Black Marion

14

Alex woke to what felt like the reprieve of a dream: a soft bed, a heated room, the clean scent of bloodless chemical lemon. She knew it was not a dream because her gut clawed and her throat ached, and her head throbbed with disorienting intensity. Dreams were not so sore. But reality, as she last knew it, was not so innocuous.

She blinked, lids heavy. She was in someone's cramped bedroom. A single lamp illuminated the night hour. A deep dent decorated the plain steel wall. Clothes hung in a doorless closet, the backdrop to a filled and cracking laundry basket. A chipped desk stood with overhead shelves, topped with overworn books. This was all peripheral to the man sitting in the chair, arms crossed, head drooped. Asleep.

Black strewn hair and callused long hands. It was the doctor. She couldn't remember his name.

She did remember the words that sent her to sleep. Alex shifted, grimacing at the ache, but wanting a better look at her unexpected rescuer's shadowed face. The light was dim. But there—an ugly, violet bruise by his jaw. Fevered and confused, Alex conjoined the image with the man's unconscious body, and panicked that he had been badly hurt. She reached a hand forward, though even as her sense came back, the doctor began to shift awake. Alex withdrew her hand and averted her eyes.

The doctor groaned softly. Alex watched his hands uncross. His right knuckles were dusted with recent scabbing.

"You're awake."

Alex looked up at the tired comment. Though exhausted and hazed, she tried to push into a sitting position. The doctor immediately grabbed her shoulder and guided her gently down again.

"Ah, no. Body's got a full plate right now. Best not to strain it."

She didn't fight this. Meanwhile, the doctor grabbed a bottle of liquid and urged her to drink it. It tasted vaguely of ginger and honey.

"That'll get you through the night," said the doctor. "I'll have some proper broth for you in the morning."

Something about these words stung her eyes. The kindness, perhaps, after those three days in hell, in a place that still resembled hell. She nodded, not trusting her ability to speak just yet.

"Hey. You'll be fine." A smile slipped into that voice. "Sky gave you a hell of an immune system. Pretty extraordinary compared to our guys down here. All that new pathogen exposure and trauma would've wrecked us. But you're putting up a quick fight."

Alex lifted a hand. The doctor's eyes followed quizzically, until Alex touched her own jaw in gesture.

"You're hurt," she said.

The doctor looked surprised for a moment before he chuckled. "Ah, this? Where I grew up, this was a daily fashion check. Don't mind it. I tried to tell those bastards you needed some proper treatment at the clinic, and it took a little extra convincing. Don't worry. You're safe here now."

"Are you working with them?"

At the soft question, the doctor's smile slipped a little. "They supply my clinic with goods we can't get on the Ground. The kind of things we need to take care of our people. And in exchange, I take care of their people, no questions asked. So yes, I work with them. But I'm not one of them."

Alex closed her eyes, nodding. She saw the hallways to the storage rooms of midground Central. Supplies—the supplies for his clinic that the doctor spoke of, those were what the Grounders had been going for when they killed her mother. She felt a bitter, directionless ache.

Gently, a hand touched her brow.

"Still high," said the doctor. "You should go back to sleep."

"Won't they come after me?" said Alex. "After you?"