The Harbinger
Thursday, July 6th.
Nineteen days after.
Once again, Soran finds himself with an insurmountable level of problems.
Insurmountable typically means you have so many that they’re impossible to overcome. He’s not using the word right. He knows this. Every single time he’s found himself in this position before he’s managed to drag himself out.
This time is decidedly different and no one is around to argue the point with him. Tarquin doesn’t appear to be in the mood to argue much of anything. He’s just observing, watching Soran from the very edge.
Another person in a long line of them that doesn’t want to get too close.
Worse, still, is that Tarquin won’t leave him alone either. That was their initial problem apparently. Someone left Soran alone while he was too out of it to properly process things, and he wandered off. No one else was in the room with him so Icarus left, so no one could stop him from intervening.
He’s suffocating. Trapped behind too many walls and unable to find an exit point.
It feels like once again there are hands around his throat, threatening to choke the life out of him.
The world wouldn’t let Soran go so easily.
It takes him a long while to realize that his phone is missing. Well, not missing exactly. He’s ninety-nine percent positive that Tarquin has confiscated it so that he can’t tell Emmi to come back for them right the hell now.
He’s more than good enough to go, but Tarquin doesn’t see it that way. It doesn’t matter if he still needs rest. His legs will hold, his eyes will stay open. His throat is intact.
He can go.
Truth be told, Icarus is the lucky one. Soran envies the fact that he let him go. He’s alone out there, yes, but he’s more free than the rest of them could ever hope to be.
Likely dying of heat stroke in the desert, too, but that’s the furthest thing from Soran’s problem right now. He may have let him go, but it was his choice to walk out there into nothing with his own two feet.
He’s not going to feel bad about it.
He absolutely isn’t going to.
Soran has not been fortunate enough to learn any lessons on grieving, though it feels like he should be now. A few of them would have done him some good. Besides, what is there to grieve now? Something that barely was, that evidently would have formed into nothing more? He’s gone. He was always going to be. That’s Icarus’ whole shtick. Dying, walking away… it all adds up to the same shit. Same path, different day.
Admittedly, they just found the end of it quicker than Soran thought they would, and something in him vehemently disagrees with it.
It’s not like he can go after him now, with nothing more than a direction in which to look. Knowing north-west didn’t really mean anything.
You could go after him, his brain supplies. You know you’d find him.
It’s his brain talking, now, turning against him because there’s nothing else in there to do so. He’s never hated his inner-voice more.
So yes, he could go after him. Theoretically speaking. But doing it is admitting defeat, and he won’t concede to lasting twelve hours before he acknowledges just how wrong he was. About letting him go, about what he said. About fucking all of it, really.
That’s a pill he doesn’t know how to swallow, frankly, so he’s not even going to attempt to do so.
Not yet. Not yet not yet not yet.
His inner voice and it’s sudden reappearance in his life is getting evicted sooner rather than later.
It’s still audible in the shower, too, though he tries to drown it out. He lets the water rain down directly over his head until his eyes are so blurry that he can hardly see the few flecks of blood scattered over his shoulders. It doesn't seem like nearly enough to properly showcase the damage.
The nearly non-existent damage that is. He wipes a hole in the fogged-up mirror and with the added benefit of hardly being able to see he struggles to make out any of the residual burns lining his throat.
Of them all that seems to be the thing giving him the most trouble. He doesn't really care. Never has, never will. But Emmi tried to hold onto him like he was made of glass and Icarus looked at him the same way and still Tarquin looks at him like that when he steps out into the bathroom and forges a clear path around him out into the hall.
He's not even halfway to the lobby when he hears the distinct sounds of him following.
They will never let this go.
There's no use in trying to outpace Tarquin literally anywhere. Not like there's anywhere to go. He only has one place in mind anyway.
The little old man jumps a mile when Soran drops both forearms over the front desk, leaning over it just a little too far to get a good look. "You don't happen to have a map on you, hey?"
He looks a bit perplexed. "You had one, if I remember correctly?"
Yes. He had one. That's the correct tense there. He had one until Emmi took it while he was out cold and unable to tell her otherwise.
There's a chance he's more angry about her taking it instead of him, but that is yet another thing he's unwilling to confront for the time being.
If he known he was going to be left here, he would have stayed in fucking San Francisco. Better that hellfire raining down over him than this here.
"Well, I need another one," Soran says. "Can you help me out?"
He's almost positive he can see a stack of brochures in the back office without so much as straining his neck. For the best, because his neck can't take much more abuse.
"Sorry, no," he answers. "They might have a spare few in the gift shop."
He absolutely does not feel anger at that.
Absolutely not.
It's anger at this whole fucked up mess of a situation.
Up until this point he could feel Tarquin lurking behind him nonchalantly, waiting for the end of the conversation or something worth his time.
Or, he's rapidly realizing, for it to head south.
Which is exactly what it's doing.
"You sure about that?" Soran asks. He hears Tarquin sigh from halfway across the lobby.
"Sure am."
At this point, Soran isn't sure what wouldn't annoy him. Dying, maybe. Dying has never really annoyed him all that much.
The old man is still watching him too, several paces back from the desk. No doubt he's wondering what has changed since the last time they talked. Maybe if he put his damn glasses on he'd see the differences as clearly as everyone else can.
Tarquin grabbing his arm is sudden. He didn't expect interference so soon. He gives him a sharp yank to the right, taking him out of view.
"If you're in the mood to fight, it better not be at the expense of an eighty year old man," he hisses, releasing him. It's better than being treated like fine china.
"Who, then?"
"Anyone else. Me, even."
"Careful. The temptation to take you up on that offer is getting stronger by the second."
Tarquin levels him with an unnaturally calm stare. "You might lose, you know."
He snorts. "Yeah, or you might."
"Are we gonna find out?"
Maybe. Not right here, right now. But maybe.
He hasn't even figured it out himself yet. That might be due to the fact that his head may not have gotten screwed back on straight after it nearly got detached from his body via incineration.
Yeah, it could be that.
"I think you'll know," Soran offers.
Oh, he'll know alright. He might even know it before Soran does.
At least someone will.
―
Icarus has no clue where he is.
Truth be told, he's not even entirely sure which way is up right about now.
It’s a sensation he’s vaguely familiar with in the very least. Tumbling from the sky over and over to your watery grave will do that.
For a while, he was grateful not to be near water. He’s come to discover what irrational thinking that was.
There’s lots of flat grounds. Even more rolling, rocky hills and craggy mountains surrounding the aforementioned land at his feet. A road, twisting through the desert so that each bend is a surprise when he stumbles upon it.
He has no idea how many hours it’s been since he left. Keeping track of it seemed like such a trivial thing at first.
All he knows for certain is that whatever number it adds up to be is a bad one; he’s already exhausted to the bone, having sweated out what feels like every drop of water in his body. His legs feel like lead and his temples continue to throb away as the heat increases. It doesn’t feel like it can get any hotter - they have to be at the peak of it for the day.
And then the sun will go down, and he’ll be alone, lost in the dark.
Not lost, really. He recognizes the road he’s going down. It’s the one they took that first day all the way out to the ghost town before everything really went to shit.
It felt comforting to have something he recognized before that too grew old. That solace has quickly been lost.
He drank through the bit of water he had before the sun even rose. He had no forethought to bring any food as if he was going to randomly stumble upon some.
And, as he quickly discovers when he finally catches sight of that lone little gas station and adjacent, out of place psychic’s shack, he didn’t bring any money either.
Icarus has grown used to the easy thievery of lifting Soran’s wallet, if not something in it, whenever he needed something.
He hadn’t done it this time. In fact, he’s not even sure he knows where Soran’s wallet was when he left. Maybe they lost it in the desert when he….
No. He’s not going to dwell on it. He’ll go insane if he isn’t already.
If there was anyone at the gas station he might just be willing to take his chances on getting something outscathed, but there’s not a soul to be found. In fact, the only car at all is one parked in front of the psychics. As he watches, a half mile down the road, three people exit the building and pile into the car. Thankfully, when it turns out of the non-existent lot, it drives the opposite way.
His options were limited, but Icarus didn’t think he was that desperate quite yet.
Apparently he was wrong.
That next half mile is one of the most difficult in his life. If he could remember all of them, that is. He thought drowning was the worst thing of all, all the pain and his inability to stop it as the water flowed into his lungs.
Once again his limited perspective on things has turned him right back to burning. From the inside, from the outside.
The outside is more concerning right now.
There are two stairs leading up to the door, one of which nearly buckles under his weight, and the whole of the deck sags as well. There’s no blast of cool air when he opens the door - he didn’t expect air conditioning out here, but he was trying to be hopeful. Still, though, the shade is enough to relish just on its own.
The shack, because that’s what it turns out to be even on the outside, is just as he expected. Dark, creaky floors, tapestries and ancient looking curtains hung up to divide the room into smaller sections. There are, oddly enough, windchimes scattered all across the ceiling, several of which chime away as the door closes behind him. It looks like the deserted version of every off-kiltered, bohemian woman living in the middle of nowhere who thinks she knows what she’s talking about.
Footsteps creep up to him through the curtains and he imagines the worst possible thing he can in anticipation.
It really is just an old woman, though. Everyone out here is either old or half out of their mind, or both. She’s as dark as the room around her, making the vibrant purple shawl around her shoulders even brighter.
In one hand she carries a glass of water, untouched, which she sets down on what looks like the only reliable piece of furniture in the room, a table that stands between them. In the other she reaches out with a torch lighter to light the candle beside it. Re-light, anyway. The wax is still liquified, like she blew it out the moment everyone in the previous car left.
She looks at him. Down at the water.
He takes back every single thing he thought about doubting weird old supposed psychics who live in the desert.
He goes for it without allowing himself to think, allowing the cool water to soothe his throat. It might be the best thing he’s ever tasted. Stale, slightly odd tasting tap water. How low he’s sunken now.
“Having a rough day are we?” she asks. Her voice doesn’t sound concerned necessarily, but it’s nice for someone to ask.
Basic human contact is what had been keeping him alive up until this point and not having it was… something.
Icarus practically slams the now-empty cup back down on the table, wishing for the sudden appearance of approximately twenty more. Apparently she’s not feeling that generous. There isn’t even anywhere to sit unless he feels like collapsing to the floor. His legs are so weak already that he might just.
“Sort of,” he admits finally. It’s only fitting that his throat is giving him trouble now. Karma is finally at work. “What gave it away?”
“Long answer or short answer?”
Well, he wasn’t aware both existed. It seems simple enough to explain. He knows for a fact that he’s already sunburnt and dripping sweat, soaking his clothes through. He probably looks like he just crawled out of a portal straight to hell and has no idea how he ended up here.
Which is true, anyhow. He has no idea.
He’s admittedly sort of curious now. “Long.”
“Well, you’ve been walking for quite a while by the looks of it. I didn’t hear a car, so that’s confirmation enough. Anyone walking around Death Valley without ample food or water is―”
“How do you know I don’t have any of that?”
“Sweetheart, you’ve been eyeing that empty glass more than anything else in this room, and believe me when I say that’s not the thing that usually catches people’s eye.”
He can see that. There’s so much else around him that water is the last thing he should be fixated on. He’s practically dying for it, though.
One just wasn’t enough.
“So no food or water, no vehicle, a backpack that certainly looks full enough. You’re either carrying something illegal, in which case you should leave now, or everything to your name. And that means one of two things - you have a death-wish, like most people out here, or you’re running from something.”
“Like what?”
“Think you know the answer to that better than me, sweetheart.”
“Aren’t you a psychic?” he asks. It feels like something she should already have figured out if she’s so all-knowing.
She holds out a wrinkled hand. The thought of giving his own back to her doesn’t sit right in his gut.
“We’re not doing this,” he informs her.
“You’re the one that’s here,” she reminds him. “Running, I do suppose. Looking for freedom from… anxiety, or worry, or fear. It may just be fear.”
Of course it’s fear. Fear of many things, of course, unable to be nailed down to just one. At this rate she probably knows more of them than he does.
Icarus just knows she’s right. He’s running.
“It’s understandable,” she continues. “Lots of people feel freedom out here. The lack of people, the wide open space, the empty sky in every direction. Is that what it is for you? You look at the sky and you feel… free?”
He’s nodding before he can really stop himself. It’s stupid. There’s no reason for that feeling to still resonate with him so deeply. All he should remember is the falling, and yet…
Something in him still longs for it, even if it’s impossible.
“The sky is good,” she says. “Good, but the water… what do you feel when you look at the water, then?”
Her tone is almost gentle, sickly sweet. Immediately, he gets the feeling she’s no longer talking about that damn empty cup.
He couldn’t be lucky enough for that.
“You must look at it and hurt,” she says. “Afraid for a reason you can’t explain, somewhere deep, deep inside―”
“Is this a joke?” he asks suddenly. “This is a joke, right?”
She cocks her head to the side, oddly predatory. It’s a good thing he’s so close to the door. “You tell me.”
He just needed a break. A few minutes, even. He’s instead replaced the nausea of being stuck out in the searing sun with no help with a different type. She already has it all figured out, everything that makes him tick and exactly what he’s made of on the inside.
He doesn’t even know her name and yet she’s figured him out like she was born for it.
They’re all born for something, he guesses.
“Thanks for the water,” he says, swallowing. His throat still hurts. “I’ll be going, now.”
Just stay nice and calm, back-up until he bumps into the door. She thankfully doesn’t move. He’s acting irrationally, he knows - she’s not going to hurt him, or lock him inside.
She knows things. That’s all.
Icarus pushes the door open, immediately buffered with hot air that makes him want to crawl back inside. There’s no way.
“You don’t happen to have a gun, do you?” she asks. He freezes.
There’s no way. There’s no fucking way.
It’s nestled so far down into a nest of his clothing that even he had trouble checking for it. There’s no out of place shape, no giveaway.
And yet…
“Why?” he asks quickly. He needs to get out of here.
She steps up to the door. He backs up, down those two rickety stairs and onto solid ground. More dust kicks up around his feet.
“Keep it close,” she tells him, punctuated with a too-large smile, all teeth. “You’re going to need it.”
Despite the exhaustion, Icarus doesn’t think he’s ever taken off so fast in his life.
―
It’s possible that Emmi’s chosen literally the worst place to check out during the worst heat of the day.
She knew what she was getting into when she collected the list of ghost towns into one neat little list, especially this one. The road only goes so far in before the only option is to stop or get your car stuck where no one would ever be able to get you out.
The hike isn’t even that bad. Or maybe it is and Ria’s just keeping her mouth shut. She’s been quite the trooper about Emmi dragging her around and just keeps putting one foot in front of the other, dutifully following Emmi up the virtually non-existent trail into yet another abandoned town.
Part of it turns into nothing more than a babbling stream. They even come across several waterfalls built back into the hillside, water tumbling across the rocks and nearly over their feet. There are enough signs of life that they’re not the only ones to walk this path, but the heat of the day has chased off all but the bravest.
And apparently they’re it.
The valley thankfully comes into view not much longer, a ramshackle town nestled into the largest amount of greenery she's seen in the entire boundaries of the park. There are actually trees all along the mountainsides, a true showcase of what it could have looked like back in the day. Unlike the last there are actually buildings scattered about - mostly intact ones, even. A towering red-brown brick smokestack still towers above it all. Not nearly as tall as any of the surrounding mountains, but a landmark nonetheless.
Emmi watches for any sign of movement, the flicker of an odd backpacker or two investing so far up into the mountains. Ria appears to be doing the same, blinking back frantically against the sun spilling into her eyes.
"You good to split?" she asks. Less people, even more ground to cover.
She knew what she was getting into.
Ria nods, a hand shielding her eyes. "Should we meet back up in…"
"Let's say an hour?" she suggests. "Right here. Take your time looking through things. If you need more we can re-evaluate."
Another nod. She's staring now. At Emmi's phone jutting out of her back pocket and the watch around her wrist. She undoes the strap with some fierce tugging, shoving it into Ria's waiting hands.
"One hour," she reminds her, and descends into the valley proper.
Ria peels off quickly enough, a sudden burst of energy driving her further down the path than Emmi even thinks she’s capable of. She lets her go until she loses sight of her, veering off to the towering smokestack and half-demolished walls that lay around its foundation.
The buildings look out of place on their own, but the tower is something else. There are a few holes and missing bricks but besides that it looks as if it could stand for centuries and weather the test of time.
There’s something to be said about places like this. They’re eerie, no doubt about it, but it shows that not everything is meant to fall. Some keep standing even when they’re not meant to.
The low-roofed building just beyond the smokestack is a great example. Despite the missing door all four walls refuse to so much as sag. The gravel moves more than the walls do around back when she places a hand on them, testing their give.
It’s always something she’s been curious about, this give and take. The world doesn’t so readily admit it.
There’s a shift in the dirt just behind her, same as the gravel she’s been displacing for some time now. All she can think is so much for splitting up, and then a hand tangles in her hair and yanks her back.
Decidedly not Ria.
She hits the ground, hard. All of the breath gathered in her lungs is suddenly gone. She didn't even get a good look at their face - just something normal, nondescript. Nothing that would do her any good.
Emmi had learned a long time ago that screaming never got you anywhere good or fast. It only brought unnecessary attention, often synonymous with bad. No help ever came running. It was just a sign of weakness and that only made them all the more smug.
Implying it was who she thought it was. Could it even be anything else?
The man in question ended her struggle in the dirt as if she were nothing more than a worm, clamping his hand over her mouth as he flipped her face-down into the dirt. Grit pressed into her cheeks and into her clenched fist a moment before he entrapped that too.
Seconds. That was all it took. It wasn’t even enough time for her to properly panic.
She could feel him lean down through the knee he had pressed to the center of her back. "If you even think about screaming, your friend is coming with us."
Fuck. She had no idea where Ria was. Hopefully somewhere far, far away. Nothing she could do would fix this.
What had Emmi said twelve odd hours ago? That she didn’t think they’d come after her all this way?
So much for not jinxing things.
A second set of footsteps approach, louder this time. This one isn’t going for a stealthy approach. What use is there when she’s already trapped on the ground?
“You sure we can’t just kill her?”
Despite herself, she flinches. Not like this. Preferably not ever, but definitely not this way. She didn’t even see them coming. They must have followed the two of them all the way up here, carefully biding their time until she was alone and out of sight.
“You know what they said. Facial recognition. They want to make sure it’s her.”
“Never had a problem killing random civilians before. We don’t even have orders yet.”
“Then we wait for them,” that was a third, unfamiliar voice. At least three. That’s not good. “For now, we keep it on lockdown.”
“You finished cutting the gas line?”
“Sure did.”
So they weren’t killing her yet. They were waiting for someone with the authority to say so, or they were going to take her somewhere where someone could confirm it.
But fuck, the gas line? They weren’t talking about their own method of transportation there. The third one had trailed behind and drained their car so that when they took Emmi no one would follow.
That meant they were scared someone would. Numbers were bad. Numbers had gotten some of their own killed back in San Francisco.
Their stunt in the city had unfortunately not gone unnoticed.
The weight on top of her presses in further. “You gonna be quiet?”
He doesn’t trust himself to hold onto her with one arm while the other keeps her mouth shut. As if someone with two working arms and the ability to creep up like that is scared of her. The world is so fucking backwards nowadays.
It doesn’t matter what she’s done in the past. Today, it’s well and truly fucked.
Very slowly, he releases his hand from her mouth. So Emmi bites him.
It’s about all she can do. Already she knows it won’t be effective. She bites down until blood fills her mouth, until he’s swearing up a storm and releases her. One of the others lashes out with a boot and connects with her ribs so hard that he sends her sprawling further into the dirt. Everything above her spins for one long, slow motion moment. The sun, the sky, the greenery of the trees.
The boot, on its next swing, comes back for her head.
Oh, well. It was fun while it lasted.
―
This place doesn’t seem as daunting as the others.
Ria knows that makes little to no sense, but there’s no one around to argue her point.
It’s come to her attention that she hasn’t been alone outside of sleeping hours in days. Before they got down here almost all of her time was spent exclusively alone. There was nothing wrong with it. She just liked it better that way.
People down here went to more trouble to stick by her side. Some had up there, but they were few and far between, and none were quite like this.
She’s sticking with her now-correct assumption that anything human adjacent and their emotions are just very, very weird.
She can see why they would be drawn to a place like this. Hidden, mysterious, a tie to the almost forgotten past. They tended to chase after things they didn’t have in abundance already.
That’s what made them not so different. She had wanted more and they usually wanted… less. This was a reprieve from the real world.
Out here, the real world didn’t really exist.
Some of the buildings are so well-maintained that she can tell people still stay in them, hikers who come up here with no real desire to leave. There’s evidence of contained fires, blackened pits in the earth where new sprouts are just beginning to poke out of the ashes left behind.
Still, it’s peaceful. You could spend forever up here if you were prepared, if you knew where to go so that no one would ever find you.
Unfortunately her urge to be alone does not yet outweigh the situation at hand. Maybe one day Ria will find exactly what she’s looking for, whatever that may be. Just something little to call her own.
For now there’s something to actually be done and she’s one of the few capable of doing it.
Maybe even the only one.
Since their first escapade out into the desert Ria has had difficulty rediscovering the feeling that had clued her in. She had been so certainwhat they were looking for wasn't there. Wherever it was, something had to give. Right here, right now, Ria didn't feel much of anything. Well, she was hot and her legs hurt, but that didn't actually count.
She just needed that feeling back. Even if it told her where it wasn't that was still something. They wouldn't have to spend hours looking around with no real direction.
Frankly she's relieved Emmi only said an hour. If they started climbing into the hills they could be here well after sundown. This place in the day was one thing - she had exactly zero desire to discover what it held at night. She could see it easily - the houses would be darker, the shadows in the window would play tricks on your eyes. Every rustle of the trees or slip of the gravel underfoot would trick your brain into thinking something was there just out of sight.
Again, one thing if Emmi stayed resolutely by her side through the entire night, and another if she was stuck out here alone. That was a fate she wasn't sure anyone deserved.
Finally she finds a building that requires actual investigation and not just a broken door or loose windows. She lets the door swing in all the way before she dares move, unsure of what she's even expecting. It's just one large, almost entirely empty room. A smaller one is in the far right corner, the remnants of a bathroom. All of the former debris in the little shack has been moved there - large chunks of glass and a few pieces of garbage left behind.
It's not here. She knows that even without a feeling. People are in here on the regular, congregating like they would back in the city. They come and they stay. No bad feelings involved.
Anything here was discovered long ago.
It would be so easy to stay up here and disappear for good. If she was anyone other than herself, that is. Muelara or someone is here, she's convinced… but what if they weren't?
She hasn't allowed herself to go there. The thought of simplicity alone makes her heart ache. If she was the only one she could disappear. No one would look for her or make her worry about her mere existence.
Icarus is not lucky in any sense of the world, but at least he left knowing that no one was coming after him.
Ria envies that.
The house would be a good idea, but her hour is almost up, and she still has to walk back. She allows herself a quick look in the ancient truck outside, sinking into the grass with time. Rust flakes off over her hands when she even brushes against it.
Still nothing. It was a good idea, same as the rest of them, but apparently just as doomed.
It's a good thing she never made any bold claims on the state of her own optimism.
Ria makes it back to the trail's end with four minutes to spare and sits down on the most sturdy felled tree trunk she can find, and even that one rocks under her weight. There's some relief from the sun due to the trees, a welcome distraction from the cynical ideas that they may never find the stupid thing.
More of a distraction than she anticipated, really. She doesn't realize it's been fifteen minutes since she sat down until she pulls Emmi's watch out of her pocket once again.
It's 6:11. She should have been back by now if they were both listening properly.
Her first thought, something hysterical spurred on by her desire for optimism, is that Emmi's found something. She's found it and she's figuring out what to do.
Ria stands up, shielding her eyes from the sun. She didn't see her on the way back and doesn't now, but there's a number of places she could have gone.
There are mines out here. There are mines everywhere. Maybe Emmi finally grew the courage none of them ever found and finally went looking.
Ria knows where her second thought is heading when ten more minutes go by and Emmi doesn't show. She's unable to take more than a few steps away from her chosen spot, legs already a bit numb.
It's a stupid thought. Nothing's wrong. If something was she would have heard something or noticed… something.
She just has to wait.
She can do that. Wait. Patience is something she's practiced at.
Just wait and wait and wait, until the sun finally loses its balance and begins to descend to the steadiness of the horizon.
Just wait.
And Emmi does not come back.
―
It's like trying to keep track of a toddler.
Rich, honestly, because Soran is leagues older than him and should be, you know, infinitely wiser.
Or something like that.
Tarquin thinks there’s only so long he can trail him before Soran grows tired and gives up his mindless quest, but there’s no limit to it. He just walks. Walks and walks and walks.
He’s still tired, but also going stir-crazy.
Or maybe just real crazy.
The air in here is starting to get to him too, the same way Tarquin has felt it for days now. It shouldn’t come as a surprise when they head back down the hall as a pair and Soran keeps going, past both sets of doors, and heads right for the one at the end.
“You have a death wish,” he informs him as he wrenches open that prohibited door once again, paying no mind to any of his surroundings as he steps inside. He goes further this time, taking rapid steps towards the darkened abyss at the opposite end of the hall.
Tarquin follows because he doesn’t have much of a choice otherwise.
“Is there a point to any of this?” he asks after him. Soran slides to a halt and glass goes spinning away from his feet in every direction. He’s still further in than Tarquin would like to be.
On approach, though, it’s easy to see why. He’s losing it too, being stuck like this. At this point it’s past agitation and verging into something more dangerous.
“You’re not gonna figure out what’s in here,” Tarquin continues. “It’s not worth it, either. Whatever it is, it’s bigger than the both of us.”
“So what?” God, he even sounds overwrought.
“So it’ll kill one of us, or both.” Not that Soran cares about that.
Tarquin tries to be patient, but he waits for a minute, two, and then three. Soran neither speaks nor moves. He’d be statuesque if it weren’t for the hardly perceptible trembling frustration in his shoulders.
All the while the hallway continues to grow both longer and darker, as if even if they tried to see what was lurking inside they would never quite make it. They would just walk forever until the darkness swallowed them up.
Not a fate Tarquin is comfortable with, if he’s being honest. He’s sure fate won’t be kind to him when he meets his end, but anything is better than that.
He thinks, anyway.
“It’s not worth it,” he repeats. Nothing is worth this, especially their lives.
He’ll drag him out of here if he has to.
He goes for it at long last, an attempt at grabbing his arm that fails the second it begins. Soran takes a practiced step away as if anticipating it all along and breathes out a lengthy sigh, hands clenched.
“You know what, I’m gonna take you up on that offer now,” he says.
It happens so fast, thankfully, that Tarquin doesn’t even have time to brace himself.
It would have been much worse if he had.
Soran’s fist catches him square in the jaw and nearly sends him sprawling; his feet slip a few inches and catch in broken glass before he manages to right himself. Blood drips from his now split lip down his chin, wobbling onto the floor.
He takes a deep breath, keeps his eyes down until the initial pain subsides. “Are you fucking serious?” he asks, his jaw protesting the movement.
Soran shakes out his hand. “You offered.”
“I wasn’t serious.”
“Sounded pretty serious to me.”
He looks up, halfway to incredulous already. Yes, he had offered, on the simple basis that he didn’t think Soran would do it.
That was a few hours ago. He wasn’t nearly this far around the bend back then.
“You’re welcome for saving your damn life, by the way,” Tarquin forces out.
“Oh, and aren’t I ever so grateful for that,” Soran says sarcastically, taking a few more steps down the hall as if it never even happened. He didn’t think one punch would be enough to satiate him.
“You could say thank-you.”
“I could.”
But he won’t.
He’s still going. Tarquin’s not letting him get any further away. They’re not doing this. Unnecessary risk might be a part of the greater picture but that doesn’t mean it has to happen right now. Not like this.
This time he gets a proper hold of him, fingers locked around his forearm. Soran twists them both, wrenching Tarquin’s arm to the side.
His smile is just this side of terrifying.
“Are we really doing this?” Tarquin asks.
“You won’t,” Soran insists, almost sounding like he’s going to laugh. “You may have had your moment in the park but you’re still good. I know it when I see it.”
God, if only he knew. The adrenaline was only just starting to kick in. All he had to do was take note of the situation.
And he had already done that the second Soran grabbed him back.
His right arm is trapped. His lesser of the two, and Soran's dominant hand forcing it down. A subconscious decision on his part, but a good one. It's unlikely that he can't throw just as good of a punch with his left, too, but it's a chance Tarquin is willing to take and frankly one that he has to.
He shoves back with all of the weight driven behind his shoulder, which sends them further down the hall but manages to make Soran stumble, even though he does too. His iron grip on Tarquin’s wrist is starting to ache. One wrong jerk of his arm and his wrist is going to snap.
Talk about a disadvantage.
Tarquin shoves them both again, taking their weight onto himself, and aims a kick at Soran’s left leg, unintentionally catching him in the kneecap. He stumbles. His fingers flex against Tarquin’s forearm.
All the weakness he needed, really, as he tears his arm free and uses the swing of the momentum to aim a punch towards the center of his face.
He could do it fiercely enough to break something - his jaw, his cheekbone, even his nose, but he holds back some of the strength. Blood flows from Soran’s nose anyway, splattering over his shoes.
“Remember when you said I wouldn’t?” Tarquin asks, knuckles throbbing vaguely. He hasn’t had to hit anyone in a good long while.
Soran was right - he hadn’t wanted to do it.
Some things were just necessary.
Tarquin’s words only seem to piss him off more. He lunges, fist closed, for Tarquin’s throat. For wanting to fight so badly he’s certainly looking to incapacitate quickly. If that’s how they’re going to do it, fine by him. He turns - Soran’s fist glances off the top of his shoulder, a still-bruising hit to his clavicle and he strikes out once again with his leg, misses the kidneys, connects with his gut instead.
Soran breath leaves him for a second. It seems like more of an opening than it actually is. Tarquin catches him in the face again, splitting skin just below his temple, and once again goes for the throat.
Tarquin feels his knuckles brush before he manages to catch onto his arm, trying to force him back. Trying to do so to a nearly immovable object isn’t a task he’s particularly thrilled by. He takes the next blow Soran aims at his face; blood fills his mouth but he continues to hold on, and then twists to take them both to the ground, catching Soran’s foot against his foot and taking it out from under him.
If his trajectory is spot on, he’ll land on top of him, get a second or two to pin his arms.
Predictably, though, he doesn’t. Soran spins them both mid-air and they crash to the ground alongside one another, instead. Punches him, again, when the fall winds Tarquin for only a moment. He misses the second time when Tarquin ducks away but keeps coming, rolling forward until he has his knee pressed into Tarquin’s stomach.
His nose is gushing blood into his mouth. Soran’s next punch is less successful, knuckles slipping through it.
He pauses, then. Tarquin looks up at him. “This is really stupid, you know.”
He hesitates this time before he punches him again. Almost a victory. At least he’s slowing down.
Tarquin is so much better than this, in every sense of the word.
Soran is hunched over, clinging to his shoulders, has him pinned. The grip from his right is looser. Neither of them have managed truly damaging blows; not any that are going to end this, anyway.
Tarquin knows what he has to do and only hopes he can.
He twists them both until some of Soran’s weight is dislodged from over top of him, pulling his arm free from his failing grip, and goes directly for Soran’s throat. It’s about time he repays the favor. It’s the weak point, even weaker now from the abuse it’s taken. He loops his arm around his neck, shoves them both up until they’re nearly crouched on the floor, and then wrenches them both back to the ground.
He’s still not fully on top of him but he scrambles for it, pressing his knee into Soran’s chest, forearm over his throat. He’s not even really struggling anymore. Just wheezing.
Tarquin could have caved in his damn trachea with a fierce enough hit. Still could, right now.
He loosens his hold somewhat. “You done?”
Soran smacks him in the shoulder but his fist is clumsy, fingers pushing forward with no real intent.. “Fuck you.”
Tarquin eases up further. Soran takes that opportunity to drive a fist into his side, sending him sprawling out next to him on the floor. Tarquin holds his arms up again, waiting, but Sorans stays where he is, eyes on the faraway ceiling.
It felt like so much in the moment, now faded away to nothing at all. In reality it was probably nothing more than a few minutes.
“Did that make you feel better?” he asks. He certainly hopes so. Tarquin doesn’t know how much of a beating is willing to put up with right now.
That was nothing, too. The two of them could get so much worse. He’ll choose to be grateful for the fact that both of them were weapon free. He didn’t need to be shattering Soran’s bones on the end of a staff, didn’t need to be sliced to ribbons from the blade of a sword.
“Shut up,” Soran replies eventually.
It’s not nearly as vicious as he would have expected the words to be, so maybe it has. The fight is gone, and around them, the hall seems to have… quieted. It was never even loud before but it always seemed like too much was going on, an overstimulation of the senses. Even the darkness has retreated.
Whatever’s in here, it’s satiated for now.
Tarquin looks over. Soran relaxes more into the floor with a long sigh, legs sprawled out awkwardly in front of him. As he tilts his head back even further, eyes on the ceiling, a bead of blood drips down from his brow.
Tarquin admittedly already feels bad.
He drags himself over until their shoulders touch, taking a deep breath, flopping back onto the floor.
Soran opens his eyes. “You suck.”
“You punched me first.”
“You didn’t have to fight back.”
“So I was supposed to let you pummel me into absolute nothingness?” he asks, though the energy required for bewilderment is nowhere near high enough.
“Not… nothingness.”
“But pummeling regardless.”
“A little bit, yeah,” Soran admits, closing his eyes again. As if Tarquin could expect anything else. And he did offer earlier, even if he wasn’t necessarily serious. He should have known that with Soran saying it was as good as making the deal.
Sort of sealed his own fate with that one, really.
“You can’t even fix me, asshole,” he says. His lip is stinging something fierce, and his entire body aches, but not enough for him to leave well alone. He noticed the ring was gone when they were back in the lobby, Soran two seconds away from ending a little old man’s life.
He’s not unused to feeling like this, but he also would prefer not to.
“Where is it?” he asks, unwilling to let it go. Soran fumbles with his own fingers, touching the space where it was. Gone just in time for him to have gotten used to it.
“I made Icarus take it.”
“Why?”
He shrugs, but the motion isn’t nearly as violent as the one previous. Once again he looks exhausted. This vicious cycle is starting to get to him more than he’s ever going to admit aloud.
Tarquin has about a dozen other questions poised on his tongue, but he keeps them to himself for now. Asking them isn’t going to get them anywhere. In the very least he’ll get another fist to the face.
“We―”
“We should go find them, shouldn’t we?” Soran interrupts, swallowing thickly.
Tarquin looks over at him. “Great minds think alike.”
“Wouldn’t go that far,” he says with a wince, adjusting his shoulders. “I think you cracked a fucking rib.”
Then he holds up a hand between them, palm facing. Tarquin stares at it until Soran grabs his arm and wrenches it forward, clapping their hands together. As if he thought he was getting a high-five out of this any other way. When he grins at him, his teeth are bloody.
“I’m worried about them,” Tarquin says quietly. “All of them.”
“Right.”
“And you…”
“Are not admitting anything just because you think I feel too bad to do otherwise,” Soran says quite confidently.
And they’re back to normal, minus the still-bleeding gashes on his face and the aches in his torso. It’s as close as they’re going to get, so he’ll take it. Besides, he already knew what his decision was. He was just waiting a second to be followed.
“You should go find him,” Tarquin says. It seems like it came down to the two of them for a reason. They can both take off and do this.
There’s little choice in the matter.
Soran sighs. “I know.”
There was the agreement he was waiting for. Tarquin hauls himself to his feet, dropping a hand down to allow Soran to pull himself up. For an alarming moment they both wobble, two people who should not be going anywhere but don’t have much of a choice.
Everyone else has supposedly left on their own missions, purposeful for not.
All along they were just waiting for theirs too.