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Gunfire jerked Rachel awake, breath caught in her throat and hands twisted sweatily in the fine linen sheets. It wasn't an unfamiliar noise, not after all this time, but Rachel never got used to it. And Philadelphia was supposed to be safe. She sat up and swung her legs out of the bed, toes curling against the wooden floor.
A second burst of shots echoed through the night, the sounds bouncing off the walls. It was inside the Hall. She froze for a second, caught between opportunity and fear, before scrambling out of bed and into her clothes. A jersey top and sweatpants wasn't the best outfit to go on the run in, but it would do. The ballet slippers were more of a problem – nobody wanted to encourage her to go hiking – but she could steal something on the way.
Rachel grabbed a handful of cutlery on her way through the main room and stuck them in her pocket. Silver wasn't worth much any more, but it might get her a meal. She tested her door. They were locked, but that took ten seconds and a bent fork tine to fix. Rachel might have specialised in signal processing and control engineering, but she could still pick a lock.
She cracked the door and leant out, holding her breath. The guards were gone. She slipped out and closed the door behind her. Her heart hiccuped in her chest, lungs squeezed tight with anxiety. It had been years since she had been allowed out of her quarters except for a night-time walk or being escorted from one prison to the next. And never alone.
There was no time to get used to it. She clubbed her hair back and ran – all the way to the staircase. Miles was waiting there for her – grimy and bloody in his militia uniform. She skidded to a halt, her stomach dropping like a rock, and pressed her fist against her lips.
'Miles,' she said. 'Just let me go home. Please. For Ben?'
His mouth twisted and he shook his head. 'I can't do that, Rachel,' he said. 'I can't risk it.'
He lifted his arm and shot her. It felt like being kicked. She stumbled back into the wall, hand clasped tight to her stomach. Blood drooled between her fingers, hot when the rest of her felt cold.
'Miles?' she said, voice breaking.
'I can't risk it,' he said, limping towards her. 'Bass has gone too far, Rachel, and if he gets power...he'll go further.'
He pointed the gun at her head. Rachel screwed her eyes shut and looked away, holding her breath as she braced herself.
'I'm sorry,' he said.
'Too late.'
He sighed and then Jeremy yelled, 'Son of a bitch, Miles get away from her.'
A bullet dinged off a wall.
'Next time, I won't miss,' Jeremy said. 'Get out of here, Miles. Come back when Monroe's calmed down. Miles, I will shoot you.'
Rachel risked opening her eyes, looking up at Miles. He grimaced and looked away, dropping the gun. 'You were right not to tell us,' he said.
He back down the corridor and fled down the stairs. Rachel leaned her head back against the wall, breathing fast and odd, and wondered if she should be glad he hadn't finished the job or not. Before she could decide, Jeremy was crouched next to her. He swore monotonously under his breath as he stripped off his jacket and wadded it up to press against her stomach.
'Rachel,' he said, cupping her head with one big hand. 'I'm going to pick you up now, ok?'
'What happened?'
Jeremy pulled a face and carefully lifted her, one arm under her knees and the other around her back. It felt like her stomach was ripping open. Rachel bit her lip and pressed her face against his shoulder.
'Don't know,' Jeremy said. 'Looks like Miles tried to kill Bass, hell if I know what went down. Maybe we should all stop drinking 10 year old beer, huh?'
He carried her back to her suite and laid her down on the couch. By the time they got there he was covered with her blood from collarbone to belt. Rachel didn't remember anything in order after that. Drexel shoving grubby fingers in her mouth, sweating as he poured bitter morphine down her throat. A bloody-lipped Jeremy, his eye swelling, standing between her and Monroe as they yelled at each other. A doctor whispering prayers under his breath as he worked on her with shaking hands and hastily boiled equipment. After that everything became a vaguely pleasant blur.
By the time she felt up to tracking things again, the situation in Philadelphia had settled down. Jeremy had been sent North, to the border territories, and the frazzled, wild-eyed Monroe of her fever dreams was back to his usual controlled self.
'Miles is gone,' was all he'd say. 'Don't worry, he won't hurt you again.'
The doctor, whoever he'd been, was long gone. Rachel hoped he'd been conscripted and sent with Jeremy, not buried in the paupers field. It was Monroe who gave her 'medicine' in a sweet tincture, or with-held it if she was 'difficult'.
Rachel knew what he was doing – she'd had an aunt with a painkiller addiction and a dog that used to greet her at the door after school, and she was somewhere in between them – but the pain was real. She tried to be strong and say no, but every time she gave in and asked 'nicely' for the glass.
'I brought you back to life, Rachel,' Bass said, holding her chin and making her look at him. 'You can trust me. Why did Miles hurt you? Had you told him something?'
She shook her head, mind drifting into a reverie on how blue his eyes were. Her fingers stroked his hand in slow pattern. 'I never told Miles anything. Ben tried, but it was too late. They'd already done it.'
Bass's face lit up and he bent over her, kissing her hard. His tongue lapped the lingering sweetness of the drug from her lips. 'I knew you knew something, Rachel.'
The crash of fear banished the haze of drugs and she cringed back into her pillows, shaking her head. 'I don't. I don't know what you're taking about Bass.'
'Liar,' he said. 'Who where they? Who was Ben working with?'
Rachel managed to hold her tongue until he got frustrated enough to shake her. Even the probably not dilute enough morphine couldn't stop her passing out then. She came too alone in her bed, sweat drenched and itching and afraid. Miles had been worried what Bass would do if he got power; Rachel knew who to really be afraid off.
So the next day she refused the morphine, sweating and crying through the pain. She was surprised that Monroe didn't try and force it, maybe he was scared that he'd kill her. It was too late anyhow. Even if she never told him anything else again, he was convinced she knew something.