The Writer points excitedly. "That's it!" Their phone drops from numb fingers. "Egads, that's it!"
They vault over the service counter, forcing the man trying to pay for gas to stumble back of get hit by their flailing Doc Martens. They burst through the old doors too fast for the bell to ring and sprint down the road.
They gasp for air. Their arms pump faster. Their boots thud against cracked sidewalk. The world is a whine of wind in their ears. They throw themselves over the gate, barreling up the walk to their apartment in three steps flat.
Their roommate startles when the door explodes open with concussive force. "What--?"
But the Writer is tripping down the basement stairs, shoelaces whipping against their shins and nearly causing a fatal accident. They catch the banister at the last moment and grimly pull themselves up. Sweat drips from their temple. It's almost over. They can see a way through now.
The Writer throws themselves into their desk chair. There's give as the fake leather gives up another few centimeters, revealing the battered memory foam along the side of the seat. They turn their keyboard over as the start screen flashes, impatiently shaking dust and dorito crumbs from between the keys.
They've almost caught their breath by the time the document loads. Their eyes catch on the opening line but, for once, don't stick. No, no they know what they're doing now. They don't need a reread. They know.
Agent Rickson struggled to his feet. His vision shook, black tugging at the edges. He's had tunnel vision his whole life and he almost lets the darkness win now, the familiarity of it a siren call. But no. He can't. He won't let his sight narrow now, not when he sees clearly at last.
With trembling fingers, Agent Rickson touched his temple. The red that stained his fingers could be mistaken for the color of her lips. He looked up at Melody. His lips formed a wry smile and--
Six months and the Writer's been living in this moment. Agent Rickson confronting his ex-sister-in-law. Six months of imagining flickering lights and a layer of dust so thick it's still falling through the shafts of light slicing through the warehouse she tried to blow him up in.
The Writer's fingers are trembling just like Agent Rickson's. With exaggerated care, they peck out the next few words.
His lips formed a wry smile.
"Ouch," he said. "That fucking hurts."
The Writer slumps back in their chair. Victory is a bird fluttering in their chest. They raise a fist into the air. "Yes. Yes!"
Agent Rickson lives again.
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