Of course, the first thing House would try to do with his arch nemesis of the day would be to piss him off as much as humanly possible. Usually, though, House transcended the realm of human comprehension, as speaking to him was more like entering a lovely little man-made hell. How charming.

“...’Scuse me?” Soul yelled back, eyebrow somehow raised to his hairline.

At the sound of his voice, the first thing House observed was the fact that he, too, was quite Australian. He didn't sound quite as robotic as Mind did, but there was still a vague, inhuman quality to his voice. He hypothesized that Heart sounded the most human of the three and that Soul sounded the way he did because he was a ‘mix’ of the two. Or perhaps mix wasn't the right word. They could just have substantial influence over him or be strongly associated with him. The first was interesting to him, though. Could a non-spiritual sense of soul be the common ground found in the war zone between emotion and logic?

While House's inner monologue ran on, Wilson made no attempt to stop the bitchy man from staying completely silent. Soul's eyes carefully swerved between the two of them, probably coming to the conclusion that they were both some very codependent homosexual lovers. Could his day get any worse?

(He immediately purged that thought from his head. Alas, let him be struck by a flying ice cream truck… and live.)

Well, everything was bad for everyone right now, since Soul was upended out of his human body, House had his most internalized philosophy of being alone in this world completely shattered, and Wilson was nothing short of confused. These things just seemed to keep happening to him; House is always the one who causes such atrocities to happen. Well, maybe not this time, but his tendencies to anger God and defy fate probably were a contributing factor in whatever warranted this divine punishment.

Soul continued to stare as House obnoxiously chewed on a fatty hunk of steak. He briefly halted this just to antagonize the cherry. “What? Gonna make the guy with the bum leg walk over there?” Full mouth of food. Wilson felt a small spray of saliva hit him in the face, and he swiped a hand over his jaw with a grimace.

Now, all eyes were on Soul, relentlessly judging. The man awkwardly got to his feet and approached their booth, charms jingling on his leather belt. He settled in the seat next to Wilson, anticipating that most of his turmoil would be coming from House. What fool forgets to face his problems head-on? (well ackshually . snort .)

“Well-”

“Too Australian. You will speak only when spoken to, young man!” House mocked in a really awful British accent, taking another huge bite of his steak.

“That… That was a British accent. I'm-”

“Tuh-may-toe, tuh-mah-toe. Same difference. The Australian prison camps were just glorified British getaways. Trust me, I'd know.” Wilson didn't even want to know what that meant.

“Are you going to let me finish a single sentence?” Soul snarled, getting a bit closer. Wilson briefly cast his gaze in House's direction. Hook, line, and sinker, he caught a fish that seemed to take the form of I'm nicknaming this one Kangaroo for how everytime I open my mouth, it's like he wants to decapitate me with his bare fists. He was always more of a catch and release guy, anyway.

“Not preferable. You'd probably start talking to me about how your prime minister can beat our president in a one on one.”

“My dad can beat up your dad, actually. Make one more awful joke about how Australian I am, and I'll shove that vicodin bottle down your throat.”

“Kangaroo's mad.”

“I'll fucking kill you, mate.”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

“Well, Mr. Soul, ” Wilson finally interrupted, “I'm afraid he's always like this. I'm very-”

“Are you guys out of the closet yet? Just wondering.” Kangaroo boy immediately interrupted. Well, what's the point of complaining about House interrupting you if you're gonna do the same thing to other people? Wilson turned his head a few degrees and could see the gears turning in House's head, and he briefly smacked the other man's thigh in hopes of communicating that the indifference on Soul's face seemed impenetrable; it wouldn't even be worth it to try.

“We're… Not gay,” Wilson sputtered, “why do people keep thinking that?”

Taylor settles for leaning against his arm and keeping an eye on him for a while, but then he winces.

"Link, you good, man?"

No response.

Taylor sits up and turns to face Link, who's staring straight ahead.

"Link," Taylor puts a hand in his shoulder. He doesn't stir. Taylor bites his lip.

There's a faraway look in Link's eyes, and his hands start to shake.

"Link, hey." As Taylor pries Link's fingers out from the palms of his hands, Link finally glances at him.

"Huh?"

"Shit, Link…" Taylor mutters, looking at his palms.

They're littered with little crescent shaped pools of blood, and Link's fingernails aren't that long… how did he even do this?

A second later, he's wiping the blood off Link's palms with a tissue and disinfecting with an alcohol swab. Thank god for the emergency first-aid kit in his go-bag.

"Ow—" Link tries to pull his hands away but Taylor grips them.

"Just hold still for a second."

Taylor's wrapping Link's hands in bandages now, and he finally looks up at his face.

Link is staring at the bandages, but his eyes are glazed over, and there's no discernable expression on his face.

"What're you doing?" Link mumbles.

"I'm bandaging your hands, because you clenched your fists so hard you started bleeding," Taylor says, trying to keep his voice calm so as to not spook Link even more.

"Oh. I didn't even notice."

Taylor's lip hurts. His teeth are getting sharper, so biting them has become a painful thing. But he licks that blood away and focuses.

Link's eyes are less apathetic and more fearful now, but his flat expression remains the same.

"Are you okay?" Taylor asks.

Maybe a stupid question.

"What's going on?" he adds.

A slightly better question.

You're scaring me, he doesn't say.

"I'm fine, I'm fine."

It's the second time Link has said it, but it's a lot weaker than the first.

Taylor tilts Link's head up by the chin, and looks him in the eyes.

"I know I'm not great with this kinda stuff, but I don't buy that, dude. That was a lot back there, and you seem… really out of it right now."

Link says nothing, so Taylor continues.

"Look, I dunno what's going on in your head right now, but I'm here, okay?"

Taylor follows Link's gaze back to his hands, and as soon as Taylor sees those fingers twitching, itching to curl into a fist, he clasps Links hands in his own.

Link's grip is strong as hell, and Taylor's just glad he isn't making himself bleed with it anymore.

And then Taylor notices the rise and fall of Link's chest get a little quicker.

The trembling from his hands spreads to the rest of him now.

And Link's eyes are shut, and his mouth is open, sucking in big breaths and letting out big sighs.

"Link—"

"Taylor, I'm freaking out," he whispers so quietly, like anyone else hearing would be a recipe for disaster.

…Actually, considering the dads in the back right now, maybe it would.

"Okay, okay," Taylor matches his volume. "It's okay, uh…"

Link is usually the one with all the useful grounding exercises. Taylor doesn't really know them.

But Link is clearly panicking now, so he does the next best thing: pulling his hands out from Link's tight grip, and wrapping his arms around his torso instead, squeezing tightly.

Link doesn't move to wrap his arms around Taylor, but he relaxes a little into the embrace.

And it's enough for now.

Hopefully.

13 was waiting outside of the bunker.

The earth around him was dead. Holes cut into the ground from heaps of bombs. There were no bodies. The methods of execution were so brutal and calculated that there was no room for human remains, only piles of ash. You either got to safety in time or you didn't, and that was that. 

At least 103 dead with this new wave of bombs. Most of them being desperate citizens trying to make it to the other districts, praying that the Capitol would show mercy. Couldn't even make it halfway, huh?

He couldn't tell what he was looking at. Giant eddies of dust swirled through the air, obscuring the sun and all the hope that could've come with it.

He thought of the coal in district 12 and the dying miners, hands sculpted for pickaxes, not the triggers of guns. 

Where was she?

He didn't know. Couldn't even begin to. Wasn't sure if he ever would, and not many minutes of the day were left, if the darkness around him said anything. He was unsure how thick the grainy cloud of filth permeating the air around him actually was, so it very well could still be the morning, or the afternoon, just as well as it could be evening or night. Actually, too light to be night, but he would prefer to think that their suffering could crystalize in the very air that he breathed and form something better, because agony must always mean something. If his trials could be so abundant and lead to something so lovely as the sun, it would mean something. Even if it killed off what was left of the sun instead, it would mean something.

(It usually didn't; he knew this well.)

And who would help him when the fantasy fell apart in shards of glass around him? Who would help when he cut his skin upon them? Who would dry his hands of the warm blood running down in little rivers from his scarred arms? Who would come back, even when the bombs rained again? She would. She must. She always did. The other districts bowed, but she wouldn't. Yes, the miners were not built to fight nor last, but she had hunters, too. She had singers who had enough breath to run for cover before every assault started. It counted for a lot. More than what some of the other districts had.

(But not nearly enough.)

The bunkers could last at least 5 more raids. He didn't care much for thinking about the people within them if they weren't making food, or ammunition, or in the process of using it. Anything else wasn't worth his time yet. The only thing about the people that really mattered was if he had enough to fall back on should he surrender- but he wouldn't. 

He loved rationalizing these things. People were dying, and he was thinking of heaps of stone and the one person he could count on. But where was she now? Somewhere in the haze ahead of him, surely. If he could imagine her as a certain presence, sure to be waiting around the next corner, he could find a bit of peace. The only thing that thought limited him from doing was actually getting up to check.

And through his half-lidded eyes, something showed up in the distance.

It started as a blob, indistinct and hardly noticeable, no different from any of the other shapes creeping through the air. It got a bit closer, though, and it started to look like a person. Soon, it became one. And she stood in front of him, just like he'd imagined. Was he hallucinating?

Her voice, curiously wispy and elusive, fled from her mouth like a wounded deer. “Couldn't make it any easier on me, could you? Just had to sit down?”

He groaned in response, glaring at 12, “Haven't you got anything better to do?-” What a lie, he'd been wanting this, “-your people are dying.” So were his, and he was calculating how many more could go.

Her eyes briefly misted over, lips pressing shut. She did everything in such a final way. If she stopped talking, you might be fooled into thinking she'll never do so again. When she frowns, you forget what it's like when she smiles. So, for a bit, he wondered if she would ever reply. Maybe she'd walk away and he'd never see her again. 

“Yours are too,” she finally hissed. 

12 sat down and settled beside him, and next to each other, they seemed more bedraggled than usual. Huntress and scientist, they had nothing left to lose except for their dignity.

One of them decided that they'd be trading it first.

“I'm leaving,” she said very simply, very cordially, as if this was the natural order of things. As if this was the way things were supposed to be all along. 

The world stopped spinning.

“What? But-” she couldn't. He saw the citizens, saw them go crawling back to the capitol, saw them collapse and die. Was 12 being serious?

“You're right. My people are dying. Not everyone can fight like you. I don't think anyone can.”

But nobody can accompany me as well as you! He wanted to wail, wanted to scream, we've made it so far! Who cares about the people? There only needs to be us!

But he saw it in her eyes, she didn't want it to be them. She simply didn't like him in that way. 12 always seemed to slip through his fingers like sand, and he hated how that was what kept him in place next to her even when she did nothing but move away again. She could traverse the woods between 12 and 13 all she wanted, come by to the bunker and say hello, dance around him with steps as light as a hunter's practiced gait upon the forest floor. But that's all it would ever be, wouldn't it? Around him. Never actually with him.

All that he could do to whisper even a fraction of his utter hurt at her abandonment was to stare at her for a bit. His body was so much slower than his brain. 

So as she stood up and walked away, he didn't do anything. He only thought Please, please, don't do this to me. Why won't you love me?