A peaceful blue sky, painted on the ceiling of a bank.
“Ya know, this day could have gone worse.” An attempt at optimism.
“I don’t think it could have gone worse.” Flat.
A small, disbelieving noise.
“Clarice, both your legs are broken, and I’m paralyzed from the neck down. I really don’t think it could have gone worse.” The start of aggravation.
“We could be dead.” Honest.
“Actually, you know what? That’s fair.” A reciprocated attempt at optimism.
An extended silence.
“Aren’t you glad this is a dream?” Melancholy, knowing better.
“A what?” Consternation.
“A dream.” Insistence.
“Don’t ask me that, John.” Regret.
An anxious silence.
“You’re going to go, aren’t you?” Resigned.
“You know I have to. I can’t… I can’t lose you– him.” Audibly upset.
“That’s okay, I know. He knows.” An attempt at optimism.
“Says you– me.” Flat.
“Only because you know.” Small, disbelieving.
“Yeah, I do.” A reciprocated attempt at optimism.
The ring feels whole, if unfilled, the peaceful blue sky fades away and the ceiling of the bank crumbles.
“Hey, Clarice?” Fearful.
“Yeah?” Nervous.
“Whatever you do, don’t miss.” Rocks crash but never have the clarification of hitting the ground.
Clarice snaps awake. She has no idea where she is, and that probably has something to do with the excessive rubble piled over her, and John’s stupidly thick, ridiculously long hair is covering her face.
It had been an earthquake, of all things.
Clarice, John, and Sage were left to keep an eye on the dozen or so refugees left to transport to the new facility, the last load out of six– they didn’t have enough cars, and Clarice’s portals were on the fritz after she exerted herself on that last mission.
The ground had shaken tempestuously, and anyone who wasn’t out front waiting for the car had sprinted outside as fast as they could. Most of the ones who might have needed help getting out were in the first car trip anyway, but there was still Norah: waiting to be the last out with Clarice.
The bank had never had good structural integrity, and the ceiling came in with a shout. Clarice had seen the edges of her vision white out with the exertion of opening a portal for Norah to escape through, and she was begging any gods that existed that she had put it close enough to Norah. Everything else had been lost, at least to her aspen leaf eyes.
Not so for John, who had been in the vault, and was only just reaching the common area when the crackling of a crumbling home was heard. He had seen his girlfriend down on the floor and, given the lack of time to get out of the building, had decided he made a good meat shield and braced for impact.
Now, Clarice is waking up with a ringing in her ears and pain everywhere else.
“John?” Imploration.
There is a groan before John snaps awake. “Clarice?” Desperation.
“Hi.”
“Good morning.”
“Well,” Clarice deadpans, “we’re up shit creek.”
“”Maybe not entirely,” John says, “there’s enough cracks in here to get airflow, and some space to move around.” There is no movement. “I can’t move.”
“What do you mean?” Horror.
“I can’t move anything, my arms, my legs, nothing.”
Clarice is the one who panics. There is rain and thunder building in her eyes and throat.
“Clarice?” An inquiry. “Clarice?” A request. “Clarice?” A plea. A reset, ” Mollification.
“You could have died! Do you realize that?” Absolute and controlling fear.
She’s still breathing like she might die, and John is not ready for this situation. “Breathe. Please breathe. Just, um, follow me.” It’s worked in movies.
It takes several minutes. Both of them calm.
“Clarice, did you pee? Be honest with me.”
“Wha–? No!”
“Your legs are wet.”
“I didn’t pee.”
After a while, they both wish it was pee.
It’s the same dream with a night sky.
“Ya know, this day could have gone worse.” An attempt at optimism.
“I don’t think it could have gone worse.” Flat.
A small, disbelieving noise.
“Clarice, both your legs are broken, and I’m paralyzed from the neck down. I really don’t think it could have gone worse.” The start of aggravation.
“We could be dead.” Honest.
“Actually, you know what? That’s fair.” A reciprocated attempt at optimism.
An extended silence.
Shouts in the distance. Clarice feels herself fading anyway.
It’s like falling asleep, or waking up: she never really realizes it until she hears John, “It’s okay, you’re okay. Just stay with me.” He’s not trying to convince her, but it convinces her anyway. He hears her eyelashes collide as they flutter open. She hears his teardrops hit the ground. “It’s Sage and Lorna and Marcos, Clarice, they’ve gotta be right there. Keep your eyes open.”
Sage is trying not to scream as she points out what Lorna should lift and what Marcos should burn away so that John and Clarice aren’t any more crushed than they already are.
When Lorna lifts the top chunk off of them, Clarice can only hear relieved sighs and gasps, but John can hear that they’re all crying– and isn’t it strange for such monoliths cry?
John’s spine repairs itself now that the concrete blocking it is removed, and he can get up.
Lorna. “I think it’s broken.”
John. “Stay still– what did I just say?”
Clarice. “It’s just a scratch.”
She’s in shock. She can’t feel much of anything. She can’t get up. John helps.
Marcos. “Yeah, well, let’s see what the hospital has to say about that.”
Sage. “What hospital?” It’s intended as a joke.
In fact, they are the joke. There is no hospital that would even consider taking someone that looks like Clarice. They know that. There is only a far-reaching hope that Caitlin Strucker knows how to fix two broken legs, and that they can do something about a wheelchair.
They are stupidly lucky.
The drive to the new facility, where everyone now sits nervously, is portal-riddled and frightening, but nothing is damaged.
The mother, Sheila, and daughter, Dominique, that Reed Strucker met on his drive with Tex are still with them. The mother is more than willing to heal the legs of the girl who saved her daughter’s best friend’s life– “we are indebted to you all in so many ways,” she insists.
Clarice stays out, and watched, for another three hours. When she wakes up, she’s screaming John’s name even though he’s only two feet away.
It takes her less time to calm down now that she’s not deep enough in shock to numb two broken legs.
He insists on carrying her to see everyone in the new common room, even though Sheila had said the residual numbness and pain would be slight.
“Will you put me down?” A demand.
“Will you stop squirming?” A joke.
“No.” A laugh.
“Don’t make me turn this car around.”
“We’re not in a car.”
“It’s figurative.”
A long-suffering groan.
“Fine, okay.” They’re at their intended destination, and he sets her down on the couch. She hits him in the arm, but she’s beaming. They both feel so lucky to be alive.
“Love you.” An attempt at optimism.
“Love you too.” A reciprocated attempt at optimism.
And isn’t that all you really need?