here you come again | a v. m v. epa v. ss [d10 suite/day5]

Going back to the Ten Suites felt like the right thing to do, even if Wolf was wary. Emerson seemed a homebody - and who could blame him? - nesting in familiarity each time an ally fell. She certainly wasn't sentimental for home, even a hollow, stereotypical version that lay dormant on the Third floor; but Wolf would be lying if she said she didn't feel anything when Javier's face lit up the television screens that night.

Mostly relief, if she were honest. But also a sombreness that she couldn't quite shake until flighty sleep finally crept over consciense.

When she wakes, Wolf turns her head to check for Emerson. He's there, of course. But still. There's this constant gnaw of self-deprication that he'll leave her soon, if not now. It doesn't make sense logically - not at this stage of the games, where pairs tend to triumph. But where Emerson is ever the optimist, Wolf is his opposite. Perhaps that's why they've stayed alive this long, the sun and the moon. They work in perfect harmony: her faults to his strengths.

But there's no protection of Jack and Machiavelli anymore. From outside their little world they're just two skinny kids with targets on their backs who've made it this far out of sheer dumb luck and the strategy of enemies to take out the strong ones first. Clever clogs and sunshine boy - who are they now without their bravado? Their brooding boys?

Emerson is someone. It's a beautiful thing, in Wolf's eyes, to be proud of the surname you carry - but she knows to the others the name Emberstatt is a problem. It's why she strips off her gloves in the morning and takes his hands to parcel around the fabric, why she hands his grandfather's sword to him. She tells him it's no big deal, that her hand feels much better now - flexing her fingers for good measure.

She smiles and blinks through what could be a wince when the remnants of a laser shoot sparks of pain up her arms. "See? I'm fine."

"Oh good!" and Wolf's smile vanishes, whiping her head around to face the voice and instinctively shuffling back to protect Emerson. "We're all here!"

"Put them on," she hisses, eyes darting to the gloves in Emerson's hands then back up at him. "Quickly."


That laugh sounds twisted. Her eyes stay trained on Arlo, even as the others slink out of their hiding places and Wolf's heart jumps into her throat. Is he with them? With the others? With someone else entirely?

She thinks he might be with Marik, piecing words and scenarios together in her head like clues wicked-fast. Arlo hauls his weapon toward a blind spot and it clatters to the floor; but it's enough for Wolf to make a decision. Two against two, or three, against two and one, she likes those odds and thinks about following suit -- but.

Wolf can't see Emerson's face but she knows who he's looking at. The numbers in her head pause, disintegrate; and she pivots her aim from Marik Shadow to the boy that killed Jack.

You, the voice in Wolf's head spits. (It sounds like Jack.)

Her eyes narrow and her knife flies.

"I wish you were from Ten, and I wish we met somewhere else."

She allows herself to dream, too. Now that she's had a glimpse of a world so far away from Three; a pipe dream for any kid in Panem, she lets her mind wander with Emerson's words. A library; but not like the ones in Three. Ones with stories. Ones with tales of bravado, of the goodness in being kind, of families that love each-other.

Then to a marketplace, bustling with accents so warm and welcoming. Scents of food sizzling; of spice and seasoning - not the plastic-wrapped processed meals of her homeland, designed to sustain the body and not the senses. She can't taste it, not really; as Wolf has no reference to Ten's cuisine. But she imagines it nonetheless, as best as a clinical mind can do.

"I want to live but I want to live a life with you in it."

Wolf doesn't say anything. She just grips Emerson's hand and squeezes it tightly; trying to imprint the feeling of her into his skin forever. Of his on hers. A tear slips from her eyes and rolls down her cheek, her other hand quick to wipe it away - but she doesn't hide the sniff of premature mourning. That sensible mind that wages war on Wolf's heart wants to tell Emerson not to speak of such impossibilities. That as much as he wishes upon false stars; not even Emberstatts get eveything they want.

Certainly not Turings, even if they both want the same thing. To live alternate lives in alternate universes, two opposites - star-crossed; a friendship that burns so bright it kills the light of ten suns. She can't give him that. It burns. Burns to admit. But Wolf knows as they fall asleep like that, hand in hand and terribly alone together, that she can at least grant his one last wish.

"Please, don't go far from me."

"Okay," she says to him in the dark, smiling through her tears. "I won't."

---

And if she's going to die here - the thought comes to her in pieces, sharp and jaggard with every painful sting of blade that breaks her skin to protect his - she's glad she's dying in a place she thinks she can call home.

This is where the tapestry shreds.

This is where the glass shatters.

Emerson stands in the center of chaos, in the eye of the storm, and it looks like home. The wheat is still dancing in the wind, the feel of Wolf's skin is still etched into his own. He does not know where he begins and she ends — but he knows the sight of her with blood pouring out of her mouth constricts his heart. Makes him falter to a stop, makes his breathing become shallow. If she is a part of him, what becomes of him when she goes?

In her dying moments, he follows her behind the veil. Just a glimpse of the end.

He comes face to face with the inevitable, the terrible price that has already been paid twice before. A group of four, a lamb and his wolves, dwindling down to one. This has always been the goal. Only a single person may leave the arena, and Emerson made his intentions known a long time ago. He wants to be with his family, he wants to stand on soil that has not been crafted by human hands, wants to know that things are real and he is safe and no one else is at risk of being lost.

Then he went and found another family. He is driving this dagger into himself. The careers circle Wolf like sharks smelling blood in the water, and his threats and fury fade into suffocating silence. They are just children dealing with an impossible ultimatum. All of them. No one wants to die, no one wants to watch the light in a friend's eyes go out, they are all the hero in their own story. Each of them is the villain in the other's.

But not her, not in his. She is the sun at the peak of summer, a burning light in the clear sky. She is the first rain after a long drought, the swirl of autumn leaves adding color to the day. She is a warm, freshly sewn quilt. A holiday gift wrapped with care, laced with love, good intentions. She is cinnamon, nutmeg, the kind of scent that fills the lungs and warms the soul. She is a wild horse running across the horizon, haloed by the fall of twilight. She is home. If this belongs to him, then it belongs to her, too.

"I'll be close," she says faintly, too far away for him to hold any power over fate. She coughs and grins softly, bloodily, and he tries to rush forward. He reaches out a hand and the one thing he wants more than his own survival slips out of his grasp. "I promise."

Sacrifice does not strike from the shadows this time. The killer of Jack, the killer of Wolf, guilt and blame and rage and sadness are all meaningless. It all blurs into this singular flame. It detonates. He rushes forward, catching Wolf as she falls, but he knows it's too late. Glass eyes gaze up at him, and he will have his time to mourn. Now is not the time to let go.

But he rises to his feet, placing her safely on the grassy earth. Now, his gaze and his words are directed only to Sacrifice. He has nothing more to gain playing hero and villain with Siberite. Lies do not change the truth. "Know that I'm coming for you." He hopes that the brown of his eyes will be burned into her memory, the bone white grip of his knuckles, the blood dried on his clothes. Emerson wants to be known. He hides none of his emotions from the sharks. He's as much prey as they are.

He is equally a predator.

Now, he closes the distance between himself and Siberite. "And know how it feels." Spoiled child that he is, he takes what has been taken from him. A friend for a friend. He doesn't strike until he knows Sacrificed is glancing their way, until he's certain she'll be witness to the crime — and then he tries to drive his glaive straight through the boy.

He could swear the echo of Wolf's hand falls over his own, guiding him.

The girl has become a north star.

The boy has become a murderer.