Marta can't stop crying.
She's soaked Aaron's t-shirt and she's still not done. He leans against the headboard of the bed in their rented flat in Binh Thanh, District 3, while she sits in his lap, curled into his body. His arms are around her, one hand stroking her hair, brushing the long strands back away from her puffy, red face.
They've been like this since returning from their meeting with Nicky Parsons two hours ago. In between sobs and hiccups and the occasional flailing fist that punches his shoulder (ineffectually), she finally gets it out: she wasn't angry or upset that Nicky Parsons turned out to be a dead end. She's terrified by what he revealed though, that he'd leave her.
"You can't say that, you can't think it," she rages. "It's us, or you go ahead and put a bullet in my head because I can't do this by myself. I can't."
His blue eyes are somber, and he doesn't flinch as she beats his shoulder again. He catches her wrist, holds it gently but inflexibly, pulling her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss against the closed fist. "But you can," he insists. "You're strong. You're tough and smart. You can be on your own. But Doc, we're talking about a chance for you to have your life back, your… sister, maybe even another job doing what you were trained to do!"
That brings on a fresh round of tears, agonizing sobs that wrench through her. She recalls the denunciation in Nicky Parsons' eyes. Nicky, whose haunted gaze forced her to acknowledge the truth she shies from, the one for which Aaron gives her daily absolution.
What she was trained to do.
Once she would have said she was a scientist, in pursuit of pure knowledge. But that single minded approach, the moral fluidity and carte blanche at Sterisyn Morlanta to fund all avenues of human enhancement, allowed her to bypass the ethical safety valves that should have warned her that something was amiss. Yes, these drugs could be applied to help special operators in the military and intelligence perform their dangerous jobs at a higher level, and these discoveries might later have become therapies to treat cognitive degeneration and neuro-developmental disorders. It was noble, the pretense to believe it true. This is how confirmation bias works: you select only what information you need to corroborate what you want to believe, facts be damned. If she were a real scientist, shouldn't all of the facts have outweighed everything else? Weren't facts the truth?
Because what drugs for human improvement come at the cost of the scars, the bullet holes, the knife wounds, the deaths on bodies numbered 1-9? Three of them had died from the viraling, the others bordering on deathly ill. They've come to her with shredded bodies, one with a nearly shredded mind before they sent up to a frozen wasteland. She knows all the scars on Aaron's body. She's kissed some of them in the darkness of night, a gentle touch of her lips to the raised and marked flesh that are the visible choices of her decisions to create and inject these meds. Some are new but the older ones? She catalogued those, wrote them down, asked him meticulous questions about healing rates, measured length and appearance of scars. Not once had she ever inquired how or why. Not once had she permitted herself to wonder what he'd been doing to acquire those injuries.
But she's not a scientist anymore. There's no longer a noble premise, no plausibly honorable outcome (ha, see what she did there?) that can excuse her willing myopia. She sees herself clearly; as Nicky saw her. That's partly why she was so angry at the restaurant. Why she's so devastated now. She is morally reprehensible and not absolutely necessary.
And she cannot go back to that. And the wrist he's holding flexes as she curls her fist tighter. She wrests her hand free and hits him again, harder this time. He grunts though she isn't doing any damage to his shoulder. But she's not done. It's as if the dam has burst and she pushes away from him, this time putting force into her left fist as she pummels him, his chest, his shoulder, his arm. He takes it. She knows that he can physically withstand a lot. But when she looks up at him in the midst of her rage, she sees the torment in his eyes. That's where he hurts, she knows. Her agony is what kills him.
She collapses into him again, shaking, face buried his neck as she inhales, filling her lungs with the sharp essence of him. For a moment, she wonders what it is about the smell of him that always calms her, until she recalls studies about people who experience a rush of dopamine when they encounter the scent of a compatible partner – someone whose immunology is completely different. It's biological: the offspring of two different immune systems are more likely to withstand disease. But the science underlying that knowledge doesn't take into account the sexual warmth that hums through her body as his scent washes over.
"Jesus, Doc," he mutters tugging gently on her hair with his other hand until she lifts her tear- stained face. Some women cry beautifully, their faces photogenic portraits of suffering. Not her. She knows what he sees: red runny nose, red runny eyes, her pale cheeks flushed, her mouth quivering.
And yet he still looks at her in wonder, like she's a gift.
"God, I love you," he whispers.
She blinks. Blinks again. Did he…
He blinks, too, as if surprised that slipped out. He's so damned controlled, his heightened brain always working the angles. So what was the end game here?
"I love you," he says again, calmly, blue eyes burning with conviction.
"Then there's no life but this one," she tells him tremulously, shaking her head angrily when he goes to interrupt her. "What happens to me if I return? I'm marked, as much as I am now. Maybe I'll be safe for a little bit, but what happens if there's an accident? Something small, insignificant that doesn't raise an eyebrow? How would you know it wasn't on purpose? And what about you? Am I supposed to be okay with you running for the rest of your life, wondering if you're dead or alive? What kind of selfish bitch do you think I am that I'd take my life back under those circumstances?"
He's frustrated. "Doc – "
"Didn't you see her? Can't you understand? She can't return to her life either. This is the most free she can ever be. Living in the shadows, hiding, having what life she can. But she's alone." Then her voice cracks and tears slip down her cheeks.
"There's no returning to the life I had once they burned down Outcome," she chokes out, locking eyes with him and making sure he sees how serious she is. "The difference is that in this one, I have you. I have you."
With that, she moves toward him, her hands cupping his stubble-rough face to press her mouth against his before winding her arms around his neck. She finds herself suddenly crushed against his body as his strong arms slip around her waist, pulling her close, muscles in his biceps and forearms flexing against her lower back as his hands clench fistfuls of her shirt. She opens her mouth to his on a soft sigh, finds herself on the receiving end of an impossibly passionate and thorough kiss, one he's been holding in check for…years maybe.
She catalogs this encounter as a series of impressions: the firmness of his lips, one of his hands tangling in her hair before reaching up to grasp her face, holding her still as he traces a line of kisses along that graceful jaw, the hot press of his open mouth against her vulnerable throat, the touch of his tongue when their mouths meet again, the other calloused hand sliding under her shirt to stroke the soft skin of her midriff before moving upward to gently cup the rounded swell straining against the serviceable cotton bra. He swallows her soft noise of arousal, permits her to push him back just long enough to grab the bottom of his shirt. He helps her to pull it over his head, baring his upper body to her; then her lips are exploring that strong column of his neck, her hands stroking along the breadth of his shoulders, down powerful arms. He sighs, makes approving noises, remains quiescent while her soft kisses travel across his chest.
It's a maelstrom.
And just as the fury escalates, just when his hands start to pull up her shirt, his burner phone beeps. The harsh ringtone signifying a new text message is as effective as ice water being poured over them. They stutter to a stop, both breathing harshly, their heated, impassioned bodies confused, outraged by the cessation of pleasure.
They both look at the phone, across the room on the stripped bureau.
Only one person has the number to that phone.
Nicky Parsons.