#miraithweek2026

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.