"Security contract. Controlled research environment. Standard containment protocols. That sort of stuff."
He moves us around a section of collapsed rebar.
"It was a more honest briefing than most I've worked from. Which tells you something about the industry."
"It tells me the bar is low."
"The bar is underground," he says.
We reach a wider avenue, or what was once, before the city decided to stop maintaining it. The scale opens up here; more sky is visible, which means more smoke is visible. The horizon is a gradient from dirty orangeat ground level to something darker higher up, where the smoke has accumulated and settled in.
I keep looking at it. I know I should be scanning for threats. I am scanning for threats, but some part of my attention keeps returning to the sky, to the fact that it exists and I can see it, and nobody is going to come into my room and inject me while I'm doing it.
"Hey," Colt says. I realize I've slowed down.
"Sorry." I pick up the pace. He doesn't ask. He just adjusts, and we continue.
I take one more look at the smoke-stained sky and add it to the small, private collection of things that are already different from three hours ago. The roar comes again from behind us this time. It’s gaining on us.
Colt's assessment is immediate. I can feel it in how he moves, the recalculation happening at speed, the route options closing and opening in whatever map he's running in his head. He pulls us left into a covered passage between two buildings.
It’s narrow, dark, and the kind of space that requires single-file, his hand shifting to my shoulder again to navigate me through first.
"Straight through," he says quietly, "don't stop."
The passage is dark and tight and smells like the building has been sealing its own air for years. My shoulder brushes the wall once. I correct. Ahead, the exit rectangle is slightly brighter than the interior, the next street opening beyond it.
I come out the other side and move to the right to clear space. He follows in the same breath, and then we're both pressed against the wall of the exit. The roaring passes to the left of the passage and continues north and fades. He's very close, and I’m acutely aware of it.
The narrow exit doesn't leave a lot of options on that front.
"It's moving away," I say.
"Yes."
"Different direction than before."
"Yes."
"Which could mean it's not tracking us specifically. Could be the fire."
"Could be."
His eyes are on the street. Not on me. The professional focus of someone doing the thing they're supposed to be doing.
I'm also doing the thing I'm supposed to be doing. Both of us are definitely doing the things we're supposed to be doing.
"Colt," I ask.
"Mm."
"Earlier. When we were behind the beam." I pause, choosing the precision of the words, "you said something."
A moment goes by.
"I know what I said," he says.
"I'm not asking you to clarify it. I'm just noting that I heard it." His jaw works once.
