“I don’t think we’ve met.” Gemma held out her other hand to his father and introduced herself.
Christian’s dad looked at her gesture then scoffed. “So, you’re the reason my son threw his entire life away.”
He punched his dad in the face. The man toppled backward, landing hard and clutching the side of his face with his hand. His tools spilled, and those who’d been speaking nearby hushed.
“Don’t you ever talk to her like that again,” Christian scolded. “And don’t act like you give a fuck about my life. You haven’t since the day you sold me to the Falaichte. You think I threw my life away? No. I traded it. Every scrap of loyalty the Systems thought they owned, every ounce of the future you thought I should want, I gave it up for something worth more. For someonewho’s worth more.”
Christian pointed at Gemma. “She’s the reason I stopped wanting to die on the front lines. The reason I remember my life isn’t defined by the worst things I’ve done. And if the price of protecting her is walking away from the Systems, then it’s the easiest choice I’ve ever made.”
His father’s jaw worked, like there were words he wanted to spit but couldn’t get past his teeth. A muscle jumped in his cheek, and for the first time, Christian thought he saw something like guilt flicker in his eyes. But it was gone a second later, replaced by the same flat detachment Christian had grown up with.
Without a word, his dad stooped to gather the spilled tools and wandered away. He didn’t look at Gemma again.
Christian’s pulse thrashed in his ears. Gemma’s fingers stayed laced with his, her thumb brushing against his knuckles in a small, grounding motion. He kept his eyes forward, afraid to let her see the rage behind his stare.
She tugged on his hand. “Come on. Let’s go find something to eat.”
He shut his eyes and took a long, deep breath before letting Gemma lead him to the tent they had marked as theirs. After stripping free of their maintenance uniforms and setting their belongings inside, they wandered hand-in-hand to the mess tent, where Imara and Hawk were already making fast friends with some of the Dissent members. Gemma and Christian joined the group but stayed silent through the majority of their meal.
When Gemma said she was going to find the showers, Christian couldn’t jump out of his seat fast enough.
The showers were tucked behind heavy canvas partitions near the far wall, behind the medical tent. Outside the stalls, two dented metal chests sat side by side, their lids thrown back to reveal neatly folded stacks of clean shirts, trousers, and underwear, separated by gender. Christian handed Gemma a set from the women’s chest before taking one from the men’s. A strong scent of soap lingered on the worn fabric.
He pushed the curtain aside on the nearest stall and glanced in. The floor was a patchwork of mismatched metal plating. The edges had been sealed with some sort of polymer, and the drain was slightly off-center. A rust-speckled pipe ran down the wall into a battered shower head. Above it was a crude heating system, made from scavenged piping and an ancient filtration system.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
He stepped inside and twisted the tap. The water came in a thin, steady stream.
“You take this one,” he said to Gemma. “I’ll grab the next.”
She nodded, and he stepped aside so she could pass. He slipped into the stall next to hers and hung his clothes over a railing before disrobing and turning on the tap. After a moment’s groan, water spilled from the pipe. He stood beneath it, closing his eyes and letting the warmth spill over his shoulders. At last, he was washing away the grit of Reva’s surface, the smoke from Lysa’s fire, and the metallic tang of the tunnels.
Though only separated by a thin piece of dented metal, neither he nor Gemma spoke. The weight of the last two days seemed to hang between them in the quiet. How long did they have before they’d be forced to run again? And where would they go?
He braced his palms on the cool metal wall and sighed. At least they were finally standing still, if only just to catch their breath.
Christian stepped out of his stall moments later, hair dripping. The damp air already felt cool against his skin. Gemma emerged a moment later. The fresh clothes hung loosely on her thinner frame. Damp strands of hair curled against her cheeks. She looked lighter and more refreshed, though the shadows under her eyes were still there.
They crossed back toward the living tents, weaving through clusters of people gathered around dim electrolamps. A few glanced their way, but no one stopped them.
When they reached their assigned tent, Christian pulled the flap aside for Gemma to enter. The warm glow from the battery lamp inside spilled over the thermal-rug-covered ground. Against the rear wall, a low cot stretched barely wide enough for two, its frame made from scavenged piping. Two mismatched pillows rested against the canvas, and a scatter of wool and synthetic blankets were piled on top in uneven folds.
Gemma lingered near the cot, her fingers brushing one of the blankets like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to touch it.
“Hey,” he said softly, closing the distance. “It’s ours for now. Sit.”
She eased onto the edge of the cot, tucking her legs beneath her. He sat beside her, close enough their knees touched. The tent’s stale air wrapped around them like a sheath. For the first time since they’d run from Zion, no one was watching. No one was demanding. Here, there was no barrier. No distance, no guards, no walls. Just them.
Gemma’s hand found his, her thumb brushing over his knuckles in that small, grounding motion she’d used earlier. “You hit him pretty hard.”
He huffed. “Didn’t feel like enough.”
“You didn’t have to defend me like that.”
“Yes, I did,” he replied without hesitation. “He’s spent my whole life treating me like a piece of equipment that didn’t meet spec. I wasn’t letting him treat you like that for even a second.”
Her gaze softened, but there was still a question there. “Does it bother you to see him here?”
