Page 167 of Bonds of Starfall

He shook.

His arm was crushed. Bone, jagged and splintered and too white, sticking up from his elbow and wrist. Pieces of shrapnel stuck out of his bicep. Blood darkened his uniform.

Metal framework littered the ground, crushing the masked being that had been before him in a heavy heap. The rifle was twisted metal, the barrel jutting out along with a crushed leg. A twisted, gnarled hand poked from beneath it.

Kit sobbed. He could only think of one thing. One person?—

Rin.

Through the haze of dark grey, another masked figure made their way across the rubble. Kit didn’t even have the strength to lift his head.

His lips were parted, sucking in stale, recycled air. It wasn’t enough. The figure bent, a hand braced on the ground. Blood splashed beneath the figure’s hand.

A silver injector came toward Kit’s head. The figure gripped his hair, the blood on his fingers wetting Kit’s cheek as his head was roughly turned to reveal his neck. He groaned, unable to move—for every breath sent agony through his right side.

A coldness pressed to his neck. A sharp bite of pain, like a thousand needles piercing his flesh, straight to the bone.

Oblivion.

Kit wokeup to a cold touch against his cheek. Or maybe he was too numb to feel warmth ever again.

A face came into view. One familiar to him.

His mother’s.

"Mom—" Kit rasped. Something inside his head pounded in warning. She wasn’t to be trusted. He was too tired to turn away from her touch.

Everything hurt. Sick, twisted agony wrapped around him. He couldn’t move.

His eyes unfocused, tears leaking from the corners as her face swam in and out of view, replaced by a white ceiling—so pristine and clear, he could see his face reflected back at him. It was all warped.

He was unrecognizable.

His arm?—

Flayed flesh, white bone, and mangled pieces of metal sticking up from his shoulder and wrist.

It hadn’t been a dream.

His face was so pale, his skin blended with the tiles of the ceiling. Bloodless. All the blood that should’ve been in his body was on his clothes, dripping from the wounds in his arms.

Kit’s eyes unfocused again. He couldn’t keep focused for longer than a few seconds at a time. Each breath hurt his lungs. His chest rattled, threatened with a cough. He didn’t want to, scared of the pain that it would bring.

He wanted death.

Please.

The hand was back against his face. "Kiton," his mother said.

He blinked up at her. "What—have you—done?" he slurred. "Why am I—here?"

Where washere? This white, lifeless place that smelled like bleach and medicine—and the faint tinge of blood, that could never be scrubbed away.

His mother’s eyes grew cold. That coldness pierced through the throbbing near-dead haze gripping his consciousness. This was wrong. Something about this was wrong. He was faltering, heartbeat skipping, and his mother didn’t shed a tear.

No. Her eyes hardened as she peered down at him.

"We know."