not even a little bit chill

You stare at Slim for a few seconds. You're not sure how many. Time seems to stand still. 

Then -- "Maggie--"

She holds up a hand, cutting Cap off. Doesn't say anything. Doesn't drop your gaze. 

A challenge, then. 

Your next movements happen on autopilot. 

You push through Simon and Soap, your still-numb skin oblivious to their warmth. Or its absence as you pass by them entirely. They let you go, though Simon murmurs your name under his breath. Concern. Uncertainty. Warning. 

You don't look at him. 

You sidestep a few corpses, eventually stopping just a foot shy of her. It strikes you how small she is compared to you. Small, but -- hardened. Her jaw is set firmly. Derisively. She's still panting a little, dead zombies at her feet. Wearing her shotgun like a scarf, holding it in place with a casual wrist draped over either end. Her fingertips are white from the cold. Her cheek is splattered with thick, black sludge. 

You don't notice that last detail until your fist is colliding with it, transferring some of the grime onto you. 

She didn't expect it, so she goes down fast. Hard. Swearing like a sailor and clutching the side of her face. Her gun thunks against the snow as she releases an endless stream of cursed insults. Some you've heard from her lips before. Some you haven't. 

You can only stare down at her. A red haze still haloes your vision. You don't even bother to shake out your hand. You're sure it hurts, but, as of yet, you don't feel it. 

You do feel a little lighter. A fraction less burdened. It was stupid. Immature. Perhaps, destructive. 

But it felt good. You feel better. 

Strong hands lift you up by the armpits and carry you a few feet back. You don't protest. In fact, you go a little limp. 

You hear, but don't see, Cap offering some soothing words of comfort to Slim, who practically barks at him. 

Simon sighs in your ear.

"Bloody hell, Ace."

He sets you down and turns you toward him, gruffly clasping your chin in his hand. Firm, but still somehow gentle. Your eyes meet his. You bask in them for a moment. He's pretending to be stern. But there's an unmistakable twinkle there. The corners of your mouth flicker upward just a hair. 

Soap gingerly picks up your hand. Your right hand. Another one of your fingers is broken. The middle one, you think. You heard the bone crack. You're bad about leaving that knuckle stuck out too far. 

He clicks his tongue. 

"Gonna have to set this, lass."

"I know."

He swears under his breath. "Don't have anythin' on me."

"It's fine," you say, watching him inspect you. His touch is featherlight. "I can manage till we get back."

"You sure?"

"I'll be okay."

Simon's grip on your chin tightens just a little. 

"Ace."

"See, this is what the fuck I'm talkin' about," Slim hisses. You peer around Simon's head to find her still on the ground. She swats at Cap, who's trying to dab at a small gash on her cheek. Her nose is bleeding too. You socked her good. The thought doesn't fill you with joy. But you don't regret it either. 

Your eyes drop to the snow caked on Soap's boots. 

The confession sort of tumbles out. A whisper on the wind. No more within your control than the phase of the moon, or its draw on the tide. 

"My mom died today." 

The words are soft when you deliver them, but loud enough to be heard. The group, unsurprisingly, responds with silence. Even Slim. You glance up. Simon's face, where mischief had danced before, is threaded with sadness. Sympathy. Your heart pangs from the sweetness of it. And then again -- regret. For causing him any sorrow, even if it's simply on your behalf. 

It's why you hadn't said anything. That tenderness between you. 

Its fledgling twin between you and Soap. 

You're not quite sure why you're bothering to be honest now. 

"In that house."

"You should've told--"

"It...it was twenty years ago. But -- I...I can't go back there. Not...today. Maybe...not for a few days."

"Ace--"

"I...I'm sorry for stalling. I'm sorry. For...for wasting the day. I just...I couldn't do it."

"S'not entirely wasted," Soap says, gesturing to Slim's pack, the rolled up map still sticking out of the very top.

You bite your lip. "Maybe not. But...," you gesture to Slim. "She's right. She's been right all day."

Cap stands, shaking his head. "It was your call to make, Ace. None of us could do it for you."

"But you should have. We should've left hours ago. And I'm sorry I didn't just...say so sooner."

Simon strokes the underside of your chin with his index finger. "Why didn't you?"

Slim groans as she pushes herself up, pinching her nose with the hem of her sleeve. She glares at you, but is mercifully quiet.  

"Just needed to hit something first, I guess."

At that, she laughs. A hoarse, phlegmy guffaw. It devolves into a cackle as she wanders up to you, still holding her nose, and claps you on the back. 

"Fair enough, Barbie. Fair the fuck enough."

You blink, surprised. 

"Oh, don't go doe-eyed on me now. Consider us even. Now let's get the fuck out of here."

"My call?" 

December air stings your teeth as you speak, your breath forming swirls of mist before you, as swiftly lost to the frigid, bracing wind as the feeling in your fingers and toes. It's difficult to move your face at all -- your cheeks all but fixed in an enduring frown. 

Cap runs a hand over his beard, meeting your gaze. "Well, we're here at your direction, Ace. Your order." He points a crooked finger at the frozen rubble beneath your feet. "We followed you here. And you know the city better than any of us--"

"Knew," you interject dourly, squeezing your hands together. You're wearing gloves, but hours of sifting through snow has left them soaked to the bone. "I knew this city. This place. I...I don't...this...this isn't...," you trail off, gesturing limply to the vast sea of debris surrounding the group. All of it, buried in a thick, glistening blanket of snow. 

It's only half true. What you see before you is indeed just a fraction of what it once was. But you still recognize pieces. Pieces that you could never forget. Even if you wanted to. Even when you wanted to. 

The ancient turret clock that'd once sat atop the laboratory's main building, somehow still intact, though clearly not operational. You knew it wouldn't be, but you'd checked it against your watch anyway. That's when you'd realized -- 

You blink. You blink again. 

You recognize pieces. You recognize pieces. The turret clock. An errant security badge, used to access the building, though its owner's name and face are long-obscured by the elements. 

You even found a pen. Unlikely to actually be your father's. But definitely one belonging to the lab. You can faintly make out the old address printed on its side. Garbage to anyone else. To you, a treasure tucked quickly into your pocket for safekeeping. 

A desperate sort of sorrow, borne from the familiar, builds within you, weighing you down, rooting you in place. Cinderblocks in your shoes. 

The gravity of what lies before you feels insurmountable. That you're charged with making "the call" -- it feels wrong. It shouldn't be up to you. You gaze up at the sky -- gray and neverending. A winter sky if you've ever seen one. 

No, it shouldn't be up to you. But it is. Still, the weight of the responsibility isn't enough to push you to call it. 

"The choice shouldn't be mine alone to make," you protest glumly. 

You feel a few sets of eyes on you, but you don't lift your own to meet any of them. 

Cap's right. They all followed you here. They trust you. 

You study your damp, frozen hands. Filthy. Covered in mud. Steeped in responsibility. Responsibility you don't deserve. Haven't earned, no matter what the others seem to believe. A sentiment you're sure Slim would agree with, at least. 

She's made her feelings on you painfully clear since you left the confines of the school early this morning. Repeated scoffs at your suggestions, near constant eye rolls, regular under-the-breath comments that suggest she thinks you're both incompetent and useless. She's even thrown in a few less-than-creative, but still snide, nicknames. They're all rooted in your appearance, which suggests some jealousy, but they're tacked onto genuine criticisms. Criticisms you share. Criticisms your own consciousness echoes with unrelenting vigor. 

The worst of Slim's insults are performed clandestinely enough not to draw the attention or ire of the men in your search party, but she hasn't been shy about making her disdain for this little mission known. 

She's good at it. Mean enough to piss you off. Discerning enough to make you question your instinctive defensiveness. Either way, any attempt at retaliation would only serve to make you look like the asshole. 

So you take it. Soak it in. Let her words reside in your bones alongside the cold. 

The bite isn't new to you. You can endure it.

You scan the space around you again for the umpteenth time. 

Crumbling brick facades. Upturned and long-dried-up perimeter beds. Tree carcasses uprooted and spilled across cracked cobblestone. Piles and piles of ash. You've plucked through a lot of it, as carefully as you could. 

But you haven't managed to find a thing of use. You're not even sure where you're currently standing. What it once was. A ground floor office, you think. Perhaps your father's. 

Perhaps not.

"It's your call," Cap repeats gently. "But it may be time to consider whether there's anything here worth finding."

"There ain't," Slim answers scornfully, tucking her hands under her armpits. You agree with her. But still -- your tongue remains stuck to the roof of your mouth. 

Cap sighs. "If there isn't," he continues. "It might be time to consider where we might look next."

The words fill you with unrelenting dread. 

Where you might go next. 

There's only one feasible option. You know it. They all know it. They've known it for hours. 

Home. Your childhood home.

Sure, you can navigate there. Slim probably could too, hence her mounting annoyance at the fact that you haven't yet.

Contrary to your articulated protests, the house wouldn't be any trouble to find. What you may not recognize in appearance, you know in your heart. It's imprinted there. How could it not be?

You'd know it if it were dust.

Memories bubble up at the mere thought. An ivy-covered brownstone. Flowers on the stoop year-round. Stained glass sidelights flanking the front door. Snow caked on the steps at Christmas. 

Snow caked on the steps. 

You glance at your feet, currently buried in white powder.

Your eyelids slam shut, squeezing tight. Blocking the images out. You can't. You can't. 

Not today. Just not today. Another day. Some other day. 

You stifle the burn, blinking furiously. Maybe the cold will mask your tears. Maybe not. Your brain is swimming with too much to give the notion the care you would normally. 

A glimmer of the night before passes behind your eyelids as you close them. The moment of peace in the courtyard -- fleeting. Always so fucking fleeting. Beautiful and wonderful, but fuck, if you could only hold onto them before they float away. 

It's too much to ask. More than you deserve, you suppose. You've a job to do. And a team of people waiting to do it with you.

But you've no idea what you're doing, you tell yourself. No idea where to begin. 

Snow-caked steps. 

No. Not today. 

There has to be something here. There has to be something worthwhile here. 

There has to be. You just have to keep looking. A few more hours of looking.