Page 53 of Remnants: Disruption
“What the fuck happened to you?” Blair’s eyes scan me for obvious injuries, their grip slipping from my arms to palpate at my head, neck and back.
Right. I haven’t changed out of the bloodied clothes that undoubtedly have bits of my brain matter splattered on them. It’s by the curse of some unloving god that the rookie didn’t have his gun loaded with anti-Remnant materials.
“I imagine I look like hell warmed over,” I say with a poorly attempted grin. The muscles on my face feel weak and trembly.
“Are you hurt?” they ask, ignoring my attempt at humor.
Blair doesn’t wait for an answer and directs me to sit in their desk chair. From seemingly nowhere, they procure a first aid kit. The cleansing alcohol is potent against my senses but after a few moments, the white linen is tinged pink.
“Whose blood is this?” Blair asks as they toss the rag into the biohazard bin. They turn back to me, an expectant but worried look on their face.
I glance down at my hands. My fingernails aren’t trimmed. It’s been sometime since I’ve taken a proper shower besides washing off the sweat and grime. My clothes look ragged and, honestly, I don’t know that I care anymore. There’s no answer to this question that doesn’t ultimately lead to me lying.
Again.
“It’s mine,” I say after a few moments. I don’t look up from my chipped nails. The silver paint that I usually apply is long gone. My cuticles are jagged with an exceptional number of cuts along my fingers. I’ll bet my entire body sports new scars.
Ones made by Remnant powers that just never heal right.
Not that I’ll ever check.
I finally meet Blair’s eyes after they don’t respond. The green in their irises looks brighter with what might be sympathy—or pity.
“That’s not possible,” Blair says, running a hand through their brown curls. “That’s way too much blood for there to be no wound.”
“I heal fast?” I try, knowing they won’t believe me.
“Is it from the attack?” they ask, their mind clearly working faster than mine.
“What—” I begin to deny everything, but Blair puts up a finger.
“Don’t lie to me, Arya. I’m not a fucking idiot. I’m an expert in Remnant history and biology. Being a medical examiner is just a side gig to pay for ever-underfunded Remnant research.”
They stand, rant apparently not over.
“I know your powers register as a Tier 1, but there was no such thing as a Death Affliction before you. And it just so happened to match up with the emergence of The Dark One.”
I blink stupidly for a few seconds before just nodding. It was probably silly of me to ever assume that one of the most prominent voices in Remnant studies wouldn’t see through my facade. Blair’s interest in teratology isn't exactly unheard of, but their doctorate is.
“It’s not from the attack. It’s from when the NCPD shot me in the head and arrested me for…” I gesture aimlessly. “The attack itself was an entire other set of scars and wounds.”
“They did what?” Blair’s accusatory glare turns into horror.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve lost my job,” I say gesturing to my hip where the badge usually sits. “Actually, I know I have. Bellick and McRoberts wanted to pin it all on me.”
I press the heels of my hands into my forehead, the pressure somewhat calming the pounding behind my eyes. My hair feelsgreasy at the roots, and I make a silent promise to shower in the next few hours.
“They shot you?” Blair’s voice is hushed, but I don’t raise my head.
“Apparently some rookie popped me after I didn’t immediately get down on my hands and knees. The only reason they let me go after some pretty piss poor interrogating was Travers.”
I finally look up again as Blair hums knowingly.
“Few people truly accept Remnants in our culture. Even fewer accept the ones with taboo powers.”
“I’m surprised Travers is one of them,” I say, but Blair scoffs.
“He’s not really. He’s just smart about who he makes an enemy of.”
