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Boots skiff on dusty concrete. Karavai's back hits the basement wall.
"Fucker!" Koszmar grabs the front of his shirt and leans into him. "You knew there were side effects, and you did nothing! You didn't even tell him!"
"Hey." Styzlet puts a hand on his shoulder, doesn't pull him off. Dual gazes, burning with animus, sear Karavai's skin.
Listlessly, his eyes shift between the two. Guilt weighs his stomach down. They were close, of course they were; Mikołaj treated them with kindness in a field that kills it. Karavai keeps his mouth shut.
Koszmar tightens his fists in Karavai's fatigues. The seams pull and sting his skin. "Don't play bullshit. It's the same as what happened with your old team, isn't it? Your assault happens to have a stroke twenty years before he's supposed to. Same happens again, because it's your tech. That new shit that makes you the commander's golden child."
It's what got people's attention, yes, but Karvai would've climbed on his own. If only they did more testing, proper testing. He pushed back about using it in the field. Saying it aloud won't change anything. You didn't push hard enough, he'd say, if not Then why didn't you warn us.
"They say it's revolutionary. Yeah, pretty revolutionary to put a twenty year-old in a coma."
"Get off him." Prorok's warning carried across the room. He's incensed. Each step is a shockwave.
"Fuck you! He needs to--" Koszmar can't even get the words out before Prorok's elbow cocks and he punches him in the face. Koszmar stumbles back and lets Karavai free. Karavai takes a few steps back, eyes on Styzlet in case he tries anything. He seems shocked.
Prorok's pushes Koszmar to the ground and kneels over him, grabs his face and digs his fingers in. "Fuck!" Koszmar yells.
"You have no fucking idea what you're talking about. Karavai saved your life out there, either be grateful or shut your fucking mouth." It's strange to see him angry without the mask. His face contorts in ways Karavai's never been privy to. Styzlet steps forward, grabs Prorok's loose arm and pulls him back. He doesn't fight, but Styzlet moves to step between them.
The sniper offers a hand behind him, helps Koszmar to his feet. The two stare down Prorok, then the medic a few paces behind him. "Mikołaj is dead," he finally speaks up.
"He's not--" Prorok interjects.
Styzlet ignores him. "If not dead, then discharged."
"It's not his fault." Prorok spits venom like a threatened snake. Karavai is silent behind him, a ghost at his own trial.
"You don't know that."
"I sure as hell know more than either of you two."
Koszmar scoffs over Styzlet's shoulder. "And he knows more than you ever will, but look how hard he's trying to defend himself." Two glares fall back on him.
Prorok bares his teeth unhappily. "Yeah, because there's nothing he can do about it." Karavai didn't tell him that. It's incorrect, even. Karavai could cut the project, destroy the lab, burn the findings. "You can either shoot the guy trying to keep us alive or the assholes in charge of clearing field testing."
"I didn't sign up for any of this."
"Yes you did. There's a reason we're off record. Now fuck off."
As soon as their eyes turn off Karavai he breathes easier, but it doesn't ease the crease between his brows.
They retreat further into the room, taking a seat at the lone table in the corner. Prorok turns toward him and Karavai gestures before leading him upstairs.
Chips of glass and rubble snap beneath their boots. The wind roars outside, kicking up snowflakes. Karavai takes a detour into their quarters and grabs their jackets. He throws Prorok his and shucks on his own.
"Where--"
"Outside." Karavai cuts him off. He swings the front door open. A torrent of wind stings his eyes. Prorok sighs and bundles up, follows him out and around the back of the neighbouring building.
When Karavai turns around, Prorok is looking over the four or five hundred feet of white between them and the treeline. It takes a moment for him to notice Karavai's stopped. They're barely a step apart.
Karavai has to look up to meet his eyes. "He has a point."
Prorok sighs and crosses his arms. "I don't care if he has a point or not, there's nothing we can do about it." He's shifted his weight, and it almost looks like he's taken a stance.
Karavai sighs. "You know that's not true. I was told that major complications are rare and only affect certain people, but it's worse than that, clearly."
"You don't know that. It could've been irrelevant."
"Twice in a row. Both under forty." He shakes his head. "That doesn't just happen, Prorok."
"Look. Whatever caused it, whatever the side effects are, it makes us more effective. I'd rather get shot a half dozen times per fight than take six more hours to finish a single mission. Mikołaj gets discharged, sure, but it beats bleeding out on the field."
Karavai rubs his face. His fingers are freezing; his gloves are still inside, so he tucks them under his armpits. Prorok, unfortunately, has a point. It's not perfect but it's a hell of a lot better than the static med tents. Karavai's been able to avoid fire by chucking a capsule around the corner or over his cover, quick-stitching wounds up to minutes faster than it takes him to rush to the injured.
But he's also seen Tien. A video of his condition less than a week after his stroke. Slurred speech, delayed movement. He couldn't walk. He had to learn to swallow again.
"Come on." Prorok urges with his arms hugged tighter around himself. "Let's go back inside before I fucking freeze."
"Hey." The word escapes him impulsively. Prorok's shivering. "Thanks."
It earns him a smirk. "You're welcome."