SCENE 7-III

“This is getting ridiculous, how many times are we going to have to repeat the same fucking thing?” Luke says, pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee and yawning into one hand.

“This is only our fourth city.” Atlas says, taking a bite of a chocolate chip cookie. “Mm, these are good, you should try one.”

Luke shrugs, and takes a sip of his coffee. “I’m not really hungry.”

Narrowing his eyes, Atlas wraps a couple cookies in a napkin. “I’ll take some with me just in case.” He says, and wanders back over to the stage, where they will be continuing their self-defence class in a few minutes. Luke takes this opportunity to press the heels of his hands against closed eyes, a headache throbbing behind them. When someone bumps into him from behind he picks his coffee up again and takes another sip before following Atlas.

As he joins the lieutenant, he coughs, harshly, and barely manages to steady his hand before the coffee goes flying. Quickly, as another coughing fit starts, Atlas snatches the cup out of his shaking hand, and presses a napkin in its place. Bending slightly at the waist, Luke brings it up to his mouth as a particularly bad set wracks his body, and it comes away splattered with blood.

Atlas purses his lips, but wisely doesn’t say anything. He hands back Luke’s coffee, and the captain gulps it down, throat aching. Gasping to catch his breath, he crumples the paper cup and tosses it into a near by garbage can, along with the napkin.

Although it’s been three weeks since their first training session, in Zii, Luke still has the bruise from falling off his chair, and he’s collected more from these self-defence classes. While he is definitely more than proficient, even just a light block is leaving him with angry and painful marks, and the first of them are only just beginning to fade. Atlas has tried several times to replace Luke with Galligher or even one of Smithson’s men, but Smithson wouldn’t stand for it, kept overruling him. Not only that, but Luke wouldn’t allow him to so much as take his temperature, let alone look at a blood sample, and wouldn’t go to a hospital clinic.

He was fairly certain Luke had caught something, but the way this was going, he’d have to wait for him to collapse before he could get him to the hospital. Really, he’d just been surprised that hadn’t happened already, but Galligher had explained that being able to see Jase when they’d been in Banse had essentially reset Luke. Basically, he’d been in top condition, for him, when they left, because Jase had been able to strengthen his body’s natural systems and burn out the beginnings of any infections looking to take hold. But that extra time was quickly running out, Atlas could tell, as he watched Luke panting, trying to get his wind back, after a third coughing fit, this time much longer and much more painful sounding. His hands were trembling as they blocked his mouth from view, blood dripping down his wrist.

Atlas sighs, and hands Luke another napkin. He quickly wipes the blood away and throws it out, arms coming to cross in front of his chest. Frowning, Atlas leans towards him. “Are you cold?” He asks, beginning to shrug out of his jacket. Luke nods, and there is a trail of blood leaking from his nose. Atlas swears, bundles Luke in his jacket, digs around in his pockets for a napkin, and holds it to his bleeding nose. As his hand brushes against Luke’s cheek, it jerks, unprepared for the chill emanating off the captain.

“This is enough,” He says forcefully, people nearby turning to look at them. “You are going to the hospital.”

“No.” Luke says sullenly, pulling away from him, tugging the jacket closer around himself.

“Yes.” Atlas hisses, putting his shoulder between Luke and the onlookers. “You’re bleeding, you’re bruised, and you’re freezing. Aside from the cough. The bloody cough. All I’m asking is you go to the clinic, get checked out. If it’s nothing, which it’s not, you can leave.”

“I’m not going.” Luke asserts, seeming to fold in on himself, which would work if it weren’t for the brilliant crimson line rolling across his bottom lip, accentuating already torn flesh.

“You are, if I have to drag you.” Atlas says, and he takes hold of Luke’s elbow, gripping it tightly through the three layers Luke has on. “Thomas and Galligher can take over the demonstration for us.”

People are whispering now, watching them argue, and Thomas pushes through them, the throng having caught his attention. “What’s going on?” He asks, coming to stand by Luke.

“Luke and I are going to the clinic.” Atlas says. “Can you and Galligher continue the class?”

“Of course. Good luck.”

“Yeah,” Atlas snorts, looking at Luke, who is sulking within his dark cloud of clothing. “I’m going to need it.” He says, and frog marches Luke out of the building, into the heavy winds he’d come to realize were pretty much an everyday occurrence on Ptok, which made the fact that the majority of weathers were born there a lot more understandable. On the path leading up to the hospital, Atlas didn’t dare let go of Luke’s arm, not trusting the captain not to make a run for it. The scowl on his face was accompanied by a sudden chill in the air there hadn’t been a moment before. “Don’t be an idiot,” Atlas says. “Cold’s only going to make this worse.”

Luke just grumbles, and if anything, the wind picks up.

Previous: Scene 7-II

Scene 7-III

Next: Scene 7-IV