Happy Friday, all! In honor of the long weekend (and just because I felt like it), here’s a semi-lengthy Embers excerpt, presented with zero context and just a tad of Fracture spoiler removal. I will say that it’s part of the scene nicknamed “It’s Called Talking” on the Embers storyboard, which is currently sitting pretty as the second-longest draft scene by a thin margin.
Real quick, don’t forget to check out my latest announcement for some important news!
And now, without further ado…
“How old were you when you first killed someone?” The question spilled out of his mouth before he could stop it. All along, he’d had a hunch she’d killed before beginning her career at HSP, even before Jak Gamon. If that was true, it was no wonder the agency had singled her out as a prime spec ops candidate. And if she was as special to him as he thought she might be, knowing her—and any of the horrible, unspeakable things that might entail—was a requirement.
She was quiet for so long he half-expected her to get up and walk out. “Thirteen,” she finally said.
Something deep inside him insisted he shouldn’t be surprised—what had he expected her to say, if not this? But another part of him was paralyzed by some combination of fear, regret, and general discomfort. It was empathy for her, sure, but it was also on an internal level. Lying there so close to her, but knowing what she’d had to do, what she was capable of…regardless of how long ago it had been, it was disconcerting.
Judging by her tone of voice, she felt just as uncomfortable telling him as he did listening to her. “I was getting ready to design my kytara blades. Was looking for scrap metal in an alley, and I got careless. This old man witnessed me use my Nostia to lift a piece, and….” She turned her head to look at him. “You probably don’t want to hear the rest.”
No, he didn’t. For one, he didn’t need to hear her confess to a murder, one that could very well still be a cold case buried deep in HSP’s archives. Secondly, the mental image was slowly wrenching his stomach into a fresh knot. He’d had to kill a number of people over the years—almost all of them, he realized, during his stint in spec ops—and she obviously had, too. But this was different. It was something she’d probably tried hard to forget, and something he was sorry for bringing up.
Once upon a time he’d had his fair share of baggage, but he’d never known anyone who had as many mental and emotional scars as she did. And at this point the metaphorical scar tissue had become so thick and calloused—scars upon scars upon scars—that he couldn’t say whether it would ever heal completely.
The thought drew his attention to her physical scars. The treatment Serenity subjected her to had helped clear up some of the newer ones, but he knew she had no shortage of others. His gaze drifted down to her waist, where a bit of bare skin showed between the hem of her tank and the waistband of her pants. Somehow it was just as shocking to see the scar tissue there as it had been when he’d caught his first glimpse of it in Kat’s garage on Chaiavis. Without even meaning to, he reached out to touch her. The instant his fingertips contacted her flesh, her hand shot out, taking hold of his wrist with a vice-like grip. Startled, he shifted his attention up to meet her steely gaze.
She didn’t release him, but he did feel her relax, albeit slowly. Her features softened a bit, and unless it was his imagination, she honestly hadn’t meant to react in such a way. It was merely a reflex, a conditioned response to physical contact that was a byproduct of her violent lifestyle.
“Will you let me see your scars?” he asked, lowering his voice by way of apology.
For several long seconds, she only stared at him. Then she flung his hand away with a quiet huff, tugged the tank hem further down, and returned her focus to the ceiling. “You’ve seen them, if I recall,” she muttered.
He started to argue but clamped his mouth shut before he could say anything that made matters worse. I just want to know you, he thought, though he had to admit he was surprised by how much he’d learned about her already. “I don’t care what they look like,” he said quietly.
She rolled over, turning her back to him. “I don’t care what they look like, either. Appearance is beside the point.” Her tone told him the conversation was on the verge of collapse.
He sighed and turned to face her, fixating once more on the swirling design of her tattoo in an attempt to curb his frustration. “They’re part of who you are. They may be a harsh reminder of where you’ve been and what you’ve endured, but they also show how strong you are. What you’re capable of.”
“Sheyss, Aroska. Enough with the therapy session.”
“I’m just saying.”
She propped herself up on one elbow far enough to turn and send him an unimpressed look. “No, you’re doing that thing again where you try to paint me in some sort of heroic light. I’ve told you before, I’m—”
“—not a hero, just a problem solver,” he finished for her, “and you don’t classify yourself as good or evil because right and wrong are often relative to the work you’re doing. I know.” He propped himself up as well and met her gaze in hopes of assuring her he wasn’t being sarcastic. “I really do.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I’m just saying you’ve somehow managed to take all of these horrible things that have happened to you and you’ve turned them into some sort of armor. You don’t let them become shackles…the way I used to.” He shook his head. “I guess I’ve always kind of envied that about you, and I’m finally understanding everything you once tried to explain to me. All along, you’ve been using your tragedies to your advantage. You’ve figured out how to survive.”
It was hard to tell if she was taking comfort from his words or if she just thought he was insane. But then one corner of her mouth curled upward, a good sign. “Problem solver,” she said, tapping her finger against her temple before turning away from him again.
