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There is very little on this planet that Dr. Maxwell loves more than a good old-fashioned adrenaline rush.
Sure, with her usual line of work, it’s not every day that she’s in the field, putting her life at risk. But every new line of code that works, every new neural network formed, still sends that tiny spark running through her. If anything, it’s proof of a job well done.
It is nice to actually be in the field every once in a while, though. This mission is no exception; being deemed one of the most dangerous tasks that Maxwell herself has ever experienced. She’s still relatively new to the way that Kepler and Jacobi tackle things, moving in coordinated, fluid steps that make everything look simultaneously way too easy and far too complicated. She can’t help but feel like the odd one out, the missing beat in the tango that goes on between her fellows.
On the jostling, agonizingly long trip from one base to another, Maxwell feels the rewarding sheen of sweat begin to form on her palms, and from there she lets her mind and body do exactly what they need to do. It’s like riding a roller coaster, just without the motion sickness she’s so inconveniently prone to. Ironically, the dusty, unpaved roads combined with the lack of seatbelts in the back of Kepler’s busted F-150 are proving to be a bit much for Maxwell.
“She’s looking a little green, Colonel,” Jacobi says, not bothering to whisper but still pretending as if Maxwell can’t hear him.
“Maxwell, if you need to throw up, at least let me pull over first.”
Maxwell rolls her eyes, swallowing hard. “I’m fine,” she reassures both a skittish-looking Jacobi and a slightly annoyed Kepler. “Just… road’s a little bumpy.”
She takes a few more deep breaths to settle her stomach, and feels a bit better after that. Her heart beats steadily, keeping her centered.
As she turns over the shiny new pistol in her hands, Maxwell thinks back to her days in high school. Being a 15-year-old senior in rural Montana—well, it was unheard of. She didn’t necessarily have any friends. However, she can recall one boy from the rifle team. Matthew, she thinks his name might’ve been, or maybe Lucas. She can’t remember his name, but she remembers his face, remembers him adjusting her form during practice. Every time she fired that gun, she felt that spark of adrenaline that kept her going.
She remembers the time she learned what fake bullets do. It’d been a total accident—she’d been nothing but a bystander—when Matthew, or Lucas, or maybe even Jerome, accidentally shot at his foot.
She remembers her first field mission. The time she learned what real bullets do.
It honestly plays more like a hazy film in her memory than the crisp data lines she’s used to. Maybe that’s a good thing, Maxwell thinks, since there was a lot of blood, and probably some brain matter.
“Seriously, do we need to stop? These seats are original, ‘79, I’m not going to deep clean them because you can’t—”
“I’m fine ,” Maxwell snaps, not really meaning to. “You don’t need to stop.”
Kepler sighs and speeds back up to a steady 30 down the dusty dirt road. Meanwhile, Maxwell tries her best to stop thinking. She holds her breath, gazes out the window, recites pi to the hundredth digit, the works. Behind it all is still the bang of her gun echoing through that laboratory, the splatter of fresh red blood on stainless steel, the dull thudding of a body on polished linoleum tile.
By the time she looks back out at the window, the foreboding technological complex is right outside, the only light coming from the harsh fluorescents whose buzz is audible even from inside the truck. Maxwell wipes her palms on her jacket.
Miraculously, she manages to not be carsick. Now, as she’s strapping gear to herself that, five years ago, she would’ve thought ridiculous and too good for anyone like her to wear, she has to try not to be regular-sick.
“Got enough ammo?” Jacobi’s voice is soft, giving Maxwell a protective edge that she doesn’t really need. She’s getting tired of being the baby of the group.
“Should be fine,” she grunts in response, hauling her bag over her shoulder. The fact that she even needs ammo is enough to keep Maxwell feeling like she’s flying.
Kepler drops his two counterparts off at another entrance point, the promise of rendezvous shouted last-minute from the driver’s side window. And then it’s just Jacobi and Maxwell, greenlighting keycard restricted entrances until they get to the center of the building. It’s old hat at this point—stealth missions for Goddard are mostly just the cheesy USB-stealing plots in every low-rate spy movie, trying to snag anything that might be used against them.
It’s not like Goddard can’t produce its own knowledge—its legion of scientists coming up with breakthroughs every day of the week says rather the opposite—but its leaders have grown so afraid of any infiltration that the best solution is to make sure that there’s nobody else left to infiltrate them.
Whatever gets her paid, Maxwell thinks as she inputs a master kill code. Within seconds, the only piece of information left in any of the central terminals in the entire system will be whatever’s on the USB that Maxwell has regrettably handed to Jacobi to keep safe. All in all, nobody’s life is at risk.
At least, until Jacobi makes one wrong move and triggers the security system.
“Shit!” Maxwell shouts, finishing the kill code as one by one, the lights on the monitors blink off forever.
“Yeah, no kidding. Fucking run, what are you doing?” Jacobi’s halfway out the door by the time Maxwell can even pick her bag back up.
Then there’s the minor obstacle of getting past heavily militarized security. Maxwell, or at least part of her, hopes that Jacobi gets taken prisoner forever for being such an idiot. But he does have the USB, so she rescinds her wish in favor of taking his instructions and sprinting.
She stops short when she hears shots being fired from down the hall. “Maxwell! Other way!” Jacobi yells, his voice drowned out by the sound of more bullets.
Maxwell doesn’t need to be told twice. She doesn’t dare look back when she hears footsteps trailing behind her, only spurred on to run faster. “Wait,” a weak voice comes from behind. “Man, why are you so fast? Jesus.”
“Jacobi! Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Jacobi doubles over, trying to catch his breath. Maxwell can’t see any noticeable wounds, which is a good sign. “I’m fine. Had to… hold off the security measures. There’s more, though. Here,” he hands off the USB, which Maxwell hastily stashes in the innermost pocket of her utility jacket.
“Okay. Rendezvous point is that way. Ready?”
“Yeah.” Maxwell nods, her mind all at once focused on the task at hand. This is great. She’s doing great.
When Jacobi says “Go!” they take off in unison, footsteps hitting the floor hard with every pace.
“Hold on. I think there’s guards over here.” Jacobi steps in front of her, loading his gun.
He rounds the corner, and almost immediately afterwards, shots are exchanged from what sounds like both sides.
The adrenaline in Maxwell’s system hits a fever pitch, and before her brain can catch up with what she’s doing, she’s already around the corner and pulling the trigger on her pistol. It feels good, shooting to disarm. The prowess it takes to do it properly is nearly unparalleled, but it’s always been a skill that Maxwell has been naturally gifted with. She fully intends to harness this gift now.
She doesn’t remember exactly when Jacobi yanks her away from the line of fire, having done everything to disarm the two guards on duty save for killing them.
She does remember the slow walk back to meet Kepler, her ears ringing and her heart pounding. She remembers the exact second she finds something amiss, too. Her legs nearly buckle underneath her, a searing pain ripping through her side. She’s glad that Jacobi is a good couple of steps ahead of her, so he can’t see the way she nearly collapses.
It’s just a bruise , she tells herself. Remember Jerome?
Her hand comes away wet when she swipes it against her side. Oh. This is not a bruise at all.
It all hits her at once. She’s been shot . In the side . A million thoughts flood her head—could she bleed out from this? Is the bullet still there? Is it just a graze, and she’s overreacting? Is she underreacting? What exactly is the protocol for when you’ve been shot but don’t realize it until a good while after?
She knows she needs to tell someone, sooner or later. But… when she insists that Kepler and Jacobi baby her sometimes, she means it. And honestly, the pain isn’t even that bad. She’s been through worse.
Gritting her teeth, Maxwell silently climbs into the backseat of Kepler’s truck, listening to the conversation happening in the front until the ringing in her ears drowns it out. She doesn’t feel good. People aren’t supposed to feel good when they’ve been shot.
The very next thing Maxwell remembers is Kepler grumbling something about running out of gas, and then the abrupt bright lights of a somewhat populated road in the mid-Texan desert. The sign of the Shell station, 2.106 lit up in a garish, humming green is like a wake-up alarm for Maxwell.
“Maxwell. Did you hear what I said?”
She startles out of her daze only to meet Kepler’s steely eyes. Somehow, she keeps most of her resolve when the sudden movement causes her another agonizing burst of pain.
“I said, you go with Jacobi and get some snacks. You two deserve it, for such great work.”
Kepler hands Jacobi a twenty dollar bill and steps out of the truck to fill up the gas tank.
Maxwell wriggles over to the passenger side door, leaning her body weight against it to ease it open.
“Need a hand?” Jacobi offers.
“Nah, I’m fine,” she replies, swinging her legs out the door. There is a bit of a distance between the truck and the ground, but it’s nothing she can’t cover. She just doesn’t want Jacobi to see the grimace that’s sure to follow it.
Jacobi just shrugs and makes his way to the door of the little convenience shop, propping it open with his foot like a true gentleman.
Pushing off with her hands, Maxwell finally gets her feet to touch the ground. That’s as close as she’s able to get before collapsing, hitting the ground hard before Jacobi can even turn around to react.
With the amount of caffeine highs and late nights Maxwell has seen, she’s no stranger to the experience of fainting. This is not at all what it is like. For one, she’s conscious; she can see little else besides the jagged pavement below her and Jacobi’s dust-caked shoes digging vibrations into the ground as he goes to get Kepler. She can feel everything, too. Everything that was numbed from the adrenaline rush is abundantly clear to her. She can feel her heart pumping its blood, the ache in her side growing hotter and more intense with each beat.
Most of all, she can hear, albeit a little muffled, what is being said. Whispers of unpreparedness, lack of training, hospitals. Anything and everything that could be said about a relatively new recruit in a very secret intelligence unit being shot while in action.
She can barely muster up the strength to blink when Jacobi kneels down next to her, pressing a hastily retrieved wad of paper towels to her bleeding wound. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
The hurt in his voice is deep, palpable. It makes Maxwell’s chest hurt in a way unrelated to any of the other pain she feels. She doesn’t even have an answer.
“Alright, Jacobi, here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna help me get Maxwell back in the truck. Sit back there with her, keep pressure on her wound, and look out for state troopers. They don’t know me around these parts.”
Kepler’s tone sounds no different than any of the other orders he typically burdens Jacobi with. Maxwell can faintly hear the automated voice from Kepler’s phone directing him to the nearest hospital. She almost musters a grin, just smug at the fact that Kepler has to use Google Maps for something.
“I promise, you’re gonna be okay,” Jacobi says, squeezing Maxwell’s hand.
She blinks up at him, long and slow, like a cat. It’s all she can manage.
Kepler takes a hard left turn into the medical plaza of the greater Richland Springs area, jostling Maxwell a fair bit.
“She still awake back there?”
Jacobi clears his throat. “Yeah. She’s still awake.”
Kepler doesn’t bother with parking, just pulls up where the ambulances usually come in and kills the engine. Jacobi hands Maxwell over, grabbing the fully saturated paper towels from the back like they’ve personally offended him.
“The hell do you mean you don’t have any beds? It’s 4 in the morning in the middle of nowhere, and I have a very, very important person who is, in case you couldn’t tell, bleeding out. Do not make me call my supervisor.”
The receptionist at the front tries to reason with Kepler for the third time. “Sir, I apologize—”
Kepler leans in close, whispers something that only the receptionist can hear.
“A doctor will be with you shortly, sir.”
“Good. Thank you.”
Kepler sits down next to Jacobi, putting Maxwell’s legs in his lap. Jacobi’s holding her, and Kepler has never seen Maxwell so pale before. He’s never seen her like this at all before. It’s all very alien to him.
“I just don’t understand why she didn’t say something sooner,” Jacobi sighs, leaning back against the outdated patterned fabric of the seat.
“That’s neither here nor there, Mr. Jacobi. Right now, we just have to focus on making sure Maxwell is okay.”
Maxwell makes a truly pitiful-sounding noise, wrapping her arms around her abdomen. Jacobi has to carefully undo this position in order to keep pressing on her wound. He thinks it’s stopped bleeding, but he’s far too scared to make sure.
“Clarke, Joan?” A nurse reads out, as if she needs to confirm that the one injured person in the waiting room does, in fact, need medical assistance.
“Alright, count of three,” Jacobi groans, “One, two…”
He feels Maxwell’s fingers dig into his shoulder as he lifts her, following Kepler, following the nurse.
“So, you are here tonight because…”
Kepler looks seconds away from strangling this woman.
“She’s been shot ? Is that a good enough answer?”
The nurse writes something down on her notepad.
“And this happened… when, exactly?”
“Earlier today. She was polishing her gun, and it went off.” Kepler begins to spin the web of protective white lies.
“Alright, well, we’ll have one of our doctors come and take a look at it.”
“To what, make sure it’s an actual gunshot wound? Can’t you get someone in here now?”
Jacobi shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another. He tries to signal to Kepler as best possible to tone it down, but to no avail.
Maxwell lets out a heavy sigh, leaning her head back against the hospital bed. She lets the nurse take her hand and barely even flinches when the IV goes into her vein.
As soon as the nurse leaves, Jacobi is at Maxwell’s bedside, making sure she’s relatively okay.
“Hey. You’re alright. Yeah?”
Maxwell nods her head.
“Next time, we’ll get you a bulletproof vest,” he says, weakly smiling.
“And next time,” Kepler adds, “You better tell us when you’re injured. No exceptions.”
“Yessir,” she responds, giving him a thumbs-up with her non-IV hand.