Suddenly all the adults were shouting at once, and, panicked, Damian couldn't understand any of the words. He covered his head with his arms, but then a body loomed in front of him and he was being dragged out of the car onto the pavement.
"Just what the hell is going on here?" hissed the dark-haired man holding onto Damian's arm, the man with the Japanese accent. The other man, the one who had killed Damian's father, had jumped back away from the car and was staring at the two of them with a frozen expression. Likewise, the two women had suddenly gone silent.
Damian shuddered, trying to pull away, but the grip on his arm didn't lessen. He would have screamed, except at that moment he turned and saw his father's body lying on the ground.
It was face-up. Damian couldn't tear his eyes away from his father's stomach, where something had left a gaping mess of a wound. Blood had poured out, staining his father's clothes, and his left leg had been broken and was facing the wrong direction from the knee down.
He didn't want to see any more. Damian tried to run—the grip on his arm tightened and he was pulled back. He tried moving, thrashing, but arms suddenly closed around him, leaving him no freedom to move except with ineffectual jerking limbs. Damian tried to scream again, but now there was a hand clamped firmly over his mouth. His feet weren't even on the ground anymore, kicking pointlessly in all directions in the air.
Helpless, Damian screwed his eyes closed, shaking with sobs. It felt like a hollow cave in his chest, empty and numb. Everything suddenly felt far away: the murderer, the man holding him, the body, the black car, the locked box now being pried out of his right hand…
Somehow, around him, the world didn't collapse.
—
Pella was surprised when the kid in his Fin's arms suddenly went still. The boy had been squirming so hard he'd nearly kicked Fin in the knees, but now he looked like a little dark-skinned ragdoll, hanging lifeless in his captor's arms. The effect was unsettling.
Considering that Pella's heart was still racing from the shock of finding a child, of all things, waiting in their car, it was a miracle that Fin had found the presence of mind to restrain the kid before he could start shouting. Pella's blood turned to ice when she realized just what might have happened if they'd been discovered here, with a body on the ground, and the four of them standing here holding a child, pokémon on each of their belts…
"Gimbal."
Pella snapped out of her daze, turning to the speaker, Gin. The woman was staring at Mi—at Gimbal, with a hard expression in her narrow black eyes. It was hard to see in the dark lot, but Pella could just barely discern that Gin's hands were shaking, holding the scientist's parcel so tightly that her knuckles were white.
Pella didn't blame her. If they'd gone back without it…
"Gimbal," Gin repeated, louder this time. "Gimbal, damn you, hurry up and check the car. Make sure it's really empty this time." Aside from her accent being somewhat more detectable than it usually was, the woman didn't look too anxious on the surface, although Pella knew that this probably had more to do with Gin's self-control than her feelings on the situation.
Because this was bad. Really bad.
Gimbal started, finally tearing his gaze away from Fin's motionless captive, and practically tripped over his own feet in his haste to obey. All his bravado seemed to have abandoned him.
Pella wrung her hands as the man searched the vehicle, checking underneath the seats and even going so far as to open to trunk. She kept shooting glances to Gin, but the woman had her eyes fixed on the car. Desperate, Pella looked at Fin—he was still focused on the kid, seemingly at a loss for what to do.
Finally, Gimbal closed the trunk, walking back toward them and shaking his head. Gin nodded, though she didn't look completely satisfied.
Pella couldn't keep silent any longer. "Well?" she asked, her voice sounding shamefully terrified even in her own ears. "What do we do now?"
Gin didn't look at her, her expression closed and contemplative. "There's nothing for it. We have to take them both back with us."
"Take—take them with us?" asked Gimbal, his voice hoarse and disbelieving. "You're not serious!"
Gin did turn then, staring Gimbal dead in the eye, her expression suddenly so furious that he visibly crumpled under her gaze.
"And what would you have us do?" she asked, voice even but with a definite edge. "Would you like us to hide the bodies somewhere and pretend this never happened? It happened, Gimbal, and we're not going to risk police action just to save you from Boss Proton. You earned this."
He looked at the ground, shamefaced. Gin turned to Pella, holding out one hand expectantly. "Give me that key," Gin said, her voice calmer but no less focused. "First things first, we have to finish what we came out here for."
Pella scrambled to obey, reaching into her own shirt and yanking out a thin loop of string before tugging it over her head. The key dangled loosely on the cord, catching what little light there was and gleaming as it spun slowly back and forth.
Gin took it, turning the key over in her right hand as she balanced the parcel flat on her left. They all held their breath, nervously, unconsciously, as she stuck the key into the lock—and then successfully turned it. It had worked. They let out a collective sigh of relief. It had worked. They hadn't come out here for nothing.
Gingerly, Gin turned the key back to its original position and removed it from the lock, handing it to Pella. Pella's hands nearly shook with relief as she placed the string back around her neck.
"You're not going to open it?" she asked, smoothing over the fabric of her shirt once the key was in place underneath it.
Gin shook her head. "No. We can't risk damaging it further. Even oxygen might be enough to ruin it at this point."
Pella nodded, disappointed, but at that moment Fin spoke: "Uh, Engine—he's cold. The kid's getting really cold…"
Gin swore, walking quickly over to him and reaching out an arm to feel the boy's forehead with the back of her hand. "I should have known," she muttered. "He's going into shock…"
Alarmed, Pella traded glances with Gimbal, who looked just as taken aback as she did. "What does that mean?" she asked, nervously wringing her hands again.
"It's a response to trauma. Basically, his body can't deal with the stress, and he's shutting down," Gin said, sounding distracted, rummaging through her jacket to look for something. "And no wonder; he just saw his own father getting murdered in front of him. I should have guessed…"
"His father?" asked Gimbal, as though the thought hadn't occurred to him before. Pella had other concerns.
"What do we do?" she asked, alarmed. Was the kid going to die? Should they call an ambulance? Well, they obviously couldn't do that, but, if the kid was going to die…
"There's not much we can do," Gin said through gritted teeth, apparently unable to find what she'd been looking for. "One of you, find something edible and give it to me. We need to make sure his blood sugar level is stable."
Gimbal shook his head, looking lost, but Pella dug through her pockets and came up with a half-eaten protein bar, which she handed over silently. Gin snatched it and shoved it at Fin, saying sharply, "Make him finish this. I don't care if you have to shove it down his throat."
She then turned to Pella and Gimbal, rolling up her sleeves. "We're out of time. We have to move the body," Gin said, walking toward the still-bleeding corpse on the pavement.
Pella and Gimbal followed, stopping about a foot away from the fallen man. Pella swallowed, struggling to overcome the wave of nausea that rolled through her stomach when she saw the wounds Fin's Nidorino had left.
"Come on, you two," Gin said, her voice determinedly calm. "Help me lift this. Propellant, go open the trunk."
Pella did as she was told. Behind her, Gin and Gimbal struggled to lift the body, getting blood all over their clothes, and the pavement, as they moved.
"Fin, hand her the kid and come help us," barked Gin after a moment, voice strained from the exertion. "Propellant—get the kid in the car. Give him your jacket if you have to, just make sure he's warm. We'll hand him over to the medics when we get back, if we can."
Pella swallowed nervously and nodded, taking the kid from Fin as he approached with a bit of difficulty—the boy was heavier than he looked. Maneuvering him through the open car door to rest on the seat, Pella took off her jacket and managed to get the boy's arms through the sleeves with some effort: he was completely unresponsive to her movements. She noticed absently that he smelled terrible, as if he hadn't bathed in days, and his skin was clammy with sweat. When she finished putting the jacket on him, the kid sat motionlessly, not responding at all when she waved a hand in front of his face. Unnerved, Pella left him sitting where he was and went to check on the others.
They'd gotten their victim into the trunk, where he lay face-up, blood staining the interior. Pella turned away, unable to look, and shuddered when she saw that her companions' hands were covered in blood.
"Is this really necessary?" asked Gimbal, wiping his hands on his black pants, not looking at any of them. "No one's going to give a shit about this guy. For all they know he's just another dumbass who got himself killed in the ghetto. And the kid probably won't say anything if we let him go. Who would believe him?"
"There's no choice," said Gin, and Pella was surprised to hear resignation in her tone instead of anger. "Honestly? I would be willing to bet anything that this was just a carjacking gone wrong, but we have to interrogate the child and make sure. We've made enough careless mistakes for one night."
Hesitantly, Pella reached out and placed a hand on Gimbal's shoulder. He looked up to meet her eyes, expression miserable, and she realized that he'd spoken out of guilt. Maybe this had gotten personal for him. Terrible as it was, the thought made her feel relieved.
But she didn't have long to dwell on it. "You're sure he's dead?" Fin asked, sounding repulsed as he glanced over the body in front of them. His voice was uneven and shaky, not quite able to maintain his composure, accent far more pronounced than normal. "You know, it takes a while to completely bleed out, even if it luh, l-looks like he's losing a lot of blood really fast. Those wounds aren't big."
"It wasn't the wounds that killed him," Gin said grimly, slamming the trunk closed loudly enough to make them jump. "Now get in the car, all of you."
