02-07-2018, 03:02 PM
She'd been about to sign off to the night shift when an RTA sent the emergency room into a tailspin.
The girl was the worst casualty, spilling blood faster than they could pump it in. The power webbed through Morven in the same touch that found a line for the IV, her concentration split to the task; fumbling, twelve hours deep into a relentless shift. The team worked seamlessly around her. Barking orders and feedback from the machines. But the weaves were unravelling as fast as she could form them, the damage raging at a swifter pace than she could work. Monitors began a shrill warning; a drill on her focus. Somewhere distant she could hear her name pointed in question, the words muffled. Darkness misted in the edges of her vision like the night she had collapsed at Soren's feet.
You're going to lose her.
She drew deeper, could feel the sweetness begin to hurt as it surged and the flows strengthened. But even then she could still feel her slipping away, each touch of the power a drain, like the girl simply didn't have enough energy to support the work. No, no, no, no, no. There was sudden stillness around her, like the world had suddenly frozen. Morven chose not to acknowledge it. Her shoes slid in the blood underfoot as she tried to get a better grip; as if that would help anchor her; help the weave stabilise and penetrate. A colleague caught her elbow, pulled her hands gently away. Everything blurred when he glanced at the clock hanging overhead and called it.
"Time of death, four fifty-three am."
***
By now the red glow of sunrise was a memory, and Morven should have been home hours ago. Instead she'd only just snapped the gloves from her hands and clocked out, pausing momentarily at the door the nurses sneaked out to for a cigarette. Numbness cocooned her against the worst of it. The grief. The anger. She'd always had a temper; one liable to get her into trouble one day. But she'd swallowed it down to inform the family of their loss; absorbing those pale faces, the broken sobbing as worlds imploded, all the sharp edges embedding inwards. Knowing her failure was part of it.
She weathered it with the solemn professionalism she fought so hard to maintain during all her years training. Realised for the first time how tightly she had to hold on just to keep herself together.
Now, though, now she wanted to ram her fist into the fucking wall until the bloody pain eased out the knot in her chest. She choked the urge down instead, running her hand over the tight braid of curls at her crown; breathed in deep like Lyall suggested whenever the wolf bit chunks from her humanity. It didn't work, but it was better than grazed knuckles she'd have to explain later
A beep at her belt drew her gaze down wearily, then. By now her eyes burned raw with fatigue, but her brows still daggered low when she comprehended the message. The tight ball of kindling in her chest burst into abrupt flame.
Marcil was in theatre.
He must have been prepping for it even as the girl's life was bleeding out in Morven's hands. That little fucking shit! Her jaw set hard, and despite her exhaustion she began fumbling for her car keys, threading through the parked cars in blind haste until she found her own. She needed to get to the university hospital. Sage Parker was her patient and the bastard had no fucking right.
"Miss Kinnaird?"
She twisted from her car to find two suits approaching up the path. Government, clearly. Wonderful. Just wonderful. "Aye, that's me, and I've no time spare for words, not right now. Find me when I'm off duty."
Her palm rested on the door.
"Your shift ended at midnight, Miss Kinnaird, and we have already been to your apartment. We need to speak to you. It's a matter of some importance. This way, please."
The taller of the two, hair cropped short to his scalp, offered a tight smile. The fine lines about his eyes deepened, but his gaze was slate. A man running through the motions of pleasantry. Morven's lips pursed as he presented an ID holo formalised with the Ascendany's orange stamp. She could almost hear the low growl that'd be burrowing in her sister's throat had she been here. Her gaze moved to the shorter man, his face utterly impassive. Fuck.
"This needs to be quick. Understood?"
***
A nondescript office in the hospital complex housed their meeting. The smaller of the two men hovered by the door, hands braced in front of him. The other sat opposite her, caught amidst the glow of several screens pointed inwards, all shining with the hospital's logo revolving about as slowly as he chose to speak. He introduced himself and his colleague formally. Pointed out coffee steaming in a cafetiere, should she desire it (a nice way of saying she looked like shit; his flat lips almost quirked a smile). A jug of water too, if she preferred. Morven dampened the urge to bounce her leg under the table, the sheer leisurely pace with which he directed proceedings galling to every fibre of her desperate to be in theatre.
While he spoke he fiddled with the tech in front of him. Inserted a stick. Prodded a few keys. The glow against his pale skin faded, replaced with something darker, waiting. Finally he laced his hands in front of him and leaned in, the twin dark of his eyes meeting her own. He did not smile, not a hint; she counted the lines on his face while she waited for him to speak. Then, finally:
"Do you have any idea why we're here, Miss Kinnaird?"
Aye, she had an idea that the rumour of one too many miracles brought them to hound her doorstep. She'd known this would happen eventually, but keeping the secret had been secondary to making good use of it. Still, she cursed the ill timing. It made her feel more belligerent than she ought, even knowing that noncooperation on her part would only make things worse. Her lips pressed thin, but she didn't answer him. Silence reigned on the small hope she was wrong; she'd kick herself sharply if it turned out she spilled the secret freely when they were here for something else. Unlikely, but she hated regret.
He sighed. "It is required of all Custody citizens to register if they believe themselves in possession of Ascendant power. For the good of the Custody, and at the behest of Ascendancy himself. We believe you to be one such person, and yet you have not registered."
"Aye, I'm one of them. Aye, I haven't filled in the forms. Doesn't seem to me history's ever shown it to be a wise move. But I suppose you're not here to give me the choice."
He patiently swiped at the screen in front of him, ignoring the jibe. She could see the reflection of the registration form blinking in his eyes, that bloody orange text she'd stared at numerous times back in London -- when she'd first made the decision not to submit her life into the government's hands. Preliminaries began the interrogation. Her name. DOB. CID. When he asked her occupation her stony expression swiftly urged him to move on. Still he made her waste the breath saying it. Asshole.
"How long?"
"Since I was nineteen."
"And how did you first discover your ability?"
"That's not on the fucking form."
The words snapped out before she thought to control herself. The glare burning up in her eyes was as much frustration at her slip as irritation at her predicament. Sage's face flashed with every blink. The glint of skull. The glisten of brain. All those fucking wires weaving in an out; his parents' twisted love. How many times had she warned him? And he had promised to wait for her okay before he proceeded. Either he broke that promise or Marcil twisted him into it. He was a kid, and she knew how eager he was to jack back into the ether. The protectiveness swept over her again, and for one stupid moment she thought about re-purposing the fire in her veins. Just enough to get out of here. Deal with the consequences afterwards.
Her hand stayed, but perhaps only because she could feel how slippery the power had become; she'd wrung herself nearly dry trying to save the girl. A short sigh heaved out from her chest, a note of defeat. Trapped and cagey as an animal. She rubbed her face. Blinked out the tired burning. Tried to concentrate. Then leaned over to pour herself some of the coffee. Jerk awake her senses.
He watched her do it, stoical.
"My sister and I hiked a lot in the Cairngorms when we were younger. Tough terrain. Isolated wilderness, A real tough fucking show if you don't know what you're doing, and when you're really deep there's nowhere to go for help if you fuck up. One time my sister injured herself. A deep gash, flash o' bone in it. I bandaged her up and in the morning we hiked back out. Drove to the hospital in Inverness. But when the nurse peeked a look, the wound might have been healing a week already. No bone to see. Just an ugly scar now. That was the first time, I think. Not that I really ken the significance at the time."
She'd killed a man that night, but the guilt had never weighed on her. Even now, skirting around that little detail, her gaze was clear of it. He nodded, checked his screen.
"Summarise your abilities, please."
Her hands wrapped the cup. This time there was no hesitation. "I can ascertain injuries at a touch. Heal some of them, or aid it to happen more swiftly. Easier if I can see it, not impossible if I can't. Sometimes there's nae even a scar."
She paused, deliberating whether to add the new snippet tonight's tragedy made clear. In the end it all poured out. "Though it takes a certain amount of strength on the part of the patient, I think. I can give a boost of energy. Like adrenaline. Short lived. Sometimes that helps, with the minor things. I can ease pain too. And other, more mundane things. I assume you don't know the intricacies of it. How it's made up."
She shrugged. "It's easy to move things with it."
Less mundane things, too, but she wasn't stupid enough to talk of how the same power could shove a man backwards like he was a marionette; how easily bones snapped and cracked and twisted until that marionette barely resembled a man at all. How ropes of it could coil and tip that wretched twist of limbs into the rush of savage summer floods, never to surface again. She blinked, arms resting on the desk in front of her.
"Are you able to show us any of this?"
That, from the man at the door.
"Do I look like a fucking show pony, gentleman? Ask the next question."
***
Hours passed in that damn office, unpacking and unpicking her words; the bare bones of the registration form, and much more besides. They were interested in the healing, she realised; its strengths and limitations, so far as she understood it. She'd never paused to consider that it wasn't something everyone with the power was able to do, and even now did not really care. Impatience was sharpening her to a blade's edge, battling the sheer fatigue weighing heavy as a cement shroud. Sage might be dead by now. Or they might be sealing up the incision and wheeling him to recovery. And she hadn't been there for any of it. Despite vowing, and meaning it with her very marrow.
She rubbed her face again, asked him to repeat another question stuffed in her ears like cotton wool. Sometimes he paused after she'd finished explaining something, eyes wavering as he read text on the screen, but by now she'd stopped noticing -- or wondering what the fuck it was he clearly referenced. The coffee pot was empty, even the dregs stone cold. Her thoughts were a strange collision of jittery and sluggish as she checked her wrist watch for the third time that minute. He'd been quiet the whole time, perhaps reading through to make sure he had not missed anything. Finally he stood, jerking down the hem of his jacket. When the stick uncoupled from the screen, the holos flickered and brightened to their usual screens. "Thank you for your time, Miss Kinnaird. We will be in touch."
Morven stood too, slicking back her hair once more, blinking rapidly. He offered his hand as he passed her, but she ignored it. Moments later they were gone. She was not far behind.
She needed to get to the university; she needed to find Marcil.
The girl was the worst casualty, spilling blood faster than they could pump it in. The power webbed through Morven in the same touch that found a line for the IV, her concentration split to the task; fumbling, twelve hours deep into a relentless shift. The team worked seamlessly around her. Barking orders and feedback from the machines. But the weaves were unravelling as fast as she could form them, the damage raging at a swifter pace than she could work. Monitors began a shrill warning; a drill on her focus. Somewhere distant she could hear her name pointed in question, the words muffled. Darkness misted in the edges of her vision like the night she had collapsed at Soren's feet.
You're going to lose her.
She drew deeper, could feel the sweetness begin to hurt as it surged and the flows strengthened. But even then she could still feel her slipping away, each touch of the power a drain, like the girl simply didn't have enough energy to support the work. No, no, no, no, no. There was sudden stillness around her, like the world had suddenly frozen. Morven chose not to acknowledge it. Her shoes slid in the blood underfoot as she tried to get a better grip; as if that would help anchor her; help the weave stabilise and penetrate. A colleague caught her elbow, pulled her hands gently away. Everything blurred when he glanced at the clock hanging overhead and called it.
"Time of death, four fifty-three am."
***
By now the red glow of sunrise was a memory, and Morven should have been home hours ago. Instead she'd only just snapped the gloves from her hands and clocked out, pausing momentarily at the door the nurses sneaked out to for a cigarette. Numbness cocooned her against the worst of it. The grief. The anger. She'd always had a temper; one liable to get her into trouble one day. But she'd swallowed it down to inform the family of their loss; absorbing those pale faces, the broken sobbing as worlds imploded, all the sharp edges embedding inwards. Knowing her failure was part of it.
She weathered it with the solemn professionalism she fought so hard to maintain during all her years training. Realised for the first time how tightly she had to hold on just to keep herself together.
Now, though, now she wanted to ram her fist into the fucking wall until the bloody pain eased out the knot in her chest. She choked the urge down instead, running her hand over the tight braid of curls at her crown; breathed in deep like Lyall suggested whenever the wolf bit chunks from her humanity. It didn't work, but it was better than grazed knuckles she'd have to explain later
A beep at her belt drew her gaze down wearily, then. By now her eyes burned raw with fatigue, but her brows still daggered low when she comprehended the message. The tight ball of kindling in her chest burst into abrupt flame.
Marcil was in theatre.
He must have been prepping for it even as the girl's life was bleeding out in Morven's hands. That little fucking shit! Her jaw set hard, and despite her exhaustion she began fumbling for her car keys, threading through the parked cars in blind haste until she found her own. She needed to get to the university hospital. Sage Parker was her patient and the bastard had no fucking right.
"Miss Kinnaird?"
She twisted from her car to find two suits approaching up the path. Government, clearly. Wonderful. Just wonderful. "Aye, that's me, and I've no time spare for words, not right now. Find me when I'm off duty."
Her palm rested on the door.
"Your shift ended at midnight, Miss Kinnaird, and we have already been to your apartment. We need to speak to you. It's a matter of some importance. This way, please."
The taller of the two, hair cropped short to his scalp, offered a tight smile. The fine lines about his eyes deepened, but his gaze was slate. A man running through the motions of pleasantry. Morven's lips pursed as he presented an ID holo formalised with the Ascendany's orange stamp. She could almost hear the low growl that'd be burrowing in her sister's throat had she been here. Her gaze moved to the shorter man, his face utterly impassive. Fuck.
"This needs to be quick. Understood?"
***
A nondescript office in the hospital complex housed their meeting. The smaller of the two men hovered by the door, hands braced in front of him. The other sat opposite her, caught amidst the glow of several screens pointed inwards, all shining with the hospital's logo revolving about as slowly as he chose to speak. He introduced himself and his colleague formally. Pointed out coffee steaming in a cafetiere, should she desire it (a nice way of saying she looked like shit; his flat lips almost quirked a smile). A jug of water too, if she preferred. Morven dampened the urge to bounce her leg under the table, the sheer leisurely pace with which he directed proceedings galling to every fibre of her desperate to be in theatre.
While he spoke he fiddled with the tech in front of him. Inserted a stick. Prodded a few keys. The glow against his pale skin faded, replaced with something darker, waiting. Finally he laced his hands in front of him and leaned in, the twin dark of his eyes meeting her own. He did not smile, not a hint; she counted the lines on his face while she waited for him to speak. Then, finally:
"Do you have any idea why we're here, Miss Kinnaird?"
Aye, she had an idea that the rumour of one too many miracles brought them to hound her doorstep. She'd known this would happen eventually, but keeping the secret had been secondary to making good use of it. Still, she cursed the ill timing. It made her feel more belligerent than she ought, even knowing that noncooperation on her part would only make things worse. Her lips pressed thin, but she didn't answer him. Silence reigned on the small hope she was wrong; she'd kick herself sharply if it turned out she spilled the secret freely when they were here for something else. Unlikely, but she hated regret.
He sighed. "It is required of all Custody citizens to register if they believe themselves in possession of Ascendant power. For the good of the Custody, and at the behest of Ascendancy himself. We believe you to be one such person, and yet you have not registered."
"Aye, I'm one of them. Aye, I haven't filled in the forms. Doesn't seem to me history's ever shown it to be a wise move. But I suppose you're not here to give me the choice."
He patiently swiped at the screen in front of him, ignoring the jibe. She could see the reflection of the registration form blinking in his eyes, that bloody orange text she'd stared at numerous times back in London -- when she'd first made the decision not to submit her life into the government's hands. Preliminaries began the interrogation. Her name. DOB. CID. When he asked her occupation her stony expression swiftly urged him to move on. Still he made her waste the breath saying it. Asshole.
"How long?"
"Since I was nineteen."
"And how did you first discover your ability?"
"That's not on the fucking form."
The words snapped out before she thought to control herself. The glare burning up in her eyes was as much frustration at her slip as irritation at her predicament. Sage's face flashed with every blink. The glint of skull. The glisten of brain. All those fucking wires weaving in an out; his parents' twisted love. How many times had she warned him? And he had promised to wait for her okay before he proceeded. Either he broke that promise or Marcil twisted him into it. He was a kid, and she knew how eager he was to jack back into the ether. The protectiveness swept over her again, and for one stupid moment she thought about re-purposing the fire in her veins. Just enough to get out of here. Deal with the consequences afterwards.
Her hand stayed, but perhaps only because she could feel how slippery the power had become; she'd wrung herself nearly dry trying to save the girl. A short sigh heaved out from her chest, a note of defeat. Trapped and cagey as an animal. She rubbed her face. Blinked out the tired burning. Tried to concentrate. Then leaned over to pour herself some of the coffee. Jerk awake her senses.
He watched her do it, stoical.
"My sister and I hiked a lot in the Cairngorms when we were younger. Tough terrain. Isolated wilderness, A real tough fucking show if you don't know what you're doing, and when you're really deep there's nowhere to go for help if you fuck up. One time my sister injured herself. A deep gash, flash o' bone in it. I bandaged her up and in the morning we hiked back out. Drove to the hospital in Inverness. But when the nurse peeked a look, the wound might have been healing a week already. No bone to see. Just an ugly scar now. That was the first time, I think. Not that I really ken the significance at the time."
She'd killed a man that night, but the guilt had never weighed on her. Even now, skirting around that little detail, her gaze was clear of it. He nodded, checked his screen.
"Summarise your abilities, please."
Her hands wrapped the cup. This time there was no hesitation. "I can ascertain injuries at a touch. Heal some of them, or aid it to happen more swiftly. Easier if I can see it, not impossible if I can't. Sometimes there's nae even a scar."
She paused, deliberating whether to add the new snippet tonight's tragedy made clear. In the end it all poured out. "Though it takes a certain amount of strength on the part of the patient, I think. I can give a boost of energy. Like adrenaline. Short lived. Sometimes that helps, with the minor things. I can ease pain too. And other, more mundane things. I assume you don't know the intricacies of it. How it's made up."
She shrugged. "It's easy to move things with it."
Less mundane things, too, but she wasn't stupid enough to talk of how the same power could shove a man backwards like he was a marionette; how easily bones snapped and cracked and twisted until that marionette barely resembled a man at all. How ropes of it could coil and tip that wretched twist of limbs into the rush of savage summer floods, never to surface again. She blinked, arms resting on the desk in front of her.
"Are you able to show us any of this?"
That, from the man at the door.
"Do I look like a fucking show pony, gentleman? Ask the next question."
***
Hours passed in that damn office, unpacking and unpicking her words; the bare bones of the registration form, and much more besides. They were interested in the healing, she realised; its strengths and limitations, so far as she understood it. She'd never paused to consider that it wasn't something everyone with the power was able to do, and even now did not really care. Impatience was sharpening her to a blade's edge, battling the sheer fatigue weighing heavy as a cement shroud. Sage might be dead by now. Or they might be sealing up the incision and wheeling him to recovery. And she hadn't been there for any of it. Despite vowing, and meaning it with her very marrow.
She rubbed her face again, asked him to repeat another question stuffed in her ears like cotton wool. Sometimes he paused after she'd finished explaining something, eyes wavering as he read text on the screen, but by now she'd stopped noticing -- or wondering what the fuck it was he clearly referenced. The coffee pot was empty, even the dregs stone cold. Her thoughts were a strange collision of jittery and sluggish as she checked her wrist watch for the third time that minute. He'd been quiet the whole time, perhaps reading through to make sure he had not missed anything. Finally he stood, jerking down the hem of his jacket. When the stick uncoupled from the screen, the holos flickered and brightened to their usual screens. "Thank you for your time, Miss Kinnaird. We will be in touch."
Morven stood too, slicking back her hair once more, blinking rapidly. He offered his hand as he passed her, but she ignored it. Moments later they were gone. She was not far behind.
She needed to get to the university; she needed to find Marcil.
![[Image: Morven-past-life-banner-scaled.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/Morven-past-life-banner-scaled.jpg)