Chapter Text
November 2021
The bus barreled over a series of potholes with an unpleasant thump, sending shock waves through the windowpanes and the rattling the seats. Combeferre, who had been resting his forehead against the cool glass, was jolted awake by the vibration. He sat up straighter in his seat and pushed his square-rimmed glasses back up to the bridge of his nose with his middle finger.
He blinked rapidly and gazed out the window, but it was still too dark on the highway to discern anything. He turned his attention back to the rows of people in front of him and absentmindedly fanned the small bundle of papers in his hand near his face. He adjusted the collar of his standard-issue white shirt where it chafed against the nape of his neck.
They approached Portland by way of the eastern bridge. The light of a solitary skyscraper was all that remained of the city skyline. The headlights shone over the crumbling infrastructure of the concrete bridge. It was riddled with potholes and the yellow road paint was so faded that it was almost nonexistent. Combeferre felt a nervous jolt in the pit of his stomach when he noticed the apparent lack of bridge upkeep. He instead focused beyond the concrete pillars, where the reflection of the moon was visible in the churning river water.
A high-pitched squeak of the brakes announced their arrival at the bus station. He waited patiently in the aisle for fifteen minutes while the people gathered in front of him disembarked. When it was his turn, he slung the straps of his fading blue backpack over his shoulders and traversed the three metal steps. A cool breeze tickled his cheeks and pushed his dark hair away from his eyes. He breathed deeply and was grateful to have his feet firmly planted on the ground.
“Papers?” an officer barked from a nearby podium, snapping him out of his thoughts.
He held out the required packet in the palm of his hand. The official, a woman in a black police uniform with close-cropped ginger hair, squinted at the lines near the edge of the page that indicated his occupation and final location. She frowned.
“A doctor?” she said slowly. Her hazel eyes scrutinized his face and the single piece of luggage strapped to his back. “Shouldn’t you be headed in the opposite direction?”
“No,” Combeferre answered firmly.
She consulted his identification card and stamped the required stamps of approval on his crumpled white paper. She handed it back over to him. “The bus to the Wall leaves at six o’clock sharp,” she informed him. “Don’t be late.”
Combeferre stepped to the side to allow the next person to approach the podium. He consulted his watch, the face of which had slipped around to the inside of his wrist. It informed him that it was nearly four in the morning. He switched his weight from his left foot to his right as he scanned the nearby buildings.
He ambled over to the gas station across the street and shelled out a couple of dollars for a lukewarm cup of coffee. The station had a wooden bench situated between two sparsely-stocked magazine racks. A small television was turned on in the corner.
Combeferre set his backpack on the floor and dropped down onto the bench. An urgent red banner flashed across the top of the television screen. He listened as a news reporter relayed the latest information about an impending Kaiju attack. As he sat in a gas station in downtown Portland with the shoddy fluorescent lights flickering and humming overhead, a Category Three beast was in the process of emerging from the breech.
His fingers tightened around his papers, where the words THE WALL – OREGON SECTOR were typed across the destination line in black ink. A shiver ran down the length of his spine.
August 2013 – The First Kaiju Attack
A steady patter of rain against the windowpane could be heard over the rustling of paper. A single lamp illuminated an occupied desk with an abundance of dings and scratches embedded in the cherry wood finish. The combination of the half-drawn blinds and the overcast day outside dimmed the rest of the room considerably.
Combeferre, only a sophomore in college, hooked his right foot around the rung of his wooden desk chair and tucked his pencil back behind his ear. With his fingertips, he fanned out several different sheets of notebook paper. A neat stack of textbooks and color-coded notebooks bracketed his work space on both sides.
He gnawed on his lower lip and drummed his index finger on the desk as he consulted a hefty textbook. A blue sticky note was carefully pressed to the edge of the page, marked with the date of his corresponding lecture notes.
Satisfied with his understanding of synapses and action potentials, he relaxed against the back of the chair. The muscles in his shoulders and neck tensed almost immediately as he marveled at the silence that hung in the air. The quietude in his room in particular and the dorm building in general provoked a frown. There was no tread of feet down the carpeted hallway and no hum of conversations floating through half-open doors.
Combeferre brushed a few stray locks of hair away from his eyes as he stood up to investigate. He paused for a minute to refold a blanket and to adjust the pillows on the overstuffed couch. He cleared away two mugs from the coffee table and left them in a small silver sink before venturing out into the hallway.
Doors were thrown open, but, when he peered inside, there was a curious absence of students slouching in armchairs and splayed across beds. He eventually found them all gathered in the lounge around a flat screen television mounted on the opposite wall.
Two girls beckoned him over with a wave and made room for him to stand between them.
“What’s going on?” he asked with wide eyes. There had to be at least thirty of his residents gathered together in the cramped lounge, but no one was making a sound.
“Today, we bring you absolutely horrifying news from San Francisco,” a local news anchor narrated. The ocean water whipped violently in the background of the shot. She gripped the microphone with a shaking hand and white knuckles.
One girl wrapped her arms around his shoulders, while the other smaller girl clung on to his waist. He draped an arm around each of them and pulled them closer. He squinted at the television and jerked his neck forward a single practiced movement. His glasses slipped from their resting place on the crown on his head and down over his eyes.
His vision sharpened as images of the ongoing destruction of the Golden Gate Bridge were broadcast across the screen. A whole section of bridge had fallen into the water and the metal around the remaining sections was twisted beyond recognition. Smoke hovered around crushed cars and augmented the notorious San Francisco fog.
“We have no official word on what this… this beast might be or where it may have come from,” she continued. “All we know is that the death toll is rising by the minute and airborne attacks have been unsuccessful.”
Amateur photos of this so-called beast flashed across the screen. Judging by the angle of the pictures and supplemented by news reports of the structural damage to the bridge, he'd been able to estimate that the unknown creature must have been at least three hundred feet tall. Combeferre’s eyes flickered over to the resident biology major, whose face flashed with a combination of genuine curiosity and astonishment.
That night, he lay in bed for hours with one leg thrust out from underneath the comforter. The unnamed beast was still ravaging San Francisco with no end in the foreseeable future.
He stared up at the rotating blades of the ceiling fan and wondered if he’d ever sleep through the night again.
November 2021
It took another ninety minutes to reach the coast. The sky was turning a pale blue over the summit of the Wall, which was admittedly more of a framework than an actual wall at this point, as the bus pulled into the station.
This time, there was no official to check his paperwork when stepped off the bus. The only person at the otherwise deserted stop was a short man with an unruly mop of light brown hair.
Combeferre shivered and pulled his jacket tighter around his chest. He approached the other man, who was clutching a white paper cup in each of his hands.
He held out one of the steaming cups to Combeferre with a smile. “Combeferre, I take it?”
Combeferre nodded and gratefully accepted the offering.
“So, you’re the man who was crazy enough accept my job offer,” the other man continued. He waved some of the steam curling up from the cup away from his hazel eyes and stuck out his free hand. “I'm Joly,” he said. His palm was still radiating warmth from his grip on the coffee cup.
“Nice to finally meet you,” Combeferre said as he returned the handshake.
“Likewise.” Joly led the way to a black Jeep with more dings and key marks than actual paint. He pulled out of his parking space and reached over to crank up the heat. “It’ll be a few minutes,” he explained, a note of apology in his voice.
“Sounds good,” Combeferre replied as he gazed out the window. It was grey and overcast, but the early morning wind was in the process of dispelling the clouds. For lack of anything better to do, he turned in his seat and attempted to rekindle their conversation. “So. Are you the only other doctor at the clinic?”
“Yes. Believe it or not, it’s not a popular job,” Joly explained. “Which is why I was so very grateful when you responded to the ad with such enthusiasm.”
Combeferre felt his cheeks grow warm. The notice had popped up onto his computer and, after careful scrutiny of his resume and his letters of recommendation, he responded to it within two hours. It had been over-kill, even by his own standards. But he needed the job.
Joly adjusted the cruise control and relaxed back against the seat. “Why did you really come out here?” he wondered out loud. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Combeferre shot back. He was still bleary and half-asleep from the bus ride, leaving him with fraying patience. The evident suspicion in the question rubbed him the wrong way. Ordinarily, it wouldn't have been enough to make him bristle. But he'd been asked variations of the same question four times in the past two days. It was getting old very quickly.
Joly backpedaled. He removed one hand from the steering wheel, palms facing outward in a gesture of surrender. “Nothing bad, I assure you. I just meant that someone like you could probably manage to find a job further inland.”
Combeferre acknowledged his comment with a nod. “Yes, I could. But I don’t want to.”
Joly was unable to stifle his laughter. He tightened his lips in an attempt to hold it in but was entirely unsuccessful. “Are you aware that there’s a Category 3 Kaiju en route to Alaska as we speak?”
“Yes."
“And that we had a close encounter with a Kaiju on its way up to Washington last month?” he added.
“Yes. I heard about that, too.” Earlier this morning, to be exact, when the news had been playing on the television in the gas station began airing stories on the most recent Kaiju attacks.
“And you still boarded the bus last night?” Joly drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “You really are brave,” he decided.
Combeferre scratched an itch at the back of his neck, in the place where the tag of his shirt always chafed uncomfortably against his skin, and then shrugged. "I guess I am," he agreed.
Joly made a right turn and parked the car in front of a small white-washed building. There were no other buildings surrounding it, making it appear as though it had spontaneously cropped up one day. The incomplete sections of the Wall loomed above it, only a few miles away. There was already a queue of people wrapped around the corner. Joly lifted his hand in greeting as he fished around for the keys in his coat pockets.
The front doors opened to a tiny waiting area. Faded floral wallpaper was plastered against the walls. A single potted plant had been placed in one corner, and the shine on its leaves automatically gave it away as artificial. Grey folding chairs were scattered about the room, evenly spaced from each other in neat rows. The rest of the building consisted of three patient examination rooms and a small backroom for the storage of medication and other supplies. Grey metal shelves were bolted along the back walls, and the supplies there were painstakingly organized into plastic bins. It was only when he examined them more closely that Combeferre noticed the white labels affixed to each bin.
“I’m sure you’ll be needing one of these,” Joly said, while passing over a portable x-ray machine. He'd grabbed it from the counter, which ran along the single wall without metal shelving. It was littered with cardboard boxes, and Combeferre figured this was the designated pre-bin sorting space. “The most common injuries here are welding burns and lacerations. I'm sorry, I'm afraid that’s about all the time that we have for briefing, seeing as your bus arrived marvelously late." He edged around Combeferre and headed back in the direction of the waiting room. “We’re already behind schedule,” he called out over his shoulder.
Combeferre took a deep breath and draped his stethoscope around his neck. He was struck with the thought that he hadn’t even had a chance to even entertain any thoughts about how the day would go. The long bus ride and the hasty tour had left him no time to think, much less worry, about anything. He couldn't tell if his apparent lack of preparation was a blessing or a curse.
By ten o’clock he had lost count of how many cuts he had disinfected and stitched up. He listened patiently to complaints about sour stomachs and chronic heartburn. At one point in the morning, he pressed a brightly-colored sticker to the hand a little girl with pigtails who came in with an ear infection.
During the rare moments when he had a break between patients, Joly observed Combeferre from afar. He marveled at his work ethic and at his sense of independence, which were something of a rarity in new doctors. But that was not to say that his independence could be mistaken for overconfidence. He didn’t hesitate to seek a second opinion when he was unsure of a diagnosis and he was unafraid to ask for another hand when he needed assistance with a particular procedure.
By the time one o’clock rolled around, he and Joly had worked together to extract at least five nails embedded in hands and had dealt with three cases of welding burns. Combeferre immersed himself completely in his work, humming as he watched his patients filter into and out of the room. He hardly noticed the day slip away.
The next time he looked up, the sun was hanging low in the horizon. The last patient had walked through the doors only ten minutes ago.
“Did you manage to get any lunch?” Joly asked sympathetically. He leaned over the waiting room desk, shuffling through a stack of papers.
Combeferre’s stomach grumbled, answering for him. “No,” he admitted. “But I do intend to get dinner.”
“If you can wait another five minutes, I’ll go with you,” Joly offered. “There’s a great Chinese place nearby.”
Five minutes turned into ten. And then twenty minutes had gone by before they'd managed to finish cleaning up the clinic. They disinfected and sterilized all of their instruments and prepared them for the next morning. They mopped up the drops of dried blood from the waiting room floor and replaced the white paper on all the examination tables.
Joly locked the clinic doors behind them and then knotted a blue scarf around his neck. He rejoined Combeferre and reached out to grip his shoulder.“You did well today,” he said. He inclined his head toward his Jeep to signal his invitation. “Dinner’s on me," he annouced.
Joly attempted to use the short trip to the restaurant to draw Combeferre away from work talk before they sat down to eat, though it proved to be a bit harder than he initially anticipated.
“I’m mostly concerned about that older man named Riley,” he reported. “He came in for cough syrup for a cold, but I’m not convinced that it won’t turn in to bronchitis. I told him to come back in a few days if he wasn’t feeling better.”
“Okay. Keep an eye on him,” Joly said gently. “Any others?”
“No, but we should probably check in on Tom, too, just to make sure that his broken arm is healing correctly. It was a nasty fracture. Snapped all the way through in two places.”
Joly nodded and made a left turn into the restaurant parking lot.
Classical music drifted out from the mounted wall speakers as they stepped into the restaurant. Combeferre discreetly tugged the zipper of his jacket up all the way to his chin as they were escorted to an empty table in the corner. Only a faint suggestion of warm air flowed through the vents.
“I know this place leaves a lot to be desired, but the foot is worth it,” Joly promised, while unfolding his menu. He must've glimpsed the apprehensive look on Combeferre’s face because a moment later he added, “I highly recommend the orange chicken."
Combeferre set down his menu, searching for a phrase that could properly convey his gratitude. He wasn't ready to admit it out loud yet, but he'd been subsisting on cups of instant noodles for the past month and hadn't frequented restaurants that much in the past few months.
The two sat in a comfortable silence, sipping at room temperature glasses of water, until the waiter presented two steaming plates of food. The plates clattered as they came into contact with the wooden table.
As soon as the first chunk of chicken settled in his stomach, Combeferre felt as though he could speak again. “I don't think anything could have ever prepared me for today,” he admitted. "I'm hoping it will get better with time?"
“It will. It’s just a different world from medical school. A crueler world,” Joly remarked. “But you handled it admirably. ”
“You think so?”
“Yes,” Joly said firmly. His fork stilled, its motion suspended in the air above his plate. “Besides, none of the patients complained about you. That’s always a good sign.”
After another moment, Joly lowered his hand and balanced the fork on the lip of his plate. With his free hand, he reached out and grasped the hand that Combeferre was resting on the table top. “I’m glad that you were able to come,” he said before relinquishing his grip.
Combeferre ducked his head over his dish and immediately regretted it. The steam fogged up his glasses in a matter of seconds. “Thanks. I'm glad, too," he replied. He tugged off his glasses. He hooked his thumb into the hem of his shirt and attempted to coax away the steam.
“I have a suggestion for you,” Joly said as he began to stab at his food again. He swallowed a mouthful before speaking again.
Combeferre replaced his glasses and resisted the urge to sigh at the small bit of steam that lingered near the bottom of the frames. “And what might that be?”
“I think that you should meet a friend of mine,” Joly proposed.
“Alright,” Combeferre nodded. He was now sipping a warm cup of green tea, that had cooled just enough to be properly enjoyed. He watched as the steam curled upward in wispy clouds. He was content and warm, a combination of feelings that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. He might have agreed to do just about anything.
“He works at a club about ten minutes north of here.” Joly paused for a second and then amended his previous statement. “Well, it’s actually not a club. It's a gathering place."
“A gathering place?” he repeated.
“Yes, it’s where people like to come and relax after the long shifts at the Wall,” he explained.
“And why am I meeting this friend? Just for the fun of it?” Combeferre asked, unable to quell his curiosity.
Joly’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, I’ll let him tell you more about that. Just promise me to go there with an open mind.”
“I will,” Combeferre said, sensing that he wouldn’t be successful in extracting any other information. He pushed an unused napkin toward Joly. “If you write down the address, I can head over there later tonight.”
Joly produced a ballpoint pen from the pocket of the coat he'd draped over the back of his chair. He wrote down an address in loopy cursive. He started to slide it across the table but halted its motion when Combeferre reached out for it. “Go tomorrow," he advised. "Tonight, you should rest. Which reminds me… do you have a place to sleep?”
Combeferre dug around in the backpack in the seat next to him and pulled out a folded sheet from his bundle of papers, held together with two criss-crossing rubber bands. His eyes scanned over the page. “It’s a government-issued apartment off of Fifth Street,” he said before refolding it and carefully replacing it.
"Oh, that's much too far to walk. I'll give you a ride."
Combeferre opened his mouth to protest but was distracted by the arrival of the bill. Joly waved away the rest of his protests and covered the whole thing himself.
They were quiet until Joly pulled up in front of the apartment building. Combeferre scrutinized the outside with a sense of dismay while the car continued to idle. The paint was peeling off the siding and in a handful of places, the shutters were completely missing from the sides of the windows, leaving only a lighter impression of paint in its absence. He pushed away his unease and instead tried to feel grateful that he had a place to sleep.
“You still have the address, right?” Joly asked, disrupting his train of thought.
Combeferre clutched it in his fist and raised his hand long enough to flash it in Joly's direction. He had just opened the car door and swung his legs over the edge when it occurred to him that he had neglected to ask about one crucial piece of information. He hopped out of the car and spun around on his heel. “Who am I supposed to ask for?"
“Oh!” Joly exclaimed. “That would be helpful, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes.” Combeferre smiled as he leaned against the open car door.
Joly leaned over the center console. “Ask for a man named Courfeyrac," he instructed.
“Would you mind saying it one more time?” Combeferre asked. “I want to make sure I pronounce it correctly.”
“Courfeyrac,” Joly repeated slowly. “Now you try it.”
After Combeferre had correctly reproduced the name, Joly reminded him that he would be back at seven. In turn, Combeferre gave his sincerest thanks for his insistence on covering the dinner bill. He stopped himself short of adding on another thank you for his unwavering faith in his skill and his judgement, even though he'd done nothing yet to warrant it. He figured that there was an opportune time for these things, and now was not it.
“Sleep well!” Joly called out through the rolled down window. Combeferre only had enough energy to raise his hand in farewell.
Joly watched Combeferre as he swung open the glass door to the apartment complex and disappeared into the dimly lit building. He pulled out his cell phone and pressed the button for the second number in his speed dial. He waited patiently as the dial tone sounded.
Courfeyrac answered seconds before the call was redirected to voice mail. “Joly!” he greeted. The familiar chatter of the club in the background filled the other end of the line. “What can I do for you?”
“I think I might have found the person you’ve been searching for,” Joly said, not bothering to conceal the excitement in his voice.
“Oh?” He could sense Courfeyrac's smile through the phone. “And who, exactly, have I been searching for?"
Joly sat back against the seat, readjusting his seat belt in the place where it was uncomfortably tight against his chest. “Remember how I was telling you last week about that rather enthusiastic answer to the open position at the clinic?”
"Is this the one who sent you three letters of recommendation for a volunteer position?” Courfeyrac clarified.
“That’s the one.”
“It does ring a bell now that you mention it.”
Joly was quick to jump to Combeferre’s defense. “You would've never believed that it was his first day."
“I take it he’s talented, then."
Joly exhaled through his mouth. “He’s a natural."
“Hm,” Courfeyrac considered this for a moment. Joly heard the sound of glasses clinking and a peal of laughter erupting in the background. “It wouldn't hurt to have another doctor around."
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Alright, I’m intrigued,” Courfeyrac declared. “Send him my way. I’ll scope him out.”
“Already a step ahead of you, my friend. I told him to meet you at the club tomorrow,” Joly replied. “Promise not to scare him away? I would really love for him to keep working at the clinic."
“I won’t. It happens one time and no one ever lets you hear the end of it,” Courfeyrac said with an exaggerated sigh. Joly imagined him pouting and then waving the comment away with a swipe of his hand. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
“Be nice,” Joly said with a hint of sternness. He turned the keys in the ignition and listened to the rumble of the engine.
“Always am,” Courfeyrac laughed and ended the call.