his boots hit the baseboards, and then, silence.
Silence.
It erupts, settling completely into the room, the quiet reaching even the farthest corners. I feel physically trapped by it. The lack of sound feels oppressive.
Paralyzing.
I pass the time by counting the bruises on my body. I don’t think I’ve spent this much time looking at myself in the last few days; I hadn’t realized how many wounds I had. There seem to be several fresh cuts on my arms and legs, and I feel a vague stinging along my lower abdomen. I pull back the collar of the hospital gown, peering through the overly large neck hole at my naked body underneath.
Pale. Bruised.
There’s a small, fresh scar running vertically down the side of my torso, and I don’t know what I did to acquire it. In fact, my body seems to have amassed an entire constellation of fresh incisions and faded bruises. For some reason, I can’t remember where they came from.
I glance up, suddenly, when I feel the heat of Max’s gaze.
He’s staring at me as I study myself, and the sharp look in his eyes makes me wary. I sit up. Sit back.
I don’t feel comfortable asking him any of the questions piling in my mouth.
So I look at my hands.
I’ve already removed the rest of my bandages; my left hand is mostly healed. There’s no visible scar where my finger was detached, but my skin is mottled up to my forearm, mostly purple and dark blue, a few spots of yellow. I curl my fingers into a fist, let it go. It hurts only a little. The pain is fading by the hour.
The next words leave my lips before I can stop them:
“Thank you, sir, for fixing my hand.”
Max stares at me, uncertain, when his wrist lights up. He glances down at the message, and then at the door, and as he darts to the entrance, he tosses strange, wild looks at me over his shoulder, as if he’s afraid to turn his back on me.
Max grows more bizarre by the moment.
When the door opens, the room is flooded with sound. Flashing lights pulse through the slice of open doorway, shouts and footsteps thundering down the hall. I hear metal crashing into metal, the distant blare of an alarm.
My heart picks up.
I’m on my feet before I can even stop myself, my sharpened senses oblivious to the fact that my hospital gown does little to cover my body. All I know is a sudden, urgent need to join the commotion, to do what I can to assist, and to find my commander and protect him. It’s what I was built to do.
I can’t just stand here.
But then I remember that my commander gave me explicit orders to remain here, and the fight leaves my body.
Max shuts the door, silencing the chaos with that single motion. I open my mouth to say something, but the look in his eyes warns me not to speak. He places a stack of clothes on the bed—refusing to even come near me—and steps out of the room.
I change into the clothes quickly, shedding the loose gown for the starched, stiff fabric of a freshly washed military uniform. Max brought me no undergarments, but I don’t bother pointing this out; I’m just relieved to have something to wear. I’m still buttoning the front placket, my fingers working as quickly as possible, when my gaze falls once more to the bureau directly opposite the bed. There’s a single drawer left slightly open, as if it was closed in a hurry.
I’d noticed it earlier.
I can’t stop staring at it now.
Something pulls me forward, some need I can’t explain. It’s becoming familiar now—almost normal—to feel the strange heat filling my head, so I don’t question my compulsion to move closer. Something somewhere inside of me is screaming at me to stand down, but I’m only dimly aware of it. I hear Max’s muffled, low voice in the other room; he’s speaking with someone in harried, aggressive tones. He seems fully distracted.
Encouraged, I step forward.
My hand curls around the drawer pull, and it takes only a little effort to tug it open. It’s a smooth, soft system. The wood makes almost no sound as it moves. And I’m just about to peer inside when—
“What are you doing?”
Max’s voice sends a sharp note of clarity through my brain, clearing the haze. I take a step back, blinking. Trying to understand what I was doing.
“The drawer was open, sir. I was