falling asleep / waking up {bette}

"Are you listening, Bette? You'll need to do this on your own once you're back in One."

The doctor, exasperated by eighteen minutes spent talking to a brick wall, rubs his fingers against his temple, a long sigh emanating from his small frame.

She stares out, at the silhouettes that pass by the curtain, some stopping just before the opening. They're silent, statues made of sea glass and slate gray.

The partition is empty besides the five of them: Denali and Shy lie on the far end, resting on gurneys as their skin is rendered anew. Lex and Quest sit nearby, their eyes watching, scrutinizing each stitch.

"Don't make me have to call the specialist to test your ears, Sublino. I swear-"

"Or what?"

Bette looks at him, for the first time. His skin is the color of lavenders gone limp in the sun, his irises like caterpillars sliding across the windowsill: tepid, slimy, green. Her voice is level, the sound like misaligned gears. "You'll kill me?"

The man, after a graceful second of absorbing a line surely spat at him for a week straight, kicks her out - if she's well enough to talk back she's well enough to leave. "Ungrateful," he mumbles under his breath as he packs up his case. She lumbers past, slow and deliberate, leaning into the wall when her back turns into lightning.

With a long shallowness she breathes in, breathes out. The air here is dry and musty, and it takes her back to the triage center all those years ago: a nurse handing her a glass of water, the silence that seemed louder than screams, the light dusting of dirt across her entire body. Aja's fingertips, caked with her mother's blood.

For a moment, standing at the end of the world and then beyond, she wonders if the Capitol truly revived all of them before shaking it from her thoughts - of course, a Twist cannot have caveats. If murder was for naught, it must be thorough. Complete. They wouldn't have it any other way.

She looks at the two options presented to her and makes an indulgent choice, Death nodding as they fade back into the ether: a dress, light and soft, pockets deep; shades of goldenrod, honey on an autumn afternoon; well constructed boots that hug the arches of her feet.

Lex and Quest do not turn their heads when she approaches. They don't need to. The three of them watch the rise and fall of chests that were hollowed out with knives, singed with flame. Her hand grazes the top of Lex's chair and rests there, for a while. They take in the sounds, rattled breaths that should have stayed quiet. A miracle. A curse.

Before she leaves she looks in the mirror, runs a finger down the smooth, raised line. It curves gently, from the corner of her eye, through the apples of her cheek, to the crease of her lips. A memento from Anatalia Morrisen, who did not hesitate when the blade struck true.

Bette however, does, just before she opens the curtain. She's not averse to the consequences - it would be wrong, after life and death have passed them by, after decisions were made with the cards in her hand. But...

A pathway in the fog snaps into focus. A reminder. She opens the drapes with a swiftness she didn't know she still had.

The hall erupts into noise when the curtain is breached - a light barrier of soundproofing broken as the chatter - not loud but not quiet, never quiet again - becomes audible. She spots Hellion Moe, her curls hanging gently from her shoulders, picking at a plate of food. Oliver Wren, the boy from 8, talking to a friend - surely a friend, now. The twins, together as they survey the room, a plot curling up around their feet.

Across the room, her face splits in two, then is rendered together once more by doctors, poking needles into her skin, threading her back together. She tries not to look at it, her gaze flickering between faces that stared out in the sun, the fog covering their irises.

Minx Ahlstrom and Sable Delamore, two figures she'd never spoken to before they hung in the sky. Carter Laws, one last trick up his sleeve as he glances at Maxwell Temple. Fiona and Carmen, side-by-side again. Parson Cham, an arm snaked gently around Angel de Costa's waist. The large frame of Faux Rhodes, quiet as he sits. Lorenzo Pevek, munching on sweets. Yusei.

Standing there, feeling further away than she has ever been, Bette's hands tremble. Smoke that burned her lungs, trees that stood as tall as time, fire and brimstone, the flash of metal - she was ready as she could be. This, This is all too much.

A voice, a name, she never thought she'd hear again.

"HEY EVE, BETTE'S HERE"

Wander slams into her with the force of a thunderstorm, a westward wind skipping across the waves. She wraps her right arm around ver - no longer standing in her memories, but running and leaping - and she laughs, a wheeze that sounds like a ode to the dead.

Ve turns. "ACK WHOOPS SORRY"

Bette looks over vis shoulder and sees Eve, lumbering towards her like a foal in their first dozen gallops. With a small gasp, Bette sticks out her left arm as Eve rushes in and she grips them both, as tight as she can, as if the Peacekeepers will rip them away and tell her it was just a sick joke.

She can't stop shaking.

Eight days of hell finally catches up.

Her sobs are quiet, but wet, and she doesn't attempt to hide them. Though a fire has been sparked ever since she opened her eyes, though it threatens to burn her up, for a moment it dampens the blaze.

Through her vision is blurred she sees a side profile, two distinct braids, brown eyes looking back at her and she can't help but smile. Full teeth.

Spite, wrapped up and presented in all its glory, has given them back something that always was, should have been, theirs to keep.

She will not waste it.