The Ark

11.

Zaphron was unnaturally quick.

My legs started working again as we made it out to the car-park and his grip moved from my waist to my hand, nearly pulling me over as we sprinted through the lot and into the streets. By the time we reached a nearby bullet station, I was gasping for air and sweating into my borrowed jacket.

"Here." I shrugged it off and thrust it back at him, very aware of how damp it was. "Thanks for your help back there, but I gotta get back to Dad's." I turned in the direction of the central-bound platforms, but was stopped by a hand on my shoulder.

"What are you doing?" he asked, sounding both incredulous and condescending at the same time.

I shrugged his hand off my shoulder and glared. "What part of getting back to Dad's do you not understand?" I tried to copy his tone, but it didn't come off with quite so much authority.

He blinked in disbelief. "What part of that attempted kidnapping do you not understand?"

"All of it!" I flung my arms in the air, my voice going pitchy. Fresh tears were brimming in my eyes. "Which is why I want to go home."

Zaphron's gaze darted to the end of the pedestrian tunnel, where two Forcers passed by on the street. His face twitched and he lowered his voice. "I don't think home is the best place for you right now."

I stared at him, feeling my brow knot. How could he possibly know that? He didn't even know where I lived. I opened my mouth to retort, but he cut me off.

"We can't stay here either, follow me." He started off down the tunnel toward the south-bound platforms. I wavered, my weight on my heels, thinking about running in the other direction.

"You're welcome to try," he called, turning and walking backward as he continued down the tunnel. "They'll get you before you make it home."

"Who's they?"

He grinned, turning his back on me as he strode off down the tunnel.  I growled before scampering after him.

"Here." Zaphron tossed his jacket back to me. "You'll need the hood up."

I bit the inside of my cheek and snatched it from him, stuffing my arms into the long sleeves again. The jacket lining was beginning to smell like a mixture of my deodorant and what I guessed was Zaphron's cologne. With each movement I caught a whiff of a clean woodsy scent, fading into my vanilla roll-on.

The platform was bustling. Bullets docked and left one after another, trying to accommodate the Saturday evening crowds. People pressed into carriages, stuffing themselves in so tightly the doors kept popping open. Zaphron led me to the far end of the platform as the crammed bullet in the dock attempted to close its doors for a third time.

"Are you wearing a Lens?" he asked, his voice low. When I looked up his blue gaze was darting around the platform.

"Yes."