Clear Water, Hidden Danger

Chapter 20 – Blood and Balance

The maintenance bay wasn’t a medical wing. Hell, it wasn’t even a decent garage.
But after the fight, it looked like a field hospital on its last legs. Tables dragged into rows. Extension cords crossing the concrete like spiderwebs. Lanterns hanging from pipes. Every medic and half-medic we had working like we’d just pulled two casualties off a battlefield.

Cruz stood dead center, covered in blood that wasn’t hers, and absolutely done with all of us.

“Two grown-ass men,” she muttered as she stalked between tables, “burning through supplies like toddlers fighting over a toy truck.”

Alex didn’t even look up. She was stitching my forearm with the finesse of a saint and the attitude of someone who had specifically warned me not to fight in a place with limited medical resources.

“Hold still,” she snapped, yanking the thread so tight my vision went white.

“Jesus—” I hissed.

“Good,” she said. “Maybe pain will teach you something since my words clearly don’t.”

Six feet away, laid out on a metal table like a busted side of beef, was Rourke.

Ribs taped. Lip split. Nose broken again. His right arm strapped to his chest in a sling rigged from a torn towel. Half his face swollen, the other half pissed off.

He tried sitting up.

Carmen planted her hand on his chest and shoved him flat like she was swatting a fly.

“Do that again,” she said, “and I’ll knock you out myself.”

Rourke just blinked at her, stunned and a little afraid.

Cami tossed gauze toward both tables. “Congrats. You two used up all the bandages the kids might need. Hope it was worth it.”

In the corner, Dave rubbed his temples, looking exactly like a tired father whose two dumbest sons had just ruined his quiet evening.

“We lose one more IV bag,” he said, “and I’m putting both of you in timeout.”

I believed him.

For a few minutes, chaos swallowed the bay. Tape tearing. Metal clattering. Cruz cursing in two languages. Alex whispering prayers of patience under her breath. Rourke yelling every time someone touched his ribs. Me yelling when Alex touched anything.

Then everything… slowed.

Just me.

And him.

Two idiots lying near each other in the ruins of our pride, watching the women fix the damage we’d caused.

The silence stretched long enough to feel expensive.

Finally, Rourke let out a breath that sounded like it cost him money.

“…You hit harder than you look.”

I snorted. “You talk more than you fight.”

The corner of his busted lip curled up — not a smile, just the suggestion of one.

Then he laughed.

A real laugh.

And immediately regretted it.

“God—damn—” he wheezed, clutching his ribs. “Okay. Don’t make me laugh again. I’m actually dying.”

Alex peeled her gloves off with a loud snap.
“Oh God… they’re bonding. We’re all doomed.”

Cami whispered to Carmen, “So stupid.”

Carmen whispered back, “Stupider than the Shakers.”

Cruz walked by, gave both of us the same disappointed-mom look, and announced:

“Stupidest creatures God ever made.”

Dave raised his mug of cold coffee.
“Amen.”

Then something shifted.

Quiet.
Real.
A crack in the armor neither of us saw coming.

Rourke stared at the ceiling, voice low and gravel-scarred.

“I don’t hate you,” he said. “I just hate the way I see myself when you’re calling the shots.”

My ribs throbbed. My face felt like gravel. But something softened anyway.

“…Then stop fighting me,” I said. “And start fighting for the people in this room.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he turned his head.

No fire in his eyes this time.
No challenge.
No ego.

Just honesty.

And respect.

A truce without ceremony.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Alright.”

Alex sighed loud enough to echo.

“Men are idiots.”

Cami nodded. “Certified.”

Cruz raised a finger. “Documented.”

Dave took a sip. “Peer-reviewed. Backed by science.”

The women moved on to organize what was left of the medical supplies, whispering aggressively about both of us like teachers in the break room after recess duty.

Rourke and I just stayed there, bruised, stitched, taped, swollen, and temporarily humbled.

And in that ridiculous garage-turned-trauma-bay, something important solidified.

Two enemies became two men on the same side.
Two problems became two assets.
Two disasters became two leaders.

We didn’t shake hands.
We didn’t apologize.
We didn’t need to.

Six feet apart, bleeding in rhythm, listening to the women roast us like we deserved — that was enough.

The world might’ve been ending outside those walls.

But inside the plant?

For the first time since the pulses began,
the camp finally had two men willing to stop fighting each other long enough… to protect everyone else.

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ANONYMOUS FIELD LOG — ENTRY A
CLASSIFIED — PROJECT ECHO CLEARANCE REQUIRED:
CWP internal stability improved following post-conflict medical intervention. Dissident Rourke, previously a destabilizing influence, now displays reduced hostility toward Subject Zero and demonstrates early alignment indicators after shared medical recovery. Anchor resonance remained steady throughout event; no external Phase III contact detected. Morale shift suggests temporary cohesion rebound, though supply depletion from dual casualties increases operational vulnerability.
========================================
ANONYMOUS FIELD LOG — ENTRY B
CLASSIFIED — PROJECT ECHO CLEARANCE REQUIRED:
NLC experiencing elevated medical strain from rising patient intake and supply deficits. Staff forced into continuous conflict-de-escalation as morale erodes under overcrowded triage conditions. Early-stage reactive subjects require reinforced restraints following agitation spikes during low-frequency hum intervals. Command’s response remains inconsistent. Embedded position remains undetected and operational visibility continues to expand.