“Get that fucking thing away from me!” Cait’s voice cracked as she shoved the syringe across the counter, sending it clattering to the floor.
She backed away.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?”
“Calm down.” The medic said—probably another Purifier, judging by the dull gray insignia on his sleeve—didn’t flinch.
He just pulled another from his kit, as if this were routine.
The clinic walls pulsed with the hum of outdated ventilation, thick with the stench of antiseptic and something darker—drugs, maybe, or the metallic tang of blood.
Cait did not know why her father would refer her to this guy other than him being a cheaper option than bribing someone to get an appointment.
The medic owed her father for supplies, but he was rough with the needle when doing the various testing.
She was not going to be vented upon because this guy was pissed off that he had to help her to repay a debt.
“Listen, Nick. I don’t know what my charts say, but I am going to find someone else to carry on my care.” She rubbed her wrist and winced.
His look turned hostile towards her briefly.
“Your condition needs monitoring,” the medic interrupted her, he started to sweat.
When had she learned his name?
“If it is such a problem, I will just go to clinics and hospitals like everyone else. You don’t do anything but send off tests anyways.” Cait said as her fingers dug into the exam table’s edge, her knuckles white.
“Listen, I was stressed out. I will be gentler.” Nick explained desperately.
“No, no. I have had enough of your gentleness, Nick.” her words came out more vehemently than she intended.
Maria had warned her about trusting her fathers ‘friends’ too much.
“It’s unnecessary anyways.” She could already feel the headache building behind her eyes, the same one that came every time they tried to pump her full of whatever this week’s “cure” was supposed to be.
She felt like a test subject, not a patient.
The medic sighed, adjusting his gloves.
“Your father paid for and authorized the treatment,” he said, as if that settled things and made it okay.
“Keep the money or whatever, I do not care. You aren’t going to touch me again. He can settle the debt between you two. I’m not a child anymore anyways.” Cait responded, the fear building inside of her.
Nick lunged towards her with the needle, “Just try it again.” he almost demanded, catching himself.
“I told you, you won’t touch me again.” Cait backed away and pulled out her vibro-blade.
The blade hummed.
“Do you want to practice stitches on yourself or something?” Cait hissed and ground the blade against the metal table, sparks flying.
‘I am going to call him, let him know I am moving and separate myself from his club.’ Cait thought.
She had spent a lifetime choking on his decisions.
She was sick of his rhetoric, of having to live in fear that the ABO or the various guards that policed the Tunnel would force open the door in the early morning.
“Hey, take it easy with that thing,” Nick said as he backed away from the Commander’s daughter.
She did not know where he stood or she stood in the organization, and this was all under the commander’s instructions.
Even if he treated her more like a science experiment, she was still important to him than he was.
Nick regretted this.
He should not have pushed her too far.
His daughter could not be made aware of the power her father held.
She had not joined up as an asset as her Mother did, so she was not privy to the world that they all lived in.
It was for security purposes.
“I’m leaving,” Cait said as she buttoned her clothes.
Cait exhaled sharply through her nose, catching her own scent—gone sour with stress.
Her mother had been able to smell it too.
She took after her mother, and it scared her.
It was this weird, dominant trait, along with others, that was passed on to her through the genetic lottery.
“Okay, I will tell your Father.” Nick acquiesced more easily than he wanted to.
He should have tried to convince her; he was screwed if she stopped coming in to give samples.
The medic’s pupils dilated.
Just a fraction, but enough to creep her out.
If it were this easy to get the medic to stop treating her like garbage, she would have yelled at him quicker.
She hated the subpar treatment she received just because she was a dominant.
“Good.” Cait bared her teeth in a sneer.
“Tell him I’d rather depend on free ABO clinics.”
Cait took her medicine bottles, stuffed them into her purse, and stormed out.
The hallways blurred as she walked—too fast, too unsteady—past the flickering biometric panels.
Her boots squeaked against polished concrete.
Breakwater Dome’s lower levels reeked of mildew and industrial cleaner, a far cry from the upper-sector gardens Maria had described once.
She wondered if the dizziness was the meds or the slow, creeping burn of her biology fighting the suppressants.
Again.
A security drone buzzed overhead, red lens focusing.
Cait flipped it off reflexively.
The thing pivoted away—pre-programmed avoidance.
Omie Tech always folded when confronted.
Just like the medic.
She hit the transport bay doors while jogging.
The scan took forever, her wrist gland still oozing where they’d jabbed her.
The system beeped green.
Above the exit, the holographic panels shimmered with advertisements.
‘Live medics, no surface tech, confidential and reliable’ on the shitty signage warping the outside.
Cait hesitated.
Then stepped through.
Cait tapped her comms and the bead for her comms; it rang three times as the audio-only call connected.
Her dad explained that it was easier to get away with taking calls on the job this way.
“Daddy?” she said as the call opened.
The name peeled off her lips unsteadily as always.
She headed to the train to take her back to the place she and Maria shared.
She had been packing up for her move to the city.
Henry’s bachelor was cozy, but she needed the space, a one-bedroom provided.
A kitchen, walls to separate herself.
Space.
The tinny voice on the other end barely registered before Ben’s sigh crackled through.
“What’s up, kiddo?” he asked, voice rough from years of underground labor.
Cait swallowed, pressing her palm flat against the train’s cold window as the dome’s artificial twilight streaked past.
“Got a new job,” she said, forcing lightness into her tone.
“That accounting position in Geneva. So I’m moving.”
The silence on the other side of the line was heavy, she shrugged it off.
Then the sharp inhale she’d expected.
She braced for the scoff, the dismissal, the inevitable ‘you’re not ready.’
Ben exhaled long and slow, like he was counting.
“Climbing up out of the tunnels, huh?” The words were careful, almost amused, but Cait knew that tone—the one that meant he was already calculating the logistics.
The risks.
“Fancy job working for those Omie bastards?”
Cait rolled her eyes.
“Dad, you haul cargo for the same company. It’s just me doing math instead of breaking my back.” Another pause.
She could practically hear him grinding his teeth, the way he did when the purifier shipments got delayed.
“Where are you moving?” he finally grunted.
Cait grinned despite herself.
“One-bedroom in Sector 22.”
A beat.
Then, grudgingly: “Comm me your new address. I’ll send soap. The good shit that ‘fell off the loader.'” Her nose wrinkled at the implication—her body odour had been getting stronger lately, floral and citrus clinging to her clothes no matter how much she scrubbed.
Ben’s voice dropped, almost too quiet to catch.
“Don’t let those Omies sniff you out, kid. Remember what your mother had to deal with.”
The call cut before she could reply.
Cait stared at the dead screen.
Funny—he never asked about the meds.
He always found a way to arrange things for her.
Maybe it was making up for her childhood, or because of his guilt over her Mom.