Free Counterpart by Hayley Stone

“Commander.”
    Even as they carry him away, the man continues arguing. It’s the same wheedling tone a child uses to debate his bedtime. I know I shouldn’t take him seriously—he’s probably suffering posttraumatic stress in addition to the physical injuries—but still. He saw me before? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
    I spend a while on Command, visiting with those organizing the rescue effort. Everyone seems happy to see me; their eyes hint at smiles, though their mouths remain hidden behind white dust shields. I shake a lot of hands, offer a word of encouragement where I can. In truth, I’d much rather be doing physical labor, removing debris, and actively aiding with the rescue efforts, but Matt warned that with my injuries, any serious exertion could set my recovery back by weeks. Concussions don’t heal overnight, after all. Not to mention, I don’t want to open the sores on my hands from where I grabbed the elevator’s hot steel, or put any more stress on my already traumatized body.
    When I told Matt I wanted to help, he told me it wasn’t my job, and much as I might try to dispute that, I know he’s right. My job is to be the rock, steady in the face of tragedy. An icon. A symbol. The Statue of Liberty didn’t weep after the machines visited devastation on her city, and neither can I. Not a single tear, even as I watch rescuers liberate victim after victim from the wreckage, listen to their stories of the attack and their fears about what will come next. I scoop out my compassion and empathy, seal it away. I empty myself to better carry their grief.
    It’s the only way I know to survive this.
    “That’s not good enough.”
    I jerk my head up from a tablet detailing the damage to McKinley’s electrical systems. My heart sprints against my ribs. That voice. I know that voice.
    “We have people due to arrive within the hour. The hangar needs to be cleared and ready to receive them…”
    “Excuse me a moment.” I thrust the tablet back into the hands of its owner.
    With my ears still buzzing faintly, I follow the retreating voices, catching sight of him just before he rounds another corner. “Camus!”
    He stops and turns. Whatever stony expression he was wearing moments before crumbles, a vulnerable look taking its place. “Rhona?”
    The hallway shrinks, both of us moving toward each other. I rush into his arms—a little too roughly, eliciting a groan. He rubs his chest, his old wound protesting again. “Sorry!” I begin to say, but his hands are already moving up my neck, cupping my jaw, and lifting my face toward his. For a brief moment, I believe Camus is going to break his strict no-PDA rule, rip both our masks off and kiss me. I ache for the comfort of his mouth against mine, an outlet for all the frustration and fear of the past day. But it doesn’t happen. Damn his practicality.
    Instead, Camus tilts my head back and forth, scanning me with a concerned look. I must be quite a sight, with a thick, white bandage around my head and a red tracery of shrapnel marks to balance out my uneven freckles.
    Camus brushes his thumb gently over a bruise on my cheek, just below the strap of my dust shield. I wince. “Are you all right?”
    “No one could tell me where you were.” My voice cracks, all my unspoken fears trying to break free.
I was afraid you were dead,
I want to tell him.
I was afraid I’d lost you.
I was afraid.
But these are not words I can say right now without completely losing it. Instead, I run my fingers over the tops of his ears, pushing the hair back from them. I can’t stop touching him.
    He starts to speak, but has to stop. Clear his throat. Rather than look at me, he focuses on the floor. There are things Camus cannot say, too. “Communications have been—” he begins.
    “I know. I believe the expression Clarence used was
completely screwy.
”
    Camus glances up at me, the skin around his eyes scrunching in a soft smile. “A good analysis.” The smile