It wasn't entirely an act, not when her leg was screaming.
The branch was perfect—solid enough to provide real support, but not so thick she couldn't work with it. She straightened up, using it like a walking stick, and nodded to the ferals.
"Better. Thanks so much for your patience." She shot them a bright smile, the kind she'd learned from Amalia, the receptionist back at company HQ. She'd called it her 'fuck off and die' smile. It fit.
Scarface jerked his head forward. The jumpy one—Twitchy, she'd dubbed him—immediately started moving, his head swiveling left and right at every sound. The third one, built like a brick-shithouse with arms covered in ritual scars, shouldered his pack and fell into step. She'd started thinking of him as Tank.
Falling into step behind them, she tested the branch with each step. Real hardwood, seasoned by weather but still strong. Yeah, she could work with this.
The drizzle that had been threatening all morning started in earnest. Cold droplets found their way through the canopy, soaking through her work shirt and making her shiver. The temperature was dropping too, and without her outer layer, the chill was seeping into her bones. Her injured leg ached worse in the damp, a deep throb that matched her heartbeat.
Twenty minutes later, her stomach lurched for real. Pain, stress… whatever it was, it gave her the perfect excuse.
"Oh shit, stop," she gasped, doubling over. "I'm gonna be sick."
The ferals halted.
"What now?" Scarface barked, sharp and guttural.
"Just... just give me a minute," she managed, stumbling toward a cluster of trees draped with hanging moss. "Oh god, I'm gonna be sick."
Twitchy started to follow, but Scarface grabbed his arm and shook his head. Even murderous alien berserkers understood the need for privacy when someone was about to lose their lunch.
She made it behind the trees and dropped to her knees on the soggy forest floor as she retched a couple of times. It took long seconds for the nausea to pass, but it did, and she got to work.
Her outer shirt came off first… sturdy work fabric that had seen her through countless construction sites. The cold air hit her hard, raising goosebumps along her arms.
“Fuck’s sake, it’s like a penguin’s fucking armpit out here,” she hissed as she tore the inner part of the shirt into strips, testing each one for strength.
The broken splint came off next. Pain flared white-hot as the bone moved. She exhaled slowly through clenched teeth, counting to three before continuing. It’s fine… just another Tuesday. Checking the remains of the splint, she broke off the damaged portion and fitted the rest back together around her calf.
It wasn't perfect, but it would work. It had to. Stuffing a spare bit of rag into her mouth to stop herself from crying out, she bit down as she bound the splint back around her leg with the torn shirt strips. Her vision tunneled for a moment as pain exploded up through her leg, stealing her breath. When it cleared, she was already pulling her boot back on, muscle memory taking over. The drizzle was getting heavier, which made the fabric damp and easier to tie, but also made her fingers numb with cold.
Wrap, tension, secure. Check the pressure points. Make sure circulation wasn't cut off.
She moved automatically, trying not to think about the fact that this was her leg and not some machine component. But then, what was the difference? The human body was just another kind of machine, right?
She tied off the final knot and stood gingerly to test her weight. When pain didn’t flare through her leg again, she breathed a sigh of relief. Much better. It still hurt, a bone-deep, throbbing ache, but it took most of the stress off the break. More importantly, the broken pieces of the splint weren't carving her up, and she could walk without worrying about re-breaking the bone.
Pulling her shirt back on, thinner now without the lining and offering less protection against the cold, she emerged from the bushes.
"Okay," she called out, pretending to wipe her mouth. For some reason she didn’t want them to know about the break. About her weakness. "Sorry about that. Ready to go."
Scarface looked her over, then he grunted and turned away.
Tank adjusted the pack on his shoulders while Twitchy was already bouncing on his toes, head snapping around at every rustle in the undergrowth. Scarface pointed ahead through the trees, and they started walking again.
She fell into step behind them, using the walking stick portion of her branch for additional support. The repair to the splint held up, and her stride evened out.
Now to carry on leaving a trail. Zeke would be looking for her—she was sure of that. The man was stubborn as hell when it came to protecting people; he wouldn't abandon her. She waited until they were crossing a rocky section where granite boulders pushed up through the forest floor. Letting herself stumble, she caught herself against a tree with her free hand, scraping her cut palm against the rough bark. She hissed as it scraped the raw flesh.
No pain, no gain.
Squeezing her hand into a fist until it throbbed, she let a few drops of blood fall. Every few hundred yards, she'd try to scrape her palm against bark or stone. Quick cuts. Small blood drops. Anything for someone following to pick up on.
Movement caught her eye behind her. Something dark scuttled from under a fallen log—massive, easily the size of a dinner plate. Its carapace gleamed wetly as it moved toward the blood she'd left on a rock. Multiple red eyes, dull as old blood, fixed on the crimson drops.
Shit, it was a krevasta. She froze. She'd seen smaller ones back at the construction site, but this one was easily twice the size. Its multiple eyes fixed on her, unblinking and alien. They were dull red, like old blood, and reminded her of the ferals when they were agitated.
