GILBERT ORQUÍDEAS. 38. soldier. he/him. spent too much of my life now trying to play fair / throw my better self overboard shoot at him when he comes up for air. come unhinged, get revenge. i don't want to die in here.
he should have let go of gil’s chin the moment their skin met, but all nik can do is grip tighter. they’re out in the open, exposed. nikolai practically has his heart out on display, sitting under a blinding neon light. but he can’t reel himself in. the scratches aren’t deep, but all it takes is broken skin. gilbert’s mouth opens, but nik doesn’t hear the first few words that come out of them. this close to the other’s face, he can imagine the infection taking away his humanity as clear as he can see the scratches. but a word makes it through the dreadfilled haze. suri.
it’s just suri. nik stops holding his breath, but unease still makes the world feel woobly underfoot. “what do you mean, just suri?” fingers slip from gil’s jaw, but now they reveal that the red splashed across his neck was not a splatter from someone else. “shit.” he’s got nothing to stop the bleeding, not when his clothes are a health hazard with all the infected blood they’ve soaked up. “gilbert, what the hell…” blood roars in his ears and his hands falter in every direction. he can’t clamp his hand over the still spilling wound either, what if the blood on his hands mixes with gil’s?
he wants to believe that there’s no way gilbert could have been infected. he wants to accept that suri’s nails were clean, that the blade she used to dig into gil’s neck was clean too. but what is the likelihood of that? close to zero. “fuck.” he continues his line of curses in russian, each one pushing the knife in his heart a little deeper. “i can’t…” his hands finally settle on gil’s shoulders, no longer thinking about the outside world. “you better be… fuck.” he didn’t cry the first time gilbert died. but in this moment, faced with that possibility again, his eyes start to sting. “your neck needs sewing up. now.”
a thought that disgusts him flashes by, hand in hand with a million others. this is dangerous, reckless, futile, all of it - but is this not what he once imagined? dragging his feet, pulling himself by his hands through the snow, in the delusion did he not picture this? the overwhelming emotion of reunion? amongst the blinding white, how could he picture anything but the way hurried hands would wrap themselves around him, warm him up? i got what i wanted, half a year too late. perhaps too late at all. it’s selfish and simple, and he kicks himself internally for that. it can’t last long, regardless.
gilbert lets go of the wrists as they move, nik’s skin touching the red but not its source. it’s not like gilbert forgot about the slash, but there were better things to think about, adrenaline taking over reason. this is wrong. nik is not the panicked one, ever. this is incredibly wrong. “she saw an opportunity and took it.” the inside of his wrist, cleanest part of his extremities, returns to the neck, covering it in sizzling pain. “she-” how on earth does he begin to explain his fear to him? he tried, when he confessed about the wall, but how is he supposed to justify himself? she’s a good soldier and incredibly smart, but she’s small. and an enemy trespasser. he should have overpowered her months ago, or denounce her, at least. how can he explain the things he sees all around suri whenever she is near? how can he explain that she is not herself - she is ten people, she is a hundred, she is the general, she is yennefer, she is that guy from atlantic city who shared soup with gil but lost, and ran after him, infected, in the pits. she is the failure of escape. and she is eva’s friend. his free hand fails to catch nik’s, in all his panic, which he begins to mirror.
no. if all else fails, he has a duty, does he not? nik is cursing and gilbert’s fingertips are crawling up his arm, moving closer despite the fear of infection - which he does not believe in. perhaps that’s just more adrenaline. cockiness. a bit of madness. but it’s not what he’s worried about. “listen.” he holds onto his elbow now, steady breaths only, despite the still wild look in his eyes. “i’m alright. it’s not runners, it’s just a person and revenge. and we’ll… we’ll find a solution after this.” he knows what it needs to be. why must it cost him eva or gabriel? santiago would have his choice made, would he not? “i’m not going to turn into one of them.” he is always making promises he cannot keep. “no one is putting a bullet in my head.” he moves to the shoulder, holding it gently. “haven’t you learned by now? you really can’t get rid of me.” gilbert smiles at him just a bit, heart breaking in longing for the moment he first saw him, minutes earlier, and the way he wished he could grin for the rest of his life. the hand on the shoulder pulls nik towards him until he can embrace him, the side of his face resting on him for a moment, closed eyes and exhales included. he deposits a kiss over his clothes, near his shoulder, and holds tight again. “it can wait. we’ve got work to do.”
— just outside the mall, 15th of july 2044, with matty alston. @mattyalston
if just a month ago, someone were to call him reckless, he’d wholeheartedly agree. in a way, it goes against all of his training, all that has defined him for decades - the system is corrupt or not, he’s loyal or not, none of it matters because people simply must find a way to navigate the system. gilbert’s devotion to the man in charge has died many years ago, and disdain has grown in its place, but anger makes him reckless and a reckless soldier is a buried soldier. hasn’t he always been reckless, however? prone to the whims of his heart? perhaps that was alexei volkov’s first sign that the attack dog was not fit for anything more than the leash. after the wall with suri, the murder of ray, the encounter with anso, or the carelessness of the storm night, gilbert was ready to move like a fast truck on course to crash into a wall. let alexei hang him outside the hotel, for all he cared. gilbert, for once, denounced survival as his ultimate driving force, even if it was what brought him through sleet and snow back home in january. the frozen man would be appalled if he encountered the one from the spring.
it’s not reckless anymore, he thinks. it’s purposeful. discipline forces to the grave all thoughts of simply jumping onto alexei with a sharp knife in hand, or exploding the enforcer floor, all collateral and himself be damned. oddly enough, it feels similar to the purpose he found in the form of alexei and his rebellion, many years ago. but it has to be different. he can’t keep making the same damn mistakes, right? “i know. that’s the conundrum, right? but you’re just too young to remember this. there was hope in the early days, y’know? more food, the end of war, no more entire families getting whipped out in the middle of the night.” patrol shift has ended about ten minutes ago, but gilbert still leans by the window of the truck, chatting with a young soldier who should have gone and parked it the moment they returned. “it was all a lie. i mean, you’ve got eyes to prove it. it’s like i told you yesterday… just because this is all you’ve ever known, doesn’t mean it can’t change. realistically, fedra rule was pretty much all i knew. where the hell is fedra now anyway? do they even have a single zone up, still?” gilbert isn’t whispering. he eyes the surroundings every now and then, ignoring the one in the back, unbothered. savannah looks around constantly, with wide eyes, but isn’t running away from the conversation at all. it is certainly not the first time gilbert introduces the topic.
she whispers something to him, far more careful than the older one. “i mean, we’ve all got families to think about. i don’t think volkov thinks about them, though. the enemy is just as much internal as it is external, right? you try to keep them alive and happy, you pick up a gun and go on patrol, and then what? he gets angry one day and executes them in the middle of the mall?” he eyes the soldier that is, theoretically, far enough for comfort for savannah, inside a truck and whispering. not so much for gilbert. it’s a dare, like it was inside the middle school during the storm. and yet, it is also a lesson, much alike the middle school too. gilbert hasn’t been hung for treason yet, so it’s fair to assume matty did not rattle him out. he wonders how far he can stretch his luck.
the image of the runner racing toward her hasn’t stopped replaying in her mind. it’s replaced her nightmares of alexei and his gun. now she just sees the runner’s bloodied lips, hears it’s groaning cries. ophelia has never felt as helpless as she did in that moment. she was so vulnerable trapped within the walls of the mall. when she was finally reunited with gil she had a desperate request. teach me how to shoot a gun, really shoot.
she’d held one before, gil had placed one in her hands years ago, but she’s no fighter. she’s always been the person who puts people back together, never the one to break them apart. holding the cold metal weapon feels strange, wrong- but then she remembers the fear she felt in that hallway. fear not only for herself, but for her child. she doesn’t want to feel that again. she wants to be strong. her hands tighten around the grip.
ophelia does her best to follow instructions, but everything feels foreign. she isn’t used to being so rigid and stiff. nevertheless, she stands straight and allows gil to reposition her. “give me a break will you? you trying keeping balance when your entire center of gravity is off,” she retorts, breaking her stance to look over at him. “i’m trying to steady two people here,” she gives him a small smirk, shifting back to the pose he put her in. she tries her best to focus on the target in front of her, to lock her body into place. if there’s one thing she has it’s steady hands, but something about all of this makes her nervous. even if the gun isn’t loaded perhaps its the anticipation of the sound, the recoil, the image of ray being blown apart. gil speaks again and she snaps out of it, her shoulders relax and she hands the weapon over, her chest rising as she sucks the air back into her lungs. “i’m sorry,” ophelia shakes her head. “i want to be good at this. i want to be able to protect us.” the baby is almost here after all, and perhaps that fear is creeping in too- the fear of losing the most precious thing she has. and so, she mirrors him, standing straight like a soldier. “okay, okay.” she focuses every muscle in her body. she tries to steady her anxious breathing, the breaths that never seem to feel full enough lately. gil has always been her teacher and she trusts him. so she stands, and she tries to breathe and she tries to feel strong.
gil forces the slightest of smiles in an attempt to match her. “well, tell them to pull their weight then. baby’s first shot, should bring in some beginner’s luck, no?” the near deceit is short lived, and they return to the serious business at hand. gilbert always thought he was quite the counterproductive clog in the cage machine. they fix, he breaks. sometimes literally - he can immediately recall a trespasser well over a decade ago, gilbert dragging him in bleeding, katya dressing the bullet hole gil left behind on the stranger. he was interrogated and let out, died some years back on patrol. sometimes they have fixed in other ways. the cabinet gilbert kicked broken in his room, kenneth picking up pieces from the floor and his skin. he envies them often, envies the righteousness of their role. he told them as much sometimes. in the first couple of years, trying with little and many words to tell katya and kenneth that i’m not like you. maybe i could have been, but i’m not now. it’s too late to patch me up, it’s all healed wrong, but it’s healed. and i’ll break it back open anyway.
he thinks of kenneth, his voice so superficial in his head now. is this what he would have wanted? perhaps gilbert should have taught him something too. it wasn’t lack of skill that got him killed, it was me. gilbert paces around her as she stands still, heartbeat loud in his ears, swallowing down the memories of jackson. it can’t happen again. “there’s nothing to apologize for.” he replies only moments later, in the deep set silence. he considers saying more. ophelia should stand still and silent, and gilbert could simply talk. the confessional stands right in front of him, there’s a million things he’s kept right under his tongue lately. but here she is, apologizing, trying, carrying the weight of her world on her shoulders, and gilbert finds himself wasting the opportunity after opening his mouth a few times and no words coming out. instead, he just keeps walking around her, gun tightly on his hand, kicking up a few pebbles. perhaps this isn’t quite the military drill, more of a meditation-prone reset. it doesn’t have the atmosphere of fear.
after a deep breath, gilbert moves towards her again and digs the bullet out of his pocket, loading the gun. the soldier hands it to her at last - no more aiming, no more training. “be careful, now. go.” gilbert stands a few steps away from her, but the moment ophelia raises her arms to aim, he quickly steps in front of her, halfway between the target and the barrel. he moves fast, without much warning. “before you commit, though, remember. this is the responsibility you accept when you load your gun.” he deviates from the fedra teachings now. his hands are up, as if she will shoot regardless. “people move, you shoot someone by accident. could have shot me. it’s different from stabbing with a scalpel.” he steps just a bit closer to her. “keep the gun high.” his breathing is loud, as if the danger is real. “maybe you would have to shoot. a room full of people? you have the gun, it’s your job. say you were with me at the mall. you, me and a few other people barricade inside a room. someone saw my injuries, assumed the worst. they don’t have guns. but you? oh, you’ve got one loaded and ready to go.” he stares at the metal rather than her, slowly moving towards it even more. “it’s not just knowing how to aim. you take on a duty. if you can’t do it, your gun is useless. so…” gilbert moves until the metal is near grazing his clothes, and he finally looks at her. “are you shooting or not?”
with — @orquidaeas
where — northeastern border of idaho falls
when — morning patrol, july 3
Less than twenty-four hours after being released from quarantine, even less time since the culprit’s execution, and everything runs like nothing happened at all. Zahra gets put on border patrol with a handful of soldiers and two newly appointed enforcers, tasked with checking the traps for any accomplices that had failed to sneak into the QZ. The drive out to the border makes everyone jittery, and she catches the new enforcers nervously gripping their guns as if they’ll get stripped of their titles any minute. Zahra’s sure it wouldn’t be a bad thing if they were, though she doesn’t dare voice the thought out loud.
They get to their destination and the mood instantly gets somber as it sinks in how far from the rest of the QZ - how far from help - they are. It wouldn’t be hard for someone to hide out here, amongst the trees and ruins, waiting to strike the next group that walks by. There’d been hours between the food getting poisoned and the first signs of infection. All it would take was one unsuspecting soldier to get infected, to not show symptoms until they got back to base, and the entirety of Idaho Falls would be gone.
Zahra only entertains the thoughts for a moment before she turns to her patrol. There’s work to do. “Hansen,” she points at one of the new enforcers, the least likely of the two to fuck something up. Not that that’s saying much. “You take Brooks, Owens, Johnson, and Orquídeas and start at the north end of the traps. I’ll take the rest and start south. Meet back here in the middle in two hours.” Zahra watches Hansen stand there, eyes wide as the group splits in two, silently pleading that she’ll tell them what to do. She gestures towards the soldiers in front of them. “They’re your soldiers for the next two hours. Make a plan, tell them what to do.”
She turns towards her group of soldiers (and one pouting enforcer) and begins giving instructions on where to go and what to do depending on what they find. The soldiers keep glancing over her shoulder as she speaks, so Zahra turns around as soon as she’s finished to find Gilbert arguing with Hansen, because of course Gilbert’s arguing with Hansen. She directs her group to stay put and walks over to the other, sliding up to where Gilbert and Hansen stand. “Is there a problem here?”
no one wants to leave the qz in this aftermath, the smoke of the burned bodies still lingering in the air. gilbert knew that well enough, so he didn’t bother asking for a shift trade anywhere. if anything, he wanted to flee the damn city anyway. his eyes are sharp on the environment surrounding them, but as one hand stirs the wheel, the other catches sun rays just outside the window. it’s much nicer to focus on that than on the rather large group they come with - and the in training enforcers promoted out of the ashes. gilbert could name multiple better options, but alexei volkov understands the game he plays. so, behind him, sit the sadistic and the blindly loyal type of people the leader needs. perhaps he can’t quite judge them, younger and brutal and full of belief like he once was. but gilbert will, anyway. next to him is the one to coordinate the entire shitshow. a much better hire, for sure, but the shock that overcame him in january when he learned of her promotion has never quite dissipated.
he wishes, against all his will, that zahra would have kept him in her crew. he stares at the group with slightly raised eyebrows - brooks and owens are as flimsy as wet cardboard, but impeccable shots. johnson? they often whisper in the armory with him, and are trading discreet eye rolls right now. but they don’t act on any of that ever, far too level headed. gilbert stares at his enforcer. shit, he’s barely met him before his absence, but the uncertain man is no leader. trigger happy? trigger delirious, perhaps. gilbert wouldn’t even call him a great soldier. but what do i know? i’ve only been a soldier for 28 out of 38 years of living, anyway. he can’t help but roll his eyes again, now by himself.
the group barely gets to move before gilbert simply turns around and says ‘no’. hansen had started fumbling through his words, but the few said were enough for gil to feel like someone must pull the damn plug. ‘we separate, every single one to a different trap, and running back after. we’ll finish this before they even do the first.’ perhaps he’s forgetting his place, as he tends to do, more and more in the last few years, impossibly so since his return. yet the danger of the past few days seems to have taken away all clarity. as does the light smirk on the impostor enforcer’s face, so self congratulatory. “i’m sorry, is this a capture the flag kind of morning?” johnson kicks his ankle but they’re promptly ignored. “what, are you trying to get points for-” there’s some words traded among the soldiers, but soon it is just hansen and orquídeas going at it. mostly gilbert, but the man seems to be absorbing the anger like a sponge. oh, how he hopes the man will explode soon. “-so not only are you incapable of strategising but you act like your soldiers are collateral. may i remind you, sir, that the zone has lost many just this week? that is fucking reckless. and-”
he doesn’t quite clock the presence of zahra, but rather her words, interrupting the barrage. “well, clearly there is a goddamned problem.” his tone is rough, disrespectful too. he’s being disrespectful to hansen, but he doesn’t quite count as an enforcer on his books. zahra doesn’t either, but he makes an effort. the soldier sighs and turns to look at her, exasperation personified, tone and wording much more fitting to his and her roles. “ma’am, he’s not fit for this. you,” there is a certain pressure to the word, “must do something.”
— mountain view hospital, laboratory, 16th of july 2044, with vincent holtz. @vincentholtz
gilbert’s only got the morning in the lab today, off on other tasks in just a few hours, but he’s come in with a plan. only vincent is in today - his favourite kind of lab day. he was deep into work when an enforcer walked by, carefully screwing in some lids and covering them in fabric for some incendiary explosives. small stuff, easy task, he didn’t even acknowledge the woman who nodded at him. vincent came in, the typical greetings, back to work because someone would likely check again, with the new addition. it’s a quite predictable routine, after some observation. about an hour into vincent’s presence, the man quickly gets up, with absolutely no warning, stool almost thrown across the room, and takes off his left shoe with one hand, begins opening a pot with the other. “keep watch, will ya?” from inside his shoe, he takes an old plastic bag filled with something red - powdered clay, that mug will be missed - dumps the contents into a petri dish, and after blowing into the bag to clear out dust, he scoops in the content from the pot. phosphorus. a fire starter.
“now that things have calmed down, i must say.” gilbert does not acknowledge what he’s doing at all. it’s not the first time vincent has watched him steal from the lab, but it’s usually a small spoon here and there. the bag is threatening rupture. and the hospital is heavily surveilled. “you’re damn smart, we know this already, no need to beat a dead horse.” he closes the bag, pulls out a fabric pouch from his pocket, and sticks it back inside his shoe, putting it on. then an empty bag, hole with a bandaid on it, comes from another pocket and he starts filling it up too. “but smart doesn’t mean wise. no need to beat this,” he points at himself with a smile, but then hands return to quick work, “dead horse either. keeping your head cool and sending out radio warnings? instead of losing it or not contacting anybody like... some people?” bag sealed in a strip of fabric, into his other shoe. the pot is near empty. he grabs a fabric pouch from his back pocket and stares at it for just a moment, pondering. he will loose some material in that. but might as well. “impeccable job. betcha saved a lot of lives like that. everyone who thought for a moment to actually call in reinforcements kept many alive for sure.” he looks at him for a moment, a smile on his face. and then he ties up the bag, teeth pulling on strings where amputated nubs fail. his best hand busies itself with the petri dish full of fake replacement. “good job, kid. damn brilliant boy. i wonder if it’s hereditary. might be more of a nurture than a nature scenario, though.”
— two streets south of the hotel, 8th of july 2044, with henrik larsen. @henriklarsen
the summer breeze whistles through the empty street. by the looks of it, one could think the qz is recently abandoned, like so many are according to travelers and whispers. this is a usually lively area, right around the corner from the hotel, the long line of abandoned buildings not quite unkempt, used by mostly hotel residents as hangout places, trading location, devon from 3rd floor deals with his handmade clothes inside what used to be a a gun and ammo shop. today, and for the foreseeable future, however, it must remain empty. the duo patrol the streets in search for the usual, and the new. the heel of his riffle bangs loudly against a closed door. “flashlight through that window, yeah? but i think this one’s empty.” the sun is near setting, and there is no reaction from the inside. they have far too much ground to cover to be entering every building, though. gilbert sighs and the faintest of rattling sounds can be heard. he stops, mid movement, rifle in the air. his head turns to look at his patrol partner. he quite likes this one. “could be rats. aaliyah, we patrolled with her last monday?” he whispers quickly, eyes scanning the surroundings. “she wanted to bring a cat in, it’s been a problem.” he wonders if it’s her behind the door. but punishment is worse than death, so cool heads coming in only. “fuck this.” gilbert hits the rifle hard against the door. this is a ridiculous order. didn’t idaho falls once pride itself in subverting fedra’s control? alexei volkov doesn’t care, alexei volkov won’t punish you for breaking curfew, there is none. what is this bullshit then? he feels like a bad actor. “observe mandatory restrictions! to fight infection and insurrection!” it’s a yell, in an almost mocking tone. meant to warn, put your weapons down if you’ve got them, don’t turn this ugly on yourself. not really to warn them enough to escape, he knows the building damn well, they wouldn’t have much luck, the windows face front alone. his whole body slams into the door.
— grand teton mall, 30th june 2044, with gilbert orquídeas. @orquidaeas
from the higher floors, he can see the carnage in the lobby clearly. nik hasn’t seen anything like this since idaho’s FEDRA days. it was foolish of him to hope an outbreak like this was something of the past, because it always repeats itself, doesn’t it? he rests his rifle on the bannister, firing meticulous shots into the remaining infected. he doesn’t realise until a body drops that the shot he just fired burrows into the brain of a runner wrestling with gilbert. he’s alive. he’s fucking alive.
the mall is mostly quiet now as he runs down the stairs to meet him. runner attacks him in the stairwell, and he crushes its skull against the closest wall. when he finds gil, he’s covered in blood that isn’t his and relief finally allows him to take a deep breath.
until he gets closer. there are scratches on gil’s face and just like that, his world falls apart. “no. no, no, no…” he loses all sense of secrecy as he grabs gil by his jaw, eyes wide and haunted, fingers gentle despite the rising panic. “how did you get these, gil? tell me it was a nail or something, please, gil—” i just got you back. i can’t lose you again. “gil, i’m begging you.”
one by one, the runners seem to fall, even if taking many down with them. the thick of it has certainly passed, which is why when gilbert runs down the south end of the mall, he is a magnet. it is a constant struggle, hands pulling them out of him non stop, spending more time avoiding a bite than actually killing them. his heart could fly out of his mouth. in the small breaks he gets, gilbert holds the palm of his hand, the cleanest bit, to his neck, trying to hold in bleeding and control if it’s lessening. barely. another one comes in just before the bend, and he’s grabbing it by the hair, knee hitting dangerously close to the mouth. it’s down, temporarily, and he moves on. i’m going the wrong way. the infirmary is the opposite way. the way he fled from, leaving suri and eva with a pool of blood by their feet. gil takes a second, a simple second where nothing is coming at him, to rest his back against a wall, hand holding trembling hand.
i’ve got no radio. i’m bleeding. i can’t find ophelia or vincent. can’t get to gabriel. the facts mount up as he steadies his breathing. he imagines all of his commanding officers in salt lake city kicking him. waste of training. there’s runners in my face. they’ve been in my face before. this is patrol, not the pits. he presses the numb spots on his hands. she didn’t kill me. this isn’t wyoming. i am not dead. gilbert steps away from the wall, eyes sharp on the surroundings, looking for anything he can use to put some distance between himself and the infected. i am not dead.
another one runs into him, impact almost sending him flying. they struggle together through the lobby, the sound of its whimpers mixing with his groans. he’s close enough to see the pained mutated expression, but before it can sink teeth into his face, the runner falls limp on the floor. gilbert looks up and relief washes over him. he’s alive. and i am not dead. minutes earlier, he’d thought about how he might never see him again. knife digging in - my last words were what? good night? he takes quick steps to meet him as the runner finds him in the stairs, but nik handles it faster. he smiles at him, something tired and relieved, but he is met with a dreadful reaction, expression falling slowly. “what?” his eyes go wide. they’re right in the open. but he can’t pull away, he was never the disciplined one when it comes to them. “what are you-” his own bloodied fingers touch his face, and the sting brings clarity. “fuck.” how is he going to justify this to the rest? “no, no, niko - wait.” his hands move to nik’s, laying gently over them. “not infected. suri. it was just suri.” just. there is blood dripping down his neck. “listen, it’s alright, we’re alright.” the hands move to the wrists, holding and softly caressing. he hopes that will melt away the horrible look on nik’s face. “it’s alright. just suri.”
— abandoned house by the river, 6th of july 2044, with ophelia cage. @kinderdays
his numb fingertip presses against the bullet head inside his pocket, not even sensing the pressure fully. it’s harder to slip away goods and materials when the mood is surveillance. and this isn’t fedra, alexei is not getting truckloads of bullets from other qzs. it’s a piling up of dangers, all ending in the ultimate one - ophelia, sweet ophelia, healer ophelia, holding the empty gun in her hands. he taught her the basics many years before, of course, but she’s not made for it. not a natural soldier, he’d joked. but i wasn’t either. damn her family, their family, and their love of life. damn every hole they’ve patched and every cut they’ve sewn. it didn’t do much good for dad in the end - he legs go of the bullet, trying to shake away the bitterness, because it is only a step before guilt. i won’t be there to shoot for you every time, is what he said when he first suggested teaching her. but he was there for kenneth. he was there for every casualty he wanted to avoid and could not. he was there for helena, for santiago, for - gilbert is restless. a stranger could tell it from miles away. but opie asked, and he wasn’t there for her during the outbreak, so this is all the good he can give her. even if it’s a distorted image.
“you ain’t getting a bullet until you aim right.” he comes over, patient as always, but with twitching fingers. gently but with accuracy, gilbert moves her elbows, then twists her by the shoulders just a bit. “stiff arms. this is not suturing, you don’t want to flow gracefully, you want to be locked in place.” there was a point in all those military exercises with fedra, wasn’t it? all the standing, all the frozen motions. it was power, of course, but as always, he owes all of his training to fedra; as always, he must unearth the memories and find gratefulness in them. a twisted gratefulness. “you’re moving, you’re losing, come on.” the undone building they stand in is missing a roof, grass overgrown beneath their feet, but enough walls to shield them from view. the scratched metal target shines in the sunlight, summer bringing in heat and brightness to what is a desperately grey town at the moment. “alright, hand me the gun, take a deep breath, re-set.” gil is not a combat teacher at idaho, and that is visible. just holding onto old knowledge. “go like this.” he stands motionless in front of her, chin and chest up, arms rigidly on the side, fingers spread with meticulousness, feet almost together. “eyes front. i’m counting two minutes on the clock.”
it would be easy to be irritated, to give into frustration and let harshness take over. here, with gil looking at vissa’s old door with recognition for its former occupant, he is a liability. here, being ushered away kindly by a volkov whose heart should have been torn out a long time ago, there is danger. it’s not a situation anyone should stumble across, not if nik wants to keep the armour he’s worked so hard for. this is the most dangerous floor of the hotel to be caught on. gilbert orquídeas has no business here, except in nik’s heart when they’re both out of sight.
if they were not so exposed, nik would take gilbert’s face in both of his hands, hold him still, and whisper words of promise; that no harm will find him. but to do so here in the hallway might be a death sentence. a long, agonising death. one that will take decades, perhaps longer. nik could never live with himself if he’d condemned gil to a life of misery at alexei’s hand. instead, nik does as he always does. he holds gil’s hand tighter and instead of entertaining those senseless thoughts of his in the open. nik drags gilbert into his room, closing the door firmly behind them.
with that closed door comes safety. there is always the matter of making too much noise, but here no one can see how nik’s hands become gentle, loving things as they reach for gil’s hands, pulling the other into him. as nik’s hands break from gil’s to embrace him, nik’s lips press a soft kiss to the side of gil’s head. “it’s good to have you home,” he whispers. arms tighten around the man he loves. it’s a silent declaration to catch him should he fall, to hold onto all the pieces of him should he unravel. if nikolai has ever been able to do anything good, it’s being able to give a pocket of safety in the wolf’s den. and this is how it always goes with gilbert. there is running and panic and fear. and then comes a collapse. so nik holds on tight, so no matter where gilbert’s mind takes him, he will have something constant, something to lean against that won’t crumble under the weight of his sadness and fear and whatever else nik can’t bear the weight of for him.
gilbert looks at him, in his unwavering face, in his still hands, in his terrible silence, and he can’t help but contort and distort his own face - a silent cry, in the realisation that even here, even now, nothing changes. even with his plea, his desperate begging of help, nothing. he could get on his knees and maybe get a look, a hidden thumb caressing his skin, but that’s as far as they can go. this truly is real. i could imagine nicer things. but nikolai is dragging him away and the movement comes with amnesia, no new information really gets to be stored now, and the world closes in the form of a door.
giovanni’s room. he’d terrorrised himself over it a lifetime ago, when that door first started closing. we are living in giovanni’s room. nik didn’t get it, so gilbert told him a tragic tale of a hidden shame-filled relationship, dangerous in its beauty, and of an executed man, and the other forever trapped in his own unhappiness too. nik tried to get it, but nothing could explain it as well as the book that was left on his bedside table: covered in annotations by gil’s hand between, over, around the lines; and in bits of paper with more paragraphs upon paragraphs of thoughts. thoughts that were evolving, from the pencil he had as a kid in salt lake city, to annotations made just days prior, the letter “N.” all around. did he get it then? gilbert is certain he did. but nothing quite changed their fates. here they are again, locked in the beautiful safety but suffocating hiding of nikolai’s room. and is gilbert not a soon to be executed man? maybe nik will do as david, move away from the room with someone less guilty, and hopefully nik will have forgotten the last few pages and spare himself david’s guilt and loneliness, settle instead for the unfulfilling love of someone lighter. gilbert blinks and the words on the pages disappear, and instead he finds he’s been encased. warm flesh holds him up and together, and he wonders why he’s been running at all. maybe the room isn’t so bad, even with its ending. he’d had more unfair prices to pay.
he wraps one hand around him too, tight around the waist. the other tries, but he hisses in pain and drops it again. it’s an electrical reminder of the world outside the room. it’s general sommer’s hands pulling him by his arms, switching him around, grabbing his wrist the wrong way while the rest of his arm suffocates him, ligaments all damaged. he can’t tell how long ago that was, but it drives up his heartbeat. “they’re going to kill me, niko.” alexei behind the door. anso under the kitchen table. suri outside the window. yen sitting on the bed. clicking noises coming from every cabinet. he doesn’t know if he can hold onto nikolai any harder. “they’re all- every one of them, they’re-” gilbert realises and simply must pull back a bit, get a good look of nik’s face. his own is red and wet again. none of his cuts bleed anymore, but they certainly bruise, though none as much as his stomach. above all, he looks tired. and in his tired eyes, he looks at him. “i sound insane, right?” voice what nikolai won’t, isn’t that your only job? your only perk? the pieces fit together. orquídeas disappears, orquídeas misses work, orquídeas closes the school, orquídeas hands over the school to someone else, orquídeas violently fights the new soldier in the food court and runs away. haven’t they all been whispering or thinking about it in some form? it’s not pathological and it’s not curable, their realities aren’t fixers anymore. orquídeas lost it. was anso even there? or was it just him placing a horror on top of the mundane, like he’s done before, like nik has seen with his own eyes too, inside this very room. gil inhales poorly, realising he hasn’t been doing that or the opposite for a moment, realising that the air is thick in there, unlike the cold wild winds of the outside. “i really do. but i swear- niko, i’m not - i’m not making this up. please. they’re all here.” one final bad inhale. no more. he speaks fast. “and- suri farook wanted to throw me off the wall last month, and the general is here, i really think he’s here, and he’ll drag me back and he’ll carve me open again and- alexei. alexei won’t accept this. i just. i attacked a soldier at the mall, didn’t i? he will never- and us. he’s got every reason to tie a noose and- and there’s the fucking clicking sounds everywhere and they’re all going to finally kill me, it’s like they’re competing and i- where do i even run?”
“i’m sorry,” opie blurts once she catches her breath and he’s there in front of her and she can see the fear leave his eyes. “i didn’t mean to scare you- scared myself a little bit,” she laughs, her fingers still pressed against the linen of her shirt. they’re just there for a moment, and everything is okay. for a minute there’s no worry, no fear. “yeah it’s- it’s real alright,” she says, her voice breathy as if she’s in awe. “i’ve even got a bump now,” she smiles, “most of my pants are too tight, i had to take out a pair of my scrubs,” she sighs, “it’s all getting more real by the day.” in a way it was easier to ignore at first. sure there was the sickness for awhile, but then it could just kind of slip away. especially after max- her mind often focused on other things. now it’s here, and every day when she gets dressed she is reminded of her reality- of the future that is coming faster than she expected.
she notices the small smile on gil’s face, barely there. god, it’s such a good sight to see, it instantly makes her feel better. his happiness means everything to her, and sometimes she fears his smile was lost long ago, that maybe he’d never get it back. but it’s here right in front of her, tiny sure, but here. “you think so?” her eyes water at the question, and even more at the sight of his own tears. “god, i hope so. there’s just- so much that can go wrong. so much i can do wrong, and so much out of my control.” she shakes her head, almost like she’s trying to push the thoughts right out of her mind. she doesn’t want to worry him, doesn’t want to ruin the moment. he has such a heavy load to carry already.
the kettle screaming becomes too loud to bear and she moves over to take it off the heat. she takes a deep breath, turning off the gas and carefully carrying the pot over to the table. “they’re gonna need you too, you know,” she says as she tips the kettle to pour hot water over the herbs in his cup. “you’ll need to read to them, and teach them their multiplication tables,” she laughs. “just like you did for me.” the rest goes unsaid. i need you, i can’t do this on my own. please don’t leave me again. please be here.
ophelia reaches for a small jar in a cupboard. “we only have a little, it’s my fault. little one loves sweets,” she shakes her head with a small chuckle and sets the almost empty pot of honey in front of him. she’s not sure if he’ll drink it, not sure if it will even work. but she can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the dark bags that hang above his cheeks. she wonders what horrors keep him up at night or if he’d ever tell her about them. she sits across from him and scoops a bit of honey into her cup. her fingers wrap around the ceramic, letting the heat radiate into her skin. there’s a stillness in the air, and both of them know the other is not letting them in completely. all these years and they’re still protecting each other from their own pain, refusing to share their burden. in this way ophelia is selfish, because she wants him to tell her everything. she wants to stitch him up so he can heal. she’s a healer, and it kills her that he’s just bleeding out in front of her. all she does is take a careful sip, hoping he’ll mirror her, hoping maybe the lavender will lull him to sleep and she can tuck him in and protect him, even if it’s only for a night. she thinks maybe she’ll have to give a little, crack herself open first. “i’ve been having nightmares,” she offers tentatively. “i know i always have, but they’ve been every night lately. so i- i’ve been drinking a lot of tea.” opie doesn’t meet his gaze, just watches the leaves at the bottom of her teacup as her confession hangs in the air for a minute. “nothing too bad,” she lies, trying not to remember the vision of the barrel between her eyes before it goes off. she leaves out every time she’s woken up drenched and out of breath. it’s better perhaps, to dig into herself instead of him. she’s terrified of scaring him away, what if this time he doesn’t come back? and yet, there’s a pleading in her eyes. “i’m okay though,” a half truth, so he doesn’t worry too much. “just a bit tired.” she takes another sip.
“it’s alright. it’s alright.” it is getting more real by the day. he’s lost track of them, always has, and his grip on reality isn’t much better ( it’s worse, it’s certainly worse ) - but maybe he has too much backlogged, he hasn’t caught up enough yet to notice. for months, her sight comes as a revelation that reopens every stitch. how can he know someone his whole life and suddenly return to over a year of change? how many hair growth and hair cut cycles has me missed? how many long days of work that have left their microscopic mark on her skin, on her eyes, on her vocal cords? is this shirt new, did she trade for it? is that his scarf? her eyes look older. maybe they do not, his mind deceives him. but the day after, they keep looking older. she sets her shoulders differently now, but maybe he’s just in his head, but she certainly has the left end just a tad lower. microscopic, again. gilbert has tried to convince himself that he returns to where he left, nothing changed, not even himself. but it’s a fantasy that no one lets him entertain, because he saw her most days of her life, and suddenly she is someone new. her heart carries new memories, her skin, her mind. it is not about the major changes, like the baby. it’s that he hasn’t yet caught up to january, let alone may. reality is much more shocking this way.
perhaps it is the exhaustion that leaves his brain so much more absorbent. that lets him drill into it that someone new is coming, someone good, someone unprotected, someone that breaks easily. and that the little kid in front of him is not one anymore. has he missed that too? “you can’t do any of it wrong. you’ll do your best, as you always do, and it will be an incredible best.” his best isn’t. wasn’t that always the difference between the two of them?
they’re gonna need you too. “i know.” it feels like a call out. or maybe he’s just in his head again. he gilbert shakes it, trying to expel all the thoughts of accusation on her voice. it’s so obvious they share an origin (or a middle point, for him, but he’d rather call it an origin). there’s other teachers. he bites his tongue, it’s an impossible task. i’ve left before, he bites it again. i don’t think i’ll last the week. he keeps of swallowing bloodied words that have no meaning or far too much of it, that clash with all his beliefs and then complement them, and eventually too much time has passed and she’s gotten no answer at all but a wide eyed face. the tension returns to his muscles.
gilbert goes back to the table, placing the teacups back in order. god, how he misses the hissing of the kettle. regardless, he takes note of the sweets, planning to raid his room for something to bring besides the bag he’s left today ( and perhaps nik’s room too, if he asks kindly enough ). he watches her pour in the honey, shaking his head to let her know he won’t. after all, they only have a little. and gilbert continues silent, eyes following her motions, and happiness from a moment before already faded and not archived away well, as he’s too tired for that. emotionally volatile, he was called once. like a roll of the dice that will not stop.
in a kinder day, he’d start the questions himself, rather than simply receive her answers. he should have come here days before, when the texture on the walls didn’t seem to move, or when his eyes, wandering between her and the front door behind her, didn’t try to convince his mind that there was no one on the other side of the door. and then she talks, and he blinks awake. gilbert’s hands move to the teacup, not so much wrapping themselves around it to hold, but the back and sides of his fingers warming up in the ceramic, like the cold hasn’t left the grafts. “i’m sorry.” her gaze avoids his, but he can’t do the same. she looks tired too, doesn’t she? “what do you dream about?” he looks down at the tea. it’s inviting. it’s a trap. he keeps it for skin warmth, set on the table. he remembers her nightmares as a child. he remembers going into her room, telling her he had them too. it was not news, of course. telling her she could always come to him after a scary night, because he knew them better than the palms of his hands. telling her he’d argue and kick every bad thing away, and i’m damn relentless, they stand no chance - do you know what relentless means, actually? and here she is again.
there’s a leash around his neck, barbed wire; it sits snug, pinches just enough as he rolls his neck and works his jaw against it. the containment, orderly lines; he feels it pinch tighter the stiller he sits, stands. so, anso makes moves on it, shoulders his way through the crowd to the ration hall on the allotted time that they are meant to. he’d been the shepherd for long enough that he doesn’t appreciate the herding, but he reminds himself these are growing pains and lets his bones stretch and pull into the form they need to take. the sack he holds in his hands has an assortment of produce, he’s assured. the dull drone of the crowd hums above him and around him. it peaks, hums – until, it’s white noise.
he’s turning to walk, then, heading towards his allotted quarters. gaze sharp even when his fists are not, his eyes move over the crowd with the precision of someone who’s known how to hunt long enough for it to become second nature. he doesn’t stop to make small talk, doesn’t linger – not until his eyes flit over and back on a familiar face. it’s the narrowing – the spotting; anso remembers the faces he carves, this one unique to it. ( harbringer; defiance – the kind you beat with a stick. ) the depth in anso’s chest, of his depravity; boundless. santiago mirrored it, head never bowing no matter how much anso dug in, pulled apart. a revelation, really. there was a sick satisfaction in the unraveling inflicted. how welcome it was to walk those bloodied grounds again.
“santi-fucking-ago” he starts, teeth bared in what could be called a smile but shouldn’t be. “–in the flesh.” anso takes in the unmaking of the man, the red-rimmed eyes and the way they’re widened. he knows what a deer looks like right before its skinning; he’s seen this look in him before ( been the cause of it ). when he stalks towards him, there’s a wideness to his gait. he takes space, holds it with the confidence of a predator. “never thought i’d see the fucking day.” he adds, mimics the greetings as if they are old friends, reuniting. and though a reunion this is, there’s nothing friendly to it. there’s nothing so harmless to anso, built out of knives and bared teeth as he is.
he doesn’t get to say much more before santiago’s fist is connecting with his jaw. his face whips with it, it echoes in his bones in a way that anso knows is going to ache. the pause stills the air around them, the crowd parting to make room for the commotion building. he’s straightening up when the second impact meets his ribs – falters, but lands. when anso looks back up at him, there’s a gleam to his eyes. ah, there it is. and he’s awake, pulled up from the slumber he’d taken to when cloaking docility around his shoulders to settle into the base. “ahh…” he says, straightens up until he’s tall to his height, rolls his shoulders and raises his palms up. salvation comes. “i missed you too, pal.” he says, and there’s the lick-split of a moment, the pin drop of it that ticks in the way his smile widens. the snap of it, the reckoning of something just off in the way his gaze settles on santiago.
the hand holding the sack of produce lets it drop before anso is rearing forward, putting his weight into it as he pushes santiago, hard, makes him stumble with it; stalks forward. “i was wondering when i’d get my warm welcome.” he says, tilts his head with the words for emphasis. the volume to them rises as he settles back into his body, back into his bones. it had only been a few days but he’s been itching to stretch, itching to dig, itching to cull. “ain’t it fitting that you’re the welcoming committee?” he says again, keeps moving forward unshaking. if there is a crowd, they will part. santiago will either meet him or he will fall. there’s an agility to the way he rears his fist back, pushes his torso into it as he waits for his knuckles to connect with the meat of santiago’s jaw. when he feels the muscle give under it, skin split – that’s when he smiles again, wider this time. as the man rears, anso crouches, rests his palms on the meat of his thighs just above his knees so he can look at santiago while he’s bent down; match eye for eye, looking at him as he stumbles, as he cracks. we know how this dance goes, don’t we?
anso likes playing with his food too much, he knows. he’s become gratuitous with his cuts over the years, bathed too well in the luxury the space his cruelty was allowed back at militia base. but the iron of his muscles is that of a soldier, one that had learned to bend and break, to mold. he’s not careless. ( it makes him deadly. ) there’s something off about santiago, he can tell – can read it in him the way you spot the limp on a deer or the unsure footing of a fawn. santiago’s no fucking fawn though, is he? before the other can fully recover, anso’s bringing a hand to cup the back of his neck and pulling him close in one swift move. palm pushes down as knee pulls up, he pivots up, knees the man straight in the face. it’s not enough to knock him down, but enough to make him bleed. “gotta say, i’m offended you didn’t meet me at the base borders.” he says, this time, unmoving. the tip of a tongue cleans sweep over his teeth as he swipes at them, mouth snarling up as he continues. “bit rude, don’t you think? not even for old time sakes, huh?”
no amount of violence can shut up general sommers. at first, the sound doesn’t register, only the movement of a mouth being temporarily halted by his fist. but he keeps going and, slowly, sound returns to the room, rather than just the pumping of blood and the distant unreality. it’s breathing happening just under his knuckles. his own, a mix of exhales and groans, exhaustion not making a good match for unexpected violence. and it is an all too familiar blend of noises: whispers, screams, people walking forward and back, and he can swear it’s cheers too. ‘i miss you too, pal.’ gilbert looks around for a moment, opening the stage for anso to usurp the little upper hand he’s gained himself. i miss you. it plays over the chants, but those are real, and the words are imagination. there’s a full crowd of people around them, but no face is recognizable, none is from home. and they scream, and clap, and a group is in the back, jumping almost over each other in excitement. an old man turns his face away, but stays in his place regardless. gil looks down, and the floor is stone solid, the marbled white of the mall, but it feels powdery under his soles, like dirt. it’s an undistinguishable blend, the present and the memories of a man who died in wyoming months ago. i never left. there is no time to blink and rub away from his eyes the sights that seem out of place, nor to understand the feeling of destruction, but gilbert feels something shatter there and then. multiple things even, like a bomb in a greenhouse, no pot, window or glass door left standing. in the aftermath, surrounded by shards, stands neither gilbert nor santiago, the shiny and bloodied fragments of his mind right by his feet – it’s far too much for it to take, when all he wants is to lay done and close his eyes. it’s shards of his heart too, broken by the promise of victorious safety or hope, all taken away, i tried so hard and came so far and i’m back here again.
anso pushes and he stumbles at first, feet distracted by the collapse, and the general having caught him far from his best moment. gilbert then offers resistance, but it doesn’t last for long, the impasse ending in the soldier stumbling back once again. the movement brings him a bit closer to reality, though. anso sommers is here. i’m almost sure. i’m in idaho falls, it’s may of 2044, anso sommers is in idaho falls. he repeats it as he’s pushed, as his eyes find the other’s cold ones, as he recognizes the depravity in them, and yet the flood of memories coming with aches as physical as the present, is dissonant from the background he knows so well. gil tries to hold onto that truth, as people move out of the way, as he stumbles his way back rather than forward. and then no truth remains, when a hard fist connects with his skin, the thinnest area of it splitting open like a rotten tree. blood comes from outside and within, where soft tissue met his teeth, and as his mouth opens, it’s not just an exhale that comes out, but a loud pained groan, and a pool of thick blood. gilbert was never quiet in his pain.
in the disorientation, he almost falls, but he’d never give anso the glory of watching him limp on the floor. gilbert has no other goal, really. it is not vengeance, that is far too intricate for the abilities of his brain at present. it is not spectacle, the crowd keeps shifting in character and existence or disappearance in his mind. it is purely muscle memory, the feeling of fear and defiance that those pale eyes call for. it is survival. there was no other way this reunion could go. gilbert would not run away, not when he’s always known the general would catch up to him – and he has, yes he has. and now he stares at him, and gilbert, with his mouthful of dripping blood and wide eyes, stares right back, even if the prey in him is the most visible aspect, he knows the general will see this as resistance. it takes maiming to receive crumbs of victory, but gilbert hoards them all, hopeful to one day have enough to show. he tries to spit some of the red liquid at anso, like he’s done many times before, but the general strikes quicker, grabbing him by the back of the neck. the skin over his cheekbone rips apart too, once the knee hits him, and black engulfs the sides of his vision, breath stolen away for a moment. he would stumble and unfold down, had the grip in order to strike still not hold him. he doesn’t reply to any of the comments made, nauseatingly dizzy, but he does look up, and the first thing besides sounds of hurt leaves his mouth. “are you-“ he needs to inhale again and spit some more blood down onto the floor. “are you here to kill me?”
gilbert is a resourceful fighter. he’s also a desperate fighter. that was always how he battled, but it cemented as a trait in wyoming. the pits asked for innovative ideas, especially when they fully stopped giving him specifically weapons. and he would never step foot in them all dignified and quiet. every single person watching should hear his screams. and so he launches forward, taking advantage of his crouched lowered position, a growl moving along with his head, which hits harshly the one above his, and gil can hear something crack. it’s not mine, it’s not mine. his hand grips the others shirt and on his hair, he can immediately feel something wet, and blood falls onto the floor. not mine. his left fist slams into the ribs again, in the very same spot, and the impact makes each joint hiss, but he cannot care less. if he breaks himself to break the other, it is a worthwhile loss, even if all consuming. haven’t all his losses been worthwhile? the hand that grips the shirt is half of what it used to be. was it worthwhile? it has been days since anyone has seen him at all, just as long since he’s been able to sleep. was it worthwhile? what victory is he reaping, if all he’s sowed has poisoned the field too? he keeps on punching, repeated damage surely making an impact, and the other hand keeps pulling anso close, far too close for safety, but this is not something he can win from afar, bomb set, watch the blast go.
anger is a sickness, farah used to tell her. it’s through anger that people lose their lives, it’s anger that brought people through the medical tent. over and over, she voiced desire for a world devoid of anger. it wasn’t something suri had ever been able to truly understand, being such an easy victim to rage. some people deserve it, she’d tell farah. but suri was always countered with: if there was no anger, there would be no pain, no hurt. if there was no anger, there would be no need for revenge. farah hoped for a world where malice is dead, and even though it always felt impossible to suri, now she has no chance of finding such a place. not when the reasonable, quiet voice in her ear is gone.
“you didn’t set out to kill any of us,” she repeats with a sour laugh. she takes a step closer, teeth bared and eyes wild. “that doesn’t mean jack shit to me. doesn’t matter what you intended, gilbert. her body was burned beyond fucking recognition.” another humourless laugh. “and you know the best bit?” there are tears forming in her eyes, but it doesn’t take away from that sickening rage, “i was trying to think why she was there. trying to figure out if i could have prevented it. i think she was gonna sneak you an extra ration. isn’t that fucking ironic? all she ever wanted to do was help you. and that’s how you repaid her.”
a tear finally falls, and suri makes no move to wipe it away. instead, she smiles a terrifying smile. “yeah. i am.” it might seem counterproductive to announce plans for murder, but she’s desperate to instill fear in him. it’s the least he deserves. “how do you think i should do it, hm? slit your throat, watch you choke on your own blood? maybe hang you from a tree and watch some runners fight to get their share of flesh? maybe no one would think twice if i said you freaked out and jumped,” she nods towards the railing, to the long journey to the ground, but her eyes don’t break away from him for even a second, “but that doesn’t feel right to me. that’s an easy way out. you don’t fucking deserve easy.”
it's pure instinct. suri takes a step forward and gilbert takes one back. with most, he’d move closer, something tempestuous in him always running head-first into conflict, but that was not possible in wyoming. he’d tried, at first. to rally against the ropes, to kick the walls of the cage, teeth bared for every soldier he came across; but they wanted to break that. it was domestication at its worst, the scars of it still so present on flesh and mind. the pits were the only moment he could climb up the walls, throw rocks into the crowd, yell all the screams that had no point any other time. but suri farook doesn’t belong in the pits. her face is in another catalogue, and even if he doesn’t want to admit it, the instinct his muscles memorized is fear, regardless of how the memories that move him contain faces that aren’t hers. they never could break him into submission, but they did make him fear. gilbert takes stock of his options, and knows he’s on the losing side, the great fall behind him, just a push away. he can’t kill the new soldier either, no one would buy self-defense.
her story is the most violent of punishments. he should have checked for collateral, but in the moment his mind could only hope for some, to leave behind a trail of not just destruction but blood too. it’s a conflicting feeling, far too intricate to be solved amidst escape plans on top of the wall: the wanted vengeance he still stands by, the glorious feeling that someone did pay for it all, the disgusting revelation of who it was, the memories of someone who proved, despite how hard he tried to ignore it, that the militia isn’t made up of torturers only. his mind takes him somewhere he’s refused to go for months too: the image of gabriel reyes, left behind in his cell, learning that their plan, made kind and holy by his hand alone (we free the others, we can’t leave them behind), resulted in this unforgivable act. gabe, in the cell, making plans of salvation. gilbert, in the field, murdering the innocent and leaving him behind.
she wants vengeance. he’d do it too. it adds to the churn in his stomach – the thought that he and suri farook are not that different. “how do you plan on leaving town after slitting my throat? it will look like murder, and the enforcer should walk by any minute now.” why am i helping? his eyes are wide, prey negotiating with its captor. have i not overcome this? am i not free? “you’d have to get me outside the zone for the hanging. not easy either.” suri is not the first person wanting to kill him. yet her eyes have something deeper than murder, she wants flesh, painful and righteous. “but that’s true. no one would think twice.” there’s sweat in the back of his neck. “but you’re right. i don’t deserve easy. and i will never make farah right. but YOU have no fucking right talkin’ about who deserves a painful death. you want to measure vengeance?” gilbert wants to take a step forward, engage in it with more than mind and voice, but his terrified feet stick to the floor. “i have worlds of it too. so kill me. throw me off the wall. kill me for my doings and for your own regrets, because she should have never been in wyoming and if i ran, you could have run too.”
It’s difficult still to make complete sense of what was happening around him. He doesn’t recognize these walls or floors, nor the people who flood in on those who had been trapped in that plant he’d just so happened to momentarily call home for the night. That’s what it had been, after all; a storm and a comedy of errors that had brought Suri and Victoria and Felix and Daiyu to him - the very same that were responsible, probably, for him still being able to stand on unstable footing at all.
Suri had said things, words that warped and twisted in his mind now that so much time (and yet so little) had passed. That she wasn’t taking him back there. That they’d take care of him, that he’d be okay. And so far, more or less, those words had been true. But then there was Eva, another face that had looked in on him from outside those bars…and he just couldn’t shake the rising tide of anxiety that came with it all.
What if he’d run so far only to get dragged right back into the dark? No, no; he’d rather be dead.
It seems like a good sign the attention is off of him as loved ones are returned, as embraces are shared, and he’s able to keep his head down and consider blending in with the wallpaper. He’s a piece of the puzzle that doesn’t fit and he can already feel curious eyes shying in his direction, questions being whispered on lips - but all he hears is mind numbing static. He wants to be away, away from all the people, away from everything that is so very out of his control, so unfamiliar now…
He doesn’t hear the call of his name, not until the final one is shouted from Gilbert’s lips and he tenses because he isn’t supposed to be known - not if he’d gotten away. But he already knows he hadn’t, he hadn’t gotten away, not completely; there were already faces looking in on him from the past that shouldn’t align with the present because they’d been gone already and if they were here now then –
But this one, this face that’s now before his own, with his name on his lips - it’s one he hadn’t ever expected to see again. It doesn’t even register, not fully, as hands search him, climb up his arms to cup his face - not until the warmth of him is seeping into his skin, and still he can’t be sure that this isn’t some conjuring of his deprived mind, desperate to make something of comfort amongst all the confusion.
“Santi -” the name that forms on his tongue is wrong, he knows it when it leaks from his lips and his head shakes the slightest bit, brows pulling together. No, not Santiago. Instead it’s the name that he’d been rehearsing over and over, the one he’d promised he’d bring home again…home, to Idaho Falls.
“Gilbert?” He’d died - they’d said it, so many times, that what they’d done had been for nothing, that their orchestrated escape plan had only gotten them all killed. All the other prisoners they’d set ‘free’ had been gunned down or dragged back into the pits to receive punishment so much worse than before. And Gilbert?
He could’ve sworn he’d watched the last moments of his friend’s life unfold. That he’d been the cause of all of it, each and every bit of their suffering - because Gilbert lingered too long, because he’d been the one to suggest going further and letting out as many as they could…
But if anyone could’ve survived…
The apologies are hardly heard because there is nothing to apologize for. If there was, then Gabe himself was just as guilty, if not more. Instead he’s reaching for the other too, attempting to make sense of it, to convince himself that he is solidly there, that this is real.
“You’re - are you…?” His head is spinning, he can’t formulate a proper sentence - doesn’t even know what he wants to say if he could. You’re alive? You made it? Are you really here? Are you real?
There’s recognition in his eyes, accompanied by confusion, shock, even what he’d call fear – the very same he shares. That this is not real. In fact, anyone else looking at them, and there certainly are multiple eyes going in their direction, would see the invisible mirror between them, even if Gilbert would never agree with it. He did always tell Gabe that he was a nicer version of himself. Or kinder, or better, or whatever the word of the week was – but never smarter, ‘you being a doctor doesn’t mean shit, there’s no board to certify you’. It all runs through his mind, memories far too fast to hold onto, but drowning his ears and eyes in snapshots of their year. He holds onto his face the same way he did in their cell, begging him to breathe. Sometimes he’d beg it from afar, with a wall between them or across the corridor, hand stretched out of his cage but unable to reach. The rain dripping from the other’s hair reminds him of the colder months, where no one cared about the water coming into the cages, their disgusting and ragged blankets soon to grow unacceptable mold and be lost for good. The blood from wounds, which Gilbert barely registers, flashes behind his eyes the wait for his turn in the pits. Gabriel bleeding onto the dirt beneath his feet, the runner ready to pounce once more. Gilbert, along with other prisoners and a soldier, right behind the entrance, meant to be quietly and fearfully waiting for their turn. But Santiago isn’t watching, he’s dangling from the wires and barrier that separate them, throwing dirt into the arena, yelling madly, until the runner finally follows that distraction.
Gabriel opens his mouth and all memories fade away, traded by something much more tangible. Last time he’s heard ‘Santiago’, it was general Sommers starting the ending of Gilbert’s life. He wishes he could take the name with joy, the name that is rightfully his too, but a blade is removed from his heart the moment Gabe corrects himself. It bleeds nonetheless, but the offending weapon is gone. “It’s me. It’s me.” He reassures him like he’d reassure himself. His hands move along the other’s face, still shaking and frantic and so far from gentle. They’re both too real. I’ve had time to come back for him. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m real.” He answers, not quite sure to what question. “I’m- we’re in Idaho Falls. Just like we’d planned, my friend.” Is that why he’s here? Escaped, by the looks of it, but so far from his home? “I should have come for you.” Not a single word doesn’t shake as it leaves his mouth, but he can’t break contact. “I would. I will.” It’s not a lie, that much he knows. “I promised you I would, but I just… I couldn’t do it yet.” I failed him. There’s no use whipping tears away; he’s already made quite the show anyhow. They’d told him in Salt Lake City, many years ago, that he’d never make it as a soldier, that FEDRA was wasting their resources. The words were harsh, and usually came with harsher fists, but the point remained: Gilbert who woke up screaming and crying; Gilbert who had tears in his eyes after enough missed practice targets; Gilbert who was lonely and explosive and sad and angry and anything else that could be considered too much; he was not meant to be a soldier. They’d trained him hard enough, or so they thought, for the child’s face grew into stone, and his skill into ripe promise. Yet it took only a few months of war for the lie Gilbert told others and himself to fully crack, and he’s never been able to lie like that again. Gilbert, despite all his loyalty and skill, was never promoted to enforcer by Alexei Volkov, and the reason is quite obvious: he’s the soldier who loses it and yells and breaks things during patrol. He’s the soldier who laughs loudly and smiles at a long list of friends in the zone. He’s the soldier who cries in front of enforcers, dropping as many tears as he does bullets. He is also the treacherous soldier now.
Idaho Falls is dangerous for Gabriel. He sees it now, that rose and golden don’t cover the memories from home. He wouldn’t dream of leaving, but he shouldn’t have dragged Gabe along too. As soon as he’s upright, maybe he’ll fulfil some of his promise. Maybe he’ll get Gabriel home, instead of their terrible original plan. He owes him that much, and much more. “Why here? Why didn’t you go home?” His eyes finally move to inspect the medic and properly register what he sees, and he takes it in with a look of fear. “You need help.” It’s a panicked remark.
PARTICLES | NOTHING BUT THIEVES. “oh, doctor, please. this don’t feel right. oh, can you give me something to get me through the night? oh, if it all falls apart and if this thing goes wrong, oh put me back together however you want.” // “my mind plays tricks. and i don’t sleep no more. and doctor, please. I can’t switch off.”
DON’T CRY FOR ME | STORMZY, RALEIGH RITCHIE. “in case you think i’ve changed and i’m different, i’m not keeping you at a distance. so have a thought for me, yeah. hold down this floor for me, yeah.” // “remember the time before things changed? back in the day. everything can stay the same. remember i came? remember my name? remember my face? i don’t wanna fade away.”
HANDS TIED | BILLY LOCKETT. “but wait, wait a minute. for a second i lost myself. for a second i lost my whole life” // “and i have days where i know i can't climb but i’ll survive, ‘cause you taught me that i fall in love far too easily.”
HOSTAGES | THE HOWL & THE HUM. “so meet me on the bridge, we’ll hand over our hostages. a fake silver ring, your books in foreign languages. you can keep the coat, it looks better on you. anyway, i’m fine, i guess the cold’s a state of mind.” // “and it wasn’t like you liked me for my sunny views on life. oh, i’m dead on the inside, babe i’ve known that all along. any time i tried to love you i got it wrong.”
ANGEL IN LOTHIAN | SAM FENDER. “back then the door was always open, i’d come and go, back and forth, anytime i need. but i’m needing it more now than ever, as i’m fading away. and i’d claw at the door every bad night, but somehow it’s blocked from the other side. claw till my skin falls apart. until i feel something.” // “and my brother was spiralling down, he said, ‘kid, it’s not me, it’s this town’.”
RED EARTH & POURING RAIN | BEAR’S DEN. “i was waiting for a call. a call never came, so i made my own way, and i can’t find my way back home again.” // “can’t you hear me calling out your name? i’ve got something burning, coursing through these cold veins. in the words we speak, babe, somehow i get lost in between when to suffer in silence or to break it all with each breath that we breathe.”
FUEL ON THE FIRE | BEAR’S DEN. “was it all in my mind? was i lost in my own head? worried about something i regret. is there anything i don’t regret?” // “fuel on the fire, now i’m burning up. fuel on the fire, i won’t let it stop. fuel on the fire, remembering how to love.”
AULD WIVES | BEAR’S DEN. “but i swam across the ocean to find your memory, a trace of all that you have left behind. and the auld wives swore that you were born to die without a child to call out your name. but i call your name.”
LAST TO MAKE IT HOME | SAM FENDER. “i’m godless and wrecked, but i can’t live by those stakes. the semantics are totally outdated. and the love i had is never enough. it bores me and leaves me frustrated.” // “i’m the last to make it home. i’m the last to call it off. i’m the last to meet my bed. and last to bring home the bread. and last to make it home.”
DEW ON THE VINE | BEAR’S DEN. “born to break or to last, is it all in the past? is that a scar or a birthmark? retracing this cold heart, and now i’m all out of thread, and i don’t want to die here.” // “keep chasing echoes of my mind, babe it’s a fine line, and i’m so far over it. and i know it. beneath it all i’m still broken, cut me out, cut it open.”
SPENT GLADIATOR 2 | THE MOUNTAIN GOATS. “like a spent gladiator, crawling in the colosseum dust, who can count on his remaining limbs all the people he can trust.” // “stay alive. maybe spit some blood at the camera. just stay alive.”
GABRIEL | BEAR’S DEN. “is this all i am? all i ever was? all that he has won is all that i have lost. won’t you hear me out, gabriel? can’t you see the shape i’m in? just don’t leave me alone.” // “it’s a part of me, gabriel, i wish i could deny. the face that i can barely recognise. he lives inside me everyday of my life, and i can hear him, screaming in the night.”
WORK SONG | HOZIER. “when my time comes around, lay me gently in the cold dark earth. no grave can hold my body down. i’ll crawl home to her.”
PUNISHER | PHOEBE BRIDGERS. “the drugstores are open all night, the only real reason i moved to the east side. i love a good place to hide in plain sight.” // “i swear i’m not angry, that’s just my face. a copycat killer with a chemical cut. either i’m careless or i wanna get caught.”
CONVERSATIONS WITH GHOSTS | BEAR’S DEN. “you needn’t be a chamber to house all the echoes and voices of those that have left you. are you talking to me or somebody that you once knew, passing through?”
SIX BILLION | NOTHING BUT THIEVES. “sometimes the cord likes to break. sometimes the light tries to bend away. sometimes you’re thrust against the wall. sometimes the world wants to see you crawl.”
THE ARCHER | TAYLOR SWIFT. “they see right through me, i see right through me. all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put me together again, cause all of my enemies started out friends.” // “i wake in the night, i pace like a ghost. the room is on fire, invisible smoke. and all of my heroes die all alone, help me hold onto you.”
LONGHOPE | BEAR’S DEN. “whispering, ‘please, don’t forget me’. my thoughts are all strangling, the words are all dangling before my eyes, but it’s getting so dark in here. i can’t really see anything clear. i’m just feeling my way through the winter night.”
IT WILL COME BACK | HOZIER. “don’t let me in with no intention to keep me, jesus christ. don’t be kind to me. honey, don’t feed me, i will come back.”
SEEN A GHOST | OLD SEA BRIGADE. “somewhere in my private screening i could hear a shadow screaming - you look like you’ve seen a ghost. kicking your mind back to someone you used to know. kicking your mind back to places i can’t go.”
HEEL TURN 2 | THE MOUNTAIN GOATS. “drift down into the new, dark light without any reservations. you found my breaking point - congratulations. spent too much of my life now trying to play fair. throw my better self overboard, shoot at him when he comes up for air. come unhinged, get revenge, i don’t want to die in here.” // “let all the trash rain down from way up in the rafters. i’m walking out of here in one piece, i don’t care what comes after. drive the wedge, torch the bridge. i don’t want to die in here.”
COVERED IN CHAOS | BILLY LOCKETT. “and i know i’ve been messing up lately, living on no sleep, barely alive. i’m covered in chaos, waking up nightly without you. and I’m fading deeper, losing hold of control.” // “and i’ve been kept straight by your hand, but now i’m gasoline, starting fired and washing sand with sea.”
THE PUGILIST | KEATON HENSON. “to remind me i’m living and that i still need it. you pulled me together with blood and soft stitches.” // “and i’m frightened to death you’ll forget me. don’t forget me. don’t forget me. don’t forget me.”
HYPERSONIC MISSILES | SAM FENDER. “when the bombs drop, darling, can you say that you’ve lived your life? oh, this is a high time for hypersonic missiles.” // “they say i’m a nihilist cause i can’t see any decent rhyme or reason for the life of you and me. but i believe in what i’m feeling, and i’m falling for you. this world is gonna end but till then, i’ll give you everything i have.”
MOTION SICKNESS | PHOEBE BRIDGERS. “i have emotional motion sickness. somebody roll the windows down. there are no words in the english language i could scream to drown you out.”
BLANKETS OF SORROW | BEAR’S DEN. “paralysed, your stubborn mind can’t see the woods behind the blankets of sorrow. no one could ever reach or pull you out. you’re sleeping as the sleet just falls, to crystalize your crimson thoughts. no more i’m sorry's. no, i’m not sorry anymore.” // “you’re praying on a driving snow (is that what you want?) to sail you back, to take you back home (don’t shut me out again). the bitter cold or the frost unknown. do i try or comply?”
SMOKE SIGNALS | PHOEBE BRIDGERS. “you. you must have been looking for me. sending smoke signals, pelicans circling.” // “i’m sleeping in my bed again, and getting in my head and then, walk around the reservoir.”
EVERMORE | TAYLOR SWIFT, BON IVER. “hey december, guess i’m feeling unmoored. can’t remember what i used to fight for. i rewind the tape but all it does it pause on the very moment all was lost.” // “and i was catching my breath, barefoot in the wildest winter catching my death. and i couldn’t be sure. i had a feeling so peculiar that this pain would be for evermore.”
MY TEARS RICOCHET | TAYLOR SWIFT. “i didn’t have it in myself to go with grace. you had to kill me but it killed you just the same. cursing my name, wishing i stayed, you turned into your worst fears, and you’re tossing out blame, drunk on this pain, crossing out the good years. look at how my tears ricochet.” // “if i’m on fire, you’ll be made out of ashes too. even on my worst day, did i deserve babe, all the hell you gave me? cause i loved you, i swear i loved you, till my dying day.”
THE STAR OF BETHNAL GREEN | BEAR’S DEN. “and lord, i’m alive. and maybe the star of bethnal green could lead us back to bethlehem. lord, i have tried.”
THE DYING LIGHT | SAM FENDER. “maybe i could use a hand. i must admit i’m out of bright ideas to keep the hell at bay. distractions only last a day. the night is so impossible, it haunts the few who dare to look. it’s marks are so hereditary. i’m terrified of having kids.” // “but i’m damned if i give up tonight. i must repel the dying light. for mom and dad and all my pals, for all the ones who didn’t make the night.”
SPIDERS | BEAR’S DEN. “your promises, they escape you. what’s another burden on the back of this beast? i can’t take back all the hurt i’ve caused. everything i love i have somehow lost. and it’s four in the morning and the spiders are crawling in my mind. replaying pictures of all that i can’t undo.”
BLUE HOURS | BEAR’S DEN. “if i could just break through the glass, if it shatters in my hands then it shatters in my hands. it’s a risk i’m willing to take.” // “why’d you answer in questions whenever i ask you why? don’t act like you’re so hard to find. i know where you hide. why won’t you just stay with me, why do you lie? why’s there always something keeping you up at night?”
— residence inn hotel, 23rd of may 2044, with daiyu volkova. @daiyus
she was alive and well. he'd run to check on that the moment news of the incoming rescue patrol came through. gilbert's plan was to pull her aside, victoria too, and do his own check in better than two eyes across the lobby could, but the reappearance of the everlasting haunting, gabriel reyes, put it all on hold. and yet his old friend is asleep, in a warm infirmary bed, recovering from medical intervention and the soldier can't simply stay, despite how much guilt ties him to that room. it's ropes still burn on his wrists, gripping tighter the further away he gets. maybe it's a different guilt, pulling from a different location, that fills in the sting. his eyes scan every corner, not really any emptier as people make time for the memorial - but he doubts she'll have hidden away already. he has her in higher regard than that, much higher. some good core or something of the sort, which he so struggles to articulate to her, and which he's certain she does not care to listen to.
moving from location to location makes him uneasy. it's repetition of just a couple of nights ago, except the noises of chatter are real and he's got a purpose, both long and short term. neither are lead by the head. he moves through the hotel kitchen now, frustration starting to tense up his body even more. there is no urgency to this, he knows, he could simply find her another day, let himself go back to work and get away from his head, already taking tumbles on itself. and yet he knows what it is like to return home, after considering you might never see it again, and find the room empty. would she even care if he said nothing? especially after their last conversation? as always, he ignores that thought. it's too close to surrender, and he was never good at that.
"ma'am." he doesn't try to pry her away silently, when he finds her amongst the dishes. the pressure of others listening is more likely to make her not dismiss silent stares and nods, he hopes. "got those trucks parked in the back like you said." damn volkovs, always making me lie. "would ya come check on them now? memorial starts soon." his eyes are worse liars than his mouth, and they look like a long and mournful 'please'.
— residence inn hotel, 21st may 2044, with gilbert orquídeas. @orquidaeas
he thinks it’s just his luck to spend hours upon hours of his day searching the zone far and wide for signs of gil’s presence, even catch a glimpse of his curls, only to find him on the floor with his back against the door that was once vissa’s. even the sound of gil shouting would have given nik some relief, not because of gil’s clear distress but at least nik would have been able to follow the sound. nik stops in his tracks mid dragging himself to bed after an unsuccessful day, taking a moment to absorb gil’s sorry state. nik wonders if he’d reached the fight earlier, that maybe gil wouldn’t look so tormented.
slow steps are taken in the others direction, heavy footsteps that nik hopes will alert gil of his presence and minimise shock, minimise sound, minimise their exposure. because as good as it is to have finally found him, gil sits in a dangerous place. this is no longer vissarion’s door, and gil’s presence here is a show of remembering a man who’s father wants to remain forgotten. being caught here could be the difference between nik keeping the loe of his life, and losing him to the horrors of his brother’s games.
nik stops at gil’s side, but the other doesn’t acknowledge him. with a quick scan down both ends of the corridor, nik holds out a hand. from here, nik can see the extent of the damage anso caused. a bloody, torn shirt. sleepless, empty eyes. a man with a sickness that isn’t physical, but of the mind. moments pass and still gil does not reach for nik’s hand, and the older of the two begins to feel restless. nik leans down just enough to take gil’s unwilling hand, and begins dragging him to his feet. “gil,” he whispers, “come on. come with me.”
there is finality in the air. like a car crash in slow motion, or the crescendo of music. it all leads to an end, usually loud, final, fade to black. there have been many car crashes in gilbert’s life, he seems to cycle through them once or twice a year. smaller bumps once a month. and yet he can’t recall a single time where the crash felt this final. where it was days of no sleep evolving into weeks of confusion evolving into what seemed like years or disappearing into memories, bleeding them into hallucinations, being stuck in the past and in a terrible present. where it was running like he never has. where it was abandoning patrol, giving up his school, and being thrown back into the pits in the middle of the mall. he left anso sommers bloodied but himself too, as he slipped through the grasp of the enforcer that pulled him away, out into the street, far from everyone’s eyes but especially the ones that haunt him even when awake. that was noon of the twentieth, but he can’t place that at all. in fact, he can’t quite make out the order of the following hours, but is far too late into the night, spilling into morning of the next day, and it feels like decades of horror. control has all but left him, hiding in every corner he can find, often unsure of who or what he is hiding from in that exact moment. starring at walls, whispering to himself, closing his eyes for one second to open them in a new location. trying to find his radio when hunger poked him alert and awake, in a brief flash of clarity, but he could not ask for help. there was no radio on him. in fact, he quickly realized he hadn’t had one in maybe two days.
wind rages on the empty streets when he finds himself walking into the hotel, but the walls come with whispers and the corridors are far too long. he walks past many rooms, not realizing for how long he stops in front of a few, nor really catching onto the reasonings behind walking away from them. he’s certain there are some, but he’s lost in his own conversations. gilbert remembers leaning against a wall on the third floor, shaking fingers pressed hard against the bear mark on his chest. he remembers how the fourth floor was his cell for a bit. in fact, he remembers thinking he's lost his mind for good on the fourth floor, despite no witnesses catching the man, at one in the morning, staring in desperate horror at the floor, walls and ceiling of an empty corridor. and then he remembers standing in front of a door, feet leading him there like a good memory, like his body knew who to go to. gil almost knocks. it’s so late, he’s asleep. his hand rises to knock again. oh. he can’t open the door. he is dead.
in front of vissarion volkov’s old front door, gilbert stands in silence. i forgot. he never had a chance to mourn him, had he? time is spent between considering knocking anyway, just to see if he’s wrong; and pacing in front of that door, whipping tears away until his skin is red and almost broken apart. he sits down eventually, every bone of his giving out, legs stretched right out, hands trembling, nevertheless. he wishes his mind would play the right kind of tricks on him. he wishes it would let him hear vissa’s voice behind that door. but only static, so he fills his role in his head, in imagination that is close but not as strong as madness. gilbert and vissarion talk late into the night, as they often did. gilbert shows him his soul and begs for some of his too. vissarion’s words aren’t solutions but they soothe nonetheless, despite coming from the least soothing or wise person he knows. gilbert calls him both dickhead and brother in the same sentence. and they laugh loudly, daringly he even thinks. every imagined second of vissa’s laughter heals another cut, just like it used to do. eventually his silent conversation with a ghost is interrupted by the sound of steps, which he ignores. he can’t look to the side, he can’t see anything else. maybe it’s real, is an unnerving thought. maybe they finally got to you. any of them. this is the crash. talking to the dead is the first sign.
the hand on his makes him jump just the slightest, but like his feet lead him to that door, his skin knows the others far too well to fear. he looks up, half closed, deeply red and wet eyes. you’re not him. it’s not disappointment, it is grief. his unwilling bones get up, other hand holding onto nik’s arm too, but he doesn’t take any steps yet. instead, he looks at the door behind them, knowing by heart what the inside looks like. or what it used to look like. vissa’s voice is no longer in his head. “they are going to kill me too.” it’s a whisper in a voice that is barely whole. his fingers grip tighter onto the fabric on nik’s arm, and his eyes find the lighter ones, giving him the same desperate look he did last time he saw him, at the school. a look that is begging. “help me.” he’s been imagining alexei with a gun to his face, metal on his forehead, tears down his own eyes while pleading on his knees. he’s been seeing it like truth for a couple of days. he realizes now that is not purely fiction. it is vissarion’s murder, swapping a face for another, but the pleas were never in his voice. they’re going to kill me just the same.
