it through surgery, Becca would be damned if she let her cousin down now.
::
After forty-five minutes, Finley pulled the needle out. "She needs more," Becca argued.
"You've given too much as it is," he argued. "I'm not letting you give more." He held up a hand. "End of argument. You're going to be dizzy and weak, so you really can't fight me on this."
"But-"
"No buts," Finley insisted. "I'll go and get you some juice, see what food I can scrounge up. Don't get up, you're likely to fall on your face if you do. Deep down, you know I'm right. Think with your head, Becca."
She put her hand over her eyes. "I know you're right," she said, though it pained her. "I just… I need her-"
"I know," he whispered. "Love makes us do scary, dangerous, and occasionally stupid things." He patted her knee, and left.
Becca stared up at the ceiling, praying to a God who'd abandoned them.
::
Finley wasn't kidding about the dizziness, nor the weakness. Becca braced her hand against the wall as she walked down the hall to the elevator of the Stratosphere. It felt forbidden, and her heart pushed her blood around too fast. She paused, took a minute to blink her vision clear.
She told Finley she'd return straight home, and had, ditched her guard by slipping out onto her balcony and somehow making it down the emergency escape ladder without falling into the rosebushes below. The immediate need to thank the Archangel was a song in her veins. It couldn't be drowned out, and it refused to be ignored.
Inside the elevator, she studied the numbers, and took the elevator to the penthouse on the top. She held the rail, trying to steady her breathing, wishing her nerves would stop acting as though they'd been electrocuted. The elevator doors opened to a welcoming room, a tall vase sat on the floor with long sticks and fake flowers. The door in front of her would lead into his room. She wondered what it would be like. Like the man, cool, detached, and impersonal. Cool colours, maybe a simple cot to sleep on, nothing unnecessary.
She jumped as the elevator doors started to close again, and she grabbed it with her hand, and the door reopened. She stepped out, and realised for the first time she was still wearing her heels. Might have been smarter to take them off before tackling the ladder, if she'd been thinking at her usual capacity, she would have left them behind. The strap on the right side of her dress had been cut off when Dale had cleaned her wound and stitched it up. Being filthy dirty apart from a swatch of clean cloth protecting the wound, and her thoroughly scrubbed hands, made her regret coming. She needed to put her best foot forward at all times, the youngest of the senate and still widely unproven in her field, she knew her appearance was everything. Competent, brilliant, cool, and capable, she had to be everything her mother had been, and more.
One foot in front of the other, her knees shook violently, she teetered on the heels, but made it to the door, both hands hitting it at the same time. She shut her eyes as shame swamped her. Weakness, rash, unwise- the door opened, and she nearly fell. Michael's hands on her shoulders steadied her.
"Becca?" Surprise entered his voice, and it was one of the few times she heard anything but that cool indifference in his voice.
"I'm sorry," she apologized automatically. "I shouldn't have come, and I'm completely unkempt, but I had to thank you, for what you did today. For Ellery. For me, because I asked. Or because she's your soldier, or…" she shook her head. "I thought about sending flowers." Oh Saviour, kill me now, release me from this embarrassment. She swallowed hard. "To thank you, but I didn't know if you'd like flowers, and I'm rambling. Please just say, 'you're welcome' or something, and turn me back toward the elevator, and forget this ever happened."
Instead, he stared at her with acute interest. His fingers brushed along the line of gauze taped to her shoulder. "Was it deep?" She must have stared blankly while she fought to regain her voice from the depths of her mortification. "The cut?"
"No," she whispered, only giving herself license to answer directly, lest she start babbling again and make herself look like an even bigger fool.
His eyes didn't move from their lock on hers, he stared at her like he could read her deepest secrets if he just looked deep enough. "How is Corporal Thorn doing?"
"Better than expected." Her knees shook violently, and she grabbed the only thing available for balance, his arm. In response, his hands tightened their holds on her shoulders. "I need to sit down or fall down."
"Right." He pulled her arm over his shoulder, and the close proximity had her entire body tingling. One hand held her wrist, the other had moved around her waist. She tried to distance herself from the warmth, tried to tell herself that this was the way he would assist a wounded soldier across the field, this meant nothing. But, oh Saviour, I want it to. He helped her sit down on a lovely high-back chair near the glorious windows. The lights of the city looked so far away, the cool breeze had her clenching the armrest. Of course the giant window would be open, the Archangel had nothing to fear from the fall.
His hand on her chin redirected her attention back to him. "Have you been drinking?"
"No," she replied. His eyes narrowed, and she realized he was trying to figure out the reason behind her out-of-character behaviour. "Ellery needed blood, we have the same type."
He frowned. "You gave too much."
Becca couldn't look at him, didn't think he could understand. Her hands balled into fists. "She's all I have left."
He left, and she immediately missed his touch. Her eyes went to follow him, but got distracted by his room. Cool and impersonal, nothing unnecessary? I couldn't have been more wrong. The large round bed had warm gold sheets, translucent ethereal material rounded the bed. A cocoon for lovers. She swallowed hard, and wished her brain would stop betraying her like this. These feelings were nothing but a chemical reaction. You couldn't develop a crush on a doctor, or a scientist? No, the only man you've ever held a spark of interest in is an Archangel. There was another chair, used apparently to hold a stack of books. A few small tables were littered around, some had candles, others more books, or scrolls.
"Here." He returned in the right field of her vision, and she turned to see him extending a glass of orange juice. "Drink." His order seemed to completely surpass her own sense, and she knew that any order he gave, she'd follow. She took a small sip, but he gently tapped the bottom of the glass, prompting her to drink until it was finished. "Have you eaten?"
"Yes." When he studied her further, trying to distinguish if she lied, she continued, "Finley wouldn't let me leave until I finished a sandwich."
He nodded, and his arms crossed over his chest. "You slipped your guard."
It hadn't occurred to her how much trouble the Archangel Corps Soldier would get in when Michael found out. "I can be sneaky when I want to be," she said. "Please don't punish him."
He glanced down at her feet. "Women are not sneaky when they wear those."
She took looked down at her two inch heels. "I told him I was going to take a bath, and he checked my room and bath before giving me my privacy. Although," she grimaced looking down at herself, "I should have bathed first, but I had to thank you." She couldn't explain the urgency behind that need, couldn't explain why it couldn't wait until tomorrow, or the council meeting he'd be attending later in the week.
"Well, now you have."
She swallowed hard at the dismissal. "Right, of course." She stood slowly, hoping she wouldn't embarrass herself further by tripping. "Thank you for your hospi…tal…ity…" her mouth barely formed the words, as his hand banded around her upper arm, her other hand going to her hair, pulling out a small stone.
He studied it a moment, and then put it on one of his books. "You're never going to get the debris out of your hair without assistance."
And just like that, all her brilliance melted and pooled as lust in her belly. Her mouth struggled to form words, but her suddenly vacant cranium left no intelligent reply. Surely he wasn't offering, just stating that she would need assistance. Stating a fact. She could deal with facts. Fact- her hair was a mess. Fact- so was the rest of her. Fact- she needed a bath. Fact- she needed to leave before she further embarrassed herself.
Had he moved closer? He felt closer, or warmer, or maybe it was her own body warming. The cool breeze on her back reminded her of the open window, and yet with Michael, she felt completely safe near it.
His thumb brushed over her bottom lip, and couldn't catch her breath. Never had she felt such a blissful delirium. "I can draw you a bath." The gentle rumble of his words made her tremble, and he must have felt it for his arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her flush against his body. "Let me help you, Becca."
She couldn't trust words. Couldn't find them. Somehow, she managed to nod very slowly. His grin was so slow and seemed to take minutes to form.
::
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