Homecoming/DeadOnArrival

[Author's Note: Just a little Riftworlds blurb, separate from my other posts.
I'm thinking about rewriting my intro for the plot- I've sort of written myself into a corner, as I'm prone to do.]

There are few rules pertaining to proclamation of death in the Mender’s Core.
The most widely known and accepted statement on the subject is this:
If a Mender cannot be confirmed as living, they must be assumed dead.
My mentor and constant companion, Jakell, has returned to a cleaned-out residence five times in the last year.
As I checked the height of the sun out of the south barrack’s window, I wondered what he’d do for the sixth time.
“Ms. Falenn-“ I glanced back towards the front of the classroom. The class instructor glared up at me from her seat at the class’s head. “Perhaps you’d find the enviroment of this learning session more conducive to education if you would direct your attention to your studies rather than the weather.”
I curled my lip far up over my gums in an exaggerated smile and returned to the tattered book spread before me.
He had been missing in action for seventeen hours. He was supposed to have returned five hours ago and caught a few hours of rest before setting off with me for another training session. It was almost unbelievably typical of Jakell to miss an appointment, but I still felt the cold pangs of worry deep in my gut. What if he didn’t return for days? Was I supposed to continue with supplemental studies until the semester’s end?
“Ms. Falenn!” I realized my gaze had drifted back out towards the landing platforms and I snapped my head back down towards my textbook. “Thank you.”
Supplemental studies were for the forgotten.
I glanced subtly about, taking in the faces of the cowardly and unremarkable and sickly assistant menders that surrounded me.
When unfit or unable to carry out field studies, all assistant menders were expected to hit the books in a classroom setting, feeding our understanding in the styles of the old world.
My book was open to page 150, the second chapter of cityscape reconnaissance. The bottom left of the page sported a graphite sketch from a glorified mender’s field journal; the greatest observation points were circled and labeled. The drawing was over 27 years old. I yawned, propping my head on my left hand.
He was probably dead.
Lying somewhere in a grassy field, head bashed open, blood streaming down those black, linear tattoos he took great pains to obscure- burgundy-brown eyes staring vacant at the sky, mouth hanging ajar and undignified.
The image brought an odd sense of relief to my clenched frame; the concept of a deceased Jakell was so unreal that it couldn’t even terrorize me.
No, he was probably just mortally wounded.
Two rows behind me, someone screamed.
The whole class, myself included, swiveled in our seats to stare at the disturbance.
A young assistant mender, blond and frail-looking, was staring out the window and shrieking.
We all, in turn, followed her gaze.
I was the first one out of my seat, but not the first to the door; it was a struggle to pry my way through the sudden wall of bodies and throw myself down the hallway towards the exit.
By the time I could once again see the arrival platform, Jakell had removed the limp body from his shoulder and handed it off to the medical team.
If not for his distinctive gangly frame, I might not have recognized him- the normal prickly nature of his blonde hair was compromised by the unsettlingly scarlet mess that covered his entire body. Before I could reach the platform, he was traveling towards the northern barracks with long, buoyant strides.
“Jakell!” I shouted, with little result. I tried again; my mentor still refrained to turn. I was closing in on him now, sprinting with little regard for composure. “JAKELL.”
He didn’t realize I was behind him until I tripped on an upturned piece of slate and collided into him. Despite gravity’s best efforts of pitching us both to ground, he remained curiously upright, instead grabbing my forearm and pulling me about to face him. His grip was sticky with half-congealed blood. In spite of being absolutely doused in the deep crimson ooze, his expression was cheery and detached as usual. As I stared at him, mouth open a bit, he grinned.
“Ah, Lauriel. How’s school?” He began walking again, pulling me along with every enormous stride.
“School is- Uhm, school is fine. Where the hell have you been? Whose blood is that? What the hell happened on Dwi?”
“Do you have any idea if the bathhouses are running this early? If I have to go home and sleep like this, I’m gonna get everything all icky and red.”
“Jakell.” I said again, clawing at his grip. “Are you going to answer any of my questions?”
“I’ll bet they are. What’s the earliest you’ve gotten into one?”
“JAKELL.” He sighed and glanced down at me, suddenly quite somber. “Jakell, what happened?”
“Nothing on Dwi, so no need to worry about the motherland.” A smile crept back into his voice before promptly vanishing. “We hit Kelyar instead. The disturbances on Dwi have been linked back there through an unlicensed wormhole. Apparently, the more hardcore activists have been doing blind jumps all the way into the city, doing the dirty work, and escaping back to Kelyar.”
“Kelyar and Dwi are linked?”
“Not anymore. We had to sew up the rift- it was too unstable.” We were at the Northern barracks now, and Jakell was scanning his keycard before dragging me inside. I wondered if he even remembered he was cutting off the circulation to my left hand.
“And the blood-?”
“Rebel resistance. Had to do some ripping and defensive work; Brinse got an old-world-style bullet to the neck and I had to carry him home.”
“So the rebels are-“
“You know what? You’re not supposed to be here.” Jakell mused, as one of the male barracks-dwellers passed by in little more than a towel. “Uhm- Why don’t you head back to the school and we’ll catch up when I’m a little less repulsive, how ‘bout that.” As he spoke, he pushed me down the few steps and out the door. “Yeah, that sounds good. See you later.”
Before I fully realized what was happening, I was standing outside the northern barracks, half-covered in blood and still consumed by questions.