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Bruno’s arm aches.
…but it’s nothing compared to the horror he experienced during the chaos of Aamir and Tyesha’s wedding. He winces in a different kind of pain as his mind flashes back to the previous night—
…
“Bruno, where is Kamala?” Kamala’s mom asks him as she desperately clutches his jacket sleeve.
Mr. Khan follows his wife with an equally frantic, “Is everything all right inside? They’re not letting us back in.”
Bruno opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out — he can’t find the words.
No, everything’s not all right.
“What’s happening?” Mrs. Khan tries again.
Bruno doesn’t answer her, can’t answer her, because he suddenly realizes what he has to do.
He sets off at a run towards the side of the wedding venue in search of a more inconspicuous way back in, his mind hinging on one singular notion.
Help her.
Help her, or you may never see her again.
Heaving as he wrenches open a service entrance steel door, panting as he runs up the stairs — just like Kamala, he probably should have tried harder in gym — Bruno finally arrives back in the banquet hall and widens his eyes, taking in the scene before him.
He freezes in horror for a moment at the outright carnage being dealt at the hands of Kamran’s family?…friends?…coconspirators?, and then spots a few quick flashes of Kamala’s iridescently illuminated hard light powers before ever actually laying eyes on her.
Bruno makes a beeline for the gift table, piled high with offerings originally intended to help establish a new life for the happy couple. Now, given the circumstances, these gifts will have to instead be used to help protect the life of the groom’s sister.
Sorry, Aamir, he thinks with a twinge of remorse, his clammy hands lifting and shaking various ornately packaged wedding presents in rapid succession, feeling for a particularly heavy one that should ideally have a fair amount of heft behind it. He finds a silver polka dot-wrapped package that suits his purpose, and he lets it fly.
The repurposed projectile has the desired effect, knocking the bald psycho back a step or two, which is enough to prevent him from delivering the final blow to a shit-out-of-luck Kamala cowering in fear at his feet.
Bruno briefly stops to properly consider his opponent — Holy shit, is that a whipsword?! — before reaching for another present from the table to throw.
But then suddenly a chair is hurtling through the air right in his direction, and there’s no time to do anything about it, and all of his senses are redirected towards processing the sickening crunching sound that originates from his right arm as the chair’s impact throws him to the ground in agony.
“Bruno!”
He hazily detects the midair form of the large bald man now right above him, when out of nowhere, a supersized fist of hard light connects directly with the assailant, doing far more damage than Brunos’s gift-wrapped headshot ever could have dreamed of.
She’s never practiced that, Bruno finds himself marvelling at Kamala’s heroics, temporarily forgetting the throbbing sensation in his arm.
His eyes once again squeezed shut in pain, Bruno hears, rather than sees, the arrival of Kamran into the banquet hall. His impossibly melodic British accent is on full display as he sternly orders Mr. Whipsword to “Leave him alone.”
Thanks, man.
“Bruno, hey, are you okay?!” Kamala is crouching beside him, frantically trying to help him up to his feet. All he can do is groan in response.
“Get Brian out of here,” Kamran calls out to them mid-confrontation with Mr. Whipsword.
Well, he certainly finds his voice again for that.
“I swear he gets my name wrong on purpose.”
Left arm slung around her shoulders, Bruno feels himself being half-dragged by Kamala out of the room, feeling very much like the weakest link in a three-legged relay. The pain in his arm is so overwhelming he can’t even think straight, let alone move to escape with any semblance of speed.
The next several seconds?…minutes?…hours? are an aching blur of stairs, just so many stairs, a few more close brushes with those crazy Djinn people, Kamran somehow displaying even more exceptional prowess, and an eleventh-hour arrival of the very same federal agents that hunted down Kamala at Eid, but through it all, Kamala is by his side —literally — helping him make it to safety.
Together they burst through the final exterior side door and out into the cool night air. He hears her slam the door shut with a blast of hard light…
…Only to come face-to-face with Nakia.
And she does not look pleased.
“Kamala?”
“Huh? Nakia.” Kamala responds to their friend in a surprised pant.
Nakia ascends the remaining few steps to join them on the garbage platform.
“What…was that?”
Bruno hangs his head as he leans against the garbage bin for support, while a panicked Kamala pleads to Nakia.
“I’m really sorry.”
Walking towards them, Nakia gapes in disgust?…disbelief?…betrayal? from Kamala to Bruno. He says nothing, just closes his eyes in pain and looks away.
Nakia refocuses her attention on Kamala. “It was you?”
“Um,” Kamala’s head swings to the door they just exited and then back to Nakia.
“This whole time it was you, and you didn’t say anything?” Bruno can hear his friend’s voice rising as she questions Kamala, the inherent hurt starting to seep through.
He finally speaks up.
“Kamala, Kamala, you have to go. They’re after you.”
There’s no time for this now.
“Just wait—”
“No, no—”
“Just wait. Just wait. Just wait—”
“No, no, no—”
“Wait!” Kamala finally shouts.
“Just. Nakia will take care of me.” He tries to reassure her, to convince her to leave to take care of herself. “Just go.”
Clearly wrestling with her options, Kamala breathes shallowly as her head vacillates back and forth between him and Nakia.
Nakia can’t even look at Kamala as she forcefully hands her her red shawl.
“You dropped this.”
Kamala grabs the fabric and desperately promises Nakia, “I’m gonna explain everything later, I swear,” before running off, just as Bruno recommended.
Nakia finally turns to regard Bruno head-on.
“What just happened?” she whispers in horror.
“I’ll explain it. Okay?” He swings his good arm around Nakia’s shoulder for support.
“Are you okay?” she finally asks him.
“No, I’m not,” he answers honestly. But hopefully Kamala is.
…
Sitting on his couch in his room the next morning, Bruno absentmindedly grazes his fingers over the textured ridges of his arm cast.
Unlike most of his high school peers, Bruno’s never gotten this injured before. Never sprained an ankle, never broken his nose, certainly never shattered a bone to the point of needing internal fixation in the form of multiple screws and plates and a good 6 to 12 weeks minimum of healing.
As a certifiable nerd, he thought he’d avoid all that trouble.
But now his dominant hand is encased in bright blue plaster, serving as a concrete reminder of his priorities from the night prior.
Because there he went, putting her wellbeing first.
Just like he always does.
Just like he knows he’ll do again.
And he’s okay with that.