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You awake with a start.
The first thing you notice, as you begin to come back to yourself, is a sharp pain, pinching, at the base of your skull, and the fact that your face is wet. There’s sweat, leaving a thin crust of salt over your forehead and fever-flushed cheeks, but something else, too; thick, metallic-smelling, and sticky. A tentative hand, trembling from underuse, comes up to your nose, and your fingers come away slick and red. Your nose is bleeding.
For a few moments, you linger on the vivid dream you just awoke from. What Riotus told you still echoes in your mind. Changes on Earth are coming, and you’re going to be the one to bring them. What did he mean? You try to grasp at some other phrase, some hint at your purpose, but the dream is fading quickly from memory. And in its place, consciousness and all of its ramifications are taking up residence in your brain.
You blink a few times, groggily taking in your surroundings as they come into focus. Your head is still heavy with sleep, and aching. So is the rest of your body, you dully notice, as you realize that you have no idea where you are. And then, in phases, things begin to come back to you: COVID, the police, the shootout. Percy, and the bullet that went through his chest. The staged biochemical attack, and the island’s evacuation. All of which must have been successful, since you don’t seem to be in prison, or a hospital belonging to one. That’s, at least, one small relief.
Where the hell are you, anyway? This room seems familiar in a way that you are slow to place. The walls are a muted baby blue. Across from you sits a gold-framed mirror hanging above an ornate dresser, indicative of expensive taste. There’s a widescreen TV, currently off, and curtains to your right, patterned with an antique-looking floral print. They’re parted slightly, the bright midday sun casting light across the bedroom carpet. This must be Abby’s house.
At the thought of her name, panic swells inside you. You hadn’t seen her at the time of the shootout, but she and Percy had been staying right across the street… where is she? Did she make it out okay? You want to see her right now, more than anything. You need her.
“Abby?”
The word comes out at barely a rasp, the room swallowing your small voice. Just that effort is enough to send you into a fit of coughing. God, when was the last time you even talked? How long has it been? After a minute to catch your breath, you try again, a bit more urgently.
“Abby?”
Still, your strained voice doesn’t carry. If she’s around, she won’t be able to hear you. But you have to find her. With a great effort, you push yourself up until you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, and tentatively stand up, wobbly on your feet. Slowly, you take your first precarious step, putting one foot in front of the other, until you put weight on your right leg. A sudden, searing pain shoots up your leg, and your knees buckle underneath you, sending you crashing down onto the floor with a shout.
Only there, lying with your face pressed up against the carpet, does it occur to you that you have been shot in the leg.
You push yourself up back to a sitting position and inspect the damage. Someone has already dressed your gunshot wound. Gauze is wrapped tightly around your upper leg, and the work looks careful. You find yourself hoping it was Abby.
Before you have a chance to try and struggle back to your feet, you hear footsteps outside of the bedroom you’re in, quickly ascending a flight of stairs, by the sound of it. They continue down a hall, and end just outside your room.
“Z…?”
The door opens a crack, and relief floods your chest as you see your best friend for what feels like the first time in years. Abby gasps, her hand flying to her mouth in shock at seeing you awake, then her clown-painted face breaks into a smile as she rushes over to where you’re sitting on the floor to embrace you in a hug. You hug her back with trembling arms, holding her close to you, as tightly as you can manage. She is warm, and you feel safe.
“You’re awake,” she breathes. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you too.”
“Also, hey,” Abby pulls back from you and looks you over, concerned. “What are you doing on the floor? What happened?”
“I tried to come find you,” you respond. “Stupid leg couldn’t hold my weight…”
Abby’s face softens, and she tucks a tuft of blue hair behind her ear. She’s beautiful, you don’t stop yourself from thinking now. You realize you don’t take note of that fact enough.
“Sorry I wasn’t here. I was just outside talking to Ring 3, and I was just about to come check on you, and that’s when I heard a noise coming from here…”
“Ring 3? What’ve they been doing?”
“They really seem to have everything under control now. I mean, a lot has been happening, but they seem to be handling it well.”
“That’s good.” You’re relieved to hear that the movement is still going strong after yesterday’s chaos.
“Yeah… I can fill you in on everything as soon as you get back in bed.”
You don’t try to disagree with her. Abby slides her arm under yours, and you hang on to her shoulders tightly as she lifts you up and walks you the couple steps’ length back to bed. You sit back against the pillows.
Abby pulls back and looks at you, relief and earnest concern etched into her features. (You are sick and delirious and right now, all you can think is how beautiful she is. Through your feverish haze, you almost say it: “You’re so fucking pretty….”) Abby frowns, cutting off your thoughts.
“You’re bleeding.” She points to your nose. You’d honestly forgotten. You look down at your fingers. Dried blood is beginning to flake off of them.
“Oh… yeah,” you begin to explain, picking the blood off of your fingertips. “Just before I woke up, I was having another dream, with Riotus, and I— I think—” Your thought is cut short by a fit of coughing.
Abby frowns. “Oh, you poor thing, let me get you some water…”
Abby leaves, and as your bout of coughing subsides, you lean back against the headboard of the bed with a sigh. There are so many things you should be worried about right now, but you can’t seem to muster the energy to care about any of it. You’re glad to just be here, with Abby, both of you safe, even if you are a bit worse for wear. After a moment, she comes back with a glass of water, a bottle of tylenol, and a washcloth. You sit up a bit, and Abby helps you drink, because your arms are too weak to hold it steady on your own. Normally you would be embarrassed at needing to be taken care of so much, and you think Abby knows this too, but right now, there’s no one you’d rather be with.
“Thanks,” you mumble, a bit sheepishly.
“Of course,” she says, then rises to set the glass on the nightstand next to you.
Something suddenly occurs to you. “Hey, shouldn’t you be wearing a mask?”
Abby pauses. “I... actually already had the virus, a few months back.”
“What?” You sit up a bit, propping yourself up on your elbow. “You never told me.”
“Well, I didn’t even know I had it. I didn’t have any symptoms or anything, but after the lockdown started my parents freaked out and made me get tested, and,” she shrugs, “it came back positive.”
“Fucking lucky.”
Abby laughs. “Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, I don’t think I can catch it now.”
You sink back into the pillows a bit. “If you say so.”
Abby gets up and grabs the washcloth she had put on the nightstand.
“Here, let me help clean you up a bit.”
She sits on the bed next to you, takes the wet cloth and gently wipes off your forehead, and the blood under your nose. It’s cool to the touch and feels good on your hot skin. You lean into her touch a bit, and hold her hand and the cloth against your cheek.
Abby gingerly puts the back of her hand to your forehead.
“You’re burning up,” she says quietly.
“Mmnh.”
“How are you feeling?”
You laugh dryly, which comes out as a weak half-cough.
“Like I caught the ‘rona and got shot in the leg. So, like, a 3 out of 5.”
“Oh? On what scale?”
“Worst days I’ve ever had.”
Abby grins. “So, what would number 1 be, then?”
“Remember that time when I ordered a poster of Post Malone, and it got lost in the mail?”
Abby raises her eyebrows at you. “Really.”
“What?” you retort.
“I just think you’re being awfully dramatic.”
“And I think you’re being insensitive to the value of a good 3-by-4-foot closeup depiction of Post Malone’s facial tattoos.”
Abby laughs at this.
“But, seriously, this is really starting to hurt,” you say, gesturing to your leg.
“Oh, right,” Abby says. She gets the bottle of Tylenol and gives you two pills, which you down with another sip of water that she helps you with.
“You know,” she says as she sets the glass back down, “you... really had me scared there. I just had to keep reassuring Ring 3 that everything was going to be fine, because I was the only one left in charge, but this whole day I’ve just been worried sick that you weren’t ever going to wake up. And… and yesterday—”
Her voice breaks, but she covers it up by clearing her throat.
“When I found you there, lying in a pool of blood, next to Percy’s body…”
She finally looks back up at you.
“Z, I thought you were dead.”
“...Abby, I—” Your voice trails off. You have no idea how to respond.
“Anyway, uhm,” she says after a moment of silence. “We brought you back here, of course. Percy’s being buried, I think; I don’t know who’s in charge of that. The media has been absolutely hectic since the whole ordeal, but the Jubilites have mostly just been anxious to hear how you’ve been doing. For some reason they’ve assigned us titles, too? I’m Secretary Abblepie and you’re Supreme Honkifex Z.”
You groan. “God, that’s so fucking stupid.”
“Yeah,” Abby says. “It is. But, hey, lucky for you, I don’t think you’ll be talking to them anytime soon.”
This is perfectly fine with you. With Abby by your side, you already have everything you need.