Page 139 of Immune

Outside, boots pass somewhere overhead, and every soft thing in the room suddenly disappears like it was never there to begin with. Kaito’s eyes pop open. Fletcher raises a hand from his place by the window. And Xeon shadows behind him, rifle low and face calm in a way that makes him look deadly lethal.

Human steps.

Three sets, maybe four.

Vector or looters, but it’s hard to tell from under a line of concrete. I’d put my money on Vector, only because the universe has been serving meals with a theme lately.

The old song keeps playing faintly, high-pitched and wrong.

The pilot’s breathing hitches, and I shake my head.

No. Mate, not now. Don’t pick this exact moment to become the main character, for the love of all things good and pure in this world of bollocks.

Carefully, I move to him, crouching by his side, my fingers reaching for his pulse. He’s running hot. Way too hot, and his throat bobs like he’s about to cough, talk, or do something equally as fatally stupid and inconvenient.

Dakota appears opposite me without a single sound, knife in hand. She leans down, eyes fixed on the pilot’s face, and, in the softest, most terrifying little whisper I’ve ever heard in all of my life, she says, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

The pilot’s mouth closes and I stare at him. Then I stare at her.

For one mental second, I almost lost it. Because of course he listens to her. Half-dead man, feverish, bleeding, barely conscious, and even he’s got enough survival instinct to realize Dakota’s not making a suggestion.

I press my lips together tightly.

Don’t laugh.

Don’t laugh.

Don’t laugh.

Not in the murder cupboard while possible Vector men are above us and Dakota is holding a knife tightly in her hand.

The boots pause just then, right above us, and my heartbeat stutters in my chest. The room falls still. Above, someone mutters, but the words are swallowed by the concrete. I only manage to catch snippets.

“...station…”

“...pilot…”

“...tracks…”

Dakota’s eyes sharpen. Fletcher doesn’t move away from the window. Kaito’s hand tightens around his blade, knucklesturning pale with the force. And the pilot remains blessedly silent.

The boots move on. One step, then two, then the sound fades.

Fletcher keeps us frozen for about another full minute before he lowers his hand, and only then does the room remember that breathing actually exists.

Dakota sits back on her heels and glares at the pilot like he pissed in her Weetabix, muttering, “He listens better half-dead than you do.”

That’s it. I’m fucking gone. Not loudly, because I’m not suicidal. But a laugh slips out before I can stop it, quiet and helpless.

Dakota’s head turns slowly. So dangerously slowly, but it’s so worth it.

“Don’t be pleased with yourself,” she warns.

I shake my head. “Too late.”

“I can fix that,” she tells me, as serious as a heart attack.

“I fully believe you,” I promise.