Breakable by mosylu

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Devon’s breath burned her throat. Sweat dampened her temples and trickled down her spine. Blood thudded uncomfortably fast and hard in all her pulse points. She paused for a moment, locking her knees so they wouldn’t simply fold under her, and took deep, measured breaths. She closed her eyes for a moment, focusing on an image of good, strong oxygen passing from her lungs into her starved bloodstream.

The oxygen inhaler Julia forced her to carry at all times sat in her backpack, but she didn’t want to take it out. She didn’t need it, not really, and if someone saw her, the entire group would start to twitter and fuss.

"Devon?"

Her eyes snapped open, but it took a moment for Morgan Martin’s frowning face to swim into focus against the background of rolling foothills and scrubby trees. "Yes?"

"Were you even listening?" His frown deepened. "You’re not going to faint, are you? I don’t have to go all the way back there to get Julia, do I?"

"No!"

"You don’t have to yell at me," he complained.

She modulated her tone. "I didn’t mean to yell, Morgan. And I’m fine. I just paused for a moment." She risked toppling over to flex one leg, then the other. "My calves are feeling the incline, that’s all. I’m sure yours are too."

"They are," he muttered, rubbing them. "But--"

She started off again, calling over her shoulder, "It’s nothing, Morgan."

No more, she vowed. No more stopping where people could see. When even Morgan started hovering like a mama bird, it was getting way out of hand. Eden Advance treated her as if she were made of spun glass, and she was sick of it. Sit down, eat more, you need your rest. Don't worry about our route, we'll take care of it. Your son is fine, we're looking after him. Don't fuss over the chore rota, we've got that worked out.

They'd come back for her, Devon reminded herself. By all accounts, Julia had half-killed herself working out the cure. Everyone had taken turns nursing her, sitting with her, telling her how glad they were she was back and alive. When Julia had allowed her to walk out of her tent for the first time, the entire camp had been calling encouragement, cheering wildly when she made it to the fire. She should be grateful.

And she was, really she was. But if they didn’t quit treating her like a cracked porcelain doll, she was going go very loudly crazy. She wasn’t broken--something she reminded herself of daily--but the way they were acting around her, she felt like it. Broken, ineffectual, unreal.

For heaven’s sake, John Danziger didn’t even fight with her anymore.

It used to be a weekly occurrence, sometimes close to daily. Not any more. If he backed off one more time, she was going to beat him senseless with one of his own wrenches. More than once in the past month and a half, Devon had wondered if brain damage was a side-effect of her illness, the cryo, or Julia’s cure. If anyone had told her a year ago that she would be going crazy because Danziger was being nice to her, she would have sent them to the medtent for immediate brain scans.

Oh, and that wasn’t even the worst part. No, the worst part was that the man hadn't so much as laid a finger on her in six weeks. John Danziger, for whom casual touch came as naturally as sneering at Morgan Martin, now stood three feet away from her in all conversations. He kept his hands in his pockets and exited the area as soon as humanly possible. It was almost insulting. Did he think she was going to infect him or something?

It was like living in a bubble, all of it. A crystal bubble, and nobody could get through, and nobody wanted to. She just didn't feel real anymore.

So she concentrated on showing everyone how strong she was. No porcelain dolls here, no crystal bubbles. And nobody needed to know how tired she got just by mid-morning, and how some afternoons she only stayed upright and walking because she forced herself to put one foot in front of the other until they stopped. Nobody had to know that even when she was weaving and near-nauseous with exhaustion, she still couldn't sleep.

It would pass. Soon. As long as she kept going.

She topped a rise several feet ahead of the others and started down. Her foot landed on a loose rock and skidded. She wobbled, overbalanced, and fell to earth on her hands and knees. Her elbows trembled, but didn’t fold. She clung to the ground, fingernails digging into sun-warmed earth as her head spun like a wobbly gyroscope. Her mouth felt sticky and gummy as she gulped air. Her heart thudded in her chest, so hard it jarred her stomach and rattled her collarbone.

Okay, she thought, concentrating on the comforting solidity of the ground. Okay. I’m fine. I just need to catch my breath a moment. Hopefully before anybody else gets over that rise.

"Devon?" Julia shouted. "Devon!"

Oh, no.

She managed to push herself up to a sitting position, her legs folded under her and her arms unobtrusively (she hoped) braced on her thighs. "I’m fine," she said, then had to take in another breath to give the shout enough force to reach further than a foot away. "I’m fine! Really. I tripped."

Julia slid to a stop beside Devon like a runner sliding into home and flattened her diagloved hand on Devon’s chest. "Heart rate up," she muttered, frowning at the readouts. "Blood oxygen levels down--"

"I’m all right," Devon insisted, struggling to swallow a cough from the dust. "I’m just going to rest for a moment and then I’ll be perfectly all right. I can keep going."

Julia spared her a single glance and went back to studying her readings. "Morgan said you were looking funny earlier."

Devon considered taking the wrench to Morgan, as well. "I was resting my legs! For one moment!"

The other woman made a few adjustments and glared at the new readings. "I want you to ride in the dunerail with Alonzo."

"What?"

"I mean it."

"Now, Julia, come on--"

A strong arm came around her middle and lifted her straight off the ground like a sack of potatoes. "You heard her," a voice growled in her ear. "Dunerail."

"Wha--? Danziger! You put me down!" She kicked, but her heel met only air. "Stop it!" She jabbed an elbow backward, and felt it connect with his stomach. He didn’t even grunt. "Danziger!" she shrieked as he lugged her back over the rise. Her breath whooshed from her lungs when he switched his grip to a fireman’s carry, upside-down over his shoulder. As soon as she had it back, she yelled, "Julia! Stop him! Somebody!"

Julia, the traitor, just smiled and slid her diaglove into her bag.

The other members of Eden Advance stared as Danziger carried her back through their ranks, back to where the dunerail brought up the rear of the caravan. "Uly!" he yelled. "Outta there. Your mom’s gonna ride now."

"Mom?" Uly asked, clambering like a monkey out of the dunerail’s passenger seat. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"I’m fine, honey," she called out. "Danziger’s just being a--" He dropped her into the seat. "Oof!"

He pointed at her. "Sit. Stay."

That brought the good old red haze roiling over her eyes. "I can walk." She practically had to look straight up in order to glare at him. "I am perfectly capable of getting out of this seat and walking. On my own."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah!" she snapped back.

He stepped back and swept one hand out. "Be my guest."

She blinked, but knew better than to let this unlooked-for chance pass her by. She gripped the front rail with one hand and braced the other on the back of the seat, and just started to lever herself up when he said, "Nuh-uh."

Her eyes narrowed. "What?"

"You made such a big deal about how you can get out all by yourself. So do it. None of this pansy rail-hanging. If you’re fine, just stand up and step out like any of the rest of us."

She took a deep breath, trying to will the oxygen to percolate through her blood and into her muscles. Sweat trickled down her spine and dampened the insides of her elbows. She planted her feet on the floor of the vehicle, brushed her hair out of her face, and pushed.

For a moment, she thought she had it. Then buzzing grey blankness swept over her senses, and she felt her spine and knees turn to string. A big, warm hand on her elbow slowed her descent, but she still hit the seat hard enough to rattle her teeth.

When her vision cleared, she was staring at her knees. She didn’t dare look up at him, or at anybody else. Her cheeks burned with humiliation.

After a second, he broke the silence. "Solace. Drive." He let go of her arm and strode away.

Alonzo started the dunerail again, and the group started to move. Most of them gave Devon concerned glances as they passed, which did nothing for her mood. Uly was up ahead, between Danziger and Julia, clearly asking what had happened.

After several minutes, Alonzo said, "I give that about a 7.5, in case you’re interested."

It startled her out of her mortified reverie. "What?"

"On the Danziger/Adair Fight Scale," he explained. His voice was light and jokey. "See, you start out at zero and get points added or taken away. On that one, you got three for ferocity, three for volume, two for publicity, with a bonus point for physical contact--be proud, you barely ever get that bonus point--but I took off two for length. That was shamefully brief."

She found herself going along with the game, out of mild bemusement. "That’s . . . only seven."

"Right, yeah. The point-five is handicapping to account for your condition."

She stared at him.

"Whaddya say, Baines?" he said to that man, who was plodding along beside the rail. "Was that a good 7.5, or what?"

Baines looked startled for a minute, then frowned studiously. "Eight," he said after some apparent calculation. "Totally an eight. Maybe 8.5."

Alonzo took offense. "Oh, please. I know the scale’s been on hiatus for three months, but you didn’t forget that much?"

"Of course not. Two bonus points for physical contact," Baines explained. "You are giving her a handicap, right?"

"Sure I am, but only half a point. Plus you can’t count the second contact. The guy was catching her. Heck, I might even take off half a point for that. For an 8.5, he’d’ve had to let her fall on her face."

Devon didn’t know whether to laugh or beat them both over the head. Apparently, this was not a spur-of-the-moment Alonzo joke, but an ongoing preoccupation. "Baines," she said. "Walk. Alonzo. Drive."

The two men said together, "Grouchiness. Bonus point."

Baines trotted on, and Alonzo tooled the dunerail around a pothole, grinning.

Devon rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. The little glow that the men’s silliness had brought faded quickly. Her knee throbbed where it had met rock. Her palms stung with gravel scrapes. Her butt hurt where he’d dropped her onto the seat. He'd finally touched her, and it had been to pick her up like a rag doll. He'd finally fought with her, and he’d trounced her utterly. Typical. Just typical. Be careful what you wish for, Devon.

Worst of all, she really did feel better now that she'd sat down.

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