He retreats into the dark.
Zia shifts. She takes a deep breath, inhaling my scent this time, deliberately or instinctively, I don't know. Her hand moves in her sleep, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of my sleeve.
"Euan," she mumbles, not waking up. a sleepy affirmation of presence.
"I have you," I whisper, so quiet the air barely moves.
I stare at the visualizer. Her colors bloom on the screen, painting the silence, and for the first time in my life, everything feels right.
THIRTEEN
Zia
The smell of melting solder usually calmed me. It was the scent of connection, of fixing broken things, of permanent solutions.
But at 2:00 AM in the cramped tech bay of the bus, with the suspension eating a pothole on the M1, it was just dangerous.
I was repairing a custom loom for Euan’s loop station. The connection had been crackling during soundcheck, a "dirty yellow" noise in the 2k range that made my teeth itch. I had the iron in my right hand, the solder in my mouth (bad habit, I knew), and the wire clamped in a helping-hand stand that was currently vibrating with the bus’s movement.
The bus hit another bump. A big one.
My hand slipped.
The barrel of the soldering iron, heated to 700 degrees, slashed across the meat of my left palm.
"Fffff—"
I dropped the iron. It clattered into its safety stand, thankfully, but the damage was done.
The pain wasn't immediate. It was a white-hot silence, a gap in the signal, followed a split second later by a screaming, red-lined peak that flooded my entire nervous system.
I hissed, clutching my wrist, curling into myself. The smell of singed skin mixed with the resin smoke.
I sat there for ten seconds, breathing through my teeth.four in. six out.
Old Protocol Zia would have run it under cold water, wrapped it in gaffer tape, and kept working. Old Protocol Zia treated her body like a rental car, drive it until the wheels fall off, then worry about the deposit.
But the burn was angry. It was going to blister. It was on my hand. I needed my hands.
And... I had a team.
I stared at the door to the lounge.
First clause kills, second clause cures.
"Okay," I whispered to the empty tech bay. "Test case."
I stood up, cradling my hand against my chest. The pain was a throbbing bass kick now, steady and nauseating.
I walked into the rear lounge.
It was dim. The only light came from the floor strips and the glow of a laptop screen.
Kit was there.
He was sitting on the floor, back against the sofa, messing with a snare drum. His movements were rhythmic, hypnotic. Twist, tighten, tune.
He looked up as I entered. He didn't smile. He scanned me.
