Erna no longer feels any excitement when light cuts the darkness, slowly widening as the scraping of that metal door signals that something new is about to happen.
For a while there, she would at least perk up with anticipation, wondering to herself if she would get food or water, or, trying to guess what new torture Nile had in store for her. That spark of curiosity is dampened in her and all but snuffed out.
Every shallow breath she takes stings her chapped and bleeding lips as she tries to put things straight in her head. Thinking is hard without light to go by, she's found. In the dark, the brain wants to shut down and sleep.
But she needs a new plan.
The first plan had been: make them kill her. Which, to some, might sound like a terrible plan, but it was a point of principle. To her, control comes first. Survivability comes second. Not many people know that about her. It was thought, among the city's criminal circles, that Erna's strength was in how she stressed personal survival – not only for herself, but also for anyone she recruited.
She would freely tell people who joined her that loyalty is only good up to a point, but if they were in a situation where being disloyal would save their skin, then by all means they should think of themselves first, because she damn sure would be doing the same. She did very much believe that, but telling it to people bluntly like that was for control. Telling them to be disloyal for survival only made people want to be more loyal, and in the assurance that Erna would do the same there was a tacit threat. Save yourself if you must, because I'll also be trying to save myself, which means taking you out if you prove to be a difficulty. The control is subtle, but it's always there in everything that she does.
That is why she raged when the military police dared to tell her that she would work for them. Death is preferable to living with her control taken away…if she could control the way she died.
She doesn't think she's in a position to do that anymore. She tries to provoke Nile, to take the decision out of his hands and force them, but he's grown immune to her. He doesn't react, doesn't even flinch at the things she says.
When he does finally kill her, it will be because his Commander told him to, not because of anything within her control.
That's not okay.
Every breath is fire against her lips and heavy in her lungs. The damp air has by now wreaked havoc on her throat and lungs. Coughing in itself is a whole new torture.
She's emaciated enough that she won't be surprised if one of the next bouts of coughing breaks a rib. There is a trade-off, though. Something positive. Nile doesn't bother to chain her anymore.
She tries not to dwell on how much she's been through or how long she's been there. She tries to muster up some curiosity or anticipation for what might happen next, after she follows through with the first step of her new plan.
Several times she thinks she feels, from where she's lying on the floor, the knocking of footsteps reverberating from outside, but nobody comes in. It's the knocking in her chest that keeps tricking her. She pushes herself and sits up against the wall, her knees tucked into her chest.
Finally Nile ends her waiting and scrapes open that metal door as slowly as possible because he knows the sound of it kills her.
Erna's voice comes out cracking like dry leaves. She doesn't waste words.
He's only two steps into the room when she says, "I'll do it."
Nile pauses in turning to close the door. This is the first time in a long time that he's reacted at all to something she's said. He turns slightly to look at her, raising his eyebrows in disbelief, and says, "What did you say?"
She clears her throat before repeating herself. Her voice is less dry this time. "I'll do it. I give up. I'll do the training."
She hopes he won't ask her to repeat that, because that's about all the voice she thinks she has left.
Nile does not react in the haughty, gloating way she expected. Instead he nearly crumbles. He drops the keys, not even seeming to notice the tinny racket they make when they hit the floor. His arm shoots out to the wall to balance himself as he shakes with horrified relief, like somebody who just survived something truly traumatic.
Erna tilts her head as she watches him. He looks like he might cry. She hadn't guessed that his job took such a toll on him. It doesn't do anything to garner any sympathy from her, in any case.
Nile doesn't speak to her again. He recovers himself and steps out the still opened door. He says something that Erna can't hear to the guards outside and he leaves.
If she could, she would scream and ask him where the fuck he thinks he's going. Why should he get to leave now when they've been through so much together?
One guard puts a blanket around her shoulders, wrapping it around her twice. The other picks her up like she weighs nothing – which, by now, she probably doesn't – and carries her bridal style out to the corridor. She closes her eyes. She doesn't remember ever having been carried before. It's a strange feeling. It's not comforting like she thought it was supposed to be.
She's transferred to a hospital to recover. She gets her own room. The first week is like a whole new torture where they swear they're helping her as they swab cuts with alcohol and pierce open the ones that have abscessed. They give her small things to eat and drink every few hours to acclimate her body to food again.
There is at least one guard posted outside at all hours of day and night. They still don't trust her. There's a rule that a guard needs to be present anytime a doctor or nurse is in the room with her. They think that she'll manipulate someone into helping her escape. The idea hadn't occurred to her until she realized that was what they were protecting against. Escaping is no longer part of the plan. She has grander plans now. They're nebulous, but there is one component that she's sure of: she's not going back to what she did before.
Commander Brown doesn't come to see her until the sixth week, when she's filled out some more and isn't so miserable to look at. He, she notes, looks exactly the same as far as she can recollect the last time she saw him.
"Glad to see you've come to your senses and are recovering well," he says.
"They say it takes three months to recover from starvation," Erna responds matter-of-factly. It was something that she noted when the nurse told her, only because that meant that they knew the average recovery length from having done this before.
"Yes, well," he says, "I'd like to talk about what you're to do when you are fully recovered."
Erna's never had a job interview before, but she gets the feeling that this is what one would sound like. It makes her want to laugh.
"To make this happen as quickly as possible, you'll have a tutor here to catch you up on every aspect of military protocol and regulation. When you're well enough, you'll get two weeks of private instruction with the maneuver gear."
"Is it that easy to learn?" she asks skeptically.
"Maybe not, but we take it that you catch onto things quickly."
She smirks at him.
"After that, you'll be officially enlisted and you'll serve six months with the Survey Corps."
"That's not what I agreed to." This is where she would like to draw the line. The Survey Corps is for the suicidal. The whole point of going along with any of this was to not die.
"It's the fastest way to get you proficient and familiar with what will be important to the people you train."
"If I fucking survive," she adds.
"If you survive," he agrees. He runs his fingers over his goatee. "We have faith that you will."
It would have to be faith. There's not much logical reason to believe that she would survive.
"And then," he rests his hands on his knees, "You'll take over as Instructor for the Southern District Training Corps."
"And that's it?" she has to make sure. She has to try to get anything else he might be hiding.
"That's it."
"What's the vacation pay like?" she asks sarcastically.
"You'll be able to take breaks whenever the trainees are given R&R time. The only condition to that is that you're not going to be allowed inside Wall Sina ever again."
Erna pouts. "I thought you trusted me."
"To an extent," he says. "Your communication will also be limited. You'll only be able to write or talk to military personnel. You're cut off from your gang or associates or whatever you like to call them."
"I'm done with that," she says.
"Good to hear." He doesn't sound like he believes her.
"So that's all?" she asks.
"That's all. You're going to live a relatively peaceful life with a steady paycheck, shelter, and food."
Peaceful, she thinks.
She doesn't really do peaceful.