goodbye, machiavelli | d10 suite { day 3 }

He's not sure where the instinct comes from — but something in him calls for him to go home.

His finger presses on the button for the tenth floor before he can stop himself, before he can realize that maybe the best place for Mac to experience his final moments would be in the suite of his own district. Surrounded by familiar things; comforting reminders of a life that is now slipping from his hands. He feels the slack of the dying boy in his grasp, and he glances to see Jack putting on the same brave face he always has. Maybe that's just who he is, all fire and conviction and a will capable of taming lions into submission.

Emerson doesn't think he'll ever live up to that same kind of bravery. It's just innate to the individual that Jackson is. Clever, and charming, and so full of courage that sometimes it takes his breath away. He knows that he's trying his best to be the same, putting himself in front of the others instead of shrinking into the background, but it always feels like he's playing a part and not being genuinely himself. Take him out of the death pageant, and he's certain he'd be lost inside his own head again. Dreaming up monsters instead of facing the real ones.

The saddest part is that all of the tributes want the same thing: to go back to the sad lives they were already living. He'll confront any obstacle to make that happen. Even if suffering through all this means going back to feeling lonely, and misunderstood, he wants to keep moving forward. The fact that his heart is still beating brings a sense of calm — but under his fingertips, he can feel Mac's pulse slowing. It doesn't seem fair. Of course it doesn't. "We're here with you," he murmurs, watching the numbers get higher as the elevator ascends.

Maybe it's cruel. To receive your killing blow in a cramped space and to be forced to go there again: but he knows he isn't strong enough to carry someone for ten whole floors. He's not even sure if Jack could handle that, and he's not about to ask the other boy to sacrifice anything else today. Moments ago, Jackson took the life of someone else. Emerson will never judge him for that, will never make him feel like he should be ashamed or disgusted by his actions, but it does trouble him. He hates that he hadn't been strong enough to keep the others safe. Maybe if he acted faster, spoke louder, Jack wouldn't have had to do what he did.

He wants to tell his friend that he's grateful, that he wants him to feel as equally safe in his presence — but that can wait. All that matters right now is seeing Mac off, holding him close as he drifts off for that final slumber. He already knows it's going to make him cry, that he's going to feel somehow worse than he already does, but if and when it's his time to go, he doesn't want to be alone. No one deserves to die in the quiet, the stillness, the cold. He will create warmth where there is none.

The doors part open, and he gasps with awe to see what has become of the suite he hasn't visited since that first day. Verdant pastures from his home district stretch out before them, an artificial sky turning amber from the sinking sun, golden wheat swaying in the distance. "Let's sit him down in the field, Jack." He says this somberly, but he keeps his tone even and sure. "Nice and easy." He traces a free hand in calming circles along Mac's back, walking over to kneel in the tall grass. Part of him hopes that Wolf will appear from the shadows, making the four of them feel whole again in this final moment. But he just focuses on his friend, clings fast to memories he knows he will never be rid of.

"Looks like we made it just in time for the sunset."