The Hummer rolled through a stretch of sun-blasted highway, asphalt wavering in the heat like a mirage. The engine hummed steady, almost soothing, a low mechanical heartbeat beneath the glare of noon.
Paolo wasn't scanning anymore.
The baton rested across his lap, loose in his fingers. His gaze stayed fixed ahead, unfocused, jaw tight.
Eli noticed. He waited until the road smoothed into a long, empty stretch before speaking.
"That throw earlier."
Paolo blinked, as if surfacing. "What?"
"You adjusted for distance," Eli said evenly. "You didn't rush it. You compensated for the drift."
Paolo frowned faintly. "I just… threw it."
"It hit center mass."
Silence settled between them again, thinner now, stretched taut like wire.
Paolo's grip tightened around the baton.
"It was all I could do," he muttered. "Didn't want to just sit there again. Didn't want to be…" His jaw clenched. "A burden."
The engine seemed louder in the quiet that followed.
"You rammed a vehicle into an obscurant," Eli said at last.
Paolo let out a short breath that wasn't quite a laugh.
"That's not a burden."
Another beat passed, long and sunlit.
"You saved my life."
The words weren't dramatic. Just factual. Anchored.
Paolo stared through the windshield at the shimmering road. "I almost froze," he admitted quietly.
"But you didn't."
A swallow.
"Still counts as reckless driving."
"I'll log it as a tactical maneuver."
A faint huff escaped Paolo despite himself. His shoulders loosened a fraction.
The road stretched on — bright, merciless — but lighter than before.
The fencing appeared first.
Layered barricades narrowed the highway into a controlled funnel: concrete blocks staggered in deliberate intervals, steel hedgehogs bristling at the edges, sandbags stacked in disciplined geometry. Armed personnel stood in overlapping arcs of coverage, rifles angled but ready.
The Hummer slowed.
A soldier stepped forward, palm raised. "Engine off."
The inspection was methodical. Doors opened. Seats lifted. Mirrors rolled beneath the chassis. Weapons were cataloged and returned without comment.
"Names."
"Eli Navarro."
A beat.
"Paolo Reyes."
A tablet was consulted. The soldier's finger paused mid-scroll.
"Navarro?"
"Yes."
A radio call followed.
"Gate Two to Command. Confirming arrival. Navarro, Eli. Yes, that Navarro."
Static crackled.
"Copy."
The gate sealed behind them with a metallic grind that echoed too long.
"You'll proceed to screening. Command has been notified."
The phrasing lingered.
Not welcome.
Not suspicion.
Recognition.
Inside the perimeter, the shift was subtle but undeniable. A communications officer stepped quickly into a tent. Two soldiers repositioned nearer the command structure. Somewhere unseen, a file was moved to the top of a stack.
A deeper engine turned over farther inside the base.
Movement. Contained.
Triage was efficient.
Temperature checks. Pupil response. Grip strength.
Gloved fingers pressed briefly along the base of Eli's skull — near the brainstem. Firm. Evaluative.
The same to Paolo.
"Headaches? Pressure sensations? Ringing?"
"No."
A thin yellow tab was added to Eli's intake file.
Paolo noticed.
He said nothing.
They were cleared for general sector.
Directed forward.
The Fever Ward sat apart.
Not isolated by walls.
By space.
A deliberate stretch of empty ground separated it from the main cluster of tents — a barren buffer of trampled dirt and heat shimmer where no one lingered. Portable cooling units droned continuously, venting warm air from behind reinforced canvas. The plastic sheeting had been doubled, seams sealed with thick bands of tape that caught the light.
Floodlights bathed the structure in stark white despite the afternoon sun, erasing shadows.
Two soldiers stood guard at measured intervals, rifles angled downward but not relaxed.
Paolo slowed without meaning to.
Eli did not stop walking — but his gaze shifted.
A flap stirred in the dry breeze.
Through the narrow opening, the interior revealed itself in fragments.
Five cots arranged with careful spacing.
IV stands beside each, lines running clear and steady.
Metal basins filled with melting ice; water pooled beneath them, dripping in slow, uneven taps onto plastic sheeting.
The air that escaped carried the sharp scent of antiseptic and sweat — heavy, metallic, tinged with something fever-sweet.
One patient lay flat, breathing shallow and rapid, skin flushed a violent crimson. An ice pack rested in the hollow of his throat.
Another shivered violently despite the cooling units, teeth chattering hard enough to be heard through canvas.
A third was restrained.
Padded cuffs secured both wrists to the cot frame — not tight enough to bruise, but firm. Intentional.
A nurse leaned over him. "Temperature's climbing again."
A monitor beeped in steady increments.
40.7°C.
The restrained patient's eyes opened.
Not wild.
Not yet.
Confused.
His fingers twitched, then began clawing weakly at the air. His free hand drifted instinctively toward the base of his skull, pressing as if something there ached — or pushed.
Paolo's breath slowed without him realizing it.
Inside, a medic swabbed an IV port.
"Prep sedative."
The patient's back arched.
Not a full convulsion.
A ripple.
Like a current traveling beneath the skin.
The monitor spiked.
41.1°C.
The soldier at the entrance adjusted his stance, finger resting closer to the trigger guard.
Not fear.
Protocol.
The syringe depressed. Clear fluid slid into the IV line.
Seconds stretched.
The restrained man's movements turned erratic for a heartbeat — hands trembling violently, jaw locking, a strangled sound forcing its way past clenched teeth.
For one brief second, something dark threaded faintly behind his ear.
Not veins.
Denser. Branching.
Then—
His body slackened.
The monitor numbers began their slow descent.
41.0.
40.8.
40.6.
The tremor ebbed.
The nurse wiped sweat from his brow. "He's holding."
For now.
Paolo realized his own hand had curled into a fist.
"That's where they send them," he said quietly.
"Yes," Eli replied.
Inside another cot, a woman lay motionless except for the rapid flutter of her eyelids. Her lips moved faintly, murmuring words that didn't carry past the canvas. Her fingers twitched in small, involuntary spasms, as if grasping at something only she could see.
The cooling units droned on.
The empty stretch between the ward and the camp felt wider now. Intentional.
If escalation occurred, there would be room.
Room for response.
Room for gunfire, if necessary.
Eli noted the coordination — one medic tracking neurological response while another monitored vitals, a third preparing contingency doses already measured and labeled. They were not improvising.
They had rehearsed this.
Paolo wasn't watching the precision.
He was watching the soldier.
Watching how close containment was to violence.
After a moment, Eli resumed walking.
Paolo followed.