Page 12 of Jump or Fall

Gordon - Four Years Earlier

T hey shoved him out of the car onto the rough pavement, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Blood filled his mouth, suffocating and thick. Every gasping breath sent shards of agony through his ribs where a boot had landed.

I’m going to die.

A hand grabbed his arm, and he flung it away. “Fu–” His curse was cut off by searing pain radiating through his face. Something was wrong—his mouth wouldn’t move right. Like part of his face had become disconnected.

“Shit, this one’s bad. Call the doc,” a feminine voice said.

Hard hands maneuvered him around, ignoring his feeble attempts to swat them away. They were impossibly strong.

A cloth tightened around his head. Were they going to finish him off?

Kill me. Make it stop.

“Come on, man. I need to cover your wound before we move you. It’s too fucked up for a stitcher to do anything.”

“Give me his arm,” said a masculine voice.

Gordon’s struggle was useless as the hard grip pinned his arm and a sharp prick punctured his skin.

His muscles loosened.

Why was he fighting?

Why is my face wet?

** *

Gordon groaned and opened his eyes.

He couldn’t move his mouth.

“Mr. Rusu, please don’t try to speak. The SynThera infusion we get here is expired so it works more slowly. Please be patient.”

His vision gradually focused, but his mind was still in a haze.

White walls. A blue curtain to his right. A slight pinching in his left arm—an IV.

His gaze settled on a stern dark-skinned woman with a mottled pink scar that trailed from her chin down her neck.

“I’m Dr. Kaur. The bandage should be able to come off in the next thirty minutes or so. Until then, I have to insist you keep your face still.” She held out a tablet. “If you have questions, type and I will answer.”

He accepted the tablet and tapped: How did I get here?

“Scarlet Row always has eyes out. Enforcers Kimmie and Lyle brought you in.”

Another message: What's wrong with my face?

Obviously it had been cut, but there was a strange numbness that wasn’t fading with the brain fog.

“You have damage to your facial nerve. I was able to repair some, but the rest is up to the infusion. You may have lasting issues with numbness, facial expressions, and hearing in your right ear.”

He slumped back and closed his eyes.

It wasn’t enough to scar him; they had to fuck up a nerve?

“I understand this is difficult. I was a surgeon in Three before my accident. Eight takes getting used to, but you seem like a smart man. You'll make your way,” she said gently.

He sat up to ask another question: How did you know my name ?

Dr. Kaur raised an eyebrow. “Whoever you upset in Surveillance didn’t bother taking your tablet.” She pointed to the table next to him.

An enforcer with short blonde hair appeared behind the doctor, helmet tucked under one arm.

The doctor turned. “Ah, Kim. It looks like this is a Silver case, so no investigation is needed.”

Kim nodded, then looked at Gordon, her green eyes scanning him. “Need help finding a place to stay?”

He shook his head.

“Suit yourself. If you change your mind, call.” She tossed a card onto his tablet. “Bye, doc.”

A burning sensation ripped through his face. He muffled a scream in his arm.

“That’s common,” the doctor said. “The rapid healing has some unpleasant side effects, but it’s preferable to enduring weeks or even months of healing.

Do your best not to scratch when the burning turns to itchiness.

I’ll come back when it’s time to remove the bandage and then you can be discharged. ”

He pressed his arm against his face, shaking violently. It was almost as painful as the blade itself.

When it finally eased, he reached for his tablet. The enforcer's card landed on his lap.

Kimmie Alphito Division Eight Enforcer and Community Liaison

He snorted. She was tall, but barely looked old enough to drive, let alone work as an enforcer. Maybe it was an Eight thing.

He set the card aside and checked his tablet history. The only activity while he had been unconscious was the registration being viewed .

Good. The doctor was honest.

His account still had money, but he needed to move the funds to an alias or live on credit keys. There was so much he knew. He needed to start fresh.

Another wave of fire licked through the nerves in his face. He slammed his fist into his thigh and bit back a scream.

With this round of agony came clearer sounds and more sensation—except his upper lip.

Two more excruciating waves later, Dr. Kaur returned to remove the bandage and IV.

“I know I already told you this,” she said, “but do whatever you can to not scratch. If you’re feeling up to it, you can speak now.”

Tentatively, he wiggled his jaw side to side and opened his mouth a few times. The skin of his cheek was tight and raw.

The doctor examined the healing wound, pressing gently on different areas. “Try to move the right side of your nose. Then smile.”

His nose barely budged as he tried to force it by moving his mouth. His attempt at a smile was even worse—only the unscarred side responded.

“Please tell me this isn’t forever,” he croaked.

Her dark brows knit together. “It’s hard to say, Mr. Rusu.”

“Anything that can be done about the scar?” he asked with an edge to his voice.

Dr. Kaur shook her head. “Scar repair surgeries are banned. The only thing I can offer is a salve containing allantoin. It can help reduce the appearance, but its main perk is reducing pain and itching.”

“Thanks.” He read the label. “Masaru Beauty?”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, it’s marketed towards women. We all have skin though.”

Gordon grunted.

“I’d give Kimmie a call if I were you. She knows everything about Eight. ”

He stood. The sudden motion made him lightheaded. “I’ll try to manage.”

***

Five days later, he called Kimmie.

She’d answered with a voice that sounded unsurprised and vaguely bored, like she’d known all along he would cave.

Gordon had been staying in the only place he could find.

A hostel above a bar that he was pretty sure doubled as a brothel.

At least the proximity made it easy for a man to drink his anger into submission before collapsing into a bug-infested bed.

The air in the room reeked of cigarettes and mildew, topped with whatever cheap disinfectant they used to clean.

The guy in the room next to him was fucking some whore every night, loud enough to hear every squeak of the bedframe and moaned performance through the thin walls. At least Gordon was usually drunk enough to pass out before the guy finished.

He couldn’t stay here forever. There were actual bugs in the mattress and someone had tried to break into his room once, probably hoping to snatch a credit key or whatever else they could sell for a hit of skiff.

Gordon couldn’t just sit around drinking until his money ran dry. He needed a job, or a way out of the city.

He checked the time—twenty minutes until his appointment. His grip tightened on the tablet as he scanned the area. Where the fuck was this place?

At least he’d remembered to set the location tracking so he could find his way back. The maps he’d downloaded only showed the outer edges of Division Eight.

He shoved his tablet into his pocket and picked up his pace .

Someone slammed into his shoulder hard enough to jolt him off balance. Instinct flared, and he spun around, already knowing what he’d find.

“Don’t even think about fishing through my pockets,” Gordon growled.

Sure enough, a man about his size stood there, hands slightly raised—but the smirk on his face gave him away.

“Hey, I wasn’t doing anything, man,” the guy said, backing off. “You need to chill.”

Gordon clenched his fists, weighing whether the confrontation was worth it. He thought of his meeting and turned away. This scum wasn’t worth the bruised knuckles.

Pickpocketing was a constant in Division Eight. Two people came at you from opposite sides: one bumped you backwards, the other caught you, pretending it was an accident. But by then, your pockets were already lighter.

The would-be thieves said nothing as Gordon rounded a corner—and nearly collided with someone else.

Fuck this place.

On his second day in Eight, he’d gotten hit with a scam he hadn’t seen before.

A woman had sprinted up to him, breathless, begging him to help her find her missing cat.

In the split second before he declined, he’d felt the featherlight brush of fingers in his pocket.

He’d whirled around, grabbed the thief’s wrist, and squeezed until the guy shrieked and dropped the key he’d lifted.

He took another turn around a corner, ducking under a sagging wire, and stepped straight into a pile of soggy trash.

He cursed as something soft and wet squished under his shoe.

The stench hit immediately—rotting food, damp cardboard, and who knew what else.

He gagged and kicked the worst of it off.

To his right, a sign read: Enforcer Station Eight.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he muttered.

The station sat at the edge of an open clearing—the only one he’d seen in this suffocating maze of concrete.

And for the first time all day, he could see the sky.

Faded blue through the humid haze, but still sky.

A large tree stood in the grassy space out front.

Beneath it, a couple sat on a bench, sharing noodles and laughing quietly.

The normalcy of it hit him like a sucker punch.

How could anything feel that simple here?

Inside the station, the receptionist told him to sit. As quickly as he had, Kimmie appeared from a door and called him in with barely a glance.

They entered a plain white room with nothing but a table and two chairs. She sat, gestured at the other chair, and placed her tablet on the table.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“Surveillance,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I know that. What did you do to piss off the Silvers? Or actually—are you a Silver?”

His jaw tightened. The healing scar itched like hell, and his beard coming in only made it worse. But he wasn’t ready to scrape a blade across his face yet.

“Was getting help just a lie to get me down here so you could arrest me?” he snapped. “Aren’t they your buddies?”

“If I was going to arrest you, I wouldn’t have left you at the clinic.” Her expression darkened. “And no, they aren’t my fucking ‘buddies’.”

Interesting. An enforcer who wasn’t friendly to Silvers.

“No,” he gritted out. “I’m not a fucking Silver.”

After a quick look down at her tablet, she asked, “Why not? You worked with them long enough.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “What does it matter?”

Resting her chin on her hand, she fixed him with that same bored expression she probably had when answering his call.

“You want me to help you find a place to live, and you think your history doesn’t matter?

You worked with Silvers—shit, maybe you’re lying and you are one.

Do I put you in an apartment next to a teenage girl who lives alone?

Maybe you’re harmless, but I have to protect these people.

They come before some guy who’s been watching people on cameras and might be the reason some of them are here. ”

He pressed his palm against his scar to keep from clawing at it. Fuck, it was infuriating.

Kimmie’s eyes went to his cheek, her expression flat. Then without a word, she stood and left the room.

“Now what?” he muttered.

The door swung open again. Kimmie tossed something onto the table before reclaiming her seat.

A small jar of salve.

“Thanks.”

“I’ve heard the itching is a bitch.”

He applied a thin layer and exhaled sharply as the relief hit. “I told them ‘no’. That’s what pissed them off.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes. Monitoring the mundane crap people do day in and day out was already old. Following hot girls for them was too much.”

“Most guys would like to join a group with unlimited access to women.”

“I had no problems getting women. I just prefer it when they want my dick,” he countered.

He would have trouble now with his hideous face. But there were more important things to worry about—like getting out of the bug-infested whorehouse.

A hint of amusement flickered across her face. “What skills do you have besides watching people through cameras?”

“Programming.”

“You a hacker?”

“It’s how I got into Surveillance. ”

She tapped her fingers on the table, considering. “We might have a job for you. Someone’s been selling a fake scar-healing serum in Eight, and we need to find out who.”

“People sell fake shit all the time.”

“This one’s killing people. It’s one thing to sell sugar pills, it’s another to give them poison.”

Hunting people down wasn’t something he wanted to get involved in again. He’d had his fill of invading others’ privacy.

Maybe he could work out a deal.

“Is there a way to get out of the city?”

The abrupt change in topic startled her. “Why?”

“I don’t want to live the rest of my life in the Outskirts. Just tell me if there’s a way out—one that doesn’t involve forged papers and trying to hide my fucked-up face.”

Kimmie rubbed her chin, weighing something. “I’ll help you leave if you find this guy.”

He extended a hand. “Done.”