V7 Epilogue: Something to Protect

[Namira]

Consciousness bubbled up out of the dark.

Strong hands gripped her arms, dragging her along, forcibly held upright.

She mumbled something. Both grips tightened. Somebody spoke, muffled and indistinct.

Her eyes opened into a blur. She pulled a little to the side. What was…

“Hey! Don’t move!”

The words sounded like they were underwater.

She blinked.

Garnet’s eyes started to focus.

A big burly dude had her by the arm. Shaved head, military jacket. He glared at her like she’d kicked him in the nuts.

“Hold still.”

Garnet held. The guy resumed dragging. She couldn’t seem to get her feet under herself. With some effort, she tilted her head to the left. Sure enough, another slab of muscle. Could have been the first guy’s twin but for skin colour.

She tried to take in her surroundings. Bare asphalt. Structures either side of them in a long row. Large metal garage-style doors at intervals. Was this a storage lockup?

“Number forty-seven, here. Keys.”

“Mm.” One set of hands let go, and Garnet almost dropped, her shoulder wrenching as the other guy’s grip kept her up. Fuzzily, she took a stab at planting her left foot. White hot pain streaked up the back of her leg. She collapsed, crying out.

Ffuck fuck fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Right. Her leg. Fuck.

A meaty paw clapped across her mouth. Garnet yelled into it, twisting, meeting solid ground with her other foot.

“Stop fucking screaming,” the guy snarled, inches from her ear. “You’re nearly home. Don’t fuck it up.”

A shot of calm to the system. Garnet stilled. That’s where she was. A drop off. Almost free.

The haze was clearing, a little. They’d put her under again. Brain didn’t enjoy it one bit. Her vision stayed blurred, didn’t know if it was the drugs or no glasses.

She could see enough. The black guy fiddled with a chunky keyring in front of a lock-up. There was a heavy thunk, and he stooped to raise the metal door, which rattled its way up its runners to reveal the locker’s interior. The inside was almost bare, a cordless lamp sitting on a footstool in front of a plastic chair, which had a crutch laid across it. Home sweet home?

“Alright, get in.” The dude holding Garnet nudged her in the back, and she half-shuffled, half-hopped forward, her captor still supporting way more of her weight than she would have liked.

Once she was inside, he let go of her arm. She wobbled, lurched, and took a stumbling hop against the wall to catch herself from eating shit. Ugh. Asshole. Leaning heavily on the wall, Garnet managed to turn back around to face the two guys. She barely mustered a glare. Not like they gave a damn.

The white guy checked his phone, shooting a nervous glance over his shoulder. Seeing the tough dude act so skittish was weirdly comforting. Not so confident when he wasn’t armed to the teeth and surrounded by other goons, was he?

He addressed her. “We’re going to shut the door. You can come out after a count of ten thousand. Any sooner, and you’re dead meat.”

“You know there’s this weird concept called telling the time—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Garnet shut up.

“Twenty minutes,” said the other guy. “Here.” He unshouldered a backpack that Garnet recognised as her own and threw it to her, none too gently. Garnet had to stretch out an arm to catch on to a strap, overbalancing and clattering painfully to her knees.

She fought back tears through gritted teeth and focused on the two of them, straining to fix every feature she could into her memory. Maybe—probably—it wouldn’t make a difference, but it was all she had.

Garnet remained on the floor and remained staring until the locker door rattled all the way back to the ground, blocking them both from view, sealing her inside. Thankfully, the light was already switched on, so they weren’t shutting her away in the dark. Panic fluttered in her chest at the sudden thought that they could lock her in there, but the muffled sound of rapid footsteps soothed that anxiety. They were getting the hell out of there, and she seriously doubted they’d posted any kind of lookout; she could probably just leave right now if she wanted. Not like they had a collar to blow.

She grimaced, touching her throat. It was going to be a long time before that phantom weight stopped clutching her neck.

Point stood though, right? She was out from under their thumb, away from all of that. No more death leash to kill her at the touch of a button.

No point trying her luck over something petty. If they hadn’t lied to her before knocking her out, she was in Chattanooga. That was more important than any kind of cheap satisfaction from bucking the rules.

Okay. Might as well check the digs. Garnet shifted around into a seated position, painfully extricating her bad leg out from underneath her and stretching it out flat. The best case scenario of a six week recovery felt like an absolute joke with the amount of shit her ankle had been through. Garnet butt-scooted over to the chair, dragging her backpack in her wake, and grabbed the crutch. She frowned; a folded piece of paper was bound to the handle with an elastic band.

She pulled the paper free and smoothed it out.

Welcome home, Garnet.

Congratulations once again on your survival. The broadcast hasn’t concluded yet, so for another half day, it’s our secret. Best of luck with the media.

We wish you every success in the future. You can only improve from here.

Sincerely, Tracen Danya.

P.S. Happy birthday for tomorrow.

Garnet crumpled the note into a ball. She took a couple of ragged breaths. Her closed fist trembled. Asshole. Piece of shit garbage.

Another breath. She forced herself to make it a long one, hold. Exhale slowly.

It didn’t matter. She was home and she was alive. None of them could touch her anymore.

After what felt like more than ten minutes, but fewer than twenty, Garnet pulled up the locker door and slipped underneath the narrow gap. She took a minute to push herself to a standing position and get securely balanced on the crutch. She adjusted her backpack straps, zipped up her hoodie, and then set off in the afternoon sunshine.