Pain. That was the first thing I registered as consciousness crept back. Not the sharp, immediate agony of combat—that had faded to a dull, pervasive ache that mapped every injury across my body. Broken ribs. Fractured radius. Deep lacerations along my torso and arms. The death spores had waned enough that my thoughts were clear again, but my body felt like it had been dismantled and poorly reassembled.
I didn't move. Not yet. Assessment first.
Cold concrete beneath me. The metallic tang of blood—mine, Omega Red's, Dr. Kinney's. The subtle shift of fabric against my side told me I wasn't alone before I even opened my eyes.
X-23.
She was curled against my left side, one hand still gripping my shirt. Unconscious. Her breathing was even, her heartbeat steady. The blood coating her had dried to a dark rust color.
I opened my eyes to fluorescent lights and the familiar gray ceiling of the facility. We were still in the corridor. Still next to Dr. Kinney's body.
How long had we been out? My internal clock—honed by fifteen years of regulated schedules—estimated four hours. Maybe five.
She must have collapsed shortly after I did. Emotional shutdown, probably. The trigger scent had pushed her system past its limits, and killing Dr. Kinney had broken something in her. Even her healing factor couldn't fix that kind of damage.
I needed to move. To assess our tactical situation. Every minute we stayed here increased the probability of discovery.
But first, my body.
I closed my eyes and reached for my strings, pulling them inward with practiced precision. The familiar sensation grounded me—this, at least, was constant. Controllable.
I started with the broken ribs, carefully wrapping strings around each fracture, pulling the bone fragments into alignment. The pain spiked sharp enough to make my breath hitch, but I kept my movements steady. Next, the radius. I could feel where the bone had cracked, could sense the slight displacement. Strings wove through the break, acting as an internal splint.
The lacerations were easier. I'd stitched myself together before—though never this extensively. Thin surgical strings pulled torn flesh back into place, crossing over wounds in neat patterns. Not pretty, but functional. I'd scar, but scars were just proof of survival.
By the time I finished, sweat had beaded on my forehead despite the cold. My strings withdrew, and I took an experimental breath. Still hurt. Would hurt for days, probably. But I could move now.
I turned my head slightly to look at X-23.
She'd released my shirt at some point, her hand now curled against her own chest. Her face was slack in sleep, younger somehow. Vulnerable. The tear tracks cutting through the blood on her cheeks told a story she'd never speak aloud.
She killed the only person who'd shown her kindness.
Because of the trigger scent. Because they'd turned her into a weapon so precise, so reliable, that a single chemical compound could override everything else.
Just like they'd tried to do to me.
I studied her face—the slight furrow between her brows, the tension that lingered even in unconsciousness. In all our forced spars, all those wordless exchanges of violence, I'd never seen her cry. Never seen her break.
I wondered if she'd ever seen me as anything but another weapon.
The thought was uncomfortable. Irrelevant.
Except it wasn't. Not anymore.
I sat up slowly, biting back a grunt as my ribs protested. She didn't stir. I looked down at her for a long moment, then at Dr. Kinney's body a few feet away.
The woman who'd tried to help X-23 escape. Who'd shown enough conscience to be dangerous to the facility's operations. Who'd paid for that kindness with her life.
We couldn't leave her here. That much was clear. Whatever else happened, she deserved better than to rot in this place.
I settled back against the wall to wait. Laura would wake soon—her healing factor would ensure that. And then we'd need to make decisions. But for now, I could give her a few more minutes of peace.
Even if neither of us deserved it.
Laura woke like a weapon—all at once, completely.
Her eyes snapped open, body tensing, claws halfway out before she registered where she was. Who she was with. I watched the recognition flood through her, followed immediately by memory.
Her gaze locked onto Dr. Kinney's body.
The devastation that crashed across her face was almost physical. Her claws retracted with a soft snikt, and for a moment, she was absolutely still. Then her breathing changed—faster, shallower. Panic, maybe. Or grief. Hard to distinguish.
"Hey."
My voice was quiet. Neutral. She flinched anyway.
Her head turned toward me slowly, like she was afraid of what she'd see. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and fresh tears had started tracking down her cheeks.
"You're..." She stopped. Started again. "You stayed."
Statement or question? I couldn't tell.
"Yes."
She looked down at her hands. Still covered in dried blood. "I killed her."
"The trigger scent—"
"I killed her." Harder this time. Sharper. Self-condemnation as a statement of fact. Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "She told me... before. She said she was my mother. That she was sorry. She called me Laura."
The name hung in the air between us.
"She was trying to help me, and I..."
Her voice broke. She wrapped her arms around herself, claws pressing against her ribs hard enough that I could see her uniform strain. Enough to break skin.
"Laura…"
I'd never comforted anyone. Had never been taught the social protocols for grief, the appropriate responses to emotional breakdown. The facility didn't train weapons to offer solace.
But I'd been trained to infiltrate. To get close to targets. To read what people needed and become that thing.
She needed... what? Words seemed inadequate. Hollow.
So I did what felt right instead of what made tactical sense.
I shifted closer and pulled her against my chest.
She went rigid immediately. Every muscle locked, and for a second, I thought she'd fight. Push away. Maybe hurt me.
Then she collapsed.
Her arms came around me in a crushing grip, her face pressed against my shoulder, and she shook. No sound—she didn't know how to cry loudly any more than I knew how to offer comfort—but I could feel the silent sobs wracking through her.
I wrapped one arm around her shoulders, the other hand finding the back of her head. My ribs screamed in protest, but I ignored them. This was more important.