#v (aftermath)

"That’s the problem. I don’t think I know how to do that anymore, Aasim.”

⭐️

Although she found it abrasive when they first met, Minnie has come to appreciate Mitch’s no-bullshit approach when asked for his opinion. She trusts him to give her his honest assessment, even if it’s not what she wants to hear.

This is especially true in her post-Delta verse - if Mitch survives, he’s the only one of her former peers she trusts to let her know exactly where she stands with him. She appreciates his candor; even if it’s sometimes hard to swallow, it’s comforting to know that there’s someone on campus aside from Tenn whose opinions and intentions are completely out in the open.

⭐️

Though it took Minnie a while to get a read on Mitch, once she determined he was (a) mostly only a dick to people who deserved it, and (b) suffering from a severe case of Real Men Don’t Cry, she tried to make a point of making herself available if she noticed him more withdrawn than usual. Whether they just hang out in proximity, end up talking, or she hums a song or tells a story to pass the time isn’t important; the actual activity matters less than showing solidarity and reminding him that he isn’t completely alone if he doesn’t want to be.

In extreme cases, she has exactly zero qualms making up an excuse to hug that stubborn bastard, even if it means potentially embarrassing herself or leaning into her reputation for being fragile. If her friend can’t ask for a hug, by god she’s willing to sacrifice her own pride to make sure he gets one every now and again without losing his street cred.

⭐️

Mitch is 100% the friend Minnie goes to when she has a moment of impulsivity that she desperately wants to give into but is too straight-laced to do without ‘permission’ (or, more accurately, egging on). This goes for everything from sudden whims for harmless pranks to seriously considering getting a tattoo. He is the exact opposite of her impulse control; the one she goes to on the rare occasion she feels the urge for just a pinch of chaotic energy in her day.

“I regret a lot of things.”

“I regret trusting Marlon. I regret holding onto the stupid hope that he’d come rescue us. I regret not blocking the door and making Sophie stay on board the ship that night instead of trying to pull off some half-baked escape plan. I regret telling Lilly which of my friends would crack if she pulled the right strings. I regret…”

Swish-thwack! Swish-thwack! Swish-thwack! Swish-thwack! Swish-thwack!

Her world is the rhythmic crack of the shuttle against the wall and the flick of her racket as she returns it. In this moment, she almost feels good; the pain and malaise that have plagued her since she woke up a reluctant refugee fading into laser-focus concentration on the makeshift drill she’s practicing.

She’s lost track of her number of hits when the sound of footfalls behind her mingles with the steady beat of the shuttlecock to racket to wall. Keep moving. She doesn’t break her rhythm, gaze trained on the turn of the shuttle and the angle at which it comes to meet her racket. There’s no moaning. No snarling. No telltale click of the safety being released. Not a walker, then, nor a raider- not unless they’re either a badminton fan or just patient enough to wait to kill her until after she’s finished numbing her arm with mundane drills. Please, just keep moving.

But she’s never been that lucky.

The footsteps stop. Minerva doesn’t. She’s counting the seconds as she keeps her attention trained ahead, willing the intruder to take the hint, until the tension is enough to make her miss her mark. She hisses as the shuttle skitters past her, adjusting and readjusting her grip on racket without turning as she steels herself for whatever talk is inevitably waiting for her. Come on, Min. Get it over with. She sighs, tucking the racket under her injured arm as she rakes her hand through sweat-damp locks and turns to meet her fate.

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

Her mouth is set on auto-fire and she’s powerless to stop it, her scathing set loose in the world without an ounce of self-restraint. She’s tired in a way she’s never been before; exhaustion so deep it resonates in her bones, a hypnotic hum that threatens to overtake her if she drops her guard by the slightest fraction. Her anger’s all that animates her, and god knows she’s got enough of that. It burns in her core, and she lets it be her guiding light, a beacon in the darkness.

It was Clementine who brought the herd. Clementine who poisoned her friends and family against her. Clementine who fought. Clementine who put her little brother in danger. Clementine who came and took, and took, and took, until there was nothing left to take; who ripped from her grasp every tattered, tenuous scrap of hope she’d managed to craft for herself since Marlon had thrown her to the wolves a lifetime ago.

All but one.

Tennessee. Home. An impossibility who’d put his arms around her during their brief reconciliation and said her name like no time had passed at all. An open door she’d long since convinced herself was locked and lost to her forever.

“You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.”

For both of their sakes, she was glad she hadn’t. Somehow, she doubted the others would accept ‘stupid accident’ as a valid explanation if she’d turned up at the school without her assigned buddy. Testing the footing with tentative toes as she went, Minnie edged closer to the lip of the embankment. Once satisfied that she wasn’t going to repeat the other girl’s spill, she dug the blunt end of the spear into the earth, tucking the shaft in the crook of her bandaged limb and extending her good arm to help Mercy navigate the treacherous climb back to solid ground.

It’s an effort to unknot the tension in her shoulders that grips her the instant she hears the door latch click. It’s an effort to keep her breathing even, to suppress the Delta-honed instinct to find a weapon, form up, get ready to fight even though her body feels as though it’s been mulched. It’s an effort to try and keep a level head when she can feel her adrenaline kick in; an effort made even harder as she registers her visitor’s face. 

Clementine.

She can feel her insides churning. Clementine, the ringleader. Lilly’s voice, dripping contempt, as loud and clear as if she were still barking orders on the boat. Her fists- fist- clenches the sheets so tightly her knuckles verge on popping. Clementine, the instigator. Her own voice, rife with panic, her tunnel vision locked on the tracks she’s tied to and the villain hellbent on derailing the runaway train that is her life. Her heart thunders in her ears so loud she hardly registers Clementine’s words. 

Bandages. Food. Minnie forces a breath that shakes from the tension in her chest. In. Out. She forces herself to tear her gaze away from Clementine. Closes her eyes. Breathes. In. Out. Bandages. Food. She’s not sure she can stomach either. But then, she’s not sure she has much of a choice. Breathe. In. Out. She relaxes her fist, millimetre by millimetre, until her palm is once more flat upon the tousled sheets.