“It’s all over your face. You’re just like Bast. He couldn’t ever hide a thing.” Lament tugs roughly at his sleeves, seemingly upset with himself. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For everything.” He quits playing with his sleeve and returns his gaze to mine. “Are you going to be okay?”
No, I think, because this is all too weird, and my brain feels like it’s made of gummy worms, and it’s the middle of the night, which somehow makes everything seem so much worse. I wasn’t expecting to confront my past like this. I thought, maybe, I’d finally started to put it behind me. The Legion is my focus now. The Sixth is. So what does it mean that my mind keeps sliding back into memories? The children’s home with its old wooden floors and crown molding and painted murals. Master Ira sitting by the fire, on the porch, in the kitchen, suffusing every room with ease and warmth. The way all the kids adored him. The way I did.
“Hartman?”
“Hmm?”
“I asked you a question.”
Had he? “Repeat it?”
“I asked,” Lament says, “if you’re going to be okay.”
“Yeah,” I reply, and then again, to convince myself. “Yeah.”
Lament doesn’t look like he believes me, but rather than push the point, he just gives a nod. We continue down Detachment 94’s residence hallway, stopping outside the door to my room.
The pause is just this side of awkward.
“So…,” he starts at the same time as I blurt, “Gelatin shot?”
Lament blinks. “What?”
“I mean.” I wince internally. “Would you like to come in?” I open the door and move into my room, waiting to see if Lament will follow. “For, um, a gelatin shot?”
“The Detachment doesn’t stock alcohol.”
“I know.” My pulse is a little erratic as I walk into my kitchenette andpull a handful of neon beakers out of the fridge. Lament—in a groundbreaking turn of events—follows me through the door, closing it behind him.
“Vera smuggled these in on my first night,” I say. “Green apple. They’re actually not bad. Takes a bit of doing to get them down, but…” I offer the tubes.
Lament is scowling, all stern and disapproving. “The Legion doesn’t condone drinking in its residence halls.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“You’re supposed to be displaying exemplary behavior. That’s how you get your red card removed.”
“We’resupposed to be,” I correct. “You forget who clocked their red card first? And like I said, I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Lament is still frowning. And… I get it. I do. It’s just, tonight was a lot, this past week has beena lot, and my head is still full of the professor’s words, and Moon Dancer, and the sergeant, andeverything, and I just… I’m rattled. And confused. And still brand-new to the Legion and unsure of my place here and stressed about all of it. And basically, what that boils down to is I really, really don’t want to be alone right now.
Lament heaves that sigh of his and says, “Oh, what the hell.”
“What the hell.Classic choice, decent delivery. Five out of ten.”
His mouth gets all frowny and contrite. “Did I invite an assessment of my swearing?”
“You didn’tnotinvite it.” I heft the beakers. “Shall we?”
Lament takes one of the beakers and attempts to stab the syringe through the thin plastic lid. I watch in fascination as he… fails. Which is not something I thought possible. I mean, Lament’s fingers are still bandaged from our run-in with the sand cephalopod, which is clearly messing with his grip, but he’s just so competent and self-composed that I never imagined he could struggle with anything, let alonethis.
“Are these things made of titanium?” he grumbles.
“Just plastic.” I am trying my very hardest not to smile. “Like the kind they use on juice boxes for children.”
