Night

Lord Tem watched the Lady Commander's hands as she shuffled through papers, occasionally moving a marker on the map. He liked watching the Lady Commander. She was a contradiction in many ways. Unlike the Lady Knights of the realm, she was not hard muscles and scars; her hands were not rough with sword calluses. Nor were they a lady's dainty little hands meant for nothing more than embroidery or playing music. Her's were soft, gentle, and warm. Hands made to hold infants, to ease aching muscles, soothe fevers, and quiet the nightmares that years of battle left in their wake. Her brown eyes were not shielded with rage and hate and lust for battle, but like her hands, soft and warm, quick to merriment but missing nothing. Her outward appearance spoke of a comfortable home with good food and lots of children, of warm lazy days in the summer, and playful dark nights in the winter. It hid the mind that had crushed the kingdom's enemies to dust every time they road to war.

The soft glow of the lights added to the illusion as she shifted the markers of the enemy lines. The Lady Commander usually worked through the night, sleeping during the hottest time of the day in a wagon designed to keep the heat and bright light from her. The King had once laughingly called her his little snow flake. She had smiled and lowered her eyes demurely while her skin had flushed. The King took great pleasure in making her blush. Tem liked her like this; peaceful, intent, in her element; the soft light, the cool night breeze; her robes of office discarded for simple garments. She had let her hair down and now it hung down and over one shoulder in a loose braid. The candlelight added hints of red and gold to the brown locks as the flickered in the occational desert breeze.

Even as his eyes followed her movements, his ears were drawn away from the shuffle of papers to the sounds of the camp. The sounds were shifting from the tranquility of rest to strife. He shifted his weight so that he was closer to her.

The Lady Commander's head snapped up an instant before the flaps of the door flew open. The guard who stumbled in and fell to the ground was filthy, half covered in blood, and almost incoherent. Lord Tem caught the words "attack" and "intruders". The Lady Commander had risen to her feet and was moving around the desk to the fallen man, but was stopped when Tem grabbed her arm and dragged her out the back of her tent. He stopped long enough to assess the situation and to wrap a dark blue cloak around her, more to hide her from prying eyes than from the cool air. The fighting seemed to be concentrated in one area but he could see figures moving between the tents who did not look like his men.

"This isn't right. Tem. Wait." She pulled her arm, looking back the way they came. "The Lurmites are weeks away from us. I need..."
"To follow orders." Tem snapped. He wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her along and keeping her on her feet across the soft sand. He could just make out the gleam of the chariot he always had waiting; armored, guarded, and provisioned. His men were dressed in dark greys and browns just as he to hide them in the night.
"Tem. That information." She tried to pull back again.
"Is not worth your life. Don't make me carry you."
"Oh for crying out loud, Tem. It's probably just raiders." He knew she was rolling her eyes, as she spoke, "And they are your orders, not mine."
He half lifted her into the chariot and noted with satisfaction that she immediately crouched down under the armored lip at the front of it.
"The last time it was raiders, you ended up with a poisoned knife in your shoulder."
"Arm. It was my arm. And I was fine." she grumbled.
"You were sick for a week. Now quiet or I'll gag you." He knew she was probably glaring at him but the dark obscured all but her profile. Her face was lit up as a tent caught fire. She was looking back past him. Her eyes were bright with wonder and a bit of longing.

"They are here for me." It was more a breath then actual words. As if her thoughts had escaped on her breath. Tem spun in the sand, drawing his sword. His men's swords already bared as they moved to engage the dark figures. Tem barely caught her as the Lady Commander sprang from her spot. He snapped her back into her spot and winced as her head connected with the metal with a clang and she curled into a ball gripping her head. He spared a second to clamp a shackle around her ankle before turning back to face the fighting only to find most of his men were down and the attackers closing in on them. He stepped back, up onto the chariot, moving to stand shoulder to shoulder with the charioteer while facing the battle. He watched as some of his best men were cut down by shadows. Shadows who were not simple raiders. He braced himself with his free hand.

"Go."
The fighting and lights fled away as the night mares dragged them into darkness. Lord Tem sheathed his sword as the light of the camp faded and settled himself into place, taking comfort in the warmth pressed into his lower legs.

Broken

Milli leaned her head against the window of the bus. The glass was warm from soaking up the sun all morning. That heat combined with the hot, humid air inside the bus and the press of the passenger beside her made it hard to breath. Her head ached. Pain pulsed at the back of her skull, sending rivulets forward to claw at the backs of her eye balls.

The bus started to curve around on the off ramp from the highway and a sun slammed through her window. She slapped a hand against her eyes but it was to later. Pain exploded through her head. Everything sounded muffled as if she had cotton in her ears and every sound hurt. She bent forward, pressing her head against the seat in front of her and panted through the pain. The man beside her repeated something to her several times, possible a question, before shifting just a bit away from her, probably afraid she was about to throw up. If she had had anything to eat or drink in the last two days, she might have. Her stomach added its voice to the choir of her pain. Her skin burned where it touched the warm seat, the side of the bus, the man who was still too close. The air itself seemed to be trying to press into her skin, into every pour on her body. It wrapped itself around her and squeezed. Its heat pressed in to her nose, burning at the sensitive sink within. Despite the humidity it seemed to suck the moisture from her lips and mouth. The smell of the other people was so strong she could taste it on her parched tongue.

Each turn the bus made pushed her into the man or into the wall with the man against her. She could feel his sweat on her arm, oily and thick. Her own swear was content to stick to her skin in a grimy layer, more salt and dirt then water. Her head felt heavy and her limbs unresponsive. The spots in her eyes were almost so bad she didn’t even notice the light changed as they entered the tunnel. She didn’t notice the light, but she noticed the sound. Out in the open it could spread out and disperse. Here in the tunnel the sound packed in to the bus and into her ears, the engine, the murmuring of other passengers. But she clenched her jaw and sat up, they would be at the station soon, then maybe she could get out and breathe.

The bus stopped with a jerk that rocked her forward, into the moment. She squinted out the window at the rows of buses, disgorging their bounty into the grey-walled tunnel and the waiting rows of metal guide fences beneath rows of lights just shy of daylight bright. She watched as people stumbled, lumbered, scurried, scrapped, and some dragged off busses and into the lines divided by the fences. Lines of people all moving toward the unknown beyond the walls of tunnel.

All broken she thought, Just like me.

The hot pressure on her arm vanished like a band-aid torn away, drawing her attention back to her own bus. For the most part people had risen and joined in packing the aisle. A few, like her sat watching the people on the bus or looking out the window. One man, a few rows behind her appeared to be asleep. No one tried to wake him. Milli could hear crying at the front of the bus but could not pin point its owner.  She sat back and turned back toward the window, seeing no point it standing in the crowded aisle and watching the people outside took her mind off the ache in her head to some extent.

A bus pulled up next to her’s. Unlike her’s it had no windows. The contents were revealed shortly when men and women in shackles shuffled off of it. They radiated violence that made people look away. One man glared up at Milli but she just looked at him. He face contorted in dark emotions, his brown eyes narrowed and his lip curled in a snarl. He leaned toward her menacingly, but she just looked at him. His violence was meaningless here. He tried to maintain eye contact, trying to force her to look away first, but the pressure of the other convicts behind him pushed him forward and he stumbled. He shoved back once upright, but the altercation was short lived has both combatants were subdued and dragged away.

She watched a bus pull up and the passengers went to an apparently rarely uses line. They were in better shape than the rest of the horde, not sweaty and red faced. Their hair hadn’t been cut for sanitation purposes. Their clothes were clean. They even had shoulder bags, personal possessions.

Volunteers. The broken pieces who came to get fixed. Who wanted their scrambled insides scooped out and fixed or new ones put in. The repairs that didn’t kill the other damaged components like Milli and the angry convict, would be refined on and in them. If they survived and were deemed CURED, they would go home. Refurbished people for a better, more functional world. A world she didn’t belong in, had no place in. She, like the rest of the passengers were damaged components disrupting the smooth operation of the world. Her migraines the doctors couldn’t fix. Her emotions that disrupted her ability to function in her place in the world. Her inability to connect with other people, to operate properly.

She looked out the window at the lines of people under the lights, packed into rows divided by metal fences, rows that lead through doors. Doors where they would be cured, repaired, refurbished, and if they couldn’t be, then scrapped. She stood to join the line, standing so that her shoulder was pressed up against the man. Taking her place with the broken.