The steady beep of a heart monitor cut through the dark. The stench of rotting meat was gone. The sharp, chemical burn of bleach coated the air.
Caleb opened his eyes. The harsh overhead lights blinded him. He lay flat on a medical cot. Panic flared in his chest. The parasite.
He thrashed. A thick plastic tube shoved down his throat gagged him. He clawed at the crisp white sheets. Medics grabbed his shoulders and pinned him to the mattress.
Jax hovered over the bed. His disposal suit was gone. A makeshift sling held his arm against his chest.
"Caleb," Jax rasped. "Man, I... there was so much blood. I didn't see the gantry move."
Jax gripped the metal rail of the cot. His knuckles turned white.
"I'm sorry. I thought you were dead."
Caleb choked around the tube. He needed them to cut his chest open. He needed the thing out.
He twisted his neck. Just outside the medical tent, a figure stood in the shadows of the observation window. The silhouette was impossibly tall.
Two glowing purple eyes stared directly at him.
The heart monitor shrieked into a continuous flatline. The medical cocktail hit his bloodstream. His muscles went slack, dragging him back into the dark.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The heavy air of the triage tent faded. The faint smell of lavender replaced the bleach.
Caleb swallowed. His throat felt like cracked glass. The breathing tube was out.
He lay in a pristine private medical suite. A woman slumped over the edge of his mattress, snoring softly into her crossed arms.
"Mmh... no, slice the potatoes thicker..." she mumbled.
Caleb's dry lips parted. He recognized the scarred leather jacket.
"Elara?" his voice cracked.
She snorted and jerked awake. Blinking rapidly, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She stared at him.
"Caleb." She scrambled up and grabbed his forearm. She let out a massive, shuddering breath. "You're awake."
"Barely." He glanced at the dark-grey collar peeking out from under her jacket. "First Division. You passed."
She waved a hand, dismissing it. "Doesn't matter right now. What happened down there?"
She leaned closer. "Guild reports said a gantry collapsed, but I checked the logs. Your suit recorded a localized biological strike."
"The Siege-breaker," Caleb said. "It was alive. It shot a tendril into my chest."
Elara froze.
"My suit broadcasted an emergency feed," Caleb said, his breathing speeding up. "Nobody from dispatch came. Just one private viewer on the military band. They sent an Executive-tier capsule with a thermal machete and stims. The parasite fed on the stims. It burrowed into my bone."
Elara looked at him.
"An Executive capsule costs millions," she said quietly. "Nobody drops that on a disposal crew feed."
"I know what happened."
She held up her hands. "Okay. Listen to me. I checked your charts. Deep-tissue MRI, thermal, X-ray. You are clean."
Caleb stopped breathing. "What?"
"There's no monster inside you. Whatever attacked you didn't leave anything behind."
He stared at the thick white bandages wrapping his torso.
"So let me get this straight," Caleb said. "A monster spears me through the chest. My suit starts an emergency broadcast. Nobody shows up. One random person watches, sends me a capsule worth millions, buys my broadcast rights, pulls me off the grid, and pays my medical bills."
Elara crossed her arms over her leather jacket.
"And flagged your file as highly classified," she added. "The Defense Force cyber-division can't pull the buyer's ID. It's buried under a dozen ghost networks. Whoever this is, they have the money and influence to make the military look the other way."
Caleb pressed his hand flat against the thick bandages wrapping his chest. He took a deep breath, bracing for the agonizing grind of a shattered sternum.
His ribs expanded smoothly. No grind. No sharp pain.
He pushed his fingers harder into the gauze, searching for the raw nerve damage.
"Stop doing that," Elara said, catching his wrist. "You're going to tear your stitches."
"Elara, look at me." Caleb met her eyes. "I don't feel it. There's no pain."
"The doctors pumped you full of anesthetics. Of course you don't feel it."
Caleb yanked his arm free. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress and planted his bare feet on the cold floor.
"Caleb, sit down!"
He stood up. He didn't sway. He pressed both hands against his ribs and inhaled sharply. The skin beneath the bandages radiated intense heat, but the muscle wall felt dense and solid.
"A tendril punched straight through my Kevlar weave," Caleb whispered. "It broke my chest open. I shouldn't be able to stand."
His stomach seized.
Bile surged up his throat. He doubled over and violently threw up over the side of the mattress.
"Caleb!" Elara shouted.
His legs gave out. He fell backward. Elara's hands grabbed his shoulders just before his skull hit the floor tiles. The darkness rushed back in.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He woke up alone. The digital clock on the wall read 10:14 PM.
A glass of water and a hastily scribbled postcard sat on the metal tray table next to him.
Please stop doing dangerous stuff. A dungeon radar detection went off four miles away. I should be back in a week or two. Please just rest.
Caleb traced the rushed handwriting with his thumb.
Three days later, he sat heavily on his rusted coil couch in his freezing apartment, staring at the peeling wallpaper.
The cheap TV in the corner flickered. Bright text flashed across the screen over footage of heavily armored soldiers firing plasma rifles.
"Are you a strong, able-bodied person looking to go from rags to riches?" a booming announcer voice demanded. "Thrill junkie? Or do you just want the chance to serve and destroy the monsters plaguing our world?!"
The screen cut to a massive stadium filled with cheering crowds.
"In one week, the Runner trials are opening for graduating seniors and freelance applications! Everything you do will be broadcasted as entertainment for the entire society."
The commercial cut to static.
Caleb gripped the edge of the couch. The memory of the training academy's rappel tower surfaced. The rope burning through his gloves. The sheer panic of gravity taking over. The failure.
He pushed himself up. He grabbed his stained Guild disposal uniform from the back of a chair and zipped up the jacket.
"The bills won't pay themselves," Caleb said to the empty room. "Unless that mystery person gets high off my cleaning."
He walked out into the cold morning air. The streets of the lower sector buzzed with activity.
A group of young adults pushed past him on the cracked sidewalk.
"I'm putting it all into speed augments," one bragged. "If I pass the trials, the sponsorship money is insane."
Caleb stopped walking. A small, sleek drone zipped just overhead. It banked hard and hovered nearby. Its lens adjusted with a faint click.
An odd, glowing purple light pulsed from its undercarriage.
Caleb's breath caught. The tall figure in the hospital window flashed in his mind. The purple eyes.
He looked toward the transit rail, then toward the towering spires of the testing facility in the distance. He pictured himself in tactical armor, stepping onto the battlefield beside Elara.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The heavy bay doors of the Guild disposal depot rolled open.
Caleb walked inside. He was hours late for his shift. He braced himself for Vance's usual screaming fit.
Footsteps slapped rapidly against the concrete.
"Caleb!" Jax yelled.
The disposal crew surrounded him. They grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into rough hugs.
"Man, you're actually alive," Jax laughed, stepping back.
Vance walked down the metal stairs from the supervisor's booth. A lit cigarette dangled from his mouth. He didn't look angry.
"I'm surprised to see you standing, Mercer," Vance said, taking a slow drag. "You survived for over an hour with your chest wide open down there."
"Yeah," Caleb muttered. His hand brushed the fabric of his jacket over his hidden scar.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy folded paper, and dropped it squarely on Vance's cluttered metal desk.
Vance frowned. He picked it up and scanned the bold black lettering at the top. The cigarette nearly fell out of his mouth.
"You serious?" Vance asked, his expression hardening.
"Runner trials are next week," Caleb said.
Jax stepped forward, his eyes wide. "Those trials kill people, man."
"I know." Caleb looked down at his own hands. "However I managed to survive... I should try one more time."
Vance stared at him. He took another drag of his cigarette and let out a heavy sigh, tossing the paper back onto the desk.
"I guess," Vance grunted. "But you will not be paid the days you act like an eighteen-year-old."
A faint, cold smile touched Caleb's lips.
"Sounds like a fair trade-off."