Miraith Week

The typical relay of information brings a smile to his face as he eases back down. Vertical is not currently his friend, but that’ll pass. An experimental wiggle of his legs meets him with an uncomfortable twinge, but it beats the agony of fresh bullet wounds. Path has him well medicated while he heals, which is a pleasant relief.

The robot is a precise field medic, but often forgets or underdoses on the pain meds. Probably one of the pitfalls of having no organic nervous system of his own.

He tips his head back to look for him upside down.

Pathfinder’s seated against one rough wall by a low bench serving as a battle cot. Mirage’s guts clench tight.

“She is asleep. She is healing well.”

Mirage lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Good.”

He closes his eyes against the spinning in his head. It’s straightening out, slowly. The early night is almost peaceful.

“Anything happening nearby?”

The MRVN unit hums, a human sound he’s picked up from Wraith over their years together.

“Nothing recent. They’re awaiting the next Ring location.”

Mirage gives a humoured smile.

“And we’re in it?”

Synthetic laughter.

“Of course! If we manage not to stray far, we have the Final Ring secured.”

Mirage laughs for real then. Final Ring in a dingy manufactured cave. How horribly claustrophobic. Such exciting TV.

Either they’ll keep the closing end of the Game, or they’ll burn in a dark tunnel. Thrilling.

Gods, he was never doing this again. Reanimation is the worst pain he’s ever felt, scarring him down to every molecule and living with him long after the wounds heal, but it beats this being his final resting place.

He hopes his mother isn’t watching. Hearing of his end will wound her enough without having to see it happen in a place like this. She’s never been keen on cramped spaces. It’d probably kill her to see him trapped down here, burning up or bleeding out, or dropped without a chance.

He forces out a breath and pushes upright just to stem that train of thought. If he gets bogged down in it now, he’ll really lose his edge.

He’s alive. Pathfinder is alive. Wraith is alive, if a little worse for wear. That has to be enough to take this victory.

It will be enough.

He pushes to his butt, then his knees, and with one last steadying breath and grinding his teeth, he’s on his feet.

He stumbles rather inelegantly, but he stays on his feet. It would seriously hurt his cred to fall now. He fights to keep the waves of nausea from showing in his expression.

“We got any water left?” he murmurs, when he reaches Wraith’s side.

She is pale, but she’s always pale. Pathfinder has swapped out her transfusion pouch, that much is obvious from the protrusion of it, wrapped neatly around her shoulder. He’s stitched up the rags Mirage had left her sleeve in, and he’s even cleaned much of the gore from her face.

Mirage’s heart twangs almost painfully at the gesture; so gentle, from the one member of their team with no physical heart.

His canteen is pressed into his hand without a word. Normally that would be worrisome, Pathfinder quiet in such a moment, but perhaps he knows without needing told. He can be incredibly perceptive for a machine. Affection swells roughly in his throat.

“Thanks.”

“Of course. I have sourced many rations, would you like to eat now?”

Mirage’s lips twitch, and the strange unbalance in the air settles a good deal.

There we go.

“Yeah, Path. I could eat.”

He eases down the wall at the bench’s other end, accepting the containers passed his way.

Pathfinder hadn’t been kidding, he really had sourced well. An upside to his condition, they only ever had to share rations by two.

Something Mirage swears, in this moment, to be more grateful for in future. If they can keep a future.

The thought of losing here is terrifying enough on its own. But the thought of surviving, without one or both of his squad...

It gapes like a chasm in his chest. He’s seen Legends lose their chosen squad before. He can’t recall any who lived much longer after it, even if it wasn’t the Games that got them.

And those were squads much younger, much less battle-bonded than theirs.

Morbidly, he wonders if his mother’s need for him would be strong enough to keep him alive without them.

Diced pineapple, an incredibly rare and delectable delicacy, tastes sour in his mouth as he forces it down. He eats mechanically; fruit, then protein, a real fresh bread roll. Late Game fare as a reward for surviving. Suddenly it feels less a reward than a patronizing pat on the head for making good TV.

But he eats, and he’ll damn well keep it down, because he’s going to need it.

Wraith doesn’t stir until dawn is already greedily staking its claim on the Arena.

At first, she only makes strange, feeble sounds and draws ragged breath. They’ve been monitoring her closely, giving doses of high-grade painkillers on a tight schedule, getting as close to dangerous as they dare. The dark maroon of her marker on their wrists pulses steadily into a far-too-playful red, and then bleeds paler.

Mirage has felt the knots in his organs unwinding slowly with the deep of umber into sienna, into orange, into golden yellow.

It’s tinting green when she rouses, painful sounding groaning intermittent.

He moves to take her hand, the chill of her skin a sudden shock, and a welcome comfort.

“Heyyyy, there she is. I told ya I’d get you out.”

It’s suddenly so easy, to lay on the drawl and grin brightly at her fluttering eyelids. His facade draws strength from the renewed hope in his blood. This? This is easy. Easy as breathing.

Her eyes open enough to greet him, and his heart surges to be greeted by dark, dark navy.

“You...” she rasps, struggling to swallow for a second, “also said we’d win this.”

A laugh leaves his throat. A real one, probably too fond, too soft, and he hopes she’s too out of it to notice.

“Give a guy a break, I’m working on it.”

And Wraith almost smiles, just there at the corner of her mouth.

“You better be. It’ll serve you right to be hounded by suits for that save.”

Mirage’s cheeks ache from grinning, because he hears the thank you. And he’s indescribably joyful to have the chance.

And of course, his disorganised brain choses precisely this moment to finally slot pieces into place. His grin falters, his eyes dart to their third.

“That legend, on the ridge. The big guy. The reeaaally big guy.”

Pathfinder’s chest screen lights particularly brightly with a thumbs up as he nods, and Mirage stares at Wraith as a shiver runs up his spine.

“Path was too late. You killed him?”

Wraith pulls a face, both a grimace and a clear signal that she finds him slow.

“You’re welcome.”

How can she sound so blasé about it? She wasn’t even conscious on the zip line!

“How?” he breathes, feeling young and star struck as it washes over him properly. “You were half dead!”

Wraith groans and drags her hand from his grip to push herself an inch or two further up the bench, Pathfinder sliding a pack under her shoulders with impeccable timing.

“Half-dead isn’t dead.” She simply sighs, as her eyes close again.

Mirage half falls back down to the floor again, disbelieving. Damn. Just when you think you know someone. If he hadn’t been irreparably in love with the woman before, he would have fallen then and there. She continued to be, as she had from the start, Incredible and terrifying in equal measure.

Closer to dead than half-dead, with an inhumanly low blood volume. She’d... Shit.

He hoped never to underestimate her again. A small mountain of a Legend, in far better shape it seemed, than they had been. Where had she found the energy? The strength? She had barely been able to open her eyes. He scrubs a hand over his face and the sound that leaves his mouth is equal parts impressed and as uneasy as the squirming in his stomach.

“Remind me never to piss her off.” he tries to joke.

Pathfinder’s head tilts to one side, wide red eye pulsing slightly.

“Shall I schedule that as a daily or hourly reminder?”

Mirage drops his head back against the rough wall with a groan, as the robot’s own amusement dances around the echoey space.

By the time they hear the sounds of intruders stalking down one of the tunnels that feed into the bend they’ve been holed up in, Wraith is sitting cross-legged atop the bench, forcing down her share of the protein rations.

Mirage wants to worry for her, still so soon after her uncomfortably close brush with death, but he knows he just can’t allow it to have space in his head. He needs every fibre of his focus if he wants to get them out of this alive. And, yknow. He’s never been quite a hundred percent sure that Wraith can’t read his mind. And she’d kill him for wasting time and energy worrying about her instead of the battle ahead.

As easy as breathing, she’s in position beside him, her shoulder angled with his, replenishments abandoned. Pathfinder takes her other side, another slight angle they could find in their sleep. Like three points of a star, the blank tunnel wall behind them.

Mirage’s palms start to sweat. There’s no room for ricochets in here. Every round will have to land.

Considering he’d left the majority of his own pack scattered in front of a loot bin on a ridge like a windfall for anyone desperate enough to chase him up the cliff, he was lucky he had any rounds to be worrying about.

It sounds, the blaring drone. The Ring is moving. Every cantering trick he has, every calming method, will fail. It’s not humanly possible to keep a steady heart rate in a moment like this.

The butt of his rifle dips into his arm. The barrel begs to drift, the weight of it playing tricks on his mind. Pathfinder adjusts his own aim, up, down, left, right. Mirage wonders absently if it’s called a nervous tick when the person doing it hasn’t for a nervous system.

The echo rises in speed. Sounds like their visitors might have a tail they’re trying to slip.

It almost feels unfair, particularly this late, particularly in a PDM, how quickly it’s over. Shadows give their whole entry away, and the two bodies have barely rounded the bend in the tunnel before two shots, almost exactly in time, seed deep into skulls, and they’re gone.

The little rush of it is fleeting, as though rising and finding no purpose. The sudden hollow after leaves him feeling rather nauseous. The damn pineapple, probably, all acidy in his stomach. A terrible idea.

He doesn’t need his PDA to chime, but it does just the same. They’ve just cleaned up what was left of the third team. 

That makes his veins tingle in anticipation of more adrenaline. They’ve got one team left to beat.

There’s no sitting, now. Mirage and Pathfinder keep their guns trained on the two entrances to their unofficial fox hole of sorts, while Wraith leans against the back wall and tries to get her strength up. Only one team left, but they learned years ago not to take that for granted. Things can still go south. Things can always go south. The measure of a good legend, at least in his mind, is the intrinsic ability to keep that sharpness until survival is secured. 

And the only guarantee of survival is no living opponent, and the Victory cannons blaring. 

Even then, he never feels completely safe until he’s got both feet on the dropship, and his team right there with him. 

One wrong step on any explosive still active, while unlikely and incredibly unlucky, has been known to happen once or twice. 

He’ll be damned, if they make it through this, to have that be the way any of them go out. 

When they make it through this. 

He will not be the reason his friends don’t live to fight another day. 

By some kind of miracle, Wraith is finished eating and taking her place between them when they hear the buzzing. 

For all they can’t see it, the final Ring is around them now. From what Mirage can tell, the edges hum just beyond both bends. 

Wraith shoots him a look, brief, piercing, and no words are needed as she eases back, padding gently to the wall. They give it a beat, and another. No cannons. So the other team is out there, probably a meagre few inches out of sight. 

If they’ve been fast, and clever, they could even have both entries covered. The tension has his pulse thrumming. Staying here, while they have the advantage of space and positioning, he can’t help but feel they’re just fish waiting in a barrel. He hates to wait. Pathfinder hates to wait. Mirage would bet money that Wraith must hate to wait, even if she’s infinitely better at it than anyone else he’s ever met. 

He takes a steadying breath. Looks to Pathfinder. In their beginning, their robotic friend had been hit or miss with nonverbal communication, but now he turns just enough to make eye contact, and nods to the tip of Mirage’s head. 

Mirage follows their skirmisher’s lead, throwing her a glance to check. Naturally, she’s already in position, flush against the the inside bend with her rifle cocked. He can’t help but keep his eye on her as he finds his place opposite her. As always, she’s pale. But she looks better than she did hours ago, her eyes are bright, trained on the opening. 

His heart gives a harsh, overwhelming wrench in his ribcage. The sensation rocks down past his knees like it’s electric. Gods, please, please don’t let this be the last moment he has to look at her. To think about... to imagine he’s brave enough. Suicidal enough, to breathe a word of what runs rampant in his chest. 

He will, when they survive this. Okay so maybe he prommised himself in a moment of- of fear? Panic? He doesn’t panic. But. Maybe, in a moment of- 

Something shuffles to his right, and his whole head falls quiet. His gaze flashes over, the opening he’s pressed against. Nothing. He tips his head, not that it helps, but he knows she’ll catch the movement. When he glaces over, his stomach warms. She has, dark gaze on his entrypoint. She doesn’t look at him, and he knows she won’t, in case it costs them, but she knows he’s heard something. 

Gods, he hates the waiting. The suspended moments, the not knowing how smart or how stupid the enemy will be. Will they rush when the timer ticks real low? Try to catch them off guard? Will they rush before then, hoping they expect the wait? Will they rush on the timer, with the buzz of the Ring on their heels, hoping they’ve given up and believe them no threat? 

Another sound. Minute, a hiss? A brush of a heel on rough dirt? A hand brushing sweat from the palm onto fabric? 

Adrenaline bubbles under the surface. He’s so tense that the next sound might trigger him into movement he doesn’t need to make. If he’d held on better to his right mind earlier, maybe he wouldn’t have dumped the entirety of his gear out on the ledge. Maybe they’d still have an explosive or two. Chagrin burns his ears. He was on bomb duty, and he messed it up. And now they’re in a position where a grenade or three would come in real handy, and Gods he HATES waiting. 

PDAs ping in a soft chorus. Thirty second countdown. He braces, almost hoping for the sudden rush of an enemy who lost their nerve at the reminder. Nothing happens for a moment, before something shifts in his periphery. Wraith’s entry!- 

No, he whirled for nothing, no sneaking enemy rounding the bend, only Wraith, tapping four extended fingers against the grip of her Prowler. One firm pat. For a heartbeat, he feels his brow furrow, as her eyes flick from Pathfinder to him, and she stretches those fingers again. 

Four fingers, straight out, extending from the grip before curling back around, and he meets her eyes in puzzlement before a rush of something washes him head to toe. 

Four. Damn, he needs to start believing her when she says her ears are just better than his. He raises a querying brow, and her lips twitch. 

Of course I’m sure. The “idiot” is unspoken. Well, he supposes the whole thing was unspoken, but- 

Focus! 

He tilts his head right, she’s already training her gun. A look to Path, and he’s ready too. Mirage hopes, selfishly, that the MRVN is simply following battle-honed cues, and not faster on the uptake. That would be embarrassing. 

He takes a steadying breath, and he send in a decoy. 

His decoy shatters instantly, a splintered shimmer of lights. Two guns answer the single, (hopefully confirming) shot. Mirage holds, watching the timer, waiting for his own, and the second it pops he sends in another decoy, and follows it. 

What happens next could be viewed, perhaps, as chaos. 

The decoy explodes in his face as his rifle barks, and his shields melt under the return fire. He pulls his cloak, and spins, and a horribly confusing cast of marionettes dance with him as the enemy gun loses focus. The very instant he drops to the ground, Wraith and Pathfinder fire into the tunnel, decoys and enemy shields flashing like a macabre disco. His ears are ringing so hard he feels deaf, every sound echoing tenfold in the tiny space, a ricochet bites into his cheek and the siren clangs and the Ring screams as it pushes in far too fast and he is scrambling through the trade of fire to get back in the room, and a burst of hot pain flashes up his hip to his spine to his neck and he tumbles in a messy roll back around the wall, slamming his back into it as he yanks at a shield cell but he’s not going to have the time before- the little mimic of a room bursts into flame, thermite grenades licking up two walls and scorching the air that sears his lungs. 

The last legend between them and victory comes blazing around the corner, green fire billowing from her palms – some strange metal cord winds around her wrists and dread cuts cold through the air as she unleashes it like some sort of wizard flamethrowing, splattering wetly onto the floor and the walls and his ankle and boiling his skin instantly. Wraith roars, falling back behind the growing wall of black and emerald smoke and the lithe figure follows after, and his stomach goes cold because of course! 

If she takes down Wraith, they have no advantage against the Ring and- he howls as it clips his back, instanct shooting him forward into the rapidly shrinking space. There’s almost no method, now. Shots fly everywhere, and while they’re all highly skilled and very well trained, there’s only so much room and visibility is practically non-existent and something pierces his chest and leaves him gasping for a breath that doesn’t come. His team are yelling but the words are gone. 

He drags himself forward another inch, the Ring chasing him, and tries again – and again- but he can’t get a breath. The round has pierced a lung, probably, an oddly serene voice in his head points out, as he starts to drown in his own blood. 

The rachet doesn’t end. It’s all one terrible, dizzying orchestra as his heart gallops in an effort to help but it’s only drowning him quicker, and his toes are numb when he tries to scrape some leverage to get away from the devastating burn of the Ring and something is sizzling up his arm but he clutches his rifle because he is fucking not dying unarmed. 

He tries hacking up the fluid but all that happens is hot waves of copper rushing out of his mouth and when he tries to draw breath in vain he chokes and his already poor vision is fraying and dimming no matter how hard he shakes his head or digs his fingers into the pebbled soil to try and keep himself awake. 

The Ring chews up his ankles, forcing a scream up his legs to his throat but all that comes out is wet and bubbling and something explodes in front of his face and he turns away but he’s thrown backward and welp. 

That’s it. Out of the Ring, this late in the Game, he’ll be dead pretty instantly and it hits him so hot it’s like ice and it’s gone dark and- 

So black it’s purple, and it’s blinding, and everything burns, especially the vice on his chest that’s only forcing the blood out quicker and then the Cannons blare and huh. He’s never lived long enough to hear them blast for another team, maybe that;s a special torture for a PDM. 

That’s pretty crappy of them. Kinda cruel, if you think about. And now that he thinks about it, he’s taking a lot longer to die than he thought he would. 

He drops to the ground, and he can barely see anything through the smoke, but he’s pretty sure the whole place should be painted all orange and sienna from the Ring by now, seeing as it should be closed. 

Except he supposes it retreats once the cannons go, doesn’t it? That’s probably why, but then he should still be dead. 

And he never did get to tell her. 

He sinks down into the dark that’s waiting, and really, that’s not as bad as it could be, because it feels blessedly cool, considering. It doesn’t even burn as bad anymore, really dying isn’t all that bad, when you’re really there. 

Air rushing into his lungs is a surprise. Such a surprise, really, that it takes several seconds for him to realise his lungs are expanding again. And- yup- heaving, as he chokes out endless rivers of blood, but then the air rushes back in after. 

Now that he thinks about it, he can hear his team. 

What they’re saying, well that’s beyond him, but that’s definitely Pathfinder’s chipper voice tainted by his version of concern, and that’s definitely Wraith’s rushed, blunt bark. He tries to remember how to make his eyelids move, forcing them closed and up again and everything’s blurry and muddled but yeah, that’s them. 

If he wasn’t so absolutely blitzed by that last battle, he’d be embarrassed that it’s only now that he realises they must have won. 

Huh. 

He thinks he laughs, a motor response more than amusement. It burbles and cracks and God-damn it hurts, but that's his throat it’s coming out of. They’re moving him, Pathfinder heaving him up like he weighs nothing, slung over his arms like a sleeping child, or a drunken bride. 

As he’s carried from the tunnels into the blinding light of the Arena, Wraith’s still pushing needles under his skin, despite known direction from the GameMakers about stepping on the toes of the MedTeams. They’ve all broken the rules at one point or another, keeping each other alive to avoid an unpleasant Reanimation experience if they can. 

Considering the whole PermaDeath thing, Mirage is pretty sure she can be forgiven for keeping him alive. Y’know. On account of the alternative. They probably won’t even give her a warning or threaten suspension, since she’s keeping of their biggest money-makers from bleeding out. Pathfinder sets him down at the mouth of the tunnel without even being asked, years of understanding passing between them as he steadies a pretty woozy Mirage as they make the walk to the closest empty space. He struggles to stay standing, but neither of his squad tell him how stupid they think he is, to scrape together enough dignity to walk from the Arena. 

Belatedly, as they’re standing on the rise of the hilltop and waiting for the little drop ship to alight, Mirage looks over at Wraith, and grins when she meets his eye. 

“Clutch with the Void, huh?” 

Her mouth slides up to one side, and while she doesn’t reply, he thinks he can see just a little pride in her stoic expression. 

“Niiice play.” 

She jostles him with her elbow as they all step forward together, but he laughs through the jolt of agony, for the cameras just as much as for her. 

It’s a routine kind of MedWing visit, which shouldn’t be surprising, even if he’d thought maybe it’d be different after a PDM. He stays still when they tell him, swallows meds when they tell him, grins at congratulations as they numb and remove a bullet from his hip, stitch him up, suture his cheek. He grins, plays the role, signs autographs as a PDM Champion. 

It feels more hollow than he’d expected going into it. He thought it would be a huge deal, feel like a huge deal, like a monumental win. A medal, almost, to pin on his chest forever. 

I survived a PDM and lived to fight again. 

But it doesn’t. He’s weak with relief, sitting still in the safety of the MedWing with the time to breathe and really feel it. He’s alive, his best friends are alive. They’ve won the ultimate honour, individually and as a squad. They’re more than legends, more than Elites. But it falls flat, in reality. He is never, ever, doing that again. More than that, he’s never letting his squadmates do it either, even if he has to fight them himself to stop it. 

Some things just aren’t worth dying for. 

It’s cleared out by the time he’s released, needing the most recovery of the three. He has a bit of a limp in his right leg, from the hip shot and the bad burn on his ankle – healed, but new muscle has its own clock that can’t really be rushed – and no adrenaline to keep him steady. The urge is strong, to find his quarters and just drop into bed. But he has to at least meet with his team, share that post-match moment, without the fanfare. Just the three of them, sharing a minute to breathe and be grateful – to luck, and each other – to still be alive. 

And, y’know. He has that other thing. He did kinda swear to himself, and he likes to be a man of his word. He has a reputation to uphold. Can’t be backing out now that the rush and the danger is gone. 

And really, with her, it’s never really gone, is it? 

He dodges reporters. He skirts past the other Elites. They’ve a press conference tomorrow, a big Promo deal, party, camera and whatnot. But not now. He slinks down a fairly quiet alley and pries open the camoflagued door to the back entrance. 

They're there already; Path happy to play bartender, gleaming blue and already polished up and re-painted behind the mahogany bartop, Wraith hunched over the stool in front of him, her face painted with a faint amusement as she slides her glass over for him to refill. They look up in tandem when he slips in, bathed almost romantically in just the soft lamp above the bar. 

“Mirage! You return!” 

He spreads his palms and gives his most devilish smirk. 

“But of course, can’t be celebrating without me, can you?” 

Wraith snorts into her glass as Path agrees amicably, and truly, Elliot will never tire of looking at her. The warm lamplight favours her, softening her edges and waltzing softly down strands of her raven hair. Her face is clean of battle, a fresh change of clothing, even if the colours are the same. Without her cloak, she looks... almost approachable. Young. Her eyes, of course, when they meet his, are anything but. Same eyes, in the Arena or out, day or night, battle or pleasure, her eyes are the same. 

Sure, right now they’re full of slightly gentler emotions, and between just the three of them she lets her guard down a little to let her exhaustion show through. Relief, in their depths. Fondness, maybe. Gods, he loves her too much. There isn’t space in his chest to contain it all. 

Maybe she knows, from the way she raises one eyebrow, from the way her face softens just a fraction when he slides onto the stool next to her, from the way her fingers brush his own without snatching back as she slides a clean glass towards him. 

Without thinking, his mouth is moving. 

“I’m glad you’re alright.” 

Foolish, sloppy. Showing far too much of his hand, but what else is new? 

“From before, I mean. The...” he waves one hand vaguely in an attempt for blasé, “loot bin. Incident.” 

He clears his throat, but she smiles faintly, and he gets the impression she’s almost laughing at him, but not really, kinda like. Kinda like she though he was being cute. Only that’s ridiculous, because Wraith doesn’t do that, and it’s gone almost as soon as he thinks it, so maybe he’s still woozy from the whole nearly-dying thing. 

“That was a risky save.” she says instead of anything he was worried she might, or wished she might. 

“Yeah, well, you know me. Big risk taker. Live for the thrill.” 

She knocks him with an elbow then, rolling her eyes at his playful brag. It stirs an anxious flutter in his gut. 

It’s almost agony, their little not-really-a-party party, so when Wraith finally pushes off the wooden bartop with the note of goodbye in her voice, he’s flooded with relief. And, right after, nerves. If he’s ever going to follow through on what’s probably his dumbest big idea yet, he’d better do it before he loses his nerve. 

He walks her back to her quarters, as he always does these days. Initially, it was probably more to wear her down than anything else. Now, he just wants those extra moments, silent, quiet, moody, bantering, whatever he can get. She gave up arguing it ages ago, and – not that she’s ever confirmed it of course – now he’s almost sure she likes the company as much as he does. Especially after days like today. The Hub corridors are blissfully quiet. No reporters within the walls, of course, but few others either. 

The final door between them and her corridor fall shut behind then with a soft whush, and he reaches for her wrist, because if he waits until they reach her door, he knows he’ll watch her step inside without saying a word. 

Wraith turns to look at him, and his words all fail. He lets go, because while he’s clearly on a self-destructive mission, he’s not actually that stupid. She blinks owlishly at him, lips twitching as though she wants to say something. He feels ridiculous, like he’s never done this before. Ridiculous, the batch of fresh butterflies in his stomach, the tingling on his tongue, the nervous energy thrumming under his skin. 

“I... When you were separated. From us. In-in the Arena.” 

He flushes, hearing the painful stilting of his own voice, so loud even at a murmur in the empty corridor. Wraith reaches for his wrist, a bizarre mimicry of his own action. 

“Elliot. We don’t need to. It’s all okay, now.” 

He meets her concerned gaze, but can’t hold it. He blows out a nervous laugh, flicking his fringe from his face and trying to get enough air to say it. Her fingers squeeze gently, and it should be reassuring. Grounding. Instead, it sets him all aglow all over, jumbled and unsteady. He clears his throat. 

“It’s not... Not that. I...” he lets out a nervous laugh, and she pulls away. 

He can’t meet her eye again, terrified of what he’ll see, or that he’ll truly lose his nerve and forever wish he’d held onto it. 

“I. When you were. When I thought you might...” 

“Die.” 

He winces at the word, even though her voice is just as hushed, just as gentle as his. 

“Yeah, that, when I thought. I. I swore that if- if I somehow got you out-” 

“Which you did.” 

He meets her eye almost by accident then, chuckling at her save, loving her deeper for her ability to drag him back upright when his words are knocking him over. Her eyes are night-dark and looking at him, and Gods how he loves her. 

“I swore if I did, I’d, well, I’d.” 

She doesn’t say anything then. Maybe she doesn’t want to push, or maybe she can see where he’s going and her silence is a warning. Either way, he squeezes his eyes shut and swallows hard. 

“Damn, this sh-shouldn-n't be this hard.” 

He pushes one nervous hand through his hair, chagrin burning his skin. Wraith is still quiet. Well, here goes nothing. 

“I swore I’d do this. Just. Just don’t kill me.” 

Nothing happens. For a second. Then two. And then his body catches up to his commands and he’s pulling her hands into his and he’s pulling her closer and he’s opening his eyes just enough to see her face as he slips his lips against hers. 

And it’s not at all the dramatic, sweep-her-off-her-feet kiss he’d pictured in his head when he made the promise. It’s not the kiss he would have given her if he’d had the chance in that moment, when she opened her eyes in the Arena after he thought he’d truly lost her. 

It’s not all the kind of kiss he’s always dreamed of giving her, these last few years. But it feels like coming home, in the way new places you’ve never been to before can sometimes feel like home. And he’s so wrapped up in the terrifying rush of oh my God I did it, that he doesn’t realise at first. 

Not until his lips slide over hers, in a kiss quite out of character, timid and hesitant, not until his hand is raising to her cheek, not until his fingers brush her cool skin and coax her closer, not until he has a hand on either side of her face to tilt her head back just enough to deepen the kiss and he feels her step closer. 

That’s what it takes for him to realise that he’s not kissing her, she’s not kissing him, they’re kissing. It bubbles up from his throat as a half-swallowed whine, and that’s when it changes. 

Her fingers find his hair, pulling him, drawing him into her as the kiss deepens further, as heat builds in his chest, as he finds himself suddenly aware of the way she sound in stolen breaths as she pressed back against him, as they sway almost in a power struggle, almost in a dance, if it weren’t so subtle, so gentle, so... afraid. 

His whole system burns and shovers at the same, and he feels so light he could float away and also just a little bit like he might throw up, and oh shit he hopes he’s not going to throw up on her, not when he’s finally worked up the nerve. 

Wraith hums against him mouth as she draws back, and how is it fair that he’s the only one who sounds at all out of breath, as he pants and stares at her, as he steps back and her hands fall away and the tip of her tongue runs over her bottom lip before disappearing again? 

His heart pounds hard, and he feels almost dizzy. And it was only a kiss, not even a fireworks-and-tearing-clothes kind of kiss. Though he still feels that it rocked him to his core, just the same. Like the world shifted on its axis, just enough to know something has changed. 

“Goodnight.” 

She’s already padding away when he realises she’s spoken, and his own goodnight is cracked and breathy but she gives him one of her half-mouthed smiles over her shoulder anyway. 

She slips into her quarters with a final “See you in the morning.” 

And Elliot’s heart fumbles over itself in his chest as he blinks at her closed door. Right. The morning. Their whole dog-and-pony show, with the suits and the promo shots and the photo shoot and the mob of fans. 

He stands, stunned, in the darkened corridor in the quiet of the night, and wonders whether her parting words had been a promise or a warning. She could still kill him for that. 

His comms crackle as he adjusts his cover, leaning too far into the rock and knowing he’s going to break his own shoulder.

“On your left, friend! Now!”

It’s only hundreds of hours of practice at drawing his side arm with the wrong hand crossover that he clears the barrel and levels it fast enough to put down the flanking soldier before she can do it to him.

“Wonderful shot, Mirage!”

He mutters a response as he takes the shot with his rifle, and his PDA pings with one more body.

“Wraith? You still with us?”

Static. His heart clenches. Her marker still throbs a dull red on his wrist, like it has been for the last two hours. It can’t keep doing that forever. There’s only so much blood in the human body, even if Wraith is a bit of an anomaly. She’ll succumb eventually.

Of all the Games for it to happen like this, it had to be this one. Dread he is finding it harder and harder to ignore, continues to pool cold in his gut. His legs have long since lost feeling, but this exact position, squatting uncomfortably with his weight on the back of his ankles, is the only way he’ll have any line of sight. And he needs that. If he’s to have any chance of getting to her, he needs line of sight.

Why the Hell had he agreed to play a PDM? What kind of supreme arrogance had he displayed to agree to this? An entire board clear?

Stupid.

Gods, why had it ever seemed like a good idea?

He could truly lose her. His best friend in the entire existence of mankind and beyond. The only...

He had to focus.

“Wraith? Can you hear me? Tell me you can hear me?”

Nothing.

Sudden fury threatened to overtake him. The strength of it almost knocked him flat.

He gritted his teeth so hard he could taste the copper of his own blood just to keep his head level enough for logic to win.

“I still cannot achieve line of sight!” came the call across his Comms.

Shit. Fucking shit, why had they separated. Why. The burn of tears stung his eyes but Mirage held himself frozen, clinging fiercely to his centre. One inch, one millimetre, and he could lose his head.

Quite literally. At least, he supposed, he wouldn’t even know it if the shot was clean enough.

But he couldn’t contemplate ceasing to exist, not at this particular moment. Not when there were six more bodies between him and the rest of his life.

If they got out of this, by whatever miracle shone upon them, he was kissing that woman the second the victory cannons started up. Everything else be damned, their squad, their friendship, his life, he was kissing the Hell out of that woman until either he passed out from lack of oxygen or she shot him dead herself for daring to do it.

At least then dying would be worth it.

He was never doing a PermaDeath Match again, if he survived. He didn’t care how much it paid. Set for life? Not fucking worth it.

Not if it meant losing her.

His wristwatch tracker still throbbed, and he had to tame his imagination as it ran rampant with the notion that somehow the pulse was slowing.

He knew the tech couldn’t do that. That was his own fear, pure and simple.

“Path?”

“No progress.” was the instant response.

Something had to give. He just wasn’t sure if it would be him or someone else. Another tense moment of stillness broken only by brief, taunting smatters of fire in the middle distance. If only Octane had been offered a slot. He would probably fall for those traps.

But alas, the true Elites make far too much money for the GameMakers for them to lose more than one squad if they didn’t prove their mettle. Can’t go losing all their meal tickets in one board-clearing match.

Bitter resentment burns the back of his throat. He’s usually so much better at forgetting how truly unfair this whole world he’s signed up for really is.

“We must get to her.”

 Mirage’s eyes squeeze briefly shut as the MRVN unit voices the mantra looping in his head.

“Yeah, buddy.” he sighs and only the excellent tech of the comms ensures the breathless sound is relayed.

He stares out across the inconveniently rocky sand patch that is their current no-man's-land. It’s not difficult to guess where the others are, there are miserably few boulders large enough. If this were a regular match, they’d certainly have been cornered by now. He was already hemmed in by the sheer rockface behind him, and Path was no better, a hundred or so yards on his right somewhere. But nobody was risking crossing the open centre of this lovely little show-and-tell circle. A couple hundred feet above him is an oddly circular ledge with a rocky platform and a couple bins, and a crude elevator line with no actual elevator walls to scale another few hundred feet of the steep hillside. So even if Path could get them up there untouched, they’d be slaughtered ducks on the next leg.

He absently registers Path’s query about plans and he thinks. He could cloak himself, cause a little chaos and make it up the first sheer wall, but it’d be worn off long before safety. That’s the way the next Ring was, so he didn’t really want to risk trying for a long flank and getting caught outside, in the open. Only he and Path knew that, of course, and it burned impatiently in his mind what a waste it felt not to be taking advantage of that information.

If only this dreadful stalemate would end. His toes tingle. The sensation has been gradually ramping up, he realises. Dead so long that a phantom pins and needles flash is on its way. So even if he can work out how to get up that rockface, he’s going to be doing it in a good deal of pain. If his legs will even cooperate.

Shots, again. At this rate, waiting til nightfall was becoming a better and better plan. A second gun retaliating, short controlled bursts. Mind-numbingly repetitive, this match is going to either drive him crazy or kill him. Or both. A third gun joins the conversation, and he cocks his head, anticipation already rousing as his friend chimes in.

“This could be an opening, Friend!”

Mirage shifts his weight a little with a wince. Ooh, boy, those pins were knitting needles. A grenade collides with the brick of a half-fallen wall on his left, the shockwave rattling his teeth.

“Yep, something’s starting, alright.”

Another explosion, further away but with a much higher payload, quaking the ground from under him.

“Oi, watch the merchandise!” he mutters without thinking, pulling himself up from where he’d landed on his arse.

Synthetic laughter tumbles into his ear, making him smile grimly. Sometimes, Pathfinder’s programming gives him such an odd read on social cues. Then again, in any other Game he’d be playing the joke up somewhat. Right now, he just doesn't have it in him. He is worn thin with waiting and hiding and the drudgery of the last two hours. And his best friend is somewhere way above him, two hours into a shift of bleeding out.

If he doesn’t get there soon...

“Good enough cover!”

It sinks in shamefully slowly. Only sinks in at all because he can hear Pathfinder moving. Alarm jolts him back from the gaping fear over Wraith’s condition.

“Wh- Path, what? PATH!”

He scrambles to his feet, remembering to duck just in time to keep his head. The area is in chaos now, bullets of all calibres filling the air. He stares in disbelief as the late evening sun gleams proudly on blue metal. As the body swings right out of cover, in the opposite direction from the plan, in the opposite direction of him!

He can’t believe what he’s seeing. His oldest friend is abandoning him in the rat trap and saving his own skin! Well, his own... paint job.

He can’t quite believe it.

“Time to MOVE, Mirage!”

And that’s when it hits him. The immediate vicinity is filling rapidly with thick black smoke. It’s not going to cover him the whole way up, but it’s- Oh, right, MOVE!!

His legs burn, both numb and tingling in equal measure, and he curses as he wobbles the first few steps. And then he’s racing. He yanks the handle on the lower line and shoots up the pitted stone face, trying not to think too hard on all the gouges and chunks, or how many times this section of exposed rock has been decorated with ricochets.

Miraculously, he makes it to the top without incident, and he’s already closing his fingers around the next wire when something, something draws his eye to his wrist and he fumbles at the very last second, losing his balance and – because his legs just hate him for two brutal hours of tense crouching – his knee gives out. He lands hard between one of the loot bins and the rockface, cracking his head hard against the latter.

He’s drawing breath when something explodes above his head and showers him with dust and sharp shale. Instinct jerks his knees up, his head down, his arms up and over. Stones and pebbled rock rain down for a few seconds, but nothing big enough to do any damage worse that a couple scrapes and a bruise. Coughing and spitting to clear his airway, he’s leaning over on a palm to drag out his canteen when he spots the strange little puddle by his fingertips.

Strange, because there’s no reason for anything in this dusty sand-filled biome to be pooling wetly like that. Besides, of course, competitors who wouldn’t be getting-

His whole body goes cold, and he glances at his wrist again, and it all is coalescing far too slow in his head but he’s already moving. He throws the lid up and almost stumbles back from the wave of bitter smell. He blinks, and blinks again, because what the fuck is he looking at?

It is an agonizingly long time before his eyes seem to comprehend the mess that they’re receiving. Gore. Blood, enough of it to pool in the shallow basin of the bin, drenching the pile of- oh Gods, no pile – limbs, darkly-clad, a ragged dark cloak-

At last, everything snaps and he sees it all at once and-

“Wraith...”

Up kicks his pulse, the sea of freezing dread in his gut. The air is thin and wavering. Pale splotches – a wrist, a hole in a pant-leg, a sliver of exposed lower back, her- Her kunai, held limp in one hand. Her face, only the pale under one eye and the other side of her nose unmarred. She is covered in blood. His heart clenches far too hard to keep beating, radiating pain down his abdomen as he clutches at the lip of the bin just to stay upright.

Oh... no.. No. Not her, please.

Between the heat of the Arena and the enclosed space of the metal bin, the slaughterhouse smell is nauseating. It takes an entire second for him to remember how to move. He reaches for her cheek, thumbing gingerly under her eye. His vision blurs as the salt and copper tang catches heady in his throat.

A ricochet cracks somewhere nearby, and that’s what snaps him out of it. Like stepping from tar, he starts to move, voice cracking as he yells into his comms and dumps his pack, tearing through it for a MedKit, coagulants- oh Gods did he pick up that transfusion kit earlier or did Path-

“I’ve found her, but it’s b-bad-oh jeez, oh-jeez it’s so much blood-”

Where the fuck IS IT? With a frantic howl he tips out his whole pack, only reflexes standing between him and his rifle being thrown off the edge of the platform. He slings the strap savagely over his shoulder and throws the gun back the same, barely reacting to the barrel thwacking the back of his own head.

He feels torn between autopilot and shock, constantly finding his gaze on her face as he tries to work with enough speed to save her. His fingers close around one unsettlingly cold wrist to get access to her inner arm for the first needle, when it twists in his grip, the kunai angling up under his chin.

Mirage freezes, and for a heartbeat nothing else happens, and then her eyelids slide back just a sliver, and he’s greeted by the cloudy glow of the Void.

“It’s me,” he croaks, daring not to draw back in case he triggers some reflex on her part, “you’re gonna be okay. It’s me.”

The half-moons of pale, alien glow seem to peer right into him before vanishing, the blade falling from her hand as her arm goes limp again. But this time, he catches the tiny movement of her breath. A good sign, please let that be a good sign.

He’s babbling as he gets back to work, telling her what’s happening as he’s tearing back one long sleeve for access, tipping her chin gently away to get a jugular IV going, tapping fingertips along her abdomen to look for wounds over organs. Methodical, only because of years of practice and training. Because inside, he’s freaking out.

She looks dead, she feels dead, so icy cold, so drenched in blood, it’s a miracle she had anything left in her to move, even briefly. He wonders how much of her fantastical abilities were responsible for that one. Because that hadn’t been her behind those eyes, it had been the Void, a different her, or however it worked. He doesn’t like dwelling on that weird mystery too long, and anyway she-

She groans. Ohh, is everything working? Has he-

Please let him have gotten off the save in time. Please, Wraith, just hang on- just.

“Come on, Wraith. I know you’re too stubborn to die. Please, come on... come on...”

Hope, as he knows it, is flickering. No longer a solid and sure foothold. Now, it feels fragile, sharp and desperate and fighting to get out of his chest. He wheezes and blinks away the years as it slices him up inside like he’s swallowed razor wire.

His fingers shake as he tries to steady two fingers around a vein to slide in another – how many? – syringe.

“Wraith? Hey, keep fighting, keep fighting, I’m here, you’re g-gunna be okay, I’m here, Gods, please be okay-“

Wraith groans again, her arm slipping weakly from his grip, but he grabs it back, bites the cap from another shot of coags.

“Not yet, not yet.”

As soon as the needle clears skin he’s dropped it with the others, teeth tearing the cap from the compact little cannula and securing it flush with her inner elbow with the thankfully strong adhesive tape that uncurls from the battlefield saviour. He’s embarrassingly clumsy as he loops the short IV line around her upper arm, flicks the air bubble from the end and clicks it into place. He uses the entire length of tape, designed to secure the innocuous little pouch against her shoulder, to keep it in place on her bicep.

It’s inelegant, messy, but it’ll do for what he needs to do next.

Swallowing the rising of his gorge as he finally takes in the full extent of the blood congealing on her clothes, in the bin, he shoves one hand through the horrific mess and under her, and lifts her with a strength he is grateful hasn’t failed him.

“Path? Tell me you’re in position, buddy, I’m gonna need that line in a-“

The whoosh of it makes him jump, almost toppling from the awkward half crouch and over the edge of the cliff side as the familiar metal rod embeds itself in the soil beside him.

Years of battle instinct have him grabbing for the belt with his free hand, Wraith’s weight balanced precariously – thank god she’s so light – on his thigh.

In under two seconds, it’s wound around them and tight in his hand as he pulls it taught on the handle and they’re rising.

Any slower, and the reactive fire that chases them up the exposed rock would have done more damage.

He’s pretty sure the two in his leg have struck bone, the electric jarring that wracks his skeleton tell him that. It’s only adrenaline that holds back the dark wavering at the edges of his vision.

He just needs to stay conscious until they hit the summit. Pathfinder will get Wraith to safety. If he’s lucky, him too.

He prays with fraying nerves that their friend isn’t being set upon right then, because there’s a horribly confusing firefight taking place somewhere up there, maybe it’s others, hopefully it’s others, because he’s in no shape...

“Mrrr’ge.”

Despite it all, their probable demise mere seconds away, her voice makes his entire being light up like a flare.

“Sshh, I’m getting you out, we’re winning this.”

Her cheek brushes sluggishly at his throat, but she doesn’t speak again.

The landing is hard, rocking him right into a heap, twisting at the last second to haul her weight over him.

The gunfire is close. There’s yelling, someone screaming, and a painful grip catches his arm and rumbles him harshly against the uneven dirt, Wraith flung from his arms.

He snatches for his rifle but it’s stuck under him so he’s already going for his sidearm and it’s already too late and – this is it this is it, this is it and oh God they’d almost pulled it off and he’ll never-

A mountain falls upon him, crushing his lungs, bruising and suffocating, and his head hits rock hard.

Just his luck that it doesn’t even grace him with unconsciousness and he’ll have to watch his death come for him. He can’t get air. He struggles but it doesn’t help, whatever is crushing him is too much. His lungs scream, his fingers burn with panicked pins and needles, and everything is going grey.

Wraith-

The light is so sudden it’s blinding, his entire nervous system jerking from the intrusion as air crashes into his lungs again.

He scrabbles away in the dirt, one leg unresponsive beneath him but his arms are working and something is exploding beside him and he’s not safe yet and-

And Pathfinder is there, blocking the scorching white of the sun and reaching out and arm to pull him up.

“Oh man am I glad to see you!” he wheezes, and suddenly a barrage of bile and dirt and whatever his last meal was is forcing its way up his throat and splattering into the dirt and over his hand.

“Of course, Friend! Did you doubt me?” comes the blithe response, and Mirage can do nothing but gurgle an unattractive laugh as he’s hauled to his feet.

He eyes the giant of a competitor sprawled dead not two feet away.

“Nice timing. He had me.”

“Oh, I was too late. But I did remove his body from your chest!”

Mirage blinked at him.

“Lucky someone else was gunning for him “ he tried to grin. His face hurt far too much. His nose was probably broken again.

Pathfinder shook his head as he inspected Mirage’s leg, one hand uncoiling from his grip to point behind him.

He turned, slowing just in time not to lose his balance, and spotted her, a heap of dark and black, her pallid face patchy with dried blood and rock dust.

“Oh no.”

He can’t hear Pathfinder’s protests as he lurches to her, dropping painfully beside her as his hands fly over the cannula, the IV, the pouch. Miraculously undamaged.

An ear to her chest, and a slow beat answers. Breath whistles weakly from her parted lips.

The relief strips him raw and he collapses on his elbow beside her.

“Thank god. I thought for sure they’d... I tried to keep hold but I wasn’t- the impact was- I tried- I’m so sorry, I tried, I swear I was just opow- opro- ovop- I couldn’t.”

Pathfinder plants a heavy, firm hand on his shoulder, and grounds him.

“She must have had just enough strength.” He hums, “Now we really need to get you two to safety! I must see to your medical needs! And I have found rations! Pineapple!”

Fingers gripping, one arm supporting, heart against chest, lips against neck-

~I’m fallin’ for your eyes

But they don’t know me yet~

“Hey, no, hey don’t go out on me.”

“No! Hey, don’t you dare- open your eyes! Don’t you dare, that’s my last Medkit!”

No laughter, no twitching smirk, no rolling eyes.

Mirage’s hands curl harder around hers.

“Just hang on for me, give it time to work.”

The world shudders with the great barrage outside. Her fingers twitch weakly, a thumb skims his knuckles. He lets out a breath that is aching and dry.

“That’s it, I’m here. I’m still here.”

~Settle down with me

And I’ll be your safety~

He shifts, strength enough for both of them.

“Come on, Wraith. Lie here, hey, lie here with me. It’s gonna be okay. Just give it time to- hey, keep those eyes on me, that’s it. There’s my girl.”

A stilted exchange of broken breath, of looks.

“Okay, okay, I take it back. Just- just stay awake. I gotchu.”

He adjusts his hold, his hand slippery with blood but he wraps it back around her fingers anyway, and she presses her palm into his in response.

~And with this feelin’, I’ll forget, I’m in love now~

“Atta girl, there she is!”

A wheezing cough, but he’s grinning down at her, face so close to his as he lends her his body heat. Her eyes are lidded, heavy with the effort it’s taking.

“I know. I know. But it’s working, it’s working.”

Something explodes against the furthest wall, but it stays standing. He prays it’ll stay standing.

She twitches in his grip, and then stills, her breathing shallow still. He squeezes her hand.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

Bloodied lips to bloodied forehead, a gentle puff against his throat.

“Kill me later,” he whispers, and that time she does roll her eyes at him.

It doesn’t stop him grinning.

~.~

She has a plan, or she’s building one, he can see it in her eyes. Dark and endless, squinting in the dawning light and full of things he knows she’ll never share. His heart clenches just the same, the feeling never lessens.

~ Wish that I could see the machinations, understand the toilet of expectations in your mind ~

Like a viper, she whirls on him, and it’s set then, he can see it. Even if she won’t explain it until they’re halfway through, or not at all. He’ll catch up, he almost always does. Her fist springs open and he knows when she grimaces, when the sparks start to dance – when her hand strikes out to catch his as the gunfire starts as though anticipated.

She hauls him into the rip, her fingers a steady anchor around his own as he trips into a run with her.

~Hold me like you never lost your patience~

They fall through the seam, or rather he falls, she knows exactly where to touch the ground, where to turn, where to aim. He’s only a single beat behind, but he knows she notices. She must always notice, and yet she’s still here, years later, dragging him through tunnels in the fabric of space that he will never be able to fully understand. His palm tingles against the grip of his carbine. He fells an unlucky soul, she has the other. His skin will forget the touch of her skin, but he won’t forget quite so easily.

Something clever and witty and possibly stupid comes out of his mouth when they get back on their feet and start towards their next point, sticking to the long grasses and slipping between the sparse trees.

“Y’know, sometimes I think you don’t warn me on purpose. Any excuse to hold my hand, huh?”

She shoots him a glare over her shoulder, navy eyes narrowed, mouth a sharp line, bit is he imagining the tick up in the corner? Perhaps his flirting hasn’t quite failed him yet.

~Tell me that you love me more than hate me all the time~

~.~

Wraith can never sleep after a game like that. Too many close calls, too much they could improve on, too many what ifs to dwell on, brood on, sulk on.

He knows, even if she doesn’t tell him. Doesn’t tell anyone. So he does what he does best, he sets in motion a half-cocked dramatic plan, and hopes she’ll humour him.

That’s the very reason he’s looking at her now, leaning against the frame of her open window and levelling him with a dark look that communicates precisely how stupid she thinks he is, as he poses like a model , leaning back on his arms, hands splayed out flat on the hood of his favourite old car, engine purring in the humid midnight air, shining -alluringly, he knows it- in the moonlight.

~You need a pick me up?~

She looks deliberately at the perfectly polished, perfectly worshipped, sleek body of the car and slowly back at him. Unimpressed judgement drips from every lash that frames those eyes. Gods, those eyes. A moment of indecision turns in his gut. Maybe this really was a bad idea.

But something shift in her face. Just a flicker, but he catches it. He knows her face better than anyone alive. He knows it better than his own heart.

He quirks and eyebrow. She quirks one back. He grins and pushes off the sleek metal, steps towards the low window.

And he offers her his hand.

~I like to push my luck,

So take my hand, let’s take a drive~

There is an endless, wordless second as he waits.

A minute twitch of her lips, and one hand slips into his like it belongs there. Elliot can feel the flush of heat in his face as he helps her down to the concrete, as he gestures gallantly with his other arm at the magnificence of his prized possession.

It burns hot when she doesn’t release his hand until he’s opened her door, until he’s helped her slide into the dark leather interior. His throat closes up with it, his heart fumbles.

As if she knows, Wraith’s navy eyes tease him when he doesn’t quite close the door properly the first time. He takes the steady steps around the car to calm his breathing.

When he slides into his seat beside her, he feels suddenly like a teenager, inexperienced and nervous, when all he’s doing is going for a drive with- with a friend.

And he’s sure that’s how he has to see it, for the sake of his own heart, until her hands slips over his on the gearstick when they’re flying down a deserted road with the cooling night air whipping through their hair.

Like something from an old movie, like a move right out of his own playbook. He glances over, but she has her head turned the other way, dark hair dancing over her shoulders, staring off into the night.

Suspended, in time as they were in the dead air above the endless chasm, the words were all that existed.

And the moment was gone, and she’d kicked the handle with her other foot and rocketed them to the sanctuary of solid ground. Blessed be Pathfinder, who had wrangled them both with one sweep of his arm and swung them across the death of open ground to shelter.

She’d stitched her own leg, a long winding laceration that snaked nastily from ankle to mid-thigh, and pulled on combats to match, Mirage’s fine stitch work a good sight better than her own handiwork.

Pathfinder had to pull her from the floor, her weight heavy against him, not that anyone would have known, and guide her in a limp to the bundle of her bunk kit so she could rest. She’d known before he told her that her wrist was badly fractured from their squadmate’s grasp. Catching dead weight falling at that speed, it wasn’t a surprise.

Pathfinder fussed, and Wraith was too sore and too exhausted to even make an attempt of waving him off. The high-grade painkillers put her halfway out, and fatigue took her the rest of the way. Even if it hadn’t, the vial from the medkit that was regrowing and knitting her bones would be too taxing to stay conscious.

That save was all anyone could talk about when the Game was over. She lost count of the number of suits who approached her for authorization and signatures for Promo footage and other dull self-promotion she could never be bother to care about.

The Hub was buzzing with excitement over it, the Rec rooms playing re-runs for days. There was real, long-lasting hype over what was quickly being acknowledged as the ‘Save of the Century’. Every Elite and any lower ranker with the courage to speak to her had congratulated her on it. Even Pathfinder, who was usually shockingly astute when it came to Wraith’s disdain for systematic breakdowns or reminiscence about their matches - outside of how they could improve - had mentioned twice how impressed he was.

It seemed she was one of only two people who wasn’t talking about it. The other had been notably absent from her vicinity, which was unusual these days. She’d long since lost the ability to shrug him off effectively, send him off with his tail tucked low between his legs. And she’d grown used to his presence anyway. One does, when the nuisance is persistent and frequent.

Maybe that was why she was here. Maybe she’d subconsciously sought him out. Not that she couldn’t survive the month until their next game without his God awful chattering. Not that she missed his noise and his flirting and his jokes.

But she noticed, alright?

It wasn’t as if her days felt sluggish and her mind wouldn’t focus.

It wasn’t like she was lying at night with sleep escaping her, feeling like some phantom piece of her was missing.

It wasn’t as if the nightmares had grown bold and fierce as though tasting weakness.

She spent afternoons in the library alone. Dusks, wandering in the quiet of the town without a  shadow. Meals, uninterrupted, in the cafeteria.

It had taken her two days to notice his absence, and assume he’d gone home to visit his mother as he sometimes did.

That was before she saw him across the courtyard beside the window of her quarters. Before she watched him turn down a street with an almost perfect performance of not spotting her.

Before she passed him at the library entrance slipping through the door he held open for her as he avoided her eyes. She’d come so close to brushing shoulders with him, but he’d ducked away.

He’d never done that before, and that was what had her recalling the words, the ones that weren’t supposed to exist even in thought, yet had sprung from her mouth from somewhere unknown when she’d dropped from the seam between worlds and tumbled into a hasty Zipline with not a hair’s breadth of room for error and shot her arm out for him.

Wraith drew the mug closer to her chest atop the dinged wooden table, guarding it almost, as she could do nothing else but watch him. The bar was sparser than it had been in the weeks following the last Elite match. Those who’d left the Hub for home, travel, visiting friends and relatives in the lull between matches, had thinned the herd.

Karaoke night was usually a satisfying way to be invisible, cloaked in low lighting while live performances drew away any unwanted attention. It was a near perfect compromise between solitude and social interaction. Even if she wasn’t chasing the way alcohol would lift the weight from her. Elliot’s bar was the one place she could be sure to get a good cup of coffee at any time of day.

The old-timey lights lit strands of pink and green in the curls spilling over his forehead in the dimmed room. The stage was framed by hot white lighting, just enough to spotlight whatever poor fool dared step up for drunken renditions of songs so old Wraith had never heard most of them in their correct key. His eyes glowed like fireside whiskey as they swept the room.

Not that she’d ever tell him, but Elliot’s singing voice... Well. It had qualities she found... Appealing. Singing was the only time she never heard him stumble over words or unwieldy syllables, where his pacing was even and each word clear and pure. His range had long since stopped surprising her, but every now and then he could still impress.

Elliot could nail almost anything he tried. He twanged just enough for country, sang almost like silk for those strange Spanish love songs. Octane sulked, when those came up. Competition would break out as an inevitability and the entire evening would be eaten away with Spanish ballads, one after the other, testing the patience of other patrons.

That night, Elliot sang with a mournful ache that stirred something secret in her chest. He hadn’t seen her come in, busy with a group of fans and his friend behind the bar, already at least a few drinks in and his usual loud, playful persona fully in place. She’d slunk to the bar when he was busy elsewhere, found a table in a corner furthest from the lights, and slowly nursed a coffee as she let the atmosphere she was so removed from wash over her.

She hadn’t been sure he was going to take the stage, so busy being social, signing the odd autograph, dancing and drinking and looking for all the world like the Game they’d played two weeks ago had never happened.

But then he did, and he grinned at a rising wave of wolf whistles and cheers, and he’d given some droll little speech about satisfying his fans as the sharp staccato notes of an intro started.

And it wasn’t until right before he drew breath and sang the first word that Wraith even noticed the change that had come over him. His hands stilled around the microphone stand. His shoulders settled back. Something shifted in his expression. And a Voice whispered uneasily right as his first note rang out across the room.

Remember when you said you loved me?

Remember when you said that it would all work out?

Wraith’s throat had gone dry.

He was... Alien, standing slope-shouldered in the shock of the spotlight, his skin like caramel and his voice carrying across the new hush with an almost desperate note.

And I’m swirling, softly, drifting like the cream in your coffee.

And then- And then his eyes flickered over, and she knew he was looking at her. A shiver, the realization, like prey spying the hunter that already knew they were there.

And you’re talking, calmly, but I’m scared-

Raw, the sound bending, almost breaking. Her heart rate picked up.

To be on our own, when the thrill is gone.

Her chest lurched, constricted. Elliot’s gaze burned into her, unflinching even as he bared his soul, even as his face showed trace of just how true it was.

He’d avoided her, been avoiding her, and it had been because of that moment. The Save of the Century. The moment everything in existence had shifted from the impact of words she hadn’t even known she was going to say. The adrenaline had waned, the Game had kept them in tandem until it was over and-

And then he’d just... Vanished.

And Wraith realised that he had run away from it, too.

Voices were arguing, interrupting each other and overlapping in the back of head but all she could hear was him.

Wraith couldn’t even escape, locked into place, the chill of the Void ghosting her skin. The air was thin and hot in her throat. His gaze flashed in the strobe lights, unnatural shadows rising and falling across the face she knew so well, and every stroke and curve and edge told her everything.

Baby can you keep your promise?

Unbelievable, to be doing this. For anyone to hear and understand, the stools and the dancefloor full of bodies, of fans, of people who- who could know, could know something so intimate she’d never breathed it to anyone. That they’d sworn their lives into each other’s hands every single time they’d stepped onto that drop ship. That they’d shed blood, their own, the others’, that somehow, somewhere, the one thing she’d striven for every game for years had recalibrated. Survival looked different, now.

Somewhere along the line, it was only survival if he lived to fight beside her another day.

Wraith had to get out of there. She couldn’t fill her lungs, couldn’t feel her fingers, like the Void had taken hold.

Only she was burning up from something other than-

There’s nothing in the sky above me,

Nothing strung below us baby if we fall-

We’re caught between a spark and lightning-

Wraith’s wrist twitched under the memory of crushing fingers, of sparks and heat flash.

On the stage, somehow too close and yet far enough away to be in another world, Elliot tilted his chin, eyes flickering away as though afraid, his voice softening and breaking and the surge in her own abdomen, flooding from her toes, aching with it.

I’m sorry, I love you, but even those words are getting see-through...

All at once, a thousand moments, a thousand memories, screamed in her head, flashing hard against her skull as though torn up by the Voices.

Promises, light-hearted comments, over-the-top declarations, flirty innuendos delivered with all the levity of bad jokes, jabs, compliments she’d growled at, shoved away, arms slung over her shoulders that she’d jabbed him in the ribs for. Furtive looks after particularly dicey situations, protein bars handed wordlessly to her before she even knew she needed them, tired glances of exhaustion when they spent comfortable hours of silence recovering in front a screen playing movies she couldn’t even remember. Moments in places she can’t even recall, brief seconds of feeling like the world was unbalanced before he said something that didn’t sound like what he meant, and flashed her that smile and it all righted once more and she was sure she’d imagined that she wasn’t in her own timeline.

He’d been telling her for two years. Maybe longer. And, as he always did, as if he’d heard, Elliot found her again, tucked far across the room in a corner dark with shadow.

When you say you love me, are we ever really gonna feel safe?

Like he’d stolen the words right from the depths of her own soul, a fear she’d never even spoken to herself. A thing he couldn’t ever, possibly know about her. And yet she couldn’t tear her eyes from him, couldn’t convince herself that he didn’t know it.

Wraith’s blood flushed hot with... With fear, with flight, with- with- She didn’t know, she couldn’t name it, couldn’t bear to think it.

She knew who Mirage was. She knew the level of facade he had built, an almost unshakeable act. Intricacies upon riddles almost futile to unpick.

But in that moment, every inch of his face bore Elliot as his eyes slid closed. He almost howled as the music swelled, melancholic, painful, transfixing. The lights danced dangerously down the smooth exposure of his throat, and it stirred in Wraith.

Is it better if I walk away?

The revulsion snapped fast across her nerves, lighting like battle. No, it isn’t. Not now. Not him.

Wraith yearned, suddenly, fiercely, with a depth that terrified her even as it swept her over.

Cause I’m scared, to be on our own.

And I’m scared, thinking what we’ve done.

Baby can you keep your promise?

Baby can I keep you honest?

When he looked to her again, Wraith knew what her path had to be. His voice was a whisper, the music dropping away to leave him alone and small on the stage, his words pure, true, piercing even as they faded.

Cause I’m scared.

And though the room exploded, cheering and whistling and screaming unintelligibly, his gaze never wavered.

It seemed only right to Wraith that she shouldn’t either.

The sun wasn’t too far from rising when the place finally emptied, the last of the voices calling goodnight and talking far too loudly for the time as they filtered away, out into the pre-dawn.

Elliot was dragging a rag over the bar top, the dishwasher running almost comfortingly behind him as he hummed absently along with it. The main lights had been shut off, the coloured strobes too, and he worked under the gentle yellow of a solitary desk lamp whose neck draped down from one of the shelves.

Wraith hadn’t stopped buzzing with the unfamiliar cocktail of emotion once in the hours since Elliot had sung. It had been excruciating to wait, to find other shadows to lurk in, too afraid that her next words might be overheard to risk him coming over.

But now, she was almost nauseous. It was deeply unsettling, feeling so rattled. Like a rookie on the field for the first time, her footing uncertain, her heartbeat irregular.

She made it almost to the raised bar door before he must have sensed the movement.

Wide, startled eyes found her, stealing her breath for a second.

“Hey.” he finally breathed, his expression smoothing into neutral.

“Hey.”

He polished the rail along the inside of the bar top, the dishwasher punctuating the stilted air by beeping and falling silent. Elliot glanced back at her briefly, a nervous glance, furtive. She swallowed.

How was it, that they killed so swiftly and so confidently in battle when there was clearly a risk of death, yet they stood now in fragile silence?

“Elliot...” she dared, and he turned towards her again.

“I thought I saw you, earlier.” he tried, gentle and light and neutral once more.

It would be on her, then.

“You did.”

Elliot nodded.

“Thought so.”

Impatience sparked along her fingertips.

“I hadn’t heard that one before.”

Elliot’s arm stilled.

“Had- heard what before?”

Soft, skipping over the problem word as it raised its head. Emotion swelled in her chest. Breathtaking, forceful, impulsive.

Wait-

It doesn’t end here-

Be careful!

Wraith-

It’s worth the exposure-

Wraith tensed, moving into his space as his head lifted to look at her properly in question.

“Wrai-?”

He tasted like raspberry, and the heady burn of bourbon. The initial squeak of surprise melted into a querying hum, but he didn’t move away. If anything, Wraith was sure he’d leaned into the kiss.

A further step and they were together to toe, her hands shaking as they found his jacket, curling hesitantly into the dark leather.

Without thought, without plan, she tipped her chin up further to meet the next press of his lips, terror a tornado in her gut. Feather light, something brushed her cheek, nudging her gently back into him as she made to pull back.

Something akin to a sob tumbled in the back of her throat. And then his palm sealed against her cheek, his hand pressed firmly against her lower back, and her hands were sandwiches between their chests. And all the tension just fell away.

An endless, sweetly torturous moment, an endless, sweetly torturous kiss, and she was tearing away with a startled gasp, her diaphragm unsynced as her heart jackrabbited and her lungs seemed to forget their function.

Inches from her face, Elliot’s eyes shot open. His pupils blown wide, his chest heaving hard, his lips slack with shock.

Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth as she swallowed.

Panting like they’d raced the Ring, they stated at each other for a second, then two, and five others.

“Well that was- unep- inexp- un- a surprise.”

Endearing.

Someone whispered.

Tiresome.

Said another.

Wraith choked on the unexpected humour of it, warming further under the lopsided tilt of his lips that replied. His eyes twinkled, like a storybook hero.

It was a hopeless battle.

“Yes," her breath hitched over the sound, “Yes, it was.”

Elliot gave a hitching laugh, gaze flittering over her as he regarded her curiously.

“Warn a guy, Huh?”

His grin was familiar and yet it felt like it took her knees out from under her that time.

“No.” she eventually answered, her voice sounding much more like her usual wry repartee.

Elliot laughed again.

“Okay, then. Don’t warn a guy.”

Dusk has fallen, the night has crept in, and her squad are denned in what’s left of a shack on stilts. At least all the doors still close. She cannot scale to the rooftop, not this late in a Game, even if she feels safer cloaked at height in the dark. She dares not even leave her squad to steal a moment on the warped wooden platform high above their heads.

To be taken down at this point, would mean no beacon her squadmates could risk. She can’t justify, even to herself, leaving them short over her need to centre herself. Too many open lines of sight to risk, especially when she’s all but certain there’s a squad holed up just as they are, up the incline in the shallows.

If nothing else, they won’t be set upon any time soon. Not unless someone else breaks the peace of the night. There is not one Elite left alive who is cocky enough to think they can sneak up on Wraith while wading through the swamps. So they’re safe, for now. Bunked almost civilly, indoors in a standing structure. Mirage might be making jokes about playing house, if he weren’t sleeping off the near-fatal injuries of their last encounter.

So, she makes do. She settles herself in a corner next to the door to the balcony, reminding herself that an attack isn’t imminent - she can stretch her legs out flat and rest. Pathfinder is powered down to sleep until her watch is over. His chest screen glows softly as a nightlight in the far corner, his rifle loose but ready in hand. Mirage, they’ve line against the thickest wall between them, on the best of a battle bed they could source from rags and packs and a long plank, his bunk kit blanket tucked over him to keep away the chill of the air.

His face is lax and smoothed in sleep, because Wraith has allowed herself the indulgence of dosing him at regular intervals with her abundant score of low-grade painkillers. His hair is a tangled snare of yellow highlights and dirt, and a smile ghosts Wraith’s lips at the certainty that the first thing he will do upon waking is rectify the less-than-camera-ready state of his appearance. Soot has dried and caressed his cheekbone, a nick on his chin has dried dark and scabbed over. Dust and sand have settled in every crease of his face. He shows the story of their last fight, right there on his skin. His lashes flutter and a soft hitch mars his breath. Wraith finds (as she does increasingly often these days) that she hasn't the will to stop her own eyes from mapping every smudge, every line, of the face she knows better than anyone will ever know.

Her ribcage is tight with knotted things she hasn't acknowledged.

She breathes the night, as much as she can in a cramped, claustrophobic room with no view of the vast dark above her, and coaxes it into her lungs, her blood. Far across the Arena some unknown creature howls to the sky, and the stillness of it all falls like snow upon her as she watches him sleep.

It won’t be long. Until the pause is over and it all begins anew, she knows that. First watch is something they’ve rotated between them since their early days, because they all know how unlikely it is they’ll get a second, or a third, and Wraith is already fully prepared to be running on little sleep when the guns start up again. They rarely argue with her when she calls it, even though she knows they must know it falls on her more often than is fair.

But she’s used to making do. She always has been. It keeps her sharp. It’s a luxury, even now, to have squad who share the burden as best they can. And awake alone in the tense darkness of the Canyon, or the Swamps as the case is this time, she watches over them, assured that any foolish attempt to kickstart the day early will be met with swift retaliation. She wraps the shadows around herself like welcome blankets, feels the intangible warmth of Pathfinder’s glow, and listens to Mirage breathe; deep and even and restful, and for an hour or two, - or four if they’re lucky – she will welcome the balance of peace in her soul.

When the guns begin again, as they always do, that glow will flicker bright and aware, her feet will find the split wood beneath her, and Mirage will stir. Until then, Wraith will sit in the darkness of the night and watch the steady rise and fall, her eyes will trace every twist and knot and curl across his forehead, and a secretive Voice in the back of her head will mourn, just a little, when waking snatches the smooth from his brow and the quiet of the air.

It waits for dawn, a savoured pleasure. High, far enough away that the life prowls back into their den at an almost leisurely pace. Wraith stretches languidly, Pathfinder powers up steadily, and Mirage wakes with a yawn and a murmur of "Already?" that punctures the air gently with mirth.

His eyes are open and bright regardless, alertness in every angle of his jaw and the ridge of his nose as he sits, and yawns again, and combs one hand through his hair with a playful disgust on his lip.

"Couldn't rinse when you were giving me a makeover?"

Despite herself, Wraith's lips twitch as she slings her pack over her shoulders.

"You must not have packed your hairdryer." he adds, cheeky - flirtatious, even - and grins widely at her eye roll.

An explosion rocks the ground close enough to pay attention to, and their respite is officially shattered. Peace melts away, slinking into the cracks between the floorboards and withdrawing into the shadows left forgotten in the corners.

With one glance between them, three are ready and positioned by the door. The moment it opens, Pathfinder will send forth a yellow cord, and in seconds they'll be under another roof.

Mirage's elbow grazes hers. He meets her glance with a smirk and it passes between them briefly; one look, one plan, total understanding.