SEARCH & DESTROY

What  hasn't  she given for her family?   For her kingdom?   Would she die the same way she lived for them:   as a sacrificial lamb?   Caroline was draped in all the dreamy, innocent creams of one.  Everything  about her was done up in the opulence of diamonds and pearls, crafting a breathtaking gem out of her very being for this ceremony. For her matrimony.

There's an unfortunately  bitter  part of her heart that cries like a child -   This was supposed to be her brother!  A marriage with more purpose. Now it was simply a  debt fulfilled  by her responsibility to her family.   Her kingdom...

She tries her hardest to remain poised, to remain evenly postured. She doesn't want to appear ungrateful. This was, after all, the most momentous union their peoples would have known in centuries. It wasn't as though she were being wed off without a thought, without consideration. By all means there would be no greater merger, no greater purpose she could possibly serve. Caroline raises her chin, breathes slowly and softly. She wants to be the crown jewel her family has promised her to be. She will be. As the seamstresses and maids go about decorating her with shimmer and silk, Caroline casts her gaze to the warm skies in the window above her dressing room.

It wasn't as though she'd be a caged bird.  A prisoner.  Becoming Queen would mean more freedoms than she'd known even as an heiress. Becoming Queen would mean enacting the responsibilities she wished she could have taken over for her brother their whole lives.   Be careful what you wish for,   and all those sentiments...

She hears the soft chimes of bells in the hall beyond her as the maids lower the veil over her whole frame now. As Caroline turns to the mirror, it almost shocks her to see just how beautifully they've dress her. Her face was completely obscured by the veil, but it hardly mattered. Every other bit of her glittered like the most polished, precious stone. Her skin was smooth and almost glistening. Her dark hair shone in the curls and waves they'd coiffed, pinned with sparkles and loose petals. Had she ever worn a gown so elegant? Caroline felt she looked more like a doll crafted by the finest hands than a bride to be...

A soft clearing of someone's throat draws her attention away from the reflection, beckoning her to the hall.

Beckoning her to the aisle which she'd be delivered to her groom.

⸻ °｡ @evanmcconne.

But tragedy spared no one - not even the McCones and their blue blood. The illness that claimed their adored princess was the same one that had taken the lives of many other dedicated farmers and shopkeepers alike, and yet the country didn't mourn them as long. Once the kingdom said their goodbye to princess Caroline, they turned to king Evan - surely he wouldn't let the family line disappear.

He didn't personally participate in the negotiations about his future - Evan saw no point to meddle when the decisions would be taken by the small council and his bride would simply be the woman who possessed more positive qualities for Trantor. He, too, was hurting - losing his sister after no longer having their parents was a heavy blow, and yet the king had to put on a brave face for the sake of the people. Evan had to smile, nod and pretend all would be well, even when he felt like screaming at the top of his lungs, from the edge of the tallest cliff in all of their lands.

He was only vaguely aware of the arrangements involving another princess Caroline - the sister to the king that never was; an apology for the failed marriage originally proposed. Evan was dressed and prepared for the day almost mechanically, enduring the excited chatter and words of praise about how charming he looked in full royal regalia, or how imposing their monarch was. He cared nothing for these empty platitudes - he had no love for the throne and the game to be played.

But at the church, and when his queen was presented to her future husband - Evan felt something at the back of his throat. Standing before him was not only another victim of circumstances, but also a soul that was as alone as he was. Both lost their siblings in different ways; and now they were being united in holy matrimony as if that could replace the piece of their souls that had been lost.

There were any amount of things Emily could've said back to his smart little remark. Years of sass and sarcasm were traded instead for avoidance with a good ol' roll of her eyes to kick things off. She scoffs and runs her tongue along the edges of her teeth, fixing Evan with an incredulous look before shaking her head. He wouldn't be getting anything else for his ego from her now.

       ❝ Alright -   That's it.  I'm knocking us out again. ❞   Despite how fed up she played into being, that warm and playful smile never leaves Emily's lips. It dimples her cheeks the whole time she's shimmying up to his side, rolling herself as much as she can onto her good leg to hoist herself over him. There was nothing easy about the maneuver and there was certainly a lack of grace to it all that had her looking a little clumsier than she'd have liked. Never mind the fact she was wearing less than him, either. Emily was committed to the bit, and she'd be damned if she wouldn't do her best to see it through.

To her credit, she makes it at least to his legs without too much trouble. A breathless mixture of giggles and grunts bubble up from her in all her effort to make it on top of him, to keep herself there. She has her weight kept mostly on her right knee to keep herself propped up over him, left arm supporting her by pinning down his right. Emily does her best to keep her broken knee from bending any which way, but in doing so, she's dragged her thigh up the gap between his, hip lowered until -

A catch in her breath. A full freeze of her frame. Her eyes only minutely widen as they lock onto Evan's with a horrible mix of mischief and amusement swimming in them.

       ❝ . . .   Are you  hard? ❞

It wouldn't hit McCone until much, much later - but it had been fun to gaze at Emily struggling to position herself to give him another good headbutt. The smile on his face was proof of it, even if it was contained rather than a fully-fledged grin to egg the woman on - including the way he conveniently adjusted angles to remain on his back, almost welcoming the fighter to that very uphill battle.

But just as she moved past his groin, the hunter too sucked in a breath full of surprise - they were both motionless again, although this time they had retained consciousness. Emily apparently had a knack for disarming Evan and getting him to realize that life wasn't just staged content for television; she had ripped his mask off and seemed intent on bringing the man (and not the Network's Chief McCone) to the spotlight. He lost the smile, but not because he looked afraid or embarrassed; for the first time in a very, very long time...

Evan was actually pretty fucking horny... And for Emily Brass, apparently.

"I am as surprised as you are," he murmured, sounding very sincere for once. And yet - he didn't do anything to stop her or to make it go away; Evan actually narrowed his gaze, zooming on the woman's face with some sort of curiosity laced with dark amusement. Well, Emily had another way to torture him if she so desired - was that the plan?

"But don't worry," he said, softening the look for a while and nodding for emphasis - not a single muscle in the hunter's body moved, giving Emily the space to dismount and give up if she desired, "I'm a hunter but not that type of asshole. You can knock me out cold again if it makes you feel safer, Brass." It was a strange choice of words given their mock argument from a minute ago - but he meant it.

It was almost alarming, the sudden silence that washes over her mind with his voice, with the press of his lips just over her most vital point. Like being taken under a wave -   the sound of crashing drowned out with ease. There were no more quiet trills of machinery monitoring her, no more humming from the lights overhead. Just his breathing and her heart. Just them.

This was all he's wanted, wasn't it?  Caroline knows there's a part of herself that wanted this, too. That wanted healing.  His healing.   - The opportunity to heal  if it meant it would be him. It's a slow realization even though it'd been sitting in the back of her head for a while now...   Caroline could have ran a long time ago. She could have requested to be transferred. There were more opportunities for work that paid just as well if she looked for them. She didn't have to stay with the Network -   stay where he would be. All of his pleading could have gone unanswered for the rest of his life if she'd have chosen to just disappear. A small part of her, though, wanted closure...   and grew into something more. Bloomed and overtook every space it could with a sentiment she hadn't wanted to admit to herself until it'd become too much...

Now,  that  sentiment  refused to be ignored. It pounded at her heart the way her heart pounded against her ribs -   a demanding, beckoning fist on the door she had been trying so hard to keep shut. All that effort just for Evan to plead gently at the lock...   All that effort just for her to break the door down herself -   all because he'd asked so very softly, so painfully sincerely.

Caroline shows him, just as he asks her to.

Her hands travel the whole length from the nape of his neck down until they've found his. The touch is almost featherlight, but she knows he doesn't need any pressure to feel where she guides him. Where she lifts his hands and his arms until they're wrapped around her frame. They don't separate from him even after she's anchored him around her -   fingers travel again across his skin, all the way back to his shoulders, to the curve of his jaw until she can lift it with tender care. She wants to see him...   Spotlight every ounce of vulnerability he lets bleed from his eyes. Her thumbs glide across his stubble, careful of his scars, swiping lightly at the curve of his cheeks.

There was almost a sad little humor to thinking how much she wanted him to do as  he  wanted. How a part of Caroline wished he would grasp at her, pull her to him all he wanted, claim instead of plead, and yet...   She knows it wouldn't put the same storm in her chest as being a witness to the depth of his yearning did. Every nerve in her body had only been heightened  because  he waited,  because he wanted...

       ❝ ...   How  I  want?... ❞   Her palms shift lower, ever so delicately, down his jaw. One hand reaches, fingers threading into the roots of his hair. The other cups his chin, draws her thumb lightly beneath the swell of his lip.   ❝ ..  I want you to heal me. ❞   Her thumb swipes back slowly, and as it glides across again, she shifts, dragging her soft touch over the plush of his lips in full.   ❝ I want you to kiss me, Evan... ❞

For one so fierce, praised for his lethality and armed with what appeared to be iron-clad determination to hunt his targets down, Evan was malleable like clay in Caroline's hands. For her, he tried to polish all the sharp edges and discarded all of his masks - both the literal one that hid his civilian identity and the one that seemed to tell everyone to stay away.

Chief McCone needed no one; the ghost of the Network existed for no other purpose but the hunt and the success of his chase. But Evan - no, John - was human underneath the uniform, with a beating heart that had bled for many, many years and yearned for closeness that had been forever prohibited. Now, all of a sudden, Caroline had pried the door to his soul open, yanked it all the way to let light shine upon years of darkness and asked him the one thing he had never thought he would hear from another human.

A kiss - a kiss from his lips? A kiss from a mouth that had threatened, teased and taunted so many, including herself?

The surprise was clear in his eyes, just as a bit of hesitation. But it was the touch of her thumb over his lip, brushing against skin so softly and quietly, that had Evan accepting the strange reality where that request was not a mockery. Chief McCone heard angry, spiteful 'kiss my ass!' claims often, but not whispered ones about healing hearts and souls.

"Are you-" Evan murmured, but then smiled - and while that crescent moon on his lips was small and slow forming, it was nonetheless genuine. His joy appeared with added strength in his eyes, almost unblinking while he gazed at the brunette with the admiration one would have for the most beautiful falling star on a clear night. It was a wish coming true, in many ways, and one he did not dare waste. "As long as you are sure, Caroline."

That shift in words carried meaning - not doubting his ears or her desires again, but giving the woman ability to control the next steps. For once, he was glad for his towering size - it allowed Evan to just tilt his body forward, carefully closing the gap between their faces to finally kiss Caroline. It began to the side of her mouth - a chaste one, and yet it had been enough to send his heart into some sort of frenzy. The hunter inhaled deeply then, savoring not only her perfume and the warmth of skin but also Caroline as whole, tangible and real in his arms.

His face moved to the left - and that simple gliding movement has the mustache minutely brushing against the woman's visage, finding its final placement against her own lips. He wished to see her face - but he couldn't; Evan closed his eyes with a barely audible gasp, kissing Caroline as if he had been walking a desert for decades and had finally been given pure, fresh water.

He turned around - and found Emily's face staring right back at his, equally awake. There was a brief pause, eyes adjusting to the limited light to gaze at her and their strange predicament - like their fight to the death had been suspended indefinitely and now Emily was... Something else. His savior, for one; and the most unexpected roommate and bed companion, too.

"The wound is healing nicely," he said, pointedly glancing at where he had shot the girl - it was clean, though; no blood seeping, no infection brewing. In truth, Evan was rather proud of his work on Emily, "Whoever fixed you up was really good at that. Lucky you."

A grin was added - a lazy and harmless one despite the taunt, softened by the low glow of the one light in the kitchen they couldn't turn off (Evan didn't know if the bunker was never meant to be pitch dark or if they had fucked the wiring and electric systems during the fight). It was pretty damn ironic - out of everyone in the entire world, he felt weirdly at peace with the last person who had aimed for his heart (and missed). Perhaps even more than that - Evan McCone was strangely fascinated by Emily Brass.

Damn. She really didn't like how easily his little grin could disarm her -   have her returning it with one of her own. Emily could blame it on her exhaustion, but even that couldn't have some mercy on her. She was still wide awake after all. Just like he was. A predicament that was quickly wearing on her patience, truthfully. They both needed rest if they were going to heal effectively;  staying up making idle little chatter wasn't going to do either of them any good.

And yet...

       ❝ Sure.   - Luckiest lady in the world. ❞   She snakes her good arm up, pointing her finger towards  his  wound, healing just as nicely as her's.   ❝ Must make you the luckiest man alive. ❞   A joke she's rather proud of, the same way she's proud of her handiwork. Emily lowers her gaze to it then, like she's just double checking it for a moment. Making sure he was still alright. It's clear in the way her expression softens through her fatigue. Her finger hovers just by the bandages, not quite making contact but staying close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him closing the gap for her. There's a part of her that wanted to press her palm flat to his chest. Feel whatever rhythm his heart was at. The other part was yelling at her for even thinking about it -   blaming the sleep deprivation. A defeated little sigh and she shifts a little against her pillow, trying to make herself more comfortable.

       ❝ If only that  luck  helped us get some sleep... ❞   That way everything could heal the way it was supposed to. That way she didn't have to think about the way he was growing on her   ( she's never been this comfortable with someone being so close in so long ).   Emily brings her finger  and  her eyes up to Evan's face, pointing right between his eyes with a look more familiar to her features. A mix of amusement and... something else.  Something more ... endeared.

       ❝ Guess we could always knock each other out. ❞   A playful little flick of his hair   ( to stave off the impulse of brushing it away from his face )   and Emily shifts again, trying to get as much weight as possible off of her injuries.   ❝ Give you another shiner on that  pretty face  of your's. ❞

⸻ °｡ @evanmcconne.

There was not a lingering trace of violence or awkwardness in that gesture - and it was surprising to the hunter, too. Whatever caused the door to seal shut and isolate them from the world outside turned the pair unable to hide behind a mask of aggression forced by the Network, giving the two fighters some time to hide, heal and... Continue to do whatever they were doing right then.

The suggestion about another one of Emily's headbutts had Evan retracting minutely back, pretending to be afraid for a split second. "No way in hell, Brass. Fuck off," despite the words, his smile hadn't gone anywhere and McCone was clearly amused at the mental image it offered, "Your head's harder than the walls - can't remember the last time anyone knocked me off like that," he trailed off, thinking it had a lot to do with the fact no one had been close enough either.

Easier to be the one doing the killing from a safe distance - Emily had forced him to get personal; something real instead of the Network-sponsored professionalism. But rather than focusing on how the woman made him feel, Evan's brain decided to revisit her choice of words, not before giving the brunette another long, interested look.

Evan's smile was so kind, so disarming...   Caroline found herself wanting to bottle up all that softness, wanting to keep it for herself. Not because she was overtly selfish, or because she felt she particularly deserved it. Caroline was only convinced she had to be the only one capable of   protecting it.   Maybe she couldn't protect Evan from the rest of the world   ( not like the way he could protect her ),   but she could -   or at least felt  compelled to -   protect that little bit of  soft  still left in him.

Anything for you,   Evan promises her -   vows to her so sincerely;  she believes him without question and without hesitation. Caroline doesn't need to doubt him when he shows her so simply and so intimately by doing exactly as she'd pleaded of him. His eyes don't leave her's. She doesn't dare look away, either. Golden-brown gaze anchors itself there in the depths of his as he raises her hands, peppers them delicately with the kisses she asked for.  No question. No hesitation.  She doesn't realize just how soft her eyes have become, watching him so intently. He's spotlighted by her and yet it's as tender as the way he treats her. Caroline doesn't know any other way to be. She doesn't think there  is  another way to be towards him anymore...    - It might as well have been her very heart he'd been holding, pressing chaste kisses to instead of her hands.

The joke does indeed earn him a quiet, amused little puff of breath, a dimple in her cheeks. Although her smile softens, it doesn't at all wilt nor lose it's warmth when he asks, turns her hand over with his. The look in his eyes tightens her chest terribly and even she can't believe the kind of boldness it inspires in her, the bloom it brings to her cheeks. Caroline's gaze drags along both of his -   takes in every detail of his face before she takes it gently into her hands. It wasn't much to reach for. He already had his lips pressed lightly into one of her palms. All it took was to raise the other, have them both cupped at the length of his jaw so her thumbs could glide over his stubble, his scars. There might not have been a smile left on her lips any longer, but all of her warmth remained -   vulnerable and open.

It  frightened  Caroline how horribly her chest ached. Her heart could hardly take any more. Ever since  that day,  he'd done nothing but try to make it up to her, to give her the world. Now she's afraid the only thing that could ever make it up to her was him as a whole. It just wasn't fair, was it? How hard she's fallen for him...   It really did hurt...

       ❝ ..   What about my heart?.. ❞   Caroline whispers, just for him. Before she loses her courage, she draws him in closer. It starts with her fingers traveling behind his ears, up into the roots of his hair. Her arms follow and soon enough she has Evan enveloped, cradled so sweetly into her chest. Could he hear the way her heart beat in her chest?  How it pounded against the bars of its cage?  She lowers her cheek until it's rested over his head, lips just brushing the top of his hairline.   ❝ ..  Would you kiss my heart, better, too?.. ❞

The (in)famous chief almost stilled when that happened - but with the ongoing context of her reactions and the way Caroline continued to watch him, he followed the brunette's lead. Her gaze made Evan so damn aware of his flaws and unworthiness, with the hunter fighting the need to just allow himself to bask in the pleasant feeling of knowing she wasn't pushing him away... But if she insisted he was good enough for now, why should he refuse?

(Because of the monster he had been once, of course.)

When she talked about the heart, though - it did give McCone pause, making his eyes go wide and concerned because that was a valid point. Caroline's wounds were way more than just physical; the bandages would get removed one day and skin would heal, but what of her own spirit? Mind, heart and soul? But Evan's fears proved to be baseless once more as she drew him closer, asking him for more of his presence and touch rather than less.

The hunter promptly worked with the bed's protective rails - his hands, free from Caroline's, interacted with the levers to lower the last barrier between the two of them, knowing he would always catch her in a heartbeat. It was astonishing that for one so seemingly fragile, she had the strength to move mountains - while Evan barely felt himself able to breathe when his head came to rest against her chest, the constant thumping of the organ below flesh and bone making music for his ears.

So precious, so alive - and to think he almost lost her out of pure, damnable foolishness.

The hunter's hands slid over her delicately, moving to the sides and away from Caroline to anchor himself - he didn't want to press her to the point of crushing ribs, but it seemed like she had other ideas. This close, Evan could smell her so perfectly - from the residual chemicals of the medicine applied to skin to the faintest undertone of her cologne - that he thought dying like that would have been a perfectly acceptable fate. Cradled by an angel, comforted by warmth and enveloped by gentleness... It was way more than he deserved.

But her last request had Evan's eyes fluttering open, fully aware his reason to be there was not yet fulfilled. And it did feel like a mission sent by the gods or a gift he lacked the words for, being called to help heal and mend the woman who had come to mean so much to him. "Yes," he replied, voice now beginning to betray a bit of his own nerves - that was all so new, so raw and delicate.

McCone turned his head then, nose brushing over her hospital gown when he spoke the next words, keeping them to an intimate whisper, "Show me how you want me to help you heal, Caroline."

Evan then added a quiet 'please' following it all - shifting a potential order into a plea, placing himself at her disposal. A brief, barely-there peck was given to the woman, even if he did it all over hospital clothing - but he was ready to do anything she requested of him, as demonstrated since the moment she regained consciousness.

Wait...

   Why did he sound like he was dying?

And Emily didn't just mean the sound of his breathing, or the labored beating of his heart. His choice of words, his honesty... Sure, she knows he said he wasn't going to stop her from killing him, but...   - Was he dying?   

      Was he going to let himself die?

As much as she wanted to fully unpack what he was telling her, what he was trying to confess to her, she's suddenly gotten a  new  flood of adrenaline pumping through her system. It has her pushing herself up from his chest with a pained groan, expression pinching as she does her best to look him over. She needs to determine where the most blood had been lost, where he was still losing blood from. Did she need to set any bones aside from his nose? Did they have enough supplies to manage his injuries  and  her's?

Fuck.   She needs him to keep talking.   She needs him to stay awake.   A harsh swallow and Emily does the absolute best she can to get herself up onto her hip, to get her good leg beneath her in an attempt at standing   ( or at least attempt crawling towards the cabinets ).   She tries to rummage through his words while she rummages for bandages, antiseptic...

       ❝ ❛ Many years ago ❜  ??   - ❞   She repeats the phrase as soon as it stands back out to her, shouting as much as she could through her own fight with pain so he could hear her.   ❝ What do you mean,  ❛ many years ago ❜ ?? ❞

Bottled water and clean rags. Gauze and saline.  Fuck yes.  Emily gathers up what she can in her good arm before crawling her way back to his side   ( with a good amount of struggle ),   dropping herself unceremoniously next to him. It hardly mattered to her that he was already trying to fight her help. She's moving around his efforts easily enough, taking apart his shirt and revealing what she can to start cleaning around his wounds. It was almost second nature, being able to administer the crude first aid. She's had to do this to herself so often that she didn't even bat an eye.  Rinse here, wipe there...  She's as careful as she can be with her limited mobility. There's a gentleness to her efforts that completely betrayed all the viciousness from earlier.

       ❝ This is gon'a sting... ❞

How old was Emily? The hunter didn't know (and never really cared to check before), but chances were she didn't remember much of the show when it started, particularly when it wasn't the Network's biggest hit and major prime time attraction. At her return, Evan's gaze fell to her bloodied and bruised figured, but for once... Her hands were on him and it wasn't to further press a bullet entry wound.

She started pulling his vest to the side, tearing fabric of his regular uniform apart and exposing his body to the colder air of the bunker. Evan's arms returned to life, trying to stop the woman from continuing with whatever she was doing - was Emily Brass saving him? Treating his wounds when she was just as broken?

"This is not what I meant by making different choices," Evan gritted his teeth, suddenly much more conscious and aware of his surroundings than he had been moments ago. The first aid motions did sting, though - and he grunted on the floor, inhaling as deeply as he could despite the blood oozing into the wrong cavities, enduring the pain as people like them did. It wasn't a pretty sigh - but he also stopped trying to push Emily away even if her intentions were crystal clear.

McCone focused on her questions next - if she was going through that fucked-up nurse routine, he knew he had to remain awake and talking to her was the only thing he could do to help. The same survival instincts from Emily echoed somewhere in Evan's soul - it had been too long playing that game, exposing himself to real danger for some thrills for the audience. If roles had been reversed, he would know how to treat another in improvised settings, which amused him in a strange manner.

Fuck, they really did share a bunch of similarities, huh?

"You look young," he said, teal-colored gaze now fixed on the woman above him, hovering efficiently despite the broken limbs to get him to a more stabilized condition before tending to herself. "You probably don't remember how this show started - not many people do. But the guy who made it for 29 days in the first season before getting killed in a fire? You're looking at him," Evan let the words sink, but not for dramatic effect - the gauze wiped at the worst of his wounds now and it did sting to the point of having him cussing and panting.

"Well, what's left of him. The fire was pretty bad and I was on life support and surgery for a while," he breathed a sigh of relief when the worst seemed to be over, but his eyes didn't stray too far away from Emily. Not because McCone was particularly interested in her feelings on the matter or the sudden change to her behavior, but because her age was really bothering him now. Had runners been that young all the time or were they getting less and less mature...?

The lights went out when her head collided with Evan's, replaced slowly by that same warm wash she remembers back home. Or, where home used to be.

Her dad is sat beside her still, like she never went anywhere from her last little dream. His coffee isn't even halfway done, still steaming. This time it's  Emily  that decides to say something, turned a little to face her old man some more.

       ❝ Mi manchi... ❞   The phrase leaves her almost breathlessly. When she goes to put a gentle hand on her father's knee, she sees just how much blood she's covered in. It pulls at her lungs, catches her breath and stills her for a second before she pulls her hand back. She can't stain his memory like this...   Not here...   Emily doesn't see the soft look of pity, the strange look of grief her father is giving her from the corners of his eyes. A trembling breath and she squeezes her hands over her knees, steels herself.   ❝ Credo... credo di poter fare meglio ora... ❞

There wasn't anything  stopping her  from doing better now...   was there?  Even if that bunker door never opened again, as long as she was alive down here, she could still do better...   right?

She can feel her chest tightening all the way up to her throat. She can feel that tell-tale sting behind her eyes, the burning that flushes through her face despite how hard she fought the building mist. Emily didn't realize she could feel it because she was  waking up...  Everything was still so warm. There was still a slight breeze through her hair. She had no clue it was because of the warmth radiating from Evan still beneath her...   no clue it was his breathing pushing her hair around. She was moving before she realized it. Climbing back up over him with a slow drag of her body, her forehead pressed flat into his sternum.

She still wasn't seeing Evan, bloody and beaten, beneath her.  All Emily saw was the unmoved apparition of her father sat so peacefully on their apartment balcony, still cupping his morning coffee in his palms. He wasn't making any move to hug her back, to hold her even slightly, and she thought maybe it was because he was  disappointed  in her. It breaks her a little. It puts a break in her  voice,  weak and whispered as it leaves her.

       ❝ M- Mi ...   Mi dispiace... ❞

It's when Emily realizes the sharpness she smells is not the strength of a morning brew but in fact the metallic tang of  blood  that the dream is finally severed from her.

She wakes up.

She wakes up and she's straddled over Chief Evan Mccone, not leaning pathetically into her dad's side, begging for forgiveness.

Unfortunately for her, the adrenaline has worn off. She can feel just how torn through her shoulder was   ( something she'll be grateful about later;  no bullet to dig out ),   how the break in her knee still hadn't settled and would need to be set eventually. She thinks for a minute she'll need to fight again -   What if he had one more round in him?   - but when she sees that smile on his face...   that same, strangely defeated smile...   she stills. At least, she's motionless long enough that he gets to say something to completely disarm her.

       ❛ I'm not going to hurt you anymore... ❜

For a moment, Emily's just watching him like she can't just take his word for it. After all, the  Game  still had roughly  four days left,  and there was no God to confirm their certainty that it'd be over even after that fact.

He said it himself. He wasn't going to stop her...   Maybe she  should  just kill him... let his body decompose quietly in the far corner of the bunker. At least then she could be certain she'd get away from Killian for good if she ever got out of here...   Emily's eyes aren't even focused on Evan anymore, distant and glassy as she feels herself spiraling both from the exhaustion and the growing pain.  She was tired, too.  She's been tired for so long...  How the fuck could this be winning...

... and then one simple touch to her face snaps her out of it completely.

Emily can see all of the acceptance in his face now. Like he'd brushed all the fog away with the soft press of his palm to her cheek.   Fuck...   He did mean it.   He wasn't going to stop her if she tried killing him. He barely even looked like he cared if she did or not, like there wasn't anything else he cared to live for. Sure, Emily knows she's got nothing on the other side of that door -   she knew if she got to win Killian's fucked up game, she'd have to start with less than nothing   ( because there was no way in Hell he was giving her that money ).   But she'd have  herself.  That's why she kept going, kept fighting. It wasn't as if she gave a fuck whether people knew her or not anymore. This was never about what the people saw -   it's why she submitted all those tapes at once, with no great spectacular messages or anything. They'd be unusable anyway. They'd have to fabricate something themselves to keep the people interested. She just wanted out.  She just wanted to get -

       ❛ Maybe it's  better  that way. ❜

- ...   better.

It just...   It just doesn't sit right with her. It  frustrates  her to not be able to understand why he was giving up so easily. A part of her was scared it was because Killian's conditioning had just been  that good.  He'd trained her  too well  to be a killing machine despite all of her efforts to try and keep some of herself intact. But the longer she watches that...   look...   in Evan's face, the tighter her chest coils in on itself. She shakes her head ever so slightly, her expression finally softening out of that fighting dog and into something more real, filled with all of her anger and confusion. She's out of breath   ( her body fighting to keep itself up ),   but still manages a few words before crumpling back down into his chest. Fuck self preservation at this point. She knows they're both too exhausted to care about how they bled out   ( not that it'd kill them ).

       ❝ Why do you give a fuck?... ❞   she finally manages to sigh out.   ❝ You didn't care before hunting me down. What the fuck changed... ? ❞

"He can't get us. That's what changed," he said with astonishing frankness, moving minutely on the floor to better stretch a leg and groaning quietly as response; moving was not the best idea on the table, but he did feel better afterwards, "You accidentally freed us. Well, we may never leave here, but we also cannot play his game. I'm thinking he will play some edited footage of a fight and claim I died a fucking hero's demise while making sure the country's most dangerous individual..." another cough, spitting blood aside once more, "...Was dead, too. They will hold some bullshit funeral thing for views and start selecting new hunters so the show can go on."

It was strangely sobering to describe the Network's tactics when he was far removed from the studios and their usual infrastructure; almost like it happened to someone else in a different reality instead to McCone himself. He chuckled, smiling at no one in particular again, finding some sort of dark poetic justice to die like that - was he better for giving his last prey an option he didn't have? Or was it all just self-serving bullshit to die in peace?

Evan didn't know.

"Got no good answers for you, girl. Maybe the best one is that I kind of see myself in you, many years ago," the chief of the hunters murmured quietly, and probably the confessions kept coming because Evan didn't see any downsides: he was going to die. Emily was either following him shortly or surviving, but it wouldn't matter after he was gone. McCone left no legacy behind, no one who would sincerely mourn him... The members of his fan club would cry for a week before moving onto the next shiny celebrity with enough TV screen time; anyone who ever knew Evan (or John) properly had long, long gone.

It was almost nice to think he would be meeting Caroline again.

Now, at this point in her life, Emily had certainly figured there was very little that could actually shock her anymore. When she pulled that mask up off his face, though...   It wasn't what she expected. She's not even sure exactly what she thought was under there. He obviously had eyes like any other man. They might've been the sharpest, clearest eyes she's ever seen, but they were still eyes. She had them, too   ( ferocious, blazing, burned embers of brown and amber ).   The rest of him, though? For some reason her mind couldn't fathom he was just a man.  He was just a man.

There was a strangeness to the still that happened in that split second. Emily had spent so long reduced to a   rabid dog,   some wild but tamed animal meant to rip and tear at whatever she was sicked at. She'd conjured the same image of Evan.  Two goddamn fucking mutts biting and gnashing until all that was left was blood, barking and growling and howling at each other...

But he was just a man.  And for some reason -   for whatever God damned reason...   it reminded her she was just a woman, too. Like she suddenly felt how real all of her skin and bones had been all along. Like she'd forgotten  all  about being human   ( which was exactly what Killian wanted ).   How fucked up was it that it was  Evan Fucking McCone  to, incidentally, remind her of otherwise?...

Emily doesn't get to dwell on it. The realization was, after all, just a split second. Like the flash of a snapshot. The only thing that manages to snap her out of whatever reverie she got stuck in was Evan's   ❛ Fuck you, Brass. ❜   It has her realizing just how badly she fucked up, how she gave him the upper hand all over again -   the upper hand she just fought so fucking hard to get.

       ❝ Fuck! ❞   is all Emily manages to mutter before he's on her again. He presses into her bullet wound now and it's her turn to cry out, her scream turning into a tight growl with a controlled quickness. She wasn't going to let him take advantage of her slip-up that easily. She still clung to him, dug herself wherever she could like barbs on wire. It definitely wasn't easy, but he'd finally tore her off of him, sent her flying across the bunker's stretch of room until she came crashing down into one of the tables. The sound of her landing was accompanied by a sickening  crunch!  of a bone breaking and yet another horrible scream of pain.

She didn't need to move anything or look to know she'd just landed onto her knee wrong, broken it in what was probably two very terrible places.

She also didn't need to listen too closely to hear a very distinct   click -   thunk!   above and behind her. Emily's eyes lift overhead and when she sees the tell-tale flickering of little caution lights around the door...   she scoffs.

The bunker had a fail safe.   Because of course it did...

Her adrenaline is still pumping though, her fight   ( because flight was no longer an option )   response still blaring, and when she sees Evan  still  advancing her way   ( or what she perceived as advancing on her ),   Emily springs right back to action. If they died in this bunker and were never found, then so be it. She wouldn't let him kill her, though. She wouldn't take it laying down. She's on him quick despite all of her pain, despite all of the blood -   despite the break in her knee   ( she still had one good leg ).   Only...   He went down a little  too  easily, didn't he?   - Why didn't he try to stop her from slamming into him?

They both collide with the floor now, as covered in crimson as they both were. Her breath is shrill and fighting as hard as she was to catch up with her pounding heart.

       ❝ -   What the  fuck  are you smiling about? ❞   Emily barely managed to pant out from above him, face contorted together in a mix of rage and disbelief. His response does nothing to quell any of those stormy emotions. In fact, it spikes them higher. Disbelief in  herself  now. She should've just fucking killed him. He spits his blood out and he doesn't even give her the disgrace of spitting it in her face. It leaves her confusion at an all time high, brows knit together and refusing to budge. What the fuck was all of this fighting for then?  What the fuck did she take a bullet for?!  What, now that they were locked away it didn't matter?!

She's a volcano that's reached it's pressure point. The eruption? Launching her forehead with all the force she was still capable of right down onto his -   knocking them both out.

His bullet wound stung, the nose hurt like a motherfucker and his left arm felt weird - either cracked or dislocated. The weakness that came with the blood loss was beginning to settle in, something that would be irreversible if they kept at it... And yet, what was the point? Why should he continue to dedicate himself to a job he loathed if they were never getting out?

The truth was a simple one: McCone had never been brave enough to pry the bars of his cage open and take the easy way out (a bullet to his own head), but Emily had done it for them. Killian couldn't order him around anymore, like some glorified attack dog, and there was a real (and shameful) relief in all of that. Drowning in their blood, hidden away from the audience that enjoyed his spectacular killings... It was a good way to go. Better than most endings he envisioned, meeting his demise at the hand of a subordinate for views or because Killian thought it would be funny.

As Emily began to regain consciousness too, he did nothing to stop her or protect himself. The dimmed lights of the bunker gave McCone enough of the picture, particularly when the brunette dragged herself back to him, apparently still full of adrenaline and survival instincts. She was met with another smile on the hunter's features - even if it looked eerily out of place, as if his brain had been damaged by the concussion and he wasn't seeing things clearly.

(On the contrary - he had never been more certain of anything in his life.)

"I'm not going to hurt you anymore,"Evan said, voice strained and coarse, interrupted by a small cough that made him desperate for some water; "And I won't stop you from killing me either. The game's over, Brass."

It had been an unexpected choice in terms of statement, causing Emily to hover above him in a flash, eyes wide as they had been moments (hours?) before. His calm demeanor, however, seemed to prove a point - he was in no fight or flee mode; no tension, no preparation for anything. Evan's body was fully supported by the ground and he intended to remain there for the foreseeable future.

"I'm tired of this shitshow and the fucking theatrics. Take the win, Brass," he inhaled, raising a hand - even if the gesture spooked Emily at first, it soon became clear that he held no weapons and nurtured no ill intentions either. Evan McCone spoke (and acted) like a dying man and he sounded curiously satisfied about that. His digits found her face - almost as if he was anchoring himself, further smudging the blood on her cheek before dropping his palm over his own bruised body.