Taylor laughs airily. “True. Then, I don’t know what to call it when you are in the presence of something you do not deserve.” Sighing, she dismounts her bed and straightens up the paperwork and books strewn about, and places her plate and glass on a nearby tray. “We leave at ten tonight. You will be going ahead with Delilah and the others. I need you to see them safely to Lansing.”
“Why am I not coming with you?”
“Because you have no explosives training?” she answers with incredulity.Okay, fair point.“I should be along shortly, if everything goes according to plan. But if it does not, I want you as far from the city as possible.”
Normally I would oppose this segregation on principle. But, in light of her most recent tragic loss, I think this has more to do with protection than exclusion. “Okay.”
Rightfully, she’s surprised I’m not offering resistance. Surprise turns to suspicion, which fades away as other thoughts cloud her eyes over. “Delilah wants us to attend a fitting for new uniforms.”
“Today?”
“No, next summer. Yes, today. She does not think what I have is good enough. I do not possess the energy to argue with her.” Putting a hand on my chest and a look of blown-away shock in my face, I wait for Taylor to catch my gaze. After pretending to be insulted, the corner of her mouth turns up.
“Well, if that’s the case, you need to shower first.” Her brow furrows. “You’ve been sitting in your own stink for days, kid. You’re not exactly fresh.”
Taylor picks her shirt from her chest and gives it a short sniff. “I do not smell.”
“You smell a little.”
“Maybeyousmell a little.”
“Real mature.”
“Thank you.”
I lob a pillow at her. “Ugh. I was being sarcastic.”
“Shocking.”
Much to myamusement and relief, the fitting is a prime example of the usual, curmudgeonly Taylor. She is unhappy being on display for measurements, an undertaking to which I am quite accustomed. Perched in an overstuffed armchair, she pouts and anxiously awaits the seamstresses’ final adjustments.
“Will this be much longer? I should be overseeing the evacuations, not being fitted for pants.”
“Plenty of qualified people are overseeing the evacuations,” Delilah says. “You need to gather your strength and stop being petulant.”
“Oh, come on, Delilah. It’s one thing to ask her to save the world, but to stop being petulant? That’s a step too far.” I stick my tongue out at Taylor. “I for one am grateful for the new clothes. I’m getting tired of Taylor forcing me to fight in a dress and heels.”
When a seamstress indicates she’s finished, Taylor nabs the proffered uniform and huffs off into an adjacent room. My uniform was finished an hour ago, but Taylor’s is a lot more complicated. Holsters and pockets for weapons, multiple layers for explosive resistance, and loads of other intricate detailing to help her in combat.
She emerges a short time later, self-consciously pulling at the fitted sleeves and staring down at her knee-high boots. It’s almost like a mechanic’s jumpsuit, but hard and insulated, tightly sewn to her body. I’ve never seen someone in such a badass uniform look so thoroughly uncomfortable.
“I thought it would be more—” I drag my eyes up and down her tight uniform. “Puffy?”
“You’re thinking of a bomb squad suit,” Delilah says. “That’s for bomb removal. This suit has nearly all the capabilities of the bomb squad suits, but at a fraction of the size.”
“Ah.”
“She is wearing five layers of thin material, each of which is designed to keep out moisture, regulate her body temperature, and protect her against explosions and high heat.” Delilah places a hand on Taylor’s sternum. “The chest and back are bulletproof, but please, do try to not get shot. Again.”
“Sure. Am I done?” Taylor taps her boot in frustration. “There is a lot to get accomplished in a short amount of time.”
“My word.” Delilah frowns. “I raised you with better manners than that, young lady.”
Taylor sighs, chastised. “May I please be excused?”
“Yes. I’ll have the uniform brought to your room.”
Taylor is undressed and re-dressed in a flash, sparing us the shortest wave as she flies out of the room. The next time I see her is hours later, when she breezes in through our shared door, clad in her snazzy new uniform. She’s removed the quiver, instead outfitted with two rifles around her back in an X. A pistol at each side, the belt sagging below her waist, heavy with equipment I’ve never seen and don’t know the use for. This put-together soldier is a world away from the haggard woman of this morning. The transformation is amazing, and concerning.