Page 44 of Gamma

I viciously shut down any thoughts, any feelings. Robot. Cold, calculating. Robot Rin.

Just do the thing, and figure out the feelings later.

The first cellblock in this section is all open doors, which I check anyway, just to be thorough. Nothing. The second is the same. Third same. The fourth features two closed doors. Moving cautiously, using the tactics and techniques Sasha taught me, I open the first closed door. A man lies on the bench, facing me. Alive, but barely. A former guard, I think. He’s dressed similarly, but that means nothing much, since they’re not uniformed. He’s missing both hands from the wrists, bloody stumps that have been hastily cauterized—by a heated blade of some sort, although I’m no expert.

He whispers something, but I can’t make it out even if I spoke his language. I close the door again and bolt it—he’s not my problem. The next door. My heart hammers—this is it. He’s on the other side—I know it.

Summon saliva and spit, still tasting bile.

At that moment, an explosion shakes the earth under my feet, making the whole world tremble. Immediately, I hear shouts. Distant automatic gunfire.

Time’s up.

Shouts come closer, several of them.

I tuck the pistol into my hip pocket, shove the knife at my side between belt and jeans and unsling the rifle, drop to one knee behind an open doorway, prop my elbow on the upright kneecap, rifle stock braced in my palm. Sight down the barrel along the side of the door’s edge.

A body skids into view, male, armed.

CRACKCRACK!Two rounds close together, center mass.

He drops.

Another body, pausing to glance down at the first—

CRACKCRACK!

Down.

A third, and what an idiot. Right into the opening. At least he has the sense to come in firing. His rounds go high, clang off the door high and to the left.

CRACKCRACK!

Three bodies in a pile.

Much easier on my soul than knife work, I must admit. Not by much, but it’s something.

I wait a moment or two, and when no more assailants seem to be forthcoming, I yank back the bolt and throw open the door.

Apollo and Yelena sit side by side in the corner closest to the wall with the bench and the door, Apollo’s arm around Yelena, cradling and sheltering her.

“Hello, love,” I say, sounding bizarrely calm. “Let’s go.”

He blinks at me. “R-Rin?”

I smile. “Yes, it’s me. In the flesh. We don’t have time to waste, honey—the assault has started.” I wiggle fingers at Yelena. “Hi there, sweetheart. I’m Rin. Are you ready to get out of here?”

She just stares at me.

I hear gunfire, close—exchanged. “Come on, you two. We have to gonow.”

I slide out the door, rifle trained on the hallway’s end. I can’t spare attention to make sure they’re following. “Stay behind me,” I murmur.

“Give me one of those guns,” Apollo says.

I withdraw the one from my pocket and hand it to him—he deftly checks the safety, then tucks it under the armpit of his wounded arm, ejects the magazine and checks it, replaces it, and then uses his injured hand to rack it, wincing. I hand him a spare magazine.

“How are you here, Rin?” he asks, his voice tight and low.