Look Alive, Sunshine

Wednesday, July 5th.
Eighteen days after.

From his position on the floor, Icarus watches the red neon of the clock slip past three in the morning.

He had thought he saw the footprints again, those same ones from the other morning. Damp, perfectly formed, small as if made by a child much younger than him. Once again it had looked like a perfect trail leading all the way from the bathroom to the main door, but when he had launched himself onto the floor to investigate, it had proven futile.

His fingers were about to come into contact with the damp carpet, but it had been dry. When Icarus looked up, the trail was gone.

Unless it was never there. With his sanity slipping as of late, he’s beginning to wonder if anything he’s seen has been real.

He wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t.

Icarus allows himself to sit on the floor for some time; it’s a nice, albeit odd change from his position curled up in the chair for the entire day. He hasn’t left since this morning, when he ran here as if chased by the hounds of hell to see if what Tarquin had said was true.

Soran was okay. But he hadn’t been.

Icarus hasn’t looked at him for hours despite the temptation. He even almost fell asleep, head pillowed on his knees, but it hadn’t come like he had hoped. There was no relief for him in sight.

Outside of this morning he’d hardly spoken, either. Emmi had brought him dinner, most of which went untouched, and she had poked her head in just after nine, too. They were all asleep now, leaving them properly alone for the first time since.

Icarus didn’t like that thought whatsoever. It didn’t comfort him. Any moment he could snap and lose it on the one person he shouldn’t have.

That’s not to say he shouldn’t lose it on any of them, but Icarus had to focus on one thing, or person, at a time here. Tarquin had to be wrong. Maybe his brain didn’t care who he hurt, anymore. In his heart he felt bad - the burn on Tarquin’s arm, the mutilated catastrophe that had been Soran’s throat. He felt bad, but whatever was inside him didn’t care. It had made him do it anyway.

Besides, bad was not a harsh enough word. Icarus would gladly inflict that pain on himself before he ever did it to anyone else.

There’s a faint shift above him, and Icarus holds his breath, leaning into the bed. Soran hasn’t woken up since the incident this morning; he didn’t expect him to, either. Still, he’s been waiting anxiously for perhaps the one moment he was dreading more than the next opportunity to hurt him.

And that was talking.

Icarus was a good talker. Great, really, if you gave him the time of day.

He already knew there was no feasible way he could talk about this. If Soran woke up, that’s what would happen.

He wanted him to wake up so desperately, to see his eyes, to really process that he’s alive, but on the other hand…

God, what the fuck is he even thinking? That he doesn’t want him to wake up? His brain is so far down the gutter that he’d be surprised to find a single trace of it left in his skull. Whoever still has sense by the end of this trip needs to lock him in a psych ward.

Icarus listens for another shift, but there isn’t one. His arm stretches up and up until his fingers creep over the edge of the bed, leverage to pull himself up.

Soran has moved, barely. Little details that no one else would notice snap into focus as he takes him in. His head is tilted slightly in Icarus’ direction, now, following the movement of his left hand, which is now loose and uncurled compared to the fist it had been in previously. His legs are curled up a bit, too, rustling up the blanket Icarus had allowed himself to cover him with this morning.

He almost looks naturally asleep. Still slightly too stiff and out of place, but almost.

Every time he looks at him another piece of his heart gets chipped away.

The worst part by far is all the smooth, unmarred skin that has almost finished regrowing on his throat. It makes the edges all the more worse, where he fried his skin but didn’t quite melt all the way through. The warped, numerous lines of burns will be there forever, all because of him. If he focuses too long, he starts to see exactly where his fingers had been, imprinted below Soran’s jaw and curling around the back of his neck.

He doesn’t deserve anymore pain.

Icarus swallows down the worrying nausea once again. The spirits haven’t been speaking to him - they’ve chosen now for a reason.

He knows what they’re saying.

And he knows what he has to do.

He gets to his feet, slowly, easing himself down onto the edge of the bed, and then lies down next to him. Three inches apart, at least, moving so gingerly that the bed doesn’t even squeak.

He won’t touch him. Won’t risk waking up, either.

His fingers are itching for contact, but he won’t give them the satisfaction. They don’t deserve it. One wrong move or thought and they have to begin this all over again - that is, if Soran would even wake up this time to heal himself. Maybe this time he just slips away in his sleep and none of them are the wiser. It’s the type of easy death that Soran deserves after everything’s been through, but Icarus is too selfish to let him go like that.

He’s just choosing another way, instead. A clean break is the best they can hope for at this point.

“I know you can’t hear me,” he murmurs, watching his face for any sign of a reaction. “But I’m sorry.”

He’s on dangerously thin ice here. They've been verging on almost two days since. It was about a day and a half last time until he woke up properly, but that was a different use of energy. Icarus was actually dead that time. Soran isn't now, but he was so grievously injured that it might just be close to the same thing.

Either way, he’s due to wake up any time now.

Icarus needs to be gone before that happens, or else he might not go at all.

“I’m not going to let myself hurt you again,” he continues. “I can’t do that. Both of us might not survive.”

If Soran ended up dead because of him… no, he wouldn’t. There’s no way he makes it past that point. He’s seen rock bottom, but that would take him into territory beyond it.

Icarus knows deep down that he doesn’t want to go, but it’s his fear of himself, of this power, that’s sending him running. If the truth is suddenly something he realizes, then maybe one day… or maybe not. He doesn’t deserve the opportunity to come crawling back once he’s figured it out, not after what he’s done.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’m… I’m so sorry. When you wake up, I hope you know that. That’s all I need.”

Again with selfishness. Icarus doesn’t need anything.

“You trusted me, and I ruined that, but you’re going to be okay. I know you will.”

Soran’s trust is so fragile, too, and once he has it he sticks . This is his punishment for daring to trust something new - Icarus’ hands around his throat, the life almost taken out of him. Why would he ever trust something again after this?

Icarus allows himself one last thing in an attempt to purge the yearning from his body, the feeling that’s trying to make him do something more. He shifts forward, presses his face into Soran’s shoulder, and just breathes. His shoulder continues to rise and fall under Icarus’ cheek, a steady breathing rhythm that’s finally returned to normal.

He sits up, braces his hands above Soran’s shoulders and presses his lips to his forehead for one fleeting moment. It’s not long enough.

It was never going to be.

It’s not enough, his brain says. Not enough not enough not enough - you need to do more, fix this.

There’s only one way to fix this.

Icarus slips off the bed and back onto the floor. There was one more thing his hands had managed this past day. He had finished shoving the bag underneath the bed shortly before Emmi had checked on them. Something in the universe had been watching out for him there.

It’s the smallest one they brought, fits easily over his shoulders. There wasn’t nearly enough room in it for all of his belongings, but it will have to make do. Most of his clothes fit inside. The gun does, too. All he needs and all he has left tucked into this one little bag.

Icarus would stand here forever if it was something the universe wanted. He’s heard what they’ve asked of him now, loud and clear.

And it’s not that.

He adjusts the bag, grabs his phone, leaves the keys. They need them more than he does.

The most worrying part, besides the obvious, is that he’s never made it on his own. Twenty years, almost like clock-work, and then he was dead. Icarus never made it.

This time he had to. There was no choice.

It was just him now.

―

Somehow, he knew this time that he wasn’t dreaming.

He had heard and seen things before. Many things. This time there was nothing there but utter blackness save for the voice.

He knew the voice, but then it was gone.

There was shuffling, a quiet but sharp click. When he opened his eyes there was fog - so much of it that he struggled to see for a moment.

He was awake, though. Properly, for the first time in what felt like forever. Even earlier, whenever that had been… had he been awake? He thought so but remembering was troublesome.

The voice was indeed gone. Icarus was gone. Soran himself wasn’t so far gone that he hadn’t recognized his presence, close as it was. That click… that had been the door. When he looks around, his eyes fall on the empty desk. One of the bags had been there previously - he didn’t think anyone had moved it.

Until now.

He swings his legs onto the floor and everything spins around him; he pushes on, grabbing the wall until he’s on his feet despite how unsteady they are.

Take it easy.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he forces out, bringing a hand to his throat. Whatever had happened to it has healed almost entirely, leaving behind only a dull, throbbing ache. His voice is still hoarse and grating even to his own ears.

He struggles with the lock on the door three times over before realizing it’s not locked at all, stumbling into the hall. Another door shuts, not so distantly. The one leading outside. He can feel the breeze even from here.

It’s difficult following along when his brain still feels like soup. Normally he doesn’t move so urgently. He allows himself to wake up and process his situation before he comes anywhere close to moving.

Whatever situation is transpiring now, if there’s one at all, is different. Soran turns the corner in time to catch the outside door just before it closes. Something is definitely happening. With how long it took Soran to get up, for Icarus to only have made it this far…

He’s hesitating. Something is worth hesitating for.

Soran keeps a hold of the door while he steps into the stifling air. It’s pitch black outside, but somehow still hotter than hell itself.

Icarus is halfway across the lot but not getting anywhere fast, feet dragging through the dirt, head down. He has the backpack.

That only means one thing, really.

Soran fixates all of his time into gathering every single bit of air he can manage. “Where the hell are you going?”

It’s nowhere near the volume he could raise his voice to normally. Pitiful, really. Icarus whirls on him, though, nearly tripping on nothing but the air itself, eyes almost comically wide. In a few short seconds he’s crossed nearly three quarters of his traversed distance back to Soran before he stops himself, feet stuttering to a halt.

There’s less than ten feet between them but it feels like miles.

It only takes half a dozen times before Icarus opening and closing his mouth like a fish actually gets them anywhere. “You’re… you’re awake.”

Of all the things to say.

Soran squares his shoulders, forces his vaguely shaking legs straighter, and lets go of the door, taking a step forward. Icarus watches every movement like a hawk, but it’s easy to see where his eyes are lingering.

His throat.

“Sure am,” he responds. God, his voice sounds terrible. There’s no getting around it.

“You should sit,” Icarus insists. So he’s noticed the weaknesses, too. “You’re not―”

“Don’t.”

“Soran―”

“I said don’t.” He plants a hand on the pillar just in front of him, a comforting anchor. It means there’s only about five feet between them, now, and Icarus’ flinch does not go unnoticed.

Soran brings a hand up to his throat again, feeling for the unfamiliar lines of warped, too smooth skin. The vast majority of them are tucked just below his jaw but some extend further down, too, edging towards the back of his neck and even down to his shoulders. Icarus tracks each maneuver of his fingers attempting to follow their patterns, observing carefully.

“Are you in pain?” Icarus asks.

He shrugs, which proves to be an immediate mistake. Okay, that hurts. Good to know. Something in there still hasn’t put itself back together.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is going at a rapid-fire pace, almost desperate to get everything out.

“For what?” Soran asks.

“I… you don’t remember anything.” It’s not a question. That’s what’s been driving him insane. There is something Soran needs to know, puzzle pieces lost to the void, bits of information that would fill everything in.

They had been at the crater. He knows that much. He remembers walking downhill and stopping because someone had said his name. Icarus had said his name.

After that was trickier. It had been a blur - a literal blur, and then there was a weight on his chest driving him down into the dirt.

He remembers seeing a flare, white light like what people said the tunnel looked like when you died. Something he clearly had never had the fortune to see or else he would have recognized it. For a second the confusion had overwhelmed him above all else.

The pain had followed immediately after. Searing, blinding pain that had sent his vision spiralling, but not enough to see what was doing it to him before he had blacked out.

Not what, though - who. Icarus’ face is there in his memories, blurry and covered in spots.

And then gone.

Which means it was Icarus’ hands around his throat, trying to steal the life out of it.

He knows his face is doing something complicated, trying to work out a problem he has no chance of solving. Icarus’ feet shuffle nervously back and forth before he speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

“What did you do?” Soran asks quietly.

“I don’t know . It was like I blacked out, or lost control of myself. I was walking towards you and then the next thing I knew Tarquin was pulling me away, and you were nearly―”

“Dead,” he finishes. “You almost killed me.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Icarus says, voice quickly rising. “I have no idea what’s happening to me, or where it came from, but―”

“You’re leaving,” he interrupts, noting Icarus’ worried stare, the bag still visible over his shoulder. “Just because you nearly killed me doesn’t mean I’m blind, too.”

He knows how it sounds. Harsher than he intended, really. His voice being so grating is only adding to the effect.

“I have to.”

“Really?”

“I can’t live the rest of my life knowing that every waking moment I spend around you, something bad can happen. I could hurt you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I already did, Soran!” Icarus bursts out. “What the fuck do you mean, how do I know ? You barely remember, but I saw it first-hand! You nearly died right in front of me, and it would have been my fault. I would have had to live the rest of my life knowing I killed you and I still have to live knowing that I almost did.”

“So you’re leaving to…”

“To protect you. And everyone else.”

“But not yourself,” he clarifies. “You’re not going to find out what’s wrong on your own out there.”

“Then I don’t figure it out. But at least I don’t hurt anyone.”

“But not,” Soran says slowly. “ Yourself. Starting to get a bit hypocritical here, don’t you think?”

That’s not―”

“That’s exactly what this is. You tell me, in so few words, that I can’t live for an object, that I need to fix my shit and figure out how to care about myself, but you won’t do the same.”

“It’s not the same.”

“It’s exactly the same,” he says. His throat is starting to hurt worse again. This conversation won’t go on for much longer. Conversation, or argument, or an ending to something that had hardly begun in the first place.

He should have fucking known.

“Turns out you’re just as suicidal as I am,” Soran says. “You know you won’t make it on your own.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“What do you think you’re doing right now, then?” he fires back. This is pain he hasn’t felt in… shit, he can’t even remember. The physical pain was always something he could handle, and he could find a quick fix for the mental things.

This is different. It’s not just his throat that hurts anymore.

“You know what, fine,” Soran says. He pulls at his fingers, feels the ring come free. Icarus chokes out a helpless little noise, but in his unwilling state to come any closer or touch him, cannot do anything about it.

He plucks the ring free from his fingers and lobs it at him. His aim is still good - it bounces off his chest and rolls into the dirt. “If you’re not going to protect yourself, I’m not either. Take it. I don’t want it anymore.”

“I’m not taking it.”

“Then I drop it down the nearest drain instead. Your choice.”

Icarus’ eyes are shining, but he has yet to allow a single tear to fall. The door behind him opens once again with a grating shriek, and a hand lands on his arm.

“I could hear you guys inside, what the hell?” Emmi asks wildly, looking between them. If she seems surprised by his sudden appearance, she hides it very well.

Icarus leans down, scooping the ring down into his clenched palm. When he rises once again there’s something hard and steely in the lines of his face instead, a weak attempt at a mask. Not anywhere close to a believable one.

He doesn’t even look Soran in the eye. “Make sure he goes back to sleep.”

“What the fuck?” Emmi question. “Where are you going?”

He turns around. If only Soran was done yet.

“I never should have let you stay in the first place,” he says after him. Icarus turns a fraction of an inch back to them both, eyes squeezed shut.

If he lets anything fall, Soran does not see it.

“You’re right,” he agrees. “You shouldn’t have.”

That was his mistake. If Soran had gotten rid of him weeks ago, they wouldn’t be here now. They are, though, the three of them alone in the parking lot, though it really only feels like two, and Icarus’ rapidly retreating figure as he turns around and keeps walking.

“What the fuck ,” Emmi says again, harsher this time. “Icarus!”

He takes another few, shaky steps, and then the road takes him in. A few more and he’s out of sight, hidden by the abandoned wing of the hotel.

Just like that, it’s over. Everything is done. His finger is cold and barren, left only with a fast-fading imprint.  The voices are gone, as well as his ability to pull himself back from the brink.

And so is Icarus.

―

Emmi has yet to process what just happened.

A few minutes, turns out, gives her nothing. She even wanders all the way across the front lot and into the road, but his determination has already taken him a ways out.

Even if she chased him down with the car Emmi doubts she would get anywhere. He would ignore her outright, or veer off into the desert where she couldn’t follow. There’s no telling where he could go, where he’ll end up.

And Soran, as it turns out, is not going to give her an answer as to why either. 

As soon as she returns from her brief, futile adventure down the road he wrenches away from even the threat of her grip returning to his arm, nearly faceplants immediately into the concrete, and only just makes it inside before she succeeds in grabbing him. By the time she follows him, he’s locked himself in the bathroom and refuses to come out. He’ll either fall asleep in there, eventually, or he’ll cave and return to the bed.

Either way, he’s staying in here. That’s one very small victory, but at least it’s a good one. She takes the abandoned, crumpled map from the floor next to the bed, studying the red scribbles strewen across it.

Emmi returns to the other room, the lamp-light seeming more dim before. Tarquin has rolled over, planting his face into the pillow to avoid it, but at least Ria is still awake, properly dressed, if not tired. She keeps rubbing at her eyes like a child.

It takes a lot of reminding to remember that she actually is.

“Everything okay?” she asks. Emmi’s face must be giving it away.

She gives Tarquin’s shoulder a gentle shake. “You alive down there?”

He nods blearily, not lifting his head. It’s not something she wants to say, but the plan is already in motion. Ria agreed to it. He just has to do his part, too.

“We need to go,” she says. “Just me and Ria. Wherever this thing is, we need to find it.”

“And you want me to stay here?”

“Someone has to stay with Soran. I’m not letting him come with us and I don't feel comfortable leaving him alone here either.”

“What about―”

“Icarus is gone,” she continues, ignoring Tarquin’s startled look when he lifts his head from the pillow. “Gone gone. Didn’t look like he had any intention of coming back.”

Ria jams one of her fingers into her mouth and tears at her nail until it rips free, jaw working worriedly. Her silence on the matter is expected.

“So you need me to stay with him,” Tarquin clarifies.

“She needs to come with me,” she says, jerking her head towards Ria. “She’s the only one who might recognize what we’re looking for, and besides, you feel the same way I do. We can’t leave her here with him. No offense.”

“None taken,” Ria murmurs. Soran won’t use her as a target for his newfound wrath, she’s sure, but nothing good will come of it either. Tarquin has the added benefit of being the one that saved his life, which has to count for something. She’s hoping, anyway.

Tarquin folds his hands over his face. “I don’t want to stay here,” he says into them, muffled.

“I know.”

He drops them just as quick. “None of us should.”

“The second you think he’s good to go, call me. We’ll come back for you.”

“You’re not coming back on your own?”

“We can’t afford to,” Emmi says. “We can sleep in the car, or find somewhere to stay, but we have to find this thing. Preferably sooner rather than later.”

This is the part of the plan that truly unnerves her, made worse by Icarus leaving. Splitting off into little groups like this almost never works, and yet it’s the idea she’s clinging to now because she has no other option.

She never said any of them had to like it.

“Whatever you’re not telling me, I don’t appreciate it,” Tarquin says, looking between them. Whoever made up the insane notion that he couldn’t figure them all out is the stupidest person alive. He knew everything then and it hasn’t taken him long to figure out things now.

Knowing when you’re being lied to, even if it’s only a lie of omission, is a precious thing to have.

“I saw Muelara,” Ria reveals, before Emmi has even begun the contemplation, or the act of telling him at all. “I think someone’s here now looking for it too, whether it’s her or not.”

Her fear is lesser when it’s him hearing the words as opposed to Emmi. She never asked him not to react negatively; she just knew he wouldn’t.

Emmi’s not sure who that reflects more on.

“Listen, I know it’s not ideal…”

“If this thing means our life or death, then we have to choose life,” Tarquin says. “Maybe that is the new ideal.”

At this point he’s the only one doing anything to keep her sane. Everyone else is keeping things from her or wearing her down to the bone or just outright disappearing into the night. She had been annoyed initially at the prospect of Ria allowing someone else to tag along on this journey, but where would she be without him? In a mental institution, probably, or in jail with Trojan because she couldn’t handle it anymore and killed one of them in their sleep.

She doesn’t really want Tarquin to stay here either.

Emmi squeezes his shoulder. “If we find it, I’ll call you. Every night we stop I’ll let you know where we are. And if you need anything, or you think we can all pick up and leave finally…”

“What about Icarus?”

“What about him?”

“Should I go look for him?” Tarquin asks.

Emmi has been asking herself the same question and still doesn’t have a well-rounded answer. She knows all about what it’s like to run and not look back. Half of it is the fear that someone will come running after you, the past finally catching up.

Right now at least she's talking to someone that understands that.

"Someone who leaves that way doesn't typically want people looking for them," she says quietly. Tarquin nods knowingly. At least there's understanding there - she doesn't want to waste anymore time with useless explanations.

"You can handle it?" she asks.

"Sure," Tarquin says simply. "If he beats me up, that's on you."

She holds out her fist, lets him rap his knuckles against her own. At least someone here is still continuing in their quest to be reliable.

She's sure she'd have other nominees for that category, but… well, you know.

Things got complicated.

"You ready to go?" she asks. Ria offers her a resolute nod; hopefully the first of many. Even better, only one would be even more preferable, and it's the one Emmi hopes to see the second they find this damn thing.

Ria scoops a bag up over her arm. She squeezes Tarquin's arm again. "Thanks."

"It's weird. Usually I'm the one leaving everybody behind."

"You're not being left behind."

Tarquin smiles wryly. She knows how it seems.

At least he's finding the humor in it.

"Keep me updated," she says, getting to her feet.

"You too."

She follows Ria outside, almost everything to her name shoved under the crook of one arm. Her phone hasn't buzzed for hours. It's the middle of the night - their early start has lined up perfectly with the many hours that her messages could go unanswered.

Still, though, it doesn't stop her from wanting . Something, anything.

Emmi knows exactly what she could say to get a response.

Ria, with some hesitation, gets into the passenger seat. Emmi hasn't seen that since the first day they met, just shy of total strangers. Here she is now about to traverse off with her into the literal unknown. They don't have any other choice.

Emmi types out a few rapid-fire messages and sends them off before her cowardice outweighs her courage. It's always fleeting.

emmi: i'm coming home as soon as this is all over

emmi: shouldn't have left in the first place

emmi: i love you, hey?

Everything is not beyond repair despite what the world is telling her. Emmi can still fix this.

There's always time.

But for now, she can feel Ria staring out the window into the dark, watching her curiously. Still waiting, ready and willing.

Emmi gets into the car. It's just the first step.

And this is only the beginning.

―

Ria has yet to ask Emmi where they’re actually headed.

She’s trying to be more honest with herself these days, and she’s beginning to suspect that she doesn’t want to know. The map Emmi brought with them is stuffed into the cupholders, and every once in a while she references it.

To her it feels sort of… aimless. She thought she knew the definition of that word before today, but whatever she imagined it to be is nothing more than a lie.

Her wandering before, her such for something else in life - that at least had a purpose.

They have one here as well, but it matters little with no direction, no idea where to go.

All Ria can hope for now is that when they find it, she knows it. She doesn’t want to second guess whether such an important object could be charading as something else.

Scratch that, actually. She can have two hopes.

And the first one needs to be that they actually find it in the first place.

Once again Emmi unfolds a few squares of the map, eyes trailing one of the larger red circles. In the dark, from this angle, Ria can’t make out much of it.

She brings both legs up onto the seat, relishing all of the newfound room. “Where are we going, exactly?”

“Another ghost town. I think I’ve planned a pretty decent line-up. Not many turn-arounds, mostly straight shots. We can sleep in the car, like I said, or I’m sure we can find a hotel somewhere else.”

There is a line on the map that she hadn’t noticed before, zigzagging through many of the larger circles. Her intended path, clearly.

It’s good to know someone is thinking this through.

“Just keep your eyes peeled, hey?” Emmi requests.

“I don’t think we’ll see it from the road.”

“Not just it. We’re looking for others now, too. If they stick out half as much as you do we’ll spot them from a mile away.”

She knows exactly what Emmi is talking about but her mind still wanders to Icarus, too. They’ve left him far, far behind already. Their car compared to his feet… well, there’s no use looking for him out here.

As awful as it sounds, though, that’s a good thing. Ria only has to fixate on one object and one set of people. She can manage that.

What she can’t manage, though, is the same thing Tarquin was having difficulty with.

Ria doesn’t necessarily think she’s being lied to here, but something is going on that she has no idea about. This whole trip was spurred on by her in the first place, but Emmi’s sudden demand to come along is still something she’s stuck on. She dragged Tarquin in, fine, but no one opened that same door for Emmi.

It’s a far cry from that first day spent together. Ria feels safe with her now.

But it hasn’t stopped her from wondering.

For a while she keeps her eyes dutifully on their surroundings as Emmi drives, looking for any flicker in the distance. White, blue, something that stands out . It’s nothing but night-black until the sky on the horizon gradually begins to lighten, bringing forth the sun once again.

They’ve hardly talked. Emmi has chosen mostly to focus on the map and her phone, too, which she begins to check more and more as night turns to day.

Judging by her easy to spot frustration and the way she begins to toss it back into the other cupholder, she’s not getting what she wants out of it.

“Should I be looking for anything else?” Ria asks carefully, as if treading water. Not that she ever has. Could she even swim?

What a trivial thing to be thinking about right.

Emmi casts a few glances her way, face unperturbed. Her fingers tap a few times along the steering wheel as she looks forward once again. “Has anyone ever told you how perceptive you are?”

“No.”

“They should have.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Emmi huffs. “Definitely not. Well, for me it is.”

“How so?”

“Because you’re looking at me like you know something, which you don’t , but you know something else is going on. And that’s enough.”

Ria sinks back into her seat, feeling smaller once again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

Her fingers are still anxiously working away at the steering wheel, each individual tap driving further and further into her skull. Of course she knew something was wrong, and apparently she’s perceptive. Who would have thought?

“Those people in the park weren’t a fluke,” Emmi explains, the words coming out of nowhere. “They’re looking for me. They won’t stop until they find what they’re looking for. I don’t think they would have followed me out here this far, but you never know.”

Ria blinks. “The… the Collection Agency, right?” she clarifies.

“Yeah.”

“I thought they went after the bad things.”

Emmi’s hand finally stills. “They do.”

Something in her is broken beyond repair. After what Tarquin did in the park, after Emmi’s words now, something in her should have a desire to flee.

What is wrong with her?

“They used to only go after the bad things,” Emmi says. “Exclusively, you know? But somewhere along the way they got… corrupted. Now they go after whoever they want. It doesn't matter if you’re evil or not. If the Collection Agency thinks you are, that’s it. No innocent until proven guilty.”

“Just guilty,” she murmurs. It explains Emmi’s constantly darting eyes, how she never seems to properly settle.

She needs to be ready to run.

Ria looks at her- really looks. “Your arm…”

She smiles grimly. “See? Perceptive.”

She wanted so desperately to be wrong. Ria looks out into the stretch of desert to her right, but nothing is there. Everything feels more loaded now. If it’s not someone she knows, it’s someone coming after Emmi instead.

What a pair they make stuck in the car together, looking for someone they may never find, hunted by what they’ve tried to leave behind.

“Like I said,” Emmi says. “I don’t think they would have put this much effort into coming after me, not to this hell-hole, but you never know. I’d think they have bigger fish to fry but that lot is impossible to understand.”

Ria nods, suddenly all too-aware of the importance behind her open eyes. They won’t be able to sleep at the same time. She’ll need to sleep while Emmi’s driving so that Emmi can sleep when they stop…

They can do this, though. Can’t they?

She certainly hopes so.

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” she vows. She glances out the window - for good, now. That’s where her eyes will remain.

She knows Emmi is watching her, the wide-open road forgotten. Even that quest is quickly given up, whatever it entails. There’s a scrape as she picks up her phone again, but Ria knows what’s happened before there’s any clear indication one way or the other.

Nothing. That’s what.

A moment later Emmi tosses her phone back down. Nothing, even as the sun climbs into its rightful position in the sky.

Nothing at all.

―

Tarquin has promised himself one thing, exclusively.

He is never allowing someone to stick him in such an awful place again.

He’s seen his fair share of bad shit, alright? He should be able to deal with this. Something about it all has turned him inside out, though, given forth the raw bits that aren’t equipped to deal with anything. They’re few and far between, but now dangerously exposed.

Tarquin took longer than he would have liked to the other room once the girls left. Not that it had any effect. Soran had been awake, he’s sure, but adamantly facing the window and unwilling to talk to him.

He should have tried. Said anything. His brain scrambled for anything good and found nothing.

Soon after that, Tarquin was asleep.

His current schedule between waking and slumber was a recipe for disaster. There was no set time. He no longer listened to the internal human clock corresponding with sunrise and sunset - whenever he was tired, he closed his eyes. That’s the way it worked best.

It also puts him so insanely out of sync with things that when he wakes up the few minutes after are a complete haze of disorientation. Being so off-course is one of many dangerous things especially in a largely unfamiliar environment with no true safety to be found.

Tarquin has yet to shake whatever had happened just down the hall. There are no words for it, and there never will be.

Something in him is tempted to head back down there, but it’s a silly thought. The only way to make himself useful now is to lay low, keep his head down.

Both things he’s already extremely practiced at.

All he has to do is choose the right path. It’s not that difficult. The sun is up, judging by the light at the window. Soran is asleep now by the looks of it, formerly wheezing breath now at an even tempo. He’s not half out of his mind anymore. Tarquin can leave him alone for a while without feeling too bad about it.

Probably.

Anyone’s hunger would tempt them out eventually, though. Tarquin just caves easier.

The standard man at the cafe looks surprised to see him alone and even spends a few minutes lingering about, presumably waiting for the others to show. Tarquin eats his lunch - early dinner, whatever it even is, in solitary. Forget the others. Besides the employee, there’s not another soul in here.

He takes a load of food back to the room too, along with a few drinks. The looks are almost too much. Holding himself up in a room isn’t going to help any either, but at least now he has the choice.

Tarquin is still somewhat surprised to see Soran awake when he returns. Upright, if not still in bed. He’s just relieved to see that his eyes look clear.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, tossing some of the food onto the bed. That was the other reason behind it. After days of not eating, Soran has to be practically ravenous.

He gives each and every single item a long look over before he picks up a bottle of water. Maybe not that hungry, then. “Fine.”

“That’s it?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Well, someone is certainly in a mood. He expected no less.

Tarquin throws himself back down into the lone chair of the room, and, on second thought, scoops up one of the individually packaged cookies back off the bed. He doesn’t get both of them.

He busies himself with the plastic. “You should know - Emmi and Ria left.”

“What do you mean?” Oh, he actually looks surprised. Not an emotion Tarquin likes on him very much if he’s being honest. It doesn’t look right.

“They wanted to keep looking for the thing.”

“Couldn’t wait a few hours?” he mutters, something harsh to his words.

“You know as well as I do that you shouldn’t be gallivanting off right now.”

“I already told you not to push it.”

Oh, he’s in a mood then. Not just a regular one, the type he’s always in. This is worse.

And of course Tarquin has been conveniently left alone with it. Emmi trusted him to handle it, and he can , but can’t it be easier than this?

This information has clearly caught him off-guard, unseated his already fragile state of mind. Tarquin was never one to want to make it worse, and now is no different, but it’s all he’s able to do.

“Icarus is gone too,” he says quickly, fighting the urge to keep it to himself.

It’s something he deserves to know.

“I know.”

“I― wait, what?” Tarquin asks.

“I know,” Soran repeats. “I’m the one that let him go.”

Speaking of information, couldn’t that have been some Emmi told him before he made the mistake of opening his mouth? Certainly it would have saved them, or at least the two left, the painfully awkward trouble of talking about it now.

Except they’re not going to. Tarquin brought it up, but he’s been shut down just as quickly. If he even asks…

No, he’s not going to. He’s not that stupid.

The cookie he chose is abandoned in his lap. He only checks his phone to use it as an excuse, but he’s received nothing. He didn’t expect to so soon. They haven’t been gone that long.

Soran is busying tearing at the wrapper ends of a granola bar into repeated strips. It doesn't look like he’s actually trying to open it.

Just keep busy, is all.

That is all that has been left to them now. They have to keep busy until someone comes back for them, until he gets an update or is desperate enough to send one off first.

Tarquin doesn’t want to be that person, but he can already see it happening. As if it’s been foretold.

It’s just the two of them and the disaster they’ve all managed to create and the utter abandonment left to them in the wake of it.

It’s not much, but at least it’s something.