You shudder out of a nightmare and Nick's staring down at you with impassive eyes.
"What?" you say, and you can't keep the whine out of your voice. It's like it's tied to him; he looks at you and you're a helpless infant.
Then you hear the screams, the racket of metal clanging against metal, was that a gunshot?
"Go," he says. You scramble to your feet, clumsily; you still can't put weight on the bad foot, so you stumble and would have fallen if he hadn't caught you, roughly, with careless fingers digging into your biceps. He doesn't let you, but looks into your face with his eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted in something like disgust. "Go," he says again. "Laundry 2, there's a utility closet there. The lock is broken."
There are more gunshots; they must be gunshots. The screaming is sounding too rhythmical, too planned; almost like chanting. "What--" you try again, but he shakes you impatiently.
"Listen! Wait in the closet and keep quiet."
"Wait for what?" He scowls at you, at your stupidity, but you have no idea what's going on and your head is splitting with morning pain, and he's shaking you like you should catch on from just the way he wiggles his eyebrow or something.
You hear running feet in the hall outside and something or someone bumps hard against the cell door. "They're gonna--" He looks around, back at you. "Fuck."
The headache just gets worse when you get out of the cell. The air smells scorched and poisonous, like burning rubber or oil. Nick waves at you impatiently, and you hop after him. The walking stick keeps you upright, but you can't run, and it looks a lot like running would be the best idea. You still don't know what's going on.
When you stumble, he grabs you and drags you along. "You wanna get killed, idiot?" he hisses, and you want to tell him to stick it and leave you alone, but he wouldn't listen, and you really don't want to get killed.
"Get them, get them, GET THEEEEEEEM!" someone screams and it's right around the corner, close, really close, and Nick's fingers bite into your arm and he whips you around and get you pressed against the wall before they come, a horde of men, all ages, some bleeding, some just screaming out loud in inexplicable rage.
"What the fuck?" you say, but your voice doesn't carry in the clamour. Your face is flush against the wall and Nick's arm is tight around your shoulders.
"It's a distraction," he shouts into your ear, and even at this distance, it's just a rough whisper on a gust of hot air and you can barely make it out.
Things are a little calmer once you get down the stairs, but you almost step on the still body of a guard, and the only dead body you've seen until then was a cadaver the students were picking through at the Compound, and they didn't let you watch for long; just long enough to leave an impression. And it was nothing like this, the screaming crimson of the blood on his slack face, the dumb marble-shine of his eyes.
Nick steps around him, doesn't look down, but his face is even more determined after that, closed down, and he swears when you stumble, long, inventive strings of language he's picked up from his foul-mouthed gangster friends. You wonder if the guard meant something to him; you don't have a name for the sharp-angled face, but you remember that he was neither soft nor a hardass.
"Where are you going?" someone yells, and Nick freezes and turns slowly, his hand fisted in your shirt.
"He can't run, I gotta hide him somewhere," he says and nods at you. They walk towards you, their shorn, tattooed scalps shining. They fix you with unkind eyes, but they quickly turn away, dismissively.
"That's sweet," the largest one says, "stow the bitch and get your ass back in line, then."
There are more stairs, but Nick stops at the top of the staircase. "Go, go on," he says. "You know where it is, don't you? Sit tight."
You want to ask what's going to happen, but he's pushing you towards the steps, with both hands, a little less rough than before, almost gentle, almost as if he's reluctant to just push you into action and get out of there.
Then he says, "Try to stay alive," and he's gone, back where you came from. You blink in the stinking, smoke-thick air and look after him. The sounds of the riot are like a separate entity, rattling from wall to wall, and that's what pushes you on, finally. You stagger down the stairs, faster than your foot likes, but you can't stop to rest; the pain suddenly seems more bearable than the stench and the noise. You lean heavily against the wall, and you can almost run, at a lopsided, weaving gait. When you reach the nondescript grey door of the closet, you almost fall on your face as it opens without resistance.
You pull the door closed behind you and sit on the floor, a little uncomfortably, but it's quiet and dark, and you lean against the wall and close your eyes. The dark feels safe, like the tunnels where you live. You think past your aching head and your shivering hands and your broken foot, and you know that Chris is coming for you. You'll stay alive.
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