Out in the Black Ch. 15

This is a book-length work, so not every chapter will involve sex. If you're just looking for a quick wank, this may not be your story.

Thanks for reading!

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There is a unique horror in being covered with the still-warm blood of a person you love. Rather than being inside their body where it belongs, it is slippery on your skin and soaking into your clothes, carrying the heat of the systems that work to keep it moving even as they pump it into the outside world.

Perhaps even worse is feeling that blood congeal as it cools, seeing it crack and flake as it dries.

I didn't see the man until he shouted. I was exhausted and focusing all of my remaining energy toward keeping my game face on for the camera. From what I could see when I'd sneak glances at him, Rusty was dead on his feet. We'd been at it nonstop all day and would likely being doing the same the next. It was time to call it. Then the man was there yelling "for Geeta!" as he ripped open his coat and raised his hand.

"Cap!" Rusty cried out. Before I could put the pieces together, I was knocked backward and my head hit the floor hard enough my vision went dark for a moment. A loud noise was followed by a wave of heat and Rusty's grunt, felt more than heard. Even when the screams started, I was confused, still trying to work out what had happened.

My head was ringing, all sounds coming from the people around me strangely muffled, and Rusty was crushing the breath from my lungs. I tried to get him to move but he wasn't responding, so I put my hand on his ribs to give him a push. My skin was immediately covered in wet heat and adrenaline surged, allowing me to roll him onto his back and get my first look at the gigantic hole in his side. Pressing my hands to the wound, trying to slow the bleeding, I added my panicked cries for help to the general tumult.

"Matt?" The sound of my name barely penetrated the noise in my head. I looked down and my heart pounded even harder when I realized the engineer's eyes were open, but they weren't focusing on anything. "Matt?" I read my name on his lips, his voice too quiet for me to hear at all.

"I'm here. I'm here, baby." It felt like I was talking too loud, yelling to compensate for the loss of my own hearing. Since I couldn't give two shits about who heard what as Rusty's blood was soaking my pants, I didn't bother to try modulating my tone. Ripping off my jacket, I wadded it up and pressed it against his ribs with one hand so I could take his with my other. I held it tight, kissing his fingers again and again as I told him to hang in there, that help was coming.

"Matt," he breathed. His eyes fluttered closed and my reassurances turned to pleas for him to wake up.

I don't know how long we sat like that before they pulled him away from me. It felt like days. Then I simply knelt on the floor alone, feeling the heat of him fade. The nanites did their best, but the volume of blood he lost was simply too high; they had made no noticeable difference by the time it began to dry and their short mechanical lives ended.

Someone was talking to me. Once I noticed their voice, I realized they had been calling my name for some time. I shook my head and kept my eyes focused on my hands, on the sticky pool on the floor by my knees, but the voice paid no heed to my rejection.

"Mac, dammit, talk to me. Please!" It was the panic in that last word that pulled me together. Alix was calling to me through our comms and I realized that, with Rusty gone, the cameras weren't doing their thing. He'd told Callaway he could handle the final uploads when I'd sent her away with the others, but I couldn't remember how often he was doing them. How much of the last hour did Alix see? Whatever had been recorded of the attack couldn't have made it off the station, though, so she had no way to know what was happening.

"I'm here," I rasped out, mouth dry.

"Oh, thank fuck." She was actually sobbing in relief. That confused me. Didn't she realize?

"Rusty - " That was all I could get out before the lump in my throat choked me and I had to coax it back down just to breathe.

"What about him? What happened, Mac? Station chatter is off the wall. Something about an explosion?"

"He - I - " Dr. Paris was nearly running across the floor toward me, her smug self-assurance shattered. Half of her hair was loose from its careful updo and lank blonde locks flopped next to her face as she hurried over. "Hang on, Leelee."

"Mr. Carolinas," the doctor panted, coming to a stop just short of where Rusty's blood stained the floor. "We've managed to stabilize him, but there's nothing else we can do down here. One of my colleagues authorized a transfer to the upper decks. Beacon Trauma Center, Deck 9, Ward E." She turned and began to rush away immediately after delivering this cryptic message.

"Who?" I called after her. She didn't pause. "Dr Paris! Who was transferred?" She turned and gave me a look that said she had questions about my mental state.

"Him." She waved at the blood by my knees. "Your cameraman."

Color rushed back into the world and suddenly everything was too bright. I was on my feet and marching toward the crowd that had gathered around the edges of the room before I knew what I was after. There, attempting to slip into a side corridor - a girl who was clearly trying very hard to blend in. Too hard. Her hair was a ratty mess, her face filthy, her clothes ripped and covered in dirt, but not worn. A tourist.

The crowd parted quickly before me as I followed her - I didn't wonder about this at the time but, upon later reflection, realized I must have presented a rather fearsome sight - and I managed to catch her arm before she could escape into a lift. The girl let out a breathy scream when she saw me. I ignored her reaction, whipping my head toward the sudden presence at my elbow, in no mood for some misguided bystander's interference. Rusty would have laughed at me, reminded me I was in the Bottoms. I imagined even my engineer would have been surprised to see his taller "stray" standing next to me, however, camera hovering just over his shoulder. An idea started to surface and I ran with it before it was even fully revealed.

"Come on, then," I barked at the kid as I tugged the girl around the first corner. With a jerk of my arm, I twisted her around and shoved her back against the wall. "You are going to take me - take us - to the upper decks. Ward E."

"What makes you think I know anything about that, then?" she asked in a bad imitation of the sing-song accent developed by those who grew up in the Bottoms. The boy made a derisive noise, but I cut in before he could respond.

"Don't play with me, girl. Now is not the time. Take me where I want to go or I'll make sure my friend here has the opportunity to show you what it's like to be what you're only pretending at." Rusty's protégé didn't disappoint, giving the girl a toothy smile that held no warmth. The girl squeaked and moved to put my body between her and the other kid, deciding she would, indeed, cooperate.

"Mac," Alix yelled in my ear, "if you don't tell me what's going on right now - "

"We're going to the upper decks. Have Bailey bring the Marzi in and park her as close to the Beacon Trauma Center as he can get. Deck 9, Ward E."

"Trauma center? What? And who's 'we'?"

"Rusty's been hurt. They transferred him up there. 'We' is - well, it's complicated. I'll tell you more after I know what's going on with the hospital." To her credit, my XO swallowed the rest of her questions and listened attentively as I instructed her to evacuate Callaway and the others as soon as possible and arrange for whatever was left of our gear on Deck 184 to be retrieved.

Moving helped. Focusing on manageable problems helped. While I'd been talking to Alix, the girl had taken us to a lift that provided access to the lowest levels of the middle decks. It wasn't until we were facing a checkpoint that I realized a flaw in my barely there, terrible excuse for a plan. Having dropped her awful impersonation in the face of an actual resident of the Bottoms, our hostage-turned-guide displayed the haughty manner of an upper-decks brat. That and her identification chip might have been enough to get us past the guards - her costume notwithstanding - had I not been covered in blood.

"Wait. Here," a man wearing the uniform of the Enforcers growled, turning his back on us even as the girl began another round of complaints. I touched her shoulder and she startled, jerking away before turning to face me. I shook my head and her mouth snapped shut, though her eyes continued to blaze with anger. I wasn't sure if it was directed at me or the guard. Probably a healthy mixture of both.

"What's your name?" I asked the boy as we waited. He looked like he was about three seconds from bolting and I needed to get him to focus on me. Plus it was awkward, thinking of him as "the kid" now that I knew the girl's name was Lissa Baraki from the many times she shouted it at the guard.

"You will regret this," she was saying yet again. "My father - "

"Adrenaline." It took me a second to realize the boy was answering my question. Lissa gaped at him, his quiet voice having silenced her, something the guard's grunting and looming had failed to achieve.

"Nice to meet you, Adrenaline. I'm Matthison Carolinas."

"Man, I know who you are," Adrenaline responded scornfully. He and Lissa shared a look, finding common ground in the struggle that was dealing with adults. Nice to know teenagers were the same all over the system. Rolling my eyes, I left them to their angst and turned my attention to the guard, catching the tail end of his conversation with someone over comms.

"Right. I see. Yes, sir. I will. Thank you, sir." The tension in his body belied his obsequious tone. Turning back to us, he wiped the constipated look off his face once he caught me watching, replacing it with an expression that suggested he was in pain. "My apologies, Mr. Carolinas. Sir." His voice had become even more saccharine, the corners of his mouth drawing back in what I assumed was supposed to be a smile. "My colleague will be here shortly to escort you and your companions," here a small tell as he glanced at the teenagers, his nose wrinkling, "to the upper decks."

"Thank you," I responded blandly, giving him the smallest in my collection of society smiles. Taking it as intended, he blinked, sniffed, and turned his back on us once more, stalking toward the lift. As it was less than a meter away, his dramatics greatly exceeded the distance traveled. Imagining Rusty's reaction to the man's behavior had me biting the inside of my cheek to keep from chuckling. The reality of my situation hit me again and then I was blinking to keep from crying. The arrival of a well-dressed individual was a welcome distraction from the tangled mess of my emotions.

"I'll take it from here, Smith," the newcomer said, barely glancing at the surly guard. "Mr. Carolinas," they continued, smoothly placing their body in my line of sight and pulling my eyes from the man sulking by the lift. "Crispin Phillips at your service." Eyes the color of amber met mine and very straight, very white teeth were bared in a smile that seemed genuine even to my jaded sensibilities. Short, black hair curled tightly against their scalp and the suit they wore was a lovely shade of butterscotch that perfectly complemented their dark skin. Tailored to flatter their lithe figure, it also probably cost more than what I paid to feed my crew for a quarter. Refusing to feel flattered by meriting the attention of such a highly placed PR rep, I shook the offered hand. Their fingers were long, palm smooth, and their grip was firm.

"Facilitator Phillips," I replied, automatically calibrating my expression, tone, and posture. Cycles of society life meant I could play politics in my sleep.

"My apologies for Officer Smith. When our representative arrived to escort you to the ninth deck, they were informed you had already departed Deck 184. Unfortunately, Smith here misinterpreted the urgency of our call to discover your location." The grimace Phillips gave me displayed the exact degree of regret to communicate that they were unhappy about inconveniencing me without admitting any responsibility for causing said inconvenience. They were good. I revised my estimation of their position up a few notches.

"I see." The coolness in my tone implied the opposite.

"Well I don't!" I winced inwardly. As a child of the upper decks, Lissa would never have been required to learn the skills people like Crispin Phillips and I had developed in order to interact with higher society. "My father will be hearing about this."

"Of course, Miss Baraki." Phillips inclined their head the smallest degree toward the teenager. "Should you wish, I can arrange your transportation home immediately." Lissa's eyes widened and she took a half step back, unconsciously aligning herself with Adrenaline.

"That won't be necessary," the girl responded too quickly. I fought to keep the smile from my face. When their eyes met mine again, I imagined I could see the same urge in Phillips. While there was no doubt Mr. Baraki would be incensed by a Ring Enforcer daring to question his daughter, it was equally likely he would turn his ire on her if it were revealed she had been touristing in the Bottoms.

"If you will follow me," Phillips prompted, angling their body away from the lift. The flash of humor was gone - if it had been there at all - and they were once again the impeccable professional. Ushering the kids ahead of me, I brought up the rear as Phillips led us deeper into the middle decks. An urgent need to be at Rusty's side swept over me and I swallowed the desire to snap at them to hurry, knowing it would do no good. I had a strong sense that the ease or difficulty of the rest of my time on the station depended greatly on the individual striding gracefully down the corridor in front of us. Pissing them off would not do me or Rusty any favors.

I'll admit it, I may have gaped a bit at what greeted us as we stepped off the lift on Deck 9. Such was the difference between the ninth deck and 184 that a person would be hard pressed to believe they existed on the same station. The lights were bright and warm, mimicking the feel of Earth's sun. The air was fresh and there was even a slight breeze. Facilitator Phillips led us through a short corridor which opened onto a spacious plaza that contained a small park with grass and trees - actual fucking trees - growing in the center.

The height of this single deck would have been split into at least five separate floors in the Bottoms. My job had taken me to stations like this for cycles and never had I really let myself focus on how much more of everything was available to the decks I frequented versus the docks my crew was generally restricted to. Now that Rusty had opened my eyes, I couldn't not see the vast inequality. It reinforced my dedication to making this project of ours a success. I needed him to pull through, to be by my side as we busted our asses to make the system better.

After sending the kids off, Phillips hailed a shuttle to take us to the hospital. I slumped in my seat, the surge of energy that had sustained me during my journey through the station abruptly draining away once I was no longer moving under my own power. Phillips gave me a sympathetic look from where they sat across the aisle. I was too tired to care if it was genuine or not.

"He means a lot to you," they said softly, voice full of concern. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," I answered anyway. "He really does."

"He'll be okay." I nodded, acknowledging the statement without saying the obvious: neither of us could know that was true. "He will," Phillips insisted. The urgency in their voice made me look up. They sat forward, elbows on their knees, reaching out a hand to touch my wrist. "Beacon is the best trauma center in the system. He is in good hands." I shrugged, uncomfortable with the intensity of their regard. Too exhausted to keep up the shield of professional distance, I felt exposed under their gaze. Whether they were put off by my attitude or inferred the reason behind it, Phillips pulled away and turned to face the window.

"Thank you," I mumbled, knowing I needed to make an effort. Sighing inwardly, I forced myself to sit up and look at them.

"Look, I get it." For the first time, I felt like I was hearing from the real Crispin Phillips. Of course, it could be yet another in an endless series of masks. Fucking politics. "You don't know me. And I work for the station you put under a spotlight." Leaning toward me, they lowered their voice. "For what it's worth, I think you did the right thing. Off the record, of course." They sat back, smirking, and I felt the corner of my mouth curl up in response. Phillips was good looking and charming and, in another life, I could see myself spending some pleasurable hours in their bed. In this one, however, the man I loved was currently in surgery and all I cared about was getting to him. Sure, Phillips was helping me do that, but at what cost?

The shadow of a laugh escaped me as I realized the parallels between my situation and the conversation I had with Adrenaline before sending him off with Lissa.

"What you wanting from me, then?" the boy had asked, his voice laden with distrust. Were he there, Rusty would not have hesitated to point out what an asshole I was, expecting the bribe of food for the kid and his friends to make Adrenaline happy to spend a few hours with the girl, touring the upper decks. In my defense, I wasn't aiming for happy. A lack of complaining would have been perfectly acceptable.

"Same thing Rusty wanted," I responded evenly, concealing the dismay I felt that Adrenaline expected me to extract a cost. Sure, it was the way of things everywhere in the system, but kids shouldn't have to think like that. However, If I'd learned nothing else from my prickly engineer, I knew this kid was basically held together by pride and didn't want my pity. "Do your whole deal." I waved my hand at his camera, only then taking notice of how the creases of my knuckles were lined with blood. My stomach dipped and I dropped my hand, swallowing quickly and reminding myself that I could not afford to break down. Not yet.

Phillips pulled the pair of teens away a few steps and spoke with them quietly. I kept my eye on the group, taking the provided moment to tug the cracked pieces of myself into better alignment. Phillips tapped their wrist against Lissa's to transfer something to the girl's chip; I hoped it was contact information but feared the facilitator was providing funds for the assignment I'd given the pair. Making a mental note to find out and pay them back if so - I absolutely refused to be in debt to Crispin Phillips or the Ring station itself - I walked over and inserted myself into their conversation.

"Mr. Carolinas?" Phillips said, their tone indicating this wasn't the first time they had tried to get my attention.

"Hmm?" I looked up, pulled from my musing.

"We're here."

The sign over Beacon's main entrance shone through the windows of the shuttle. My knees gave out the first time I tried to stand, tumbling me back into my seat. Phillips offered a hand and hauled me up, bracing me with their other hand on my shoulder until I was steady on my feet. Steadier, anyway. They stayed by my elbow as I made my way into the hospital, and subtly steered me toward the bank of information consoles. Grinding my teeth to avoid snapping at them, I focused on putting one foot in front of the other and not flying apart. No matter what else happens in my life, I will forever consider it an impressive feat of self-control that I did not put my fist through the console screen when it claimed no knowledge of a "Rust, Carter" and insisted the trauma center did not accept transfers from the lower decks of the station.