The Great Below

The Box - Part 2

She had to debrief; it was some kind of rule. First she limped to the Infirmary, where Dr. Townsend assured her that her ankle was only sprained, and could be treated with ice and rest. Then she sat at the receiving end of Dominic's desk, Alex in the chair next to her, and tried to re-tell the night in a way that might please him.

Her heart wasn't in it. Alex was quick to interject, steering her while she told their invented narrative. She didn't wander too far from the actual course of events; there would be news articles and police reports and security footage to deal with.

It was late. When her eyelids became heavy, she feared what waited behind them: Jacob Corrigan and the security guard. And blood.

It had poured out of Corrigan in great pulses at first, his heart making a final blind effort at functioning. Grasping at straws. It was thick as molasses when it hit the cold winter air, pooling on his white dress shirt. Octavia had never seen anything so red. She'd spent her whole life looking at cheap forgeries, like crayons and paint samples, and there was the real thing in front of her, shining and wet. Alex dragged her away, but the blood had already squeezed through her fingers, lukewarm as a forgotten cup of tea. There were still creases of it in her nail beds.

"Octavia," Dominic said.

She snapped back to attention.

"Why did you let your target get the drop on you? You should have gone into the bathroom the moment you heard him. It would have given you an advantage." Even as he scolded her, he opened a locked drawer under his desk and began to count bills onto the surface in a tidy stack.

"She was nervous to approach him. It's normal," Alex interrupted. "She'll know better next time."

Dominic allowed the awkwardness between them to linger a moment before he pushed the money to her. "Count it," he said. "That's two grand you've earned tonight."

She didn't want to count it. She barely wanted to touch it. "What about Alex?" she asked. He turned stiffly, his look warning her to stop.

"Your trainer doesn't get paid for ride-alongs."

"It's okay," Alex reassured her. He hurried to his feet, looking relieved to get out of the office. As if the memorabilia on his walls were two-dozen smaller Dominic's, staring and judging and poorly masking their disappointment.

"Next time," Dominic said, "don't let a job go to street level like that. You introduce outside elements. Witnesses, collateral damage." It didn't escape Octavia's notice that witnesses were worse to him than collateral damage. "You should have aimed into that bathroom and hit him on the first try. We taught you better than you demonstrated tonight."

"Next time," she said without conviction, and limped out.

She waited until Alex had walked her downstairs to her room before handing him the money. "I can't take this," she told him.

"Octavia..."

"Even if I had killed him, I couldn't take a reward for it. What kind of monster would I have been, busting into that bathroom and shooting him while he washed his hands?"

Alex looked down at the money, eyebrows converging, and there was desperate sadness there. Did he regret killing Jacob Corrigan, or was he only wounded at the idea that she'd indirectly called him a monster? And really, her point didn't stand up to scrutiny: what difference did it make if she killed him in the bathroom or out on the street? Dominic would have argued that the fast, efficient kill was more humane. It would have spared the security guard, too. And for that, she was the monster.

"I don't want to think about that job ever again. Any job, actually," she said. "Maybe we could make a trade. All I want is some sleeping pills."

The bills waited in his open palm. "Octavia," he began again.