Bear

Night is always the hardest. In the darkness, shadows crawl and monsters wake. The past creeps back, claws digging through flesh until it finds bone and burrowing deeper and deeper until it can’t be escaped, can’t be eradicated. Only the sun brings some reprieve, order and convention taking the wheel. Pain falls in line, hidden behind a smile and a laugh. But behind the shine and the light hides a rotting marrow of infection secreted away, waiting for day to fade to slither out once more. Obligations falter and stall, crushed under the extra weight that’s attached itself, a parasite of ones own making, fear and regret, the curse of living with your mistakes. Of cleaning up shattered glass of those who came before. A path paved, but designed to make you bleed. Death has stalked every step, always there, always waiting, for that single slip. Youth lost and wasted in an unwinnable fight. Time an hourglass, flipped and flipped and flipped. Destined only for repetition. Can there be a future for one so damned? A lifetime spans ahead, as long as a piece of string. Endless and smoking, singed and frayed. Running can only ever get you so far. Everyone around you will watch as the fire burns. No hands or help to be found. Sleep, sun, suffer. Rinse, repeat.

“What’s this?”

The words startle Tara, a deep-seated sense of fear striking her. She’d hidden herself away for a reason, she hadn’t wanted to be found, and now, like a rabbit before a fox, she freezes.

Dead meat.

Despite her best efforts, she’s not quick enough, and the hand in her peripheral vision sneaks past her, snatching the notebook from her lap.

“Amber, don’t.”

The girl pays no mind – she never does.

Her eyes instead rove over the page, smirk fading from pleased to displeased, a frown marring her face instead.

Tara hated that look.

It reminded her of her mother.

Something harsh and angry, a promise of rough hands and cutting words.

“It’s just homework,” Tara mutters, words quiet and unsure. She fidgets with her skirt but finds herself unable to look away.

She wants nothing more than to run, she wants nothing more than for her to look at her.

Eventually, Amber scoffs, throwing it back at her.

“What a load of nonsense. Are you trying to fail?”

Oh.

“Poems are supposed to be pretty, not a bunch of words vomited on a page that nobody wants to read. Nobody cares about this shit.”

She hadn’t wanted her to see it, she hadn’t wanted anybody to see it. And yet, Amber’s words sliced right through her ribs all the same. She’d looked into the depths of Tara’s heart, and found it worthless.

She might as well have stabbed her.

Tara licks her lips, mouth suddenly dry.

“Yeah, you’re right. It was stupid. Nobody–”

“Of course I’m right,” Amber cheers, cutting her off, “glad you’ve seen the light.”

The arm she throws over her shoulder feels so heavy, warmth burning beneath the cool shade of the building.

“Now,” Amber continues, “maybe you should write about something actually important. Like your best friend maybe, hmm?”

Often in her life, Sam’s wondered if she’s cursed. If God doesn’t have some plan for her that she keeps sidestepping and avoiding. Why else would these insane things continue to happen?

Or maybe it’s just destiny. Her fate to fall.

Billy.

Richie.

Christina.

…Tara.

Everyone around her, everyone she touches… it’s like she’s some corrupting influence, a rot spreading from her soul to theirs.

She doesn’t know.

All she knows is that Tara’s staring at her with glazed hungry eyes, blood and flesh dripping from her mouth.

And that she’s fucked.

It’s probably stupid that the first thought that goes through her mind is zombies.

Then it’s probably not what it looks like.

Tara eating her boyfriend isn’t really a thing she’d ever think – well except that one time kneeling before Danny where her mind flashed to her sister doing the same to Chad, and thoroughly ruined her evening. And Danny’s. And Tara’s. And if Chad had actually been there, you best believe she’d have ruined his evening too. Especially his evening.

From the look of things, Sam doesn’t have to worry about that anymore.

“Tara?”

“It’s not what it looks like!”

Sam stares at her sister in disbelief.

“It looks like you’re eating Chad!”

There’s a pause as Tara stares back at her, eyes wide. Sam thinks she can see the very moment the realisation of what she’s been doing hits her.

“Oh… it’s exactly what it looks like.”

“WHAT THE FUCK TARA?!”

The sorry and puppy dog eyes she sends her would have sounded more sincere if the girl hadn’t been licking blood off her fingers at the same time.

Sam closes the door.

Apparently, it starts like this:

Her mother’s in a cult. A flesh-eating cult.

She’s a god damned cannibal.

It sounds crazy to say. To think about. To even comprehend.

But crazy is just kinda how Sam’s life seems to be going so far, so why the fuck not, right?

And maybe Sam could have ignored it and left it for someone else to deal with, if the bitch hadn’t kidnapped her sister. You’d think by now that people would have learnt never to fucking touch Tara Carpenter, because she has a psycho ass sister who will cut down anyone who gets in between them.

But apparently her mother hadn’t gotten the memo.

Sam’s had a lot of regrets in her life, pretty much all of them centred around Tara. Leaving her at the mercy of their delusional mother for several days was just another one to add to the list.

Christina bends down on one knee, robes flowing around her, and strokes a hand along her daughter’s cheek. “Hello darling,” she coos, voice full of adoration. The sound of a loving mother. “I’ve missed you.” Tara jolts, pulling her head back as far as she can. The chair she’s tied to doesn’t allow much movement at all, and soft fingers turn harsh, digging into her cheek and chin, turning her head to face her captor once again. It causes her mother’s mask to slip, the visible anger so much more familiar than the façade she’d been parading. “Look at people when they’re talking to you baby, or have you lost all your manners while in your sister’s care?” Tara clenches her jaw and slips her eyes to the side. She won’t give her the satisfaction. Christina scoffs, standing up. “She always was a terrible influence. It’s all that infected blood inside her.” Tara does her best not to react, but her mother’s next words make a chill run down her spine. She doesn’t know what she means, but she knows it’s nothing good. “But don’t worry dear, we can cleanse her, together. Then we can be a family again. …Now, are you hungry?”

Sam doesn’t take her eyes off her sister as she makes her way over to the bed.

For all that Tara had seemed confident from afar, the closer she gets, the more she seems to curl into herself. Is it shame, Sam wonders? Horror? Fear?

The thought makes her stomach twist painfully.

She never wants her sister to be scared of her. Of herself.

There’s nothing Tara could do that Sam wouldn’t protect her from, that could make her stop loving her. Somehow the thought that she hadn’t made that clear already feels so much more alarming than the cooling body atop the sheets.

Standing over her, Sam can see the way her sister’s hands shake.

All she wants is to make it stop.

So she does.

Taking Tara’s head in her hands, she pulls her forward and holds her close, one arm wrapping around her shoulder and the other cradling her head to her stomach.

Sam’s lost for words, so she says the only thing she can say.

“It’s gonna be okay, I’ll fix this.”

It makes her sister break, sticky hands clutching at Sam’s shirt and tears beginning to soak the cotton.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry Sam, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t. I was just so hungry.”

Tara doesn’t want anything from her mother – unless it’s her deciding to Let. Her. Go. – But Christina doesn’t give her much of a choice. Someone – robed and masked and entirely unidentifiable – holds her head still, while her mother leans in close and spoon feeds her. At first, Tara had resisted, refusing to open her mouth, but that only led to it being hinged open painfully as they forced it down her throat. At least this way she has some semblance of control, she can feign fullness and beg for no more. So long as she eats something, it keeps her mother happy. It makes the woman feel like she’s winning. Silently, Tara begs for Sam to hurry up, to come and find her. She’s looking, she knows she’s looking. Sam would never leave her here, no matter what poison her mother whispers in her ear. She hopes it’s soon; she’s starting to lose track of time in this endlessly lit room, and the food that had at first left her nauseous and retching, is beginning to taste… good. It lingers on her tongue and sits heavy in her stomach, but with every meal she cares less and less; she takes more and more. They’ve done something to it, she knows, if only by the way her mother’s grin widens the more she takes. But she doesn’t have a choice. Tara will do what it takes to survive.

Sam sits on the floor, leaning against the bedroom wall with Tara curled up in her lap, and runs her fingers through her hair.

Her sister is calm and content now, as cuddly as a sleepy kitten.

It feels an apt comparison; watching Tara slice skin from a boy she’d known since diapers felt a lot like watching the neighbours cat scale the tree in their childhood backyard to devour the nest of baby sparrows that had been living there.

Sam had been upset; inconsolable, and angry. She remembers the way Tara, not even a year old, had crawled into her lap then, like she is now, and babbled at her until she’d stopped crying.

It’s funny to think about, how similar the two events are, how different.

She winces as teeth scrape against her shoulder.

Yeah, nothing’s really changed. She’s still being used as a teething toy.

She’s still a big sister.

“Why are you doing this?!”

Sam would like to say that she’s not enjoying this, that it’s purely practical. A hunter killing for food out of necessity.

But that would be a lie.

She feels like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be – with a knife in her hand, and prey at her feet.

The man cowers on the floor, one leg bleeding profusely where she’d sliced along his calf. Hamstringing and hobbling him.

He’s not going anywhere; she can take her time. She can have fun.

She walks towards him slowly, enjoying the frantic way he tries to crawl away, his pitiful cries for help that he sobs out between tears are music to her ears.

It feels so good to be free, to not have to hold back anymore.

To be herself.

To be unmasked.

She slips it from her face, dropping it to the floor, feral grin liberated.

“Are you clean?” she asks softly. She knows he can’t hear her, but that’s part of the little game she likes to play.

“Wh-what?”

“Are. You. Clean?”

She creeps ever closer, kneeling down before him and rests her knife against his neck.

“Your blood, your body,” she clarifies, looking directly into his fear-filled eyes.

“M-my blood? Yes, yes! I’m clean! Please, whatever it is you think I’ve done- I haven’t- I haven’t infected anyone or- or- whatever it is you’re thinking!”

She tilts her head to the side, pretending to ponder his words.

He takes this false hope and clings to it.

“Please, you’ve clearly mistaken me for someone else. I won’t tell anyone, I promise, just please let me go.”

She grins and backs away, rising to her feet. “Good. Good,” she murmurs, holding out a hand.

The man damn near pisses himself, but takes it anyway, thanking her profusely. Up until the moment she jams the knife into the side of his neck.

“I just wanted to make sure,” she says to the gurgling body as it slumps against her. “You can never be too careful after all.”

Sam knows he’s clean, she’d read his blood test results herself.

She’d never risk Tara’s health.

Sam feels a lot like a wolf as she drags the carcass home, ready to feed her pack of one.

Their current den, an old farmhouse – in poor condition and cheap for it, but crucially, isolated – is the perfect place for them in the next chapter of their lives.

The way Tara’s eyes light up as Sam beholds her gift never fail to make her heart swell with pride and love.

Sam’s a provider, and as she moves through the house to drop her catch off in the workshop, her sister sings her praises the entire way, barely a step behind.

There’s something so undeniably addicting to being needed, to being the one person who can make another’s world keep turning.

And as history has shown, Sam is, undeniably, an addict.

She wonders what 13-year-old her would think of her now. At the time, learning that she had a killer’s blood in her veins had seemed like the worst thing in the world.

She’d been so scared she would turn out just like him.

Maybe knowing that she’d do it for Tara would have made all the difference. Maybe they could have avoided so much pain, so much shame. So much hurt.

But she can’t change the past, only embrace the future. Their future. Together.

Sam grins over at her sister as she makes herself comfortable at the other side of the table.

Tara doesn’t have the strength of the size to deal with the body, much to her irritation, so the next best thing is to watch Sam carve it up instead. Anticipation of the meal she’ll get later.

While Tara is fascinated with watching Sam’s process, Sam is fascinated with hers. Her eyes will slip from the knife to watch her sister’s hands as they run over cold dead skin. She’ll analyse her hungry eyes and the way she chews her lip, and wonder.

She’s thought a hundred times about trying it for herself, but never bought herself to ask.

Tara wouldn’t say no, she’d be thrilled even, Sam knows. To share this, to forge another chain linking them together.

Joey sits at a bar; another lonely lost soul contemplating life with a glass of something cheap and the colour of piss between her hands.

If she could bring herself to take a sip, she’s sure it would taste as bad as it looks.

She hasn’t crossed that line yet.

But she wants to. God she wants to.

For the past six months, all she’s done is try. Try, try, try, harder than she’s ever tried before.

It’s still not enough. It’ll never be enough.

Caleb hates her.

She doesn’t blame him. How could she?

She was a shitty mother when she was around – too young, too damaged, too broken.

Too foolish.

A 21-year-old with head trauma and no future prospects in life had no place raising a one-night-stand baby.

But she’d tried.

He was the best thing in her life, the only good thing in her life.

And it still wasn’t enough.

She’d become a slave to a hunger that he could never fulfil, and eventually she’d chosen it over him, leaving him with a man he’d never even met when looking into his sad brown eyes had become too much.

At 5 years old, Caleb had experienced more than he should have ever had to know, he’d had to mature so much faster than any child should.

Now, over half his life later, is it any wonder he doesn’t want her around on his birthday?

Her son is eleven years old today, and she doesn’t even know him. He doesn’t even know her.

She doesn’t even know her.

Who the fuck is Ana Lucia Cruz, other than a failure, an addict, and a deadbeat mother?

Who is she now?

Weak.

She lifts the glass to her lips – only for it to be pushed back down.

With a sharp turn of her head, she glares at this interloper to her pity party.

The stranger – the tall handsome stranger – smirks down at her, in that cocky sleazy way that men do when they know they’ve got a woman’s attention, whether they want it or not.

“You don’t want to be drinking that,” he purrs as he leans forward and slips it from her hands.

Ana only sighs, feeling forlorn as her drink is pushed to the other side of the bar and around him, far out of her reach.

“There are far better ways to have a good time… if you know what I mean,” he continues with a glint in his eye. “You seem like someone who knows how to have a good time.”

She stares at him blankly for a moment, looking him up and down. The last time she fell for that she ended up pregnant. Never again.

“Yes, I’m sure you’re God’s gift to women, but I’m not interested,” she snarks back, turning to face the bar again, eyes flickering over the rows of liquor on display.

God she’s so thirsty. Her mouth salivates as she spots an old favourite of hers.

She should never have come here.

“Woah now.”

Oh, he’s still there.

“You’ve got me all wrong,” the stranger remarks with a hyper-hurt tone. “I’m not on the menu, but I’ve got a few other options you might find… appetising.”

Ana tries. She really does. But no matter where she looks, there are ghosts to be found, haunting her; there’s just no escape. Eventually her eyes land back on him.

In typical fashion, he takes it as an agreement, holding out a hand.

“There’s an office round back, very exclusive.”

In a fit of madness, she takes it, and quickly finds herself being pulled through the crowd of patrons and past a door labelled employees only. Nobody even bats an eye.

As the door closes behind her, she asks herself – for the first time this evening – just what the hell she’s doing.

How could she put herself in this situation?

She takes a step back, pulling her hand from his.

“I just remembered I have somewhere to be,” she mumbles, trying to turn around.

Her way is blocked by an arm and a predatory smile.

“Well that’s not very nice, is it? You seem to make a habit of that, don’t you Ana? Making commitments and bailing on them.”

The words make her freeze, a cold chill wrapping itself around her spine as the mans fingers tighten painfully around her arm and begin to drag her down the corridor.

“Get the fuck off me,” she yells, struggling in his grip.

She doesn’t know who he is or who he works for, but the last time this happened it got her on the hitlist for a fucking vampire and nearly killed for it.

Not an experience she’s eager to repeat.

Unfortunately, he’s stronger than her, and as they turn a corner, he’s no longer alone.

Despite the knowledge there’s no way for her to escape, she continues to fight anyway. The way she always has.

He’s knocking on a door when she bites down on his wrist. The howl he cries is worth the backhand and split lip he gives her. It knocks her to the ground, but she only snarls up at him, no puppy that will roll over and plead mercy.

“Fucking bitch,” he calls out, grabbing her by her jacket and throwing her through the doorway.

She falls again, elbow smashing against the floor. The sudden sharp pain leaves her eyesight white for a moment, ears ringing. She misses what’s being said, only able to make out the harsh tone and tense atmosphere.

“ – what – you – think – doing – ”

“ – whore – me – bleeding – ”

“You’re pathetic.”

Ana swallows down the nausea, sight returning to her.

She’s in an office far too high class for the dingy little dive she’d scurried into. In front of her is an ornate wooden desk, behind which the angry speaker continues to berate the shithead who doesn’t know how to take no for an answer, unseen.

She’d smirk if not for the other feet littering the room. She’s outnumbered; best not to upset anyone else. Yet.

“GET OUT.”

That voice – it sounds… familiar somehow. Ana turns, frowning, to watch him leave with a yes ma’am. She wishes she could find some satisfaction in knowing she got him into trouble, but the fear of whatever comes next is so much stronger.

“All of you.”

She swallows as the three other guards leave the room as well.

Whoever this is, she’s not a threat to them. And if she’s not a threat to them, it only means they’re a threat to her.

“I must apologise for Richard’s behaviour; this was not what I asked for and rest assured he will be punished in due time for his transgression.”

Her head snaps to the side, body jumping at the sudden appearance beside her. She hadn’t even heard them move.

She looks up, eyes roving over immaculate white sneakers, matching tights, a skirt – oh.

Of all the possibilities, she’d never really considered this one.

She hesitantly takes the hand being offered to her.

“Hello Joey. Long time no see.”

For the second time, Abigail finds herself transformed.

A body whimpers and writhes beneath her hands, but she finds little joy in the display, mind stuck on the past 24 hours.

She replays it, over and over. Every moment, every detail. It had all been planned out, from each beat to step, a meticulously choreographed performance.

The dance had barely begun when the set began to crumble, and while she would love to rest the blame on her unruly little troupe, she is not her father, and she knows it is her and her alone who must take the fall.

Abigail had miscalculated. Plain and simple.

She thought she knew who she was playing with, she thought she’d had Lambert under her thumb. She’d mistaken a knight for a pawn.

As she feeds, Abigail contemplates these failures. She can admit to them, learn from them. Adapt.

Kristof Lazar, as he’s been calling himself these days, rules through fear and intimidation, a power cultivated from seeds planted in a time so long ago most cannot begin to comprehend its existence.

Abigail doesn’t have that. She’ll never have that.

But tonight, she thinks, tongue lapping at the dying trickle from a now still body, perhaps she has planted a seed of her own.

Joey’s moment of hesitation to leave, to leave her, despite all that had transpired, like a gallant knight waiting for dismissal, injured and scared but oh so ready to stay – it etches itself into her brain, where countless nights and days have flickered by; this one is cemented, another pillar constructed in the ever-expanding home of her psyche.

See you around, Joey.

She’d planted a seed indeed. One she intends to coax into bloom.

Her men are all loyal to her father, but that woman could be hers and hers alone.

The thought is so enticing it leaves her previously settled stomach hungry for more, ravenous for a treat she cannot have.

A part of her regrets not having a taste, not having claimed her for her own. She would relish the closeness, to examine the connection she had felt, to comb through the mind of Ana Lucia Cruz until there was nothing left untouched by her.

But Abigail, for all that she will ever remain a child, young for eternity, she’s had hundreds of years to evolve, and patience is a skill she’s long since mastered.

A careful nurturing will birth a garden; a flower plucked will wilt in the blink of an eye.

Even now, within her she can feel the weak and fading consciousness of a girl so much like her, a mind lost without a body.

Sammy. Jessica.

In this aftermath, Abigail finds herself twinging with regret. She understands her – young and talented, abandoned and ignored. They’re the same in a way, right down to the foreign fondness that spikes with every thought of their companion-in-common.

It is a shame that she had to be the one to get in her way, she too could have been groomed for so much more.

She wonders if it is crueller to stomp out this dying light that cowers in her mind, or to leave it be to live out as far as it can until it meets its true death. She finds herself lost for answers, and entirely unwilling to unmask that weakness to those that may have them.

With a growl, Abigail drops the corpse to the floor, altogether uncomfortable with the spectrum of emotions seeping from her, like she’s some fragile little girl and not the monster stalking the night that people fear.

It’s easy to blame the unfortunate human in her head for the unwelcome intrusion.

It’s time for her to do what she does best. Observe, and stalk, and hunt.

She hopes Joey will keep her word and go to her son, because Abigail will certainly keep hers.

Abigail watches Joey limp away with rapt concentration.

Despite it being everything she ever wanted, she has no focus for her father beside her. His frustrated words are nothing but background noise to the steady heartbeat she follows through her dollhouse.

It’s been a… time of firsts.

She’s never let anyone live before. Her father’s never come running before. No one has ever made such an impression on her before.

Abigail hasn’t cared quite like this in such a long time.

It’s alarming, how much she doesn’t want the woman to leave. And not because she needs to finish the job, or because she’s weak and her belly rumbles, but because the warmth of her brief hand in hers lingers still.

Her father’s cold fingers and a-tad-too-tight grip just doesn’t compare.

“Look at the mess you’ve made of my home,” the man harps on, as if he really gave a damn about a place he hadn’t stepped foot in for over a century, as he pulls her through the building. “The clean-up will be coming out of your allowance.”

She rolls her eyes. It always does.

“I suppose we’ll have to go find our own dinner now,” he mutters with the indignation of a man who’s never lifted a finger in his life. “Since you decided to let it slip away.”

Abigail can feel his eyes on her. She knows what he wants her to say, that he could find Joey again in an instant – she won’t have gotten far in so short a time, and she’ll be easily scented out by the small taste he had already savoured. But the answer is no. Not a word her father hears very often, not even from her. Not one someone lives to utter.

“She earned her right to live.”

He scoffs in response, but it seems he can understand her as well as she can understand him.

“Fine. Allow your new pet to free-roam, but do be careful dear daughter. They do have an awful habit of wandering off and finding themselves where they don’t belong.”

Abigail can hear the threat in his tone, the she’s your responsibility woven in every word. Hers to control, to keep safe. To put down if it strays too far.

Irritation spikes within her, teeth growing and grinding within her closed mouth.

Despite all she’s done over the years, the messes she’s cleaned, the problems she’s solved – all without his input or help – he still doesn’t trust her.

But that’s not what makes the beast within her want to roar. It’s the implication, that Joey is nothing more than some dog she’s decided to keep for her own amusement.

She’s more than that. Something different. Something special.

But of course, how could she expect a man like her father to ever understand that?

“Not this one.”

Why, you have to speak his language.

“She’s well trained.”

Their eyes meet, Abigail looking up and meeting his searching gaze head-on. She can’t waver, plans beginning to sprout within her mind.

“I do hope so, and no doubt you will fill in any gaps in its education if required.”

“Of course father.”

Of course.

She gazes off into the night and listens, heartbeat long out of range. But she knows she’ll hear it again.

A girl stares through a window high up in her home.

She’s all alone, for once, building empty, silent, and devoid of life.

It’s so strange. She’s never left alone and free, and certainly not to roam the house all by herself.

Sister had said they were going to play a game.

She’s never really liked her games. They were always designed for her to lose, and when she loses, she’s punished.

But this time, her Sister had cupped her cheek and stroked it oh-so-softly and whispered that this was a reward, that her darling little sister had been so good and that she deserved a treat.

She’s ashamed at the way just the thought leaves her stomach twisting in anticipation, teeth gnashing together, desperate, hungry for it all to begin.

The girl knows her place, her role, in this little game of make-believe. It’s to sit in her Sister’s room, like it’s where she belongs, and wait.

Some strangers are going to come and take her away, and she’s to behave – to not tell them a thing, to keep their family secrets to herself, just like Sister trusts her to do.

She would never betray her Sister’s faith.

Sister says she’s not to make it too easy, that she has to act like she doesn’t want to go, like they’re not going to her new home. She knows it all, but they don’t.

They’re her gift.

But she only has until sunrise to enjoy it.

Frustrated, she growls. The night is well underway, and time is slipping around her. She wonders if this is another part of Sister’s games, to have a present be dangled before her but never reached.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

To her joy, a foreign sound finally reaches her ears, breaking the night. A car. Where it shouldn’t be.

Intruders.

Tara takes a deep breath, pausing before the apartment door to compose herself. She flinches, ribs aching from the movement.

It had been a bad one.

They’d won, but not without a hard-fought struggle.

Without Sam, they were off-balance, fighting with one hand tied behind their back. They could do it without her, but they didn’t want to. They weren’t complete without her.

She hadn’t even tried this time, hiding away, and Tara couldn’t take it anymore. They needed their leader.

She knew, she knew what Sam was going through. The fear, the uncertainty, the guilt. But Tara didn’t let it stop her, and she wasn’t going to let her big sister disappear inside herself and run away.

They had a destiny to face, and they were going to do it together, no matter what Sam thinks.

Breathing out, she opens the door.

“Sam?”

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

The kind that follows the sudden absence of noise, a body holding its breath, frozen in place. Desperate not to be found.

“I know you’re here.”

Tara senses movement, but her sister doesn’t reveal herself. Sighing, she goes on the hunt.

If Sam won’t bring herself to Tara, Tara will bring herself to Sam.

Peering around her sister’s bedroom door, she frowns. It’s empty and immaculate, and for a moment fear grips her around the throat as she flashes back to all those years ago, Sam disappearing from her life in an instant.

But… that had been different, Tara realises with a shaky breath. This is not the same.

Then, there had been nothing left, not a sign it had ever been inhabited at all. Here, despite the unnatural tidiness, signs of life litter the room. A jacket hanging from a chair; a worn childhood relic – a stuffed dog called Tails – tucked in beside a pillow; a wall of photographs with Tara herself as its star.

Turning around, she notices her own door, ajar.

Ah.

There, curled up on Tara’s bed, Sam sits, looking guilty.

A part of her – the part steeping in frustration at the situation, angry and desperate to find release – thinks about asking her just what she feels so guilty about. Avoiding her? Being in Tara’s room? Abandoning her duty and leaving the other Rangers to fend for themselves?

But any relief she might find by asking could only ever be a simple drop in the ocean compared to how much she loves her, so she sits down beside her instead and tries to find her words.

Sam breaks the silence for her.

“I’m sorry.”

Tara looks up to meet her eyes, question on the tip of her tongue.

“I just couldn’t do it.” Sam swallows, licking her lips. “I tried, I really really tried, but I’ve lost it Tara. I failed you, I failed you all and now–” She looks away again, eyes wet and throat full.

“Sam,” Tara whispers, reaching out to rest a hand on her sister’s chest. “You didn’t fail us.”

She’s lost for a moment, she doesn’t know how to get through to her, how to make her understand.

She settles for the truth.

“You didn’t fail us, Sam. We failed you.”

“What? No–”

Tara barrels ahead.

“You were relying on us to back you up, and we didn’t get there in time. You got hurt because we let you down. We should have been there to help you; I should have been there to help you!”

The flame within her begins to catch once again. Unable to sit still, Tara slips from the bed and begins to pace, memory of the all-too-recent event still fresh in her mind.

Sam on the ground, Amber above her. Hands around her throat and legs pinned. She couldn’t move, couldn’t defend herself, not against Amber’s new suit.

She couldn’t take her alone.

She shouldn’t have been alone.

“I know it’s selfish,” Tara declares, “but I need you. We need you. I don’t… I don’t feel safe out there without you.”

It’s hard to admit. So much of her doesn’t want to do this, to beg Sam to put herself in danger just for her. But she can’t do this without her, and Tara… she wants to do this. She’s never felt so sure of herself as she is when she’s out there, defending people, fighting for better. She’s never felt so at peace, but only when Sam stands beside her.

“You’re the only reason any of us can do the things we do; we’re lost without you. We need you back Sam. I need my big sister back, to guide me. You hold us all together.”

Tara spins on her heels, horrified when she hears Sam sob behind her.

She shouldn’t have done this, she shouldn’t have pushed, she shouldn’t–

Sam stands so suddenly it makes Tara flinch, arms wrapping around her and lifting her from the ground.

“You’re what holds us together babygirl, you’re the heart of us all.”

Tara throws her arms around Sam’s shoulders, squeezing tight, and buries her face in her neck. She can feel the warmth of Sam’s Power Coin against her chest, worn – just like Tara’s – like a pendant. Beneath her fingers, soft cotton moulds into the now-familiar sensation of a Power Suit.

“You’re my heart,” Sam declares as warmth flows through her.

She’s clothed in blinding white, where once there would have been green.

For the first time in a long time, with her heart in her hands and absolution offered, Sam feels light, like a blank slate, ready to start again.

She laughs, loud and free, and falls back against the bed, grinning up at her sister now above her.

“I did it,” Sam whispers, almost shy.