#self paragraph.

Minutes turned to hours, and she returned, only for his best friend to be taken away. Pietro couldn’t handle it. Waiting had always been excruciating. He truly believed he’d physically and mentally shut down if both of them were ever taken together. It was only their presence that kept him grounded there, breathing and blinking.

Wanda felt so far from him now, the soul they shared floating high above him, leaving nothing but an aching pain in his gut whenever he thought of her. Whenever he let himself fall asleep, he heard her voice whispering in his ear, telling him she was coming for him. Telling him she loved him. As if on cue, Pietro would jump awake, desperately reaching for her – only to find nothing in his arms but chilled air. That was when he’d find Tate’s hand, or look for Rose, if he could see her. There wasn’t a way to explain what he was thinking, but he knew, with his best friends, he didn’t have to. He knew Tate would never think any less of him, no matter what he did; and he knew Rose understood his pain more than she could say herself. Pietro could see it in her eyes sometimes, when he watched her. But she wasn’t looking at him now.

Rose was freezing, that much he was certain of, the colour drained from her lips, her arms clamped around herself. Pietro had already peeled off his sweatshirt and offered it to her, but to his extreme frustration, there didn’t seem to be anything else he could do. Nothing he could say to make her feel okay again, no way of reaching her. She hadn’t said a word of what had happened, and Pietro never asked, his upset and helplessness that he couldn’t save his friends outweighing his anger right then. It sparked when Tate got taken though.

Pietro rose from his cot, eyes narrowing at the guards. He promised he’d kill them, just like he told them every other day, but still, one was yet to actually give him a proper response outside of the occasional scoff. Pietro wondered if they thought he was lying. Wryly, he thought he’d never been anything but honest in his life.

The speedster did his best to focus on being there for Tate when he’d been returned to him, rather than breaking something. Or someone. If he wasn’t so weak right then, there was no doubt in Pietro’s mind that he’d be able to punch his way through the cell’s metal bars and rip a few guard’s heads off. But none of that was going to immediately help his best friend. Pietro almost laughed in their faces when the same pair returned at dawn a few days later, standing right in front of their cell. Over his dead body would he allow them to take Tate from him again. But it wasn’t the blonde they wanted.

As hard as he tried, Pietro couldn’t eradicate the fear that was coursing through his veins as he was marched from the block to some private room. It was white, starkly so, and Pietro blinked hard at the abrupt change in light as they pushed him inside. Both the walls and the floor seemed to be made of tile, the single silver drain on the floor’s centre an obvious stand out. Pete’s mind had only just begun to race, imagining the sort of things they’d need to wash away, when they clamped cuffs back on him and chained him to a wall. It wasn’t a short line though; in fact, Pietro still had some room to run, if he wished to. He just wouldn’t get very far. It was then that he noticed the remaining guard was setting up what looked like a camera. 

Having not seen any broadcasts, the camera’s presence confused him entirely, but Pietro thought that to be the least of his worries now, his thoughts quickly consumed by ones more fearful. Closing his eyes seemed to work, so Pietro leant against the wall and did exactly that, sifting through his thoughts and directing them toward Tate, Rose, Octavia. Thinking of his twin whilst chained to a tiled wall wasn’t going to do him any favours, but almost every thought panned to Wanda anyway. Subconsciously, he reached for her again. It seemed like hours before anybody actually entered the room again, which was when Pietro realised he’d been alone for a while.

There was no hesitation in the woman’s arrival, her purpose made very clear once she’d raised her wand at him. It only took Pietro a moment to recognise her, his body revolting at the memory before anything had happened. This was the same woman who’d floored him at The Nut — who’d ordered his capture, and got his near unconscious body tossed onto a hovercraft. Already, he was pulling on his chains, desperate to reach her and break the arm that held the wand so steadily, so pointedly, at his chest. The metal bent at the wall, his cuffs straining at his wrists, leaving deep red marks behind, his glowering gaze burning into hers. They never looked apart, and Pietro could feel himself just slipping free when everything went black. “Crucio.”

Or perhaps, it had gone white. He couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

Once again, all sense of time and place escaped his consciousness, and Pietro dropped hard against the tiles, screaming his lungs out. He thought after having received such a treatment a few times before, the pain would be familiar to him now. Perhaps, something he could learn to tolerate. But this wasn’t simply pain. It was something so much worse, so much more than any sensation he’d ever felt in his life. It was entirely brand new, and Pietro could make no sense of it at all. Just like that, it stopped.

The room fell silent, only his cries echoing off the walls. Pietro wasn’t sure why he’d even been begun crying, the pain he’d just endured far too extensive to recall. All he understood was relief, and that was enough to stabilise himself and rediscover his surroundings. Slowly but surely, he climbed back to his feet, feeling considerably weaker this time around. Meeting her eyes over the cameras, he stared in silence, tears still slipping down his cheeks. His fists told a different story, clenching though they shook, once again tugging on his chains. With a shake of her head, the Capitol witch lifted her wand again, muttering the one word he loathed more than any other he’d heard.

Every nerve ending was on fire as he writhed on the floor, choking on his own cries. It was unbelievable how one moment of pain seemed to last longer than any human understanding of a second could. The feeling was so strong and so bright, he could feel it burning him, dragging him toward a light. He couldn’t quite touch it yet, the glow just out of his reach – but he could see in. He saw a smiling couple, hand in hand, seated by a fire pit dug into the earth. The dark haired woman was singing a tune so familiar, Pietro felt himself shiver at the sound, longing gripping his heart tight amidst his pain. Suddenly, they disappeared into the white, the song along with it. By the time the witch had released her hold and he’d slammed back into his body, Pietro had almost forgotten his name, choking up the bare contents of his stomach. “Vă rog,” he pleaded with her when he could speak again, unable to remember English at that moment. All he understood was that he wanted his sister, the vision of their parents still hovering in his mind. “Wanda.” Sobs wracked his chest as he tried to maintain his breath, his sight slowly returning.

The three of them hadn’t been able to contact Rose for days now, and the radio silence from the entire undercover group had strained the atmosphere in The Nut. None of them knew what to think, and not having answers was pissing Pietro off. His sister had always been the more patient one amongst the pair, but this time, she was worried too. She’d been going to bed earlier every evening, understandably not feeling well. Needless to say, Pietro was stressed. He’d never been able to handle situations like this with ease, his depression always managing to override any optimism Wanda offered. Playing all the card games in the world with Tate couldn’t stop him from thinking the worst either, so after making sure his twin had eaten, he spent some time alone, moving to and from the cupboards of food. Maybe, this way, his bad feelings couldn’t pass on to those around him. The quiet was something he’d been expecting, especially since most rebels retired to their rooms after dinner.

Blaring alarms and the demanding sound of Paylor’s voice, though? No. He hadn’t seen that coming.

Immediately, Pietro thought of Wanda. He dropped the bag he’d been eating from and quickly decided which path to their room was the fastest. Ignoring the panicked people around him, who were all rushing down the same set of corridors, he dodged his way through the growing crowd, making it a level down. As soon as he’d stepped off the staircase however, the first bomb hit. Lights flickered, people screamed, and Pietro stood still, narrowed eyes following two cracks, slowly making their way across the wall. There was no doubt the stairs were going to collapse if the foundation wasn’t in place, though amidst the panic, he was sure no one else had realised.

The weight placed upon the steps as people rushed up in packs only worsened its state, though there was a lull in numbers for a moment, and he dismissed the thought, continuing down the hall. A couple however, dashed from their room the exact moment he’d moved past it, nearly running into him. Pietro, of course, sidestepped them, but turned his head to show his annoyance. What he saw, however, was the crack deepening, splitting the foundation. As if by instinct, Pietro moved back and grabbed the pair as their feet touched the bottom step, catching the male with ease as he slipped down from the impact of the collapsing metal. Moving faster than the failing stairs, he transported them onto the right level, ignoring their dizzied and confused ‘thank you’s’, and headed back down via the alternative staircase. Despite having literally saved the pair’s lives, he merely felt irritated he’d decided to do so over his sister. He regretted it even more when he slammed their door open, and she wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

“Rahat,” he swore, glaring at her untidy and painfully empty bed sheets, now dusted in debris particles. He knew his sister inside out, and guessed she’d made her way to evacuate, but was stopping and helping everyone along the way. Another bomb hit before he could move, and he saw their makeshift dresser begin to topple from the impact. Holding it up with one arm before it could land on him, he waited impatiently for the world around him to stop shuddering. Pietro’s chest squeezed tight when it ended, and he felt a sudden burst of panic for his twin, running perhaps a little too fast back up the few levels to the tracks, searching each floor carefully as he did so. No sign of her, or of Tate. Swearing again, he headed to the higher levels instead, though only came across a young man slumped in defeat against the wall. Pietro outright ignored him, searching the entire level for Wanda before he came back. “Get off your ass, and run.” Yanking on his arm, he pulled the terrified man to his feet and pushed him in the right direction. Pietro shook his head in annoyance, though in the few seconds he’d looked away, the same man was on the floor again. This time, dead. Dashing to the body, he saw no exterior damage, though his neck was bent in a very unnatural manner. What the fuck? “Hey, there.”

Pietro spun around and was met with a vampire, a freaking vampire, giving him an evil looking smile, fangs and all. Coin’s people, no doubt. Both anger that this creature had just killed the man he’d tried to save, and desperation for his twin’s safety consumed him, and Pietro wasted no time in slamming his fist right into the bloodsucker’s face, watching momentarily as their body collided with the already shuddering walls, leaving an impressive vampire-shaped outline behind. The creature took a few moments to recover and remove himself from the wall, though by that time, Pietro had moved back downstairs to the tracks, knowing the furious vampire was hot on his trail. But he was always ten steps ahead, and when he suddenly stopped, just outside The Nut’s entrance, the vampire went straight past, and Pietro was ready for him. With a sickening twist, he came up behind and took the creature right out. Although, he thought in disgust, he was sure it would be up and moving soon enough, it was at least disabled for the moment. The speedster didn’t have a chance to feel content with that thought however, before something entirely different struck him. And Pietro screamed.

He screamed because he’d never felt anything more painful, more excruciating, more overbearing in his entire life. Nothing he’d ever experienced had ever been this bad. He completely collapsed against the tracks, blinded, paralysed, feeling nothing but pain, heat, fire, stabbing again and again and again. He could’ve sworn he was touching death, looking it right in the face. And just like that, it was over. Gasping for breath, he was now on his stomach, hand shaking uncontrollably to push damp hair off his face, to figure out what the fuck had just happened. His face was wet when he brushed against it, and he realised he was crying. No, he was sobbing. He hadn’t even noticed, feeling as if his body and soul had split apart. When was the last time Pietro had even cried? “Get him. Now. Quickly!” The orders came from behind him, and still in shock, the young man couldn’t do much more but struggle and roll onto his back, looking his attackers in the face. Magic. He healed incredibly fast though, and considering he had no physical damage, Pietro’s shaking fist was already clenched, ready to jump up and strike. All his muscles tightened, ready to leap onto the woman pointing a stick right at him and tear her apart. But the split second he moved, he was screaming again, screaming for Wanda this time, crying so hard he couldn’t get her name out anymore.

He might’ve been tied up, dragged away, carried off, but he didn’t feel nor recognise a single thing. There was no concept of time or movement or reality. Everything burned, so pure and so bright he just wanted to die. Now a drooling mess, they threw Pietro onto the craft, discarded him like a rag, and he sunk like one onto the cool metal. The second her wand moved away, his vision came back, and he recognised some of the terrified, angry and defeated faces around him. He was being taken, dragged back to the Capitol. There was no other explanation. “Nu,” he could barely speak around his cries, his body still trying to recover. Wanda. He had to get to Wanda. Tate. He had to get to them, find them again, be with them. Anger and desperation pushed through the numbness, and he broke his ties quickly, climbing unsteadily to his feet. A second later though, he truly wished, with everything in him, that he’d just stayed down.

There had to be something better. Finnick was starting to realise that. There had to be something better he could do besides train for hours and hours, in hopes he’d figure out a way to get Annie to come back to him, before passing out from exhaustion again. It was a cycle he’d forced himself into, and one he hadn’t broken yet, but he was working on it. Thanks to his PTSD, Finn always found it was much easier to avoid. Avoiding meant not overthinking. Avoiding meant not facing disappointment and heartache. He knew it was fault, god, did he know it, but he didn’t think he’d be able to handle another day watching Maris call for his motionless mother either. So, Finn decided yet again, no. There wasn’t anything better. Thus, in the training centre he stayed, hands wrapped possessively around his silver trident, lunging and hitting again and again, over and under and around and again. A voice interrupted his process, made him stumble a little, pulled him back to reality. “Finnick!” An accent that sounded like it had originated from District One, with phrasing that sounded like a Capitolite. Eclair.

As a result of the constant sparring, Finnick could hardly breathe already. But the sight of her always had him on edge, fear and guilt mixing into one. There were days where he’d been able to be in her presence, moments where he didn’t feel like curling up in a ball and screaming when he saw her, but today wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t strong enough to hold even a conversation with her without letting his guard down. She’d moved closer, a hand reaching out to touch his free arm. Instinctively, Finnick flinched back immediately, making sure she missed completely, his other hand clenching around the trident’s handle.

“Oh, Finnick, don’t be like that. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He was completely avoiding her gaze, nodding quickly in response, his breathing heavy as he tried to calm down a little. “M'fine.” She watched him in mock concern before nodding once, sighing a little. He was obviously distressed, clearly exhausted, and unsure of what his next move was; it wasn’t hard to connect the dots, especially not for a woman like her. Finnick’s weakness was family, and he’d spent far too much time alone for there not to be trouble in Paradise..  pun not entirely intended.

The thought almost brought a smile to Jamie’s lips. Typical Finnick Odair. He was never a hard one to figure out, always like putty in her hands. She needed to remain focused though — dishevelled and concerned. That was Eclair. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m leaving. I’m going back home.” That caught Finnick’s interest. A tiny glimmer of hope, relief even, shone through him, and he glanced up at her, eyebrows raised. He wasn’t afraid. Fearful, maybe, for his family, for his past, but not of her directly. He was just guilty. And guilty people were easier than fiddles to play.

The funny thing was though, he should have been afraid of her directly. He should’ve been shaking where he stood, backing away from her, begging for his life or the safety of his family. Because she was the one who’d taken whatever innocence he’d had left, and she was the one who’d messed with his mind for years, leaving it broken and sensitive to all things Capitol, just so she could return to him with a smile gracing her features, watch the blood drain from his face, and call it a game. Eclair reminded him of the Capitol. Eclair reminded him of how helpless he’d been, how powerless he was when they’d dragged her out of the parties by strange, unwelcoming hands, screaming and begging to be let go. Eclair reminded him of how they’d done the exact same thing to him, and he hadn’t made a sound. Finnick had only smiled. But this woman wasn’t Eclair. Eclair wasn’t real. She was Jamie Moriarty, the Spider of Panem, and Finnick was simply the fly caught in her web. He’d struggled a whole hell of a lot to break free, and she’d certainly caused him grief. But now, it was time for the finale. She had nothing left to stay there for, and she needed to be the one to break the news to Finnick before someone unimaginable, like Kol Mikaelson, beat her to it.

“Really?” He asked. She nodded, eyes wide with assumed innocence, and he continued, “.. Why?” Jamie cleared her throat, making sure her lip quivered as she began her story. “Well I- I just.. don’t feel safe here anymore, Finn.” She noticed the way he blinked a little too hard at the name, lips pressed together; showing signs of obvious discomfort. Satisfied, she continued. “After the brutal attack from the unprovoked Capitol man.. I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t. I hate feeling so.. so unsafe all the time! How can anybody live like this..?” Genuinely curious, she wanted him to answer. Finnick gaze softened a little, guilt seizing hold of him once again.

“I think.. that’s a good idea, Eclair.” His heart had finally begun to slow down, and he pushed his damp hair off his forehead, trying now to get cool. She nodded in agreement. “It is. And before I go, I just wanted to tell you — you were amazing.” A compliment? Finnick frowned a little, but he didn’t want the conversation to last any longer than it had to, so he lifted a corner of his mouth, nodding once. “You, too.” And then she started laughing.

But it was brief, and the laugh died on her tongue, although her eyes were still lit up with humour. “Oh no, Finnick, really. You were the best.” His frown only deepened, because when Eclair had spoken again, gone was the Panemian accent. In its place was the Capitol one — one he was all too familiar with. Despite his burning skin, he felt his blood run cold at the sound, the cool smirk on her lips unlike any expression he’d seen upon her face before. 

“You really have no idea who I am, do you? And before you ask me, no, my name isn’t Eclair.” Finnick was staring now, confusion and surprise replacing the guilt and relief he’d felt previously. With a short sigh, she held out her hand, as if to shake his own. “Jamie Moriarty. Pleasure.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t react. Somehow, in some way, that name was familiar to him. Finnick couldn’t have put it together, not then, not that in that moment, but he tried. Jamie Moriarty? She.. wasn’t Eclair? “Uh.. who?” It was the only thing he could think of to say, and she simply shook her head, dropping her hand back by her side.

“Oh, come now, Odair. We both know you’ve heard of me. The Spider of Panem? The woman? The riddle? M? Ringing any bells? I mean really, I could stand here all day, and those names were just the most commonly used, for goodness sake.” And that was when it clicked. And Finnick knew exactly who she was. Why he’d never put it together before, he’d never be able to tell. Maybe it was because no one had told him any different, and when she’d first introduced herself all those years ago, back when Finn was sixteen, he’d been way too vulnerable and petrified to believe she was lying. He’d been told Eclair was an escort for crying out loud, an ‘escort’ just like he had been for eight years. He thought they’d had similar experiences; he thought.. he thought he hadn’t tried hard enough to help her that night, when she’d returned from her 'session’, beaten up and crying. But the two words 'Jamie Moriarty’ seemed to answer any question he’d ever had about those events. Because it had been her. 

She was paid to run the books of all Capitol crime. She was the one who’d let it go on for so long, she orchestrated it. She was the one who made sure none of them got paid for their work, that Voldemort’s empire did, that they were all just doing what they were supposed to be doing, otherwise somebody somewhere was going to die. And she’d gone undercover to protect herself, to make sure the fear was being properly instilled. People were pawns. They were supposed to be touched and picked up, and moved and placed. That was their purpose. Why should she see it any differently?

“Some people look at mankind and see puzzles.” She gestured to herself, “I see games. And you, Finnick?” He was frozen where he was, and she knew it. A cool hand lifted to to caress his face, thumb swiping at a few tears he didn’t know he’d shed. “You are a game that I will win every time. But thank you for playing.” And she pushed up on her toes, and kissed him gently on the cheek before she moved away, smirk dropping back into a neutral nothing. Emotionless and cruel.

The pounding in Finnick’s ears increased at her touch, and the will to scream his heart out seemed to silence itself every time it touched the back of his tongue. He’d been used, betrayed, abused all over again. Every memory, every touch, every mark, scrape, voice, push, scar refreshed itself, and finally, after his breakdown last month, after nearly ten years, Finnick had someone to blame. Even though she was merely a blur when she first walked away from him, his anger and shame making his head spin, the feeling of his body unlocking itself, and the image of a trident skewering her middle a second later was all too clear.

He couldn’t see Amy. He couldn’t see Stefan. He couldn’t see Rose. He couldn’t see Matt. He definitely couldn’t see Scott, and talking to them for a few minutes on the cuffs couldn’t satiate the same hollow feeling anyway. Jesse understood. He knew he wasn’t anyone’s first priority, but that didn’t change the fact that being alone sucked. It had been nearly a week now, and he’d done nothing but wander aimlessly, smile and nod in a few people’s directions, and lie around listening to Amy’s iPod. Perhaps he could’ve been a little more proactive in seeking out someone’s company, but he figured everyone was busy with the whole cure thing anyway. His supply of cigarettes were running dangerously low, and when day six rolled around, he couldn’t take it anymore.

A large small part of him hoped he would be stopped on the way out of the Nut, but no one approached him, so Jesse kept on walking. Amy’s player, of course, was held tightly in his hand, and all the way down the track, he hummed along to a song he was now familiar with. District Two was freezing, colder than the Nut, which was unusual considering it was a mountain. Jesse wrote it off as magic, pulling his beanie further down on his head. Finding this particular substitute was going to be a challenge, although he had a few ideas.

Due to the bombings, a large majority of the city’s buildings were either destroyed or abandoned. Well... not entirely. Jesse checked within a few different factories on the far side of the district, guessing that was where the outcasts, junkies, criminals and the homeless alike would be holing up, at least for the winter. On his third try, his guess was proved right, and Jesse found himself standing in a mock up of a crack house. He found himself shivering, but not from the cold. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, but the lighting, the stench, the unconscious bodies stretched out across the concrete, made for an abrupt change compared to the Nut. It was colder, and even more lonely.

Those that were conscious acknowledged his arrival with a nod, and he nodded back, tucking Amy’s player safely into his pocket and looking for someone who had what he needed. Minutes later, he noticed an older woman rocking back and forth, clutching the remnants of light blue substance wrapped in plastic. Bingo. Jesse held out his hands to show he had no weapon, and sat down across from her, nodding once at the bag. “That what I think it is?”

Twitchy and not at all focused, the woman looked between Jesse and the bag, shrugging in response. “Maybe. What’s it to ya?”

“I need some.”

She sneered. “Too bad. Find your own.”

“This is my own. I made it, bitch.” The batch didn’t look as pure as it could have been. Considering how long ago Jesse had opted out, it made sense. Attempting to tone down his frustration, he sighed. “You’ve had that for a while, right? Please. I need it back.”

“You didn’t make shit. Now screw off.” She waved him away.

“Yeah?” Jesse knew she was too fragile to see an oncoming move, so he grabbed the bag of meth off her and held it in his hands for inspection. She swore, but luckily, only fell forward. “P2P. Probably only 90% pure. Good enough,” he muttered to himself. Standing up, he watched her struggle, and the guilt he felt for stealing from this woman, even if it was his own product, made him dig into his jacket pocket and throw her the rest of his weed. “There’s 2 grams there, at least.” A pause before he added, “Thanks for this.” That set her off.

“You asshole! That’s all I have left! Fuck you! I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you. Come back here, you dirty —” Jesse walked away quite quickly, holding his breath until the sound of her cries had faded. Sucking in the cool air, he shoved the bag in his pocket and headed back to the empty factory he’d stumbled upon earlier. Settling on the concrete floor near the entrance, Jesse lent against the wall and untangled Amy’s earphones from his pipe and lighter. Eventually, with shaking hands, he managed to light the glass, and watched the murky liquid bubble for a moment before the smoke hit his lips. And as he breathed in, he felt his heart slow for one beat, two beats, before it was off again, thumping fast against his rib cage. ‘

Jesse’s eyes widened and suddenly, as the smoke left his body, he felt hot all over. Rubbing his hands against his temples, he curled up into a ball, sliding his arms around his knees and rocked a little. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck — shaking his head quickly, he frowned at the sensation, hearing a strange buzzing noise fill his ears. Looking irritated, hands kept rubbing his face and scratching at his hair until suddenly, he felt better. Different. Different, not better. But Jesse didn’t have time to enjoy it before he heard the voices.

Alarmed, he lifted his head immediately, stopping all other action. Frozen in his place, he slowly lowered the pipe to the ground, turning his head and leaning to look out the door. Squinting through the misty air, he saw them. Two figures, walking together in the cold. Knowing he had to get a better view, Jesse collected his things and dived out of the door, running to lean against the factory’s structure. He couldn’t really hear them, but after a few quick breaths, Jesse turned and stepped out to look around the corner of the building.

The pair were dressed head to toe in grey. The taller figure had his hands thrust deeply into his pockets, no doubt concealing a weapon. His companion, the woman, seemed to scout their surroundings, a gloved hand lifting suddenly to point towards the direction of the mountain. Jesse felt all the blood in his system run cold. There was nowhere for him to hide. He couldn’t even make out their faces, but he didn’t have to. He knew who they were. And he knew who they were looking for. “Oh, fuck.”

The scream tore out of his throat as soon as the blade had inched near her neck. It was muffled of course, from the material tightly wrapped around his mouth. He’d put up a fight earlier and had been ‘silenced’ as a repercussion, but there was no hiding the strangled cry that left Jesse when she fell.

He was glad it hadn’t been in slow motion. Maybe then, one day in the future, it wouldn’t be so fresh in his mind, replaying over and over again. It was messy, it was sickening, it was quick. And it was absolutely terrifying.

  Fear.

He was expecting a few punches; even her getting dragged out of the room. But when the tall, basically naked creep had pulled out an axe, Jesse’s eyes had almost popped out of his head. He hadn’t even said goodbye. He hadn’t said anything at all. In fact, Jesse hadn’t spoken in hours.

All the blood felt like it had drained from his face, but Jesse didn’t pass out. He wanted to throw up though; not that there was anything to throw up. But he didn’t do that either. Not yet, anyway. Because Jesse had gone into shock. He felt both hot and cold, and for some reason, no matter how many times he yelled out, the noise drowning alongside the other screams of panic in the room, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of her body. Images of Jane flashed behind his eyes, her body lying discarded on the bed underneath him; the loss of someone he’d loved more than anything in the world. And now Cora was gone, too.

  Re-experience.

There wasn’t a label on their relationship; mostly because they hadn’t been bothered to put one on there. But Jesse knew they’d been close. As close as two people with totally fucked up pasts, a fear of fire, and a drug addiction could be, anyway. She’d smoked with him the first day he’d walked down the stairs into Fourteen. She’d had connections, her brother, but really, she’d been new too. They’d been introduced to the rebellion together. And they had been there for each other; her heat, her coma, his birthday, his sickness. Derek’s death. Jesse had just been learning to forgive himself, to find another way to deal with his past, and move on from Walt, move on from Jane, and make relationships with people who wouldn’t use him just because they thought they could. Now, it seemed like all that hope had been cut off.. just like Cora had been.

Why did he keep choosing to trust people, to let them in and learn to depend on them if they just kept dying? When was he going to learn?

  Helplessness.

He was the bad guy. That was why.

Suddenly, Jesse could breathe again, and all he wanted to do was shoot up and never think about anything again.

Nine’s bombings. His dad’s death. Watching it happen all over again with Ember. Ember. Saying another goodbye to his mother. Losing Stiles. Losing Stiles again. The Capitol. Almost setting himself on fire. The torture. Every bone in his body — broken. Drowning. Leo. Isaac. Isaac. The collar; locking him in his own freezer. Ignoring Amy. Gemini; two sides of a coin. The knife, twisting in his middle. Thredson. The honeyed words, the sympathetic glances. Thredson’s death. Kol. The confusion. Pavel. His pack. Quinn. He’d lost Quinn. James? The Locals. Rose’s tears. Cora’s end. Jesse’s shouts. Annie’s screams. The gags. The knife.

It was like the Capitol all over again. Though this time, he didn’t react. It hurt, he was sure it hurt, but he didn’t make a sound. The crimson lines were almost fascinating as he watched them grow longer, and felt them push deeper. The men had to be talking in Spanish, but Scott had tuned out long ago. Annie’s screams still seemed to resonate in his mind, and he heard nothing else. They tied him back up against the wall, and then they were gone. Scott’s head dropped, no longer possessing the strength to keep himself up.

The screams stopped when Leo had been dragged in, though. Scott noticed straight away. He’d recognised his scent, and listened to the struggle. And even though he didn’t deserve to after everything he’d done, Scott loved Leo. And if he’d been allowed to want, he’d want Leo to always be okay. So he’d sat up a little straighter, straining to hear what was going on. But maybe he shouldn’t have, because the noises that followed made it all too clear.

Sometimes a voice asked if the Doctor was okay, but Scott was never one of them. Because eventually, there was no reply. And there was no heartbeat either.

Scott’s eyes slipped closed after that, and he didn’t open them for anyone or anything. The same two men visited him, but he didn’t acknowledge their presence again, nor did he ever reply to the frantic voices around him. He was too busy focusing on the list.

The list of things he’d lost. The list of things he’d done. The list of things he’d never get back again. The list of things he had to apologise for. If his hands had been free, he might’ve scratched it onto the wall.