Purged

She had felt like she would throw up when she was sewing him up, purge herself of the queasiness that stitching brought. She could still see the needle crisscrossing the gash, twining a design just as striking as his tattoos, if not as intricate. She'd wondered at the sterility of the thread, feeling incompetent as he gave her directions, feeling useless even though he'd clearly found a use for her.

That was why she'd followed them weeks later. She'd known it wouldn't result in anything good, but she had to prove herself. He made her do it. It wasn't anything he said. It wasn't anything he did. It was instead the absence of both that made her want to measure herself up to his standards. If he'd put her to a use, the way he did everyone else, she wouldn't have been quite so determined to make herself useful.

He was already up at dawn. She should have known. No rest for the wicked, or doctors. She padded down the sand towards him, casual, slow. "Hey, Jack."

He didn't turn at first. He was too busy watching the water, his close-cropped head turned away from her. She wondered what he saw there. She saw no point to looking for rescue ships; they would rescue everyone but her.

"Hey," she repeated. He turned, unsmiling, momentarily uncertain. She would never have admitted it, but she liked to see that little bit of doubt, and felt a thrill of victory at it. Her arms folded, and she stood above him, letting him stand below, closer to the waves. "Got a job for me?"

"What do you want to do, Kate?"

She couldn't say. She felt like she would throw up again, and hid it with a smile. "Anything I can."