hands, and donned a fresh pair. One more
patient to examine. This wouldn’t be easy.
He half-sat, half crumpled against a bench as far from the
operation as he could get, awful hands resting on his knees, palms down. The
light was still human level bright, and she could argue that his eyes were
closed against it. But blood glimmered on his black jacket, on the floor
beneath him, and on the corners of his mouth. Not a good sign. It could mean
perforated lungs. For the first time she was actively thankful Overseers did
not have a functional digestive system, because the thought of intestinal
enzymes and bacteria making havoc in his guts made her own feel like water. At
least the bleed had slowed to an ooze, but that still wasn’t good. He’d healed
nearly immediately back on Marel Sanders . Something inside him was going
wrong.
She set a tray of sterilized tools beside him. “Take off
your coat.” She said.
One eye opened and looked up at her. “It will heal.” He
whispered.
She hesitated, considering the small number of pain killers
on hand. The large number of ways she could die. It was Bryan’s face. Buried
under all of it, it was still Bryan’s face. “You’re bleeding internally and…”
she swallowed. “You’re not healing fast enough. So take off that goddamned jacket
before I do it for you.”
All four eyes opened. He hissed, steam escaping a kettle,
and he tried to look intimidating and scary. He really did. It was almost cute,
she thought hysterically. But he didn’t have it in him, really. Slowly,
painfully, he eased back onto the bench. Double thumbed hands worked the hidden
catches of his coat. That must be really efficient. Certainly, it would make
movie reviews easier. Flippancy kept her from screaming, she guessed. It died
cold when the coat was finally off.
He wore nothing beneath it. Her stomach sank like she were
in free fall. With the coat, the being before her was an Overseer. Aggressive,
scary, a predator that could snap her neck like a pencil, one handed! Without
the coat, Bryan was a holocaust victim. Xylophone bones stretched pearlescent
alien skin tight. No fat. Barely any muscle structure. The bullet hole in his
side was almost secondary to the wasted state of his body. No wonder he wasn’t
healing. He didn’t have the energy to spare.
“Jesus, Bryan.” She whispered. “Jesus Christ.”
“I will take the bullet out. I just need to catch my
breath.” He coughed, weakly, and the blood on his lips increased.
“What the hell happened to you?” She whispered, brushing the
smooth, cold flesh on his chest. What precious little there was of it. The only
heat in him was around the wound.
“I don’t…” cough, “I don’t remember.”
“You’re…” she trailed off, the word catching in her throat.
“Starving?” His lips quirked sardonically. He started to
laugh…and then convulsed, hissing. The human traces in his face vanished and
her own pulse quickened. She backed up and stayed out of arm’s reach until
Bryan relaxed. He didn’t seem to notice. “The alternative is unacceptable. But
in the morning I will…return to the village.”
And feed, she filled in. “What about all those trips you
were making? Weren’t you…” her gorge rose in disgust.
“No,” he whispered.
“Bryan…why are you doing this? Why kidnap me? Why…the
village…We would have taken you in, done whatever we could to...”
“Who are ‘we?’” White eyes fixed hers, cold and intense,
frightened and full of pain that had nothing to do with starvation. “Who are
you? I don’t remember.” Eyes closed, a shiver wracked his body. “I only know
that I—” cough, “--should.” The blue-black blood now coated his lips. His eyes
darted down to his hands, which he turned palms up and rested on his knees. “I
killed four people before I remembered that might be wrong.”
He looked so lost. Sick and…oh, god, dying. Her choice was
made before she realized she even had a
patient to examine. This wouldn’t be easy.
He half-sat, half crumpled against a bench as far from the
operation as he could get, awful hands resting on his knees, palms down. The
light was still human level bright, and she could argue that his eyes were
closed against it. But blood glimmered on his black jacket, on the floor
beneath him, and on the corners of his mouth. Not a good sign. It could mean
perforated lungs. For the first time she was actively thankful Overseers did
not have a functional digestive system, because the thought of intestinal
enzymes and bacteria making havoc in his guts made her own feel like water. At
least the bleed had slowed to an ooze, but that still wasn’t good. He’d healed
nearly immediately back on Marel Sanders . Something inside him was going
wrong.
She set a tray of sterilized tools beside him. “Take off
your coat.” She said.
One eye opened and looked up at her. “It will heal.” He
whispered.
She hesitated, considering the small number of pain killers
on hand. The large number of ways she could die. It was Bryan’s face. Buried
under all of it, it was still Bryan’s face. “You’re bleeding internally and…”
she swallowed. “You’re not healing fast enough. So take off that goddamned jacket
before I do it for you.”
All four eyes opened. He hissed, steam escaping a kettle,
and he tried to look intimidating and scary. He really did. It was almost cute,
she thought hysterically. But he didn’t have it in him, really. Slowly,
painfully, he eased back onto the bench. Double thumbed hands worked the hidden
catches of his coat. That must be really efficient. Certainly, it would make
movie reviews easier. Flippancy kept her from screaming, she guessed. It died
cold when the coat was finally off.
He wore nothing beneath it. Her stomach sank like she were
in free fall. With the coat, the being before her was an Overseer. Aggressive,
scary, a predator that could snap her neck like a pencil, one handed! Without
the coat, Bryan was a holocaust victim. Xylophone bones stretched pearlescent
alien skin tight. No fat. Barely any muscle structure. The bullet hole in his
side was almost secondary to the wasted state of his body. No wonder he wasn’t
healing. He didn’t have the energy to spare.
“Jesus, Bryan.” She whispered. “Jesus Christ.”
“I will take the bullet out. I just need to catch my
breath.” He coughed, weakly, and the blood on his lips increased.
“What the hell happened to you?” She whispered, brushing the
smooth, cold flesh on his chest. What precious little there was of it. The only
heat in him was around the wound.
“I don’t…” cough, “I don’t remember.”
“You’re…” she trailed off, the word catching in her throat.
“Starving?” His lips quirked sardonically. He started to
laugh…and then convulsed, hissing. The human traces in his face vanished and
her own pulse quickened. She backed up and stayed out of arm’s reach until
Bryan relaxed. He didn’t seem to notice. “The alternative is unacceptable. But
in the morning I will…return to the village.”
And feed, she filled in. “What about all those trips you
were making? Weren’t you…” her gorge rose in disgust.
“No,” he whispered.
“Bryan…why are you doing this? Why kidnap me? Why…the
village…We would have taken you in, done whatever we could to...”
“Who are ‘we?’” White eyes fixed hers, cold and intense,
frightened and full of pain that had nothing to do with starvation. “Who are
you? I don’t remember.” Eyes closed, a shiver wracked his body. “I only know
that I—” cough, “--should.” The blue-black blood now coated his lips. His eyes
darted down to his hands, which he turned palms up and rested on his knees. “I
killed four people before I remembered that might be wrong.”
He looked so lost. Sick and…oh, god, dying. Her choice was
made before she realized she even had a
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