NOVA
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07/06/2002 - 2am
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I've felt a whole lot of agony in my career. I've been skimmed with bullets, bludgeoned, beaten a fair few times.

But this?

This is a whole different kind of hell.

There's something uniquely excruciating about having a jagged chunk of rusted scrap metal slowly, methodically pulled out of your thigh without a single fucking drop of morphine.

Every nerve in my body is screaming. 

Sweat pours off my face in sheets, soaking into the collar of my shirt. My fingers are clawing into the stretcher, nails dragging down the hard plastic edges like I'm trying to anchor myself to the earth. 

Elijah's got a death grip on my leg, pinning it down with more force than I thought he was capable of. And still, it bucks under me like it's trying to escape my body.

I've got a rag shoved between my teeth. I'm biting down so hard I'm worried I'll shatter a molar.

I can feel it.

The jagged edge of the metal, the way it grinds through torn muscle and sinew, dragging tissue with it as it's coaxed out inch by excruciating inch. It twists. Jerks. Elijah's trying to be gentle, I know he is, but there's no gentle way to pull out a shard of hell.

I lift my head, the world tunnelling to a narrow band of sound. The engine's thrum, my own panting breath, the quiet instructions between Rosa and Elijah, and one more noise that makes my blood boil:

Silence. Coming from Leo.

He's the only one not looking away.

Everyone else has had the decency to turn around. I glance sideways through tear-streaked lashes, and there he is. Arms crossed, expression unreadable, eyes locked on me like I'm some goddamn test subject.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" I snarl, spitting the rag out as Elijah pauses to readjust his grip.

Leo shrugs, all cool and composed like he hasn't got a front row seating to my thigh being excavated like a warzone.

"Just watching," he mutters, like that explains anything.

I want to throw something at him. Or stab him with the same twisted chunk of metal Ramirez left in me. But I don't have the energy. All I can do is snarl through clenched teeth and sink back into the stretcher.

"Elijah," I growl, my voice tighter now. "How much is out?"

He hesitates. That alone tells me everything.

"I don't know," he says quietly. "I can't tell how long it is."

Perfect. Fucking perfect.

The rag goes back between my teeth. I brace myself.

This is worse than gunfire. It's slow. Unrelenting. 

It feels like my leg is being peeled apart from the inside, nerves scraping raw with every twitch of that jagged edge. My vision whites out, blacks in. My hearing fuzzes at the edges. 

I start panting like I've been sprinting for miles. I can feel myself slipping.

The voices around me start to stretch and muffle. I catch Rosa's soft, worried tone. Elijah's apology. Leo's silence. The cold metal floor biting into my arm as I shift.

And then something tears, deep, and I feel it. The end. The final twist as Elijah's arm rears back, blood-soaked metal gripped hard.

Then nothing.

Darkness takes me before the pain can.

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02/06/2002 - 4:30am
La Castellana Safe House
Colombia
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Honestly, passing out was the best thing that happened to me all day.

The second my eyes blink open, instinct kicks in. I glance straight down at my thigh. The scrap metal's gone, thank fuck, and in its place is a tight web of layered bandages, neat and thick. 

My cargos are gone too, replaced by the black shorts I'd had layered underneath and my tank top I was sporting beneath my combat jacket. My entire body aches, but the pressure in my leg has eased, slightly.

"About time you woke up," a voice cuts through the quiet, low and cynical. That voice I could pick out in a fucking hurricane. Leo. 

I roll my eyes and prop myself up on my elbows, meeting his brown-eyed stare in the low-lit room. "I just wanted a nap," I mutter dryly, scanning the shadows. We're back in the safe-house, the same rough beds scattered, most of our squad bundled in pairs wherever they can find room.

I look back at him, squinting. "Why aren't you asleep?"

He shrugs, slow and tired. "Tried. Couldn't. Think the adrenaline's still hanging on." Another shrug. "Or maybe it's because I got paired with Jed for sleeping arrangements." 

He nods toward the bed behind him, where Jed is sprawled out like a corpse mid-fight with a blanket.

I snort despite myself. "Yeah, doesn't exactly look inviting."

His lips twitch, almost a smile, but not quite. Still, something shifts. And I don't know why. Maybe it's guilt that he hasn't slept at all, or maybe it's the barest hint of truce forming between us, but the words leave me before I think twice.

"You can have this bed, I've already had my sleep." I mutter, sliding myself towards the edge of the mattress. He shakes his head.

He frowns. "Nah. You've got a stab wound in your leg," he says flatly. "You really think I'm gonna let you sleep on the floor?"

"Since when do you care?" I retort, pushing myself to the edge. "Look, I'm not dying. I've had my sleep. Take the bed, Hendrix."

But before I can stand, he shoves my shoulder Not hard, but firm enough to knock me right back down. "I don't care, but I'm choosing to do the right fucking thing. Shut up and go back to sleep."

The command makes me bristle. I want to snap something back, but I catch a better look at him in the dim glow coming through the boarded-up window. He's dead on his feet. Eyes dark-rimmed. Jaw tight.

"Anything interesting happen after I passed out?" I ask instead.

"Not really," he replies, cracking his knuckles. "Handed Ramirez over to the Colombians. Out of our hands now. I had to carry your fat ass up a staircase. Elijah stitched your leg. Said you're out of action for a couple weeks. We actually kept the shard, if you're into souvenirs."

I arch a brow. "Seriously?"

He walks over to the corner and picks up something wrapped in gauze. Unfolds it. It's bigger than I expected. A jagged, rust-caked piece of scrap, twisted at one end, warped and sharp all over. It looks like it belongs buried in a junkyard, not someone's fucking leg.

He hands it to me. I rest it against my thigh where the wound is and pale almost instantly, my stomach churning. It had gone in deeper than I thought. I feel bile stir.

Before I can get a proper look, Leo snatches it from my hands.

"I wasn't finished looking at it." I mumble. "That'll be getting turned into a resin-piece for my desk." 

"Your face just went white as a sheet. Can't be bothered dealing with you passing out again." He quips. I sigh, looking up at him.

I exhale slowly. "You look worse than me, though. You need sleep

"I didn't sleep before the mission," he says, like it's a throwaway line.

I pause. My jaw tightens a little. "Then take the bed. Seriously. Before I stab you with that shard and put you in it myself."

I try to stand. Again. This time, he's faster. He moves forward and plants a firm hand on my shoulder, dragging me back down with a sharp, irritated sigh.

"Nova, for the love of God. Stop being so fucking stubborn. Stay in the bed."

I blink up at him. That tone. It's not gentle, but it's not cold either. It sounds tired. Rough-edged. Real.

"Stubborn?" I echo, scoffing under my breath. "Pot calling the kettle black."

Still, I don't fight it this time. I exhale, give up, and roll back onto my side, carefully avoiding the wound.

I don't say anything else. Neither does he.

The room sinks back into silence, and I let it carry me off again.