The Great Below

The Training Session - Part 2

Octavia remembered which stairwell they'd come down the night before. She reached the top of it, fearful that a security situation at the exit would bring her escape to yet another crashing halt. She could see a desk and a row of monitors at the far end of the hall, past more closed doors on both sides. She sped up, tennis shoes squealing against the concrete.

It was just a door.

That was it – it was almost an insult. One measly door between her and freedom. Octavia crashed into it, realizing during her final high-speed strides that it was solid metal, but unable to stop. She curled slightly, absorbing the blow all along her left side from shoulder to hip. At a neighboring desk, a middle-aged Hispanic man dropped his romance novel and pointed a small automatic handgun at her.

"Raul," a voice shouted from the other end of the long hall. "Hold your fire!"

It was solid timing, as crashing into the door had sent a wave of pain shooting up her neck and down to her ankle, making it difficult to move. When she dared to look at the gun pointed toward her, she was relieved to see that the hands holding it were shaking. Alex approached at a jog, and it gave her only a moment to examine the door: it looked welded together, like it would be several inches thick. Tugging at the handle had no effect.

"I need you to listen to me, Octavia. You are not safe running around here."

The man at the security desk exhaled nervously, setting his piece down.

"I can't do this," she told Alex. "I can't do what you do and I can't live underground."

His eyes flashed, like he needed to smother those words before anyone else heard them. "Take a walk with me," he said. "Your life depends on it." He turned and led her halfway back down the hall and through a new set of double doors to her right.

They were in a room full of men. Along both sides of the room were heavy, laminate tables with built-in benches and at each table, men—black, white, Hispanic – sat eating. Some were dense with muscle or ordinary, some wiry-thin. The thing they all had in common was the way their eyes rose to meet her and their conversation faded to stunned silence.

Alex reached out and tugged her hand. They walked – Octavia reluctantly limping – toward a short buffet line and a kitchen at the far end, where the smell of coffee, bacon and eggs beckoned. Breakfast at night? She hurried the best she could, the silence thick in her ears. Even the sound of her shoes padding the concrete seemed to interest them. When she glanced up, she saw men watching her the way house cats looked at birds from the other side of windows: full of instinctive hunger. Her hand gripped his.

A whistle erupted from one of the tables. It said 'wow, what a woman!' in only two piercing notes. The other men laughed, but Alex scowled at them. He moved his hand to her lower back and led her the rest of the way to the kitchen. She followed him behind the long, steel counter, where he searched for something.

"I'm not blind," he said. "There were things going on between you and Victor that weren't right. That weren't normal between a man and a woman." He found a box of plastic sandwich bags, tilted it, discovered it was empty. He tossed it in the trash. "But it doesn't mean you can do whatever you want down here. There are rules."

Her face was hot, and the smell of food woke an ache in her middle. "You're asking a lot. You took me from my home and handed me over to your boss, and now I have a job...killing people for money. Has it occurred to you that I can't do that?"

Next to the sandwich bags was a box of plastic gloves; he took one and scooped ice from a metal bin into it until it swelled. "That wasn't your home. Also, you stole my gun and nearly shot your new boss. I think you're underestimating yourself."

"So you've walked me through a room full of strange men to, what? Frighten me?" Octavia leaned in and lowered her voice, appreciating the way her proximity made Alex squirm. "You saw Victor, right? You saw the apartment, the burns and the bruises, and you should know that nothing you can say will ever frighten me by comparison."

Alex replaced the ice scoop in the bin. "I didn't come here to scare you. I'm trying to protect you. I know how this place works and you don't. But instead of listening, you insist on doing everything on your terms." He set down the makeshift bag of ice. "You should know that my livelihood also depends on your success. I'm the reason you got that job offer."

She glared at him, an unwelcome tic developing under one eye.

"If you could just trust me," he said. "If you could stop breaking the rules, stop fighting everything indiscriminately. Maybe I could trust you, too. I want to help. Nick wanted to help too, but I get the impression that the feeling's waning at the moment. He called me up here to stop you even though you hurt him."

She scrutinized Alex and he looked sincere, leaning as he did against the metal counter, waiting for her reply. He was a product from a late-night infomercial – he looked good, useful, she might have even asked herself how she'd ever lived without him – but after a few crippling payments she'd discover him for the cheaply-made piece of crap he was. Octavia felt guilty for even thinking it, but Victor had hand-hewn her ability to see the dark cloud attached to every silver lining.

She thought of Nick doubled over and aching in the gymnasium and the pain in her stomach worsened; she put a hand against it and winced.

"Are you hungry?" Alex asked, and his eyes softened. "I'm sorry, you're probably starved."

She was and she wasn't. She couldn't think about food. Octavia stepped closer, pinning Alex against the counter and tentatively sliding both arms around him, sinking against his chest until she remembered his woodsy cologne. She took a deep breath of it, closing her eyes. His chin grazed the top of her head and he tilted until his cheek rested against her and, for the first time since her arrival, Octavia wasn't nervous anymore. He hugged her back, but he was frightened to do it. It wasn't the best hug she'd ever gotten, but it was still comforting.

How had she ever lived without him?