subject 13 // h.s. au

chapter twenty-five.

12 was propped up on the arm of the couch, his hand clutched next to his patched-up wound. He looked distraught, his eyes darting around the small classroom.

Huck, Oliver, Harry, and I sat cross-legged in a circle in front of the couch, the weathered manuals spread out in between us.

I locked eyes with 12, a resigned sadness shared between us.

The boys were pouring over the manuals, letting out occasional grunts of disbelief or inhaling deeply in frustration. A few times, they glanced in shock up at 12 and I, their eyes wide in anger.

The silence was heavy, only the shuddering sound of flipping pages audible.

A weight settled on me, mixed emotions encircling my body. It felt like grief.

I didn't know exactly what I was grieving, but there was an imminent sense of losing the parts of me that I had kept for myself.

A book suddenly snapped closed, the thud cutting through the tension in the room.

I looked to Harry, his palm still glued to the cover of the manual, a fierce look in his eyes. His chest was heaving, and his fingers twitched on top of the cover.

He glanced over at me from where he sat next to the couch, and while I wasn't the subject of his anger, his rage was palpable.

"This is what they did to you," he questioned lowly, but it sounded more like a statement.

He didn't need confirmation. It seemed more like he needed to say it out loud to make sure what he had learned was real.

I nodded, looking up at 12 on the couch. He seemed more pained by Harry's words than by the hole in his side.

Harry's boots scuffed the floor, all of us turning to watch him as he stood up.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, "I need a minute."

He stormed out of the room.

Huck, Oliver, 12, and I looked at each other, lost for words.

There wasn't much to say. Now, we all knew, and the heaviness bared down on us. We all felt differently, affected by everything that had happened in different ways, and the guilt crept back in.

If I had just stayed in the bunker, none of this would be happening. No one would have ever found out about 12 and I, and Asher and Quinn would have been oblivious.

Now that Quinn was dead, the targets had been mounted on our backs, and there was nothing we could do to rip them off.

 Asher would know. 

I sighed shakily, picking at my nails intensely.

"It's okay," Oliver murmured, and I snapped my head up to look at him.

He had barely said a word since we all arrived in the classroom, still processing the news of his friend's death. Without knowing, I had been subconsciously obsessing over his reaction, worried he would hate me.

But, as his voice filled the room, my shoulders suddenly lightened.

He clumsily untangled his legs and inched over to sit in front of me.

I was confused by his actions, trying to decipher the look in his eyes, before he swiftly wrapped his arms around me, pulling me in tight to his chest.

I stiffened, my mind trying to catch up to the feeling of his hand pressed firmly against my back.

"I'm sorry for what happened to you," he whispered softly into my hair, his words tickling my ear.