Participants:
| Scene Title | Across the End of the World |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | The convoy continues its northward journey traversing the great desolation of North America and finding small miracles along the way. |
| Date | July 9—July 14, 2021 |
If “nothing” could be personified, it would be here.
Ever since Chicago it’s been long stretches of nothing. The desolation of the new world after the flood. It isn’t the post-apocalyptic wasteland that the Pelago imagined, but it is a wasting of a different kind. The Midwest is barren, scraped clear of life with little sign of where all the people went.
The last two hundred miles of the journey have been across open stretches of decade-abandoned farmland. A dusting of snow gives everything a forbidden, dead feeling. Crops have not been tended here in too many years, and it’s impossible to tell at a glance if that is because of pollution or depopulation. Wildlife seems abundant enough, with the occasional deer bounding across empty stretches of freeway devoid of vehicles.
That’s also part of the desolation, the absence of human aftermath. There’s no cars on these stretches of freeway, no derelict signs begging for help, no lights in the distance when remote cities speckle the landscape. It’s as if everyone simply vanished. The truth is less mystical, more migratory and simple. The collapse of civilization and an environmental apocalypse driving people to warmer climates. It’s July and there’s snow on the ground.
The I-94 bridge spanning the St. Croix river between Wisconsin and Minnesota is miraculously intact. It’s a blessing for the convoy, and the possibility that the bridge had been destroyed in the fall of civilization would’ve meant adding days, if not weeks, to an already aggressive agenda.
As the convoy crosses the bridge, the desolation continues unabated. There is one abandoned car on the side of the road, halfway between either end. Its windows are blown out, tires flat, and no sign of the driver or any passengers. There is just a faint, spray-painted message on the side of the vehicle that reads: “No Food.”
It’s hard to say if it was a warning or a cry for help.
Hours Later
Boom Island Park
The Ruins of Minneapolis
July 9th
8:17pm
Minneapolis is a fire-gutted ruin. The skeletal remains of skyscrapers rise up from the city’s grave in silence. A chilly wind howls through their eviscerated remains, whipping stronger across the Mississippi River. It took forty minutes to find a bridge to cross that wasn’t either in obvious disrepair or outright destroyed. The desolation is here too, but not the desolation of abandonment, but the desolation of war.
With the convoy at rest in a crumbling parking lot on the east bank of the Mississippi, it is clear that the Twin Cities were the target of Sentinel scourging in the wake of the Flood. When the armies of the world tried to claw back against collapse, only to be stomped back down into the ground by an organized military strike designed not to conquer, but to eradicate. The ruins of Minneapolis do not tell which side bombed which, only that there is no one left to tell the truth of the matter.
The air is crisp here, enough that a dusting of snow can persist on the cold concrete, but not on the overgrown grass of the park that will be the convoy’s home for the night. Another day’s journey over, and another monolithic vista of the end of the world to greet it.
“One firearm per team.” Taylor Epstein’s voice is clear as he hands out rations of ammunition. “We’re looking for non-perishables, medical supplies, ammunition, and gasoline primarily.” He begins hand-loading rounds into a pistol magazine. “Motor oil, antifreeze, all that’s good too. Don’t go more than two blocks. We’ve got about thirty minutes of daylight left, we don’t wanna be split up after dark.”
“I’m gonna stay, keep an ear to the radio,” Hart tells Tay as she watches the others who volunteered for a supply run gear up. “But if you find any walkie talkies or anything, batteries? Those’re all good. If–y’know–they work.” She offers an awkward smile.
“Also Skittles,” Elliot suggests. “I have a craving.” One Wright is satisfying in Washington KC at the moment, but he thinks he’s hilarious. He taps under his coat to feel the pistol he bought with the ill-gotten gains from murdering the local Wright’s father.
The surroundings being so boring and featureless is a crime. A crime Kendall rectified for his personal amusement by imagining all sorts of strange things they came across. The Convoy ran over and demolished a giant billboard advertising car insurance. No one needs an extended warranty anyway, although if they did, it would definitely be this sorry lot. Of course, the convoy didn't know they ran over the billboard, but that was Kendall's little secret. They made the world a better place. “No more food anywhere in the world.” Kendall intones solemnly to Elliot. He points in the direction of where the car was with its message. “The gospel has spoken.”
With a click of her tongue, Zee shakes her head. "What if people can't see you? Can you stay out then?" It's a tongue in cheek question, even if the timing for the joke is inappropriate. She still has the gun she picked up in the ambush several days ago, and is looking it over like she actually knows what she's doing with it to boot. She looks up at Elliot and smiles wide, a far cry from the demeanour of her doppleganger.
"Aren't Skittles, like, toxic or something? I remember them getting banned because of something in the colouring. Maybe? Or was that a movie…" Zee trails off for a moment, brow furrowing as she looks up at the sky for a second. "Either way I'll take some Starbursts if we find 'em. Or some Hi-Chew!" That prospect seems to hype her up for digging through rubble and scavenging more than anything else has, so that must be something.
Don't go more than two blocks, says Taylor, and Spades knows well enough to bite his tongue on mentioning any ranging slightly further that he might manage. Or at least, would, if not for keeping a sustainable eye on the other member on his team he doesn't mean to let out of his sight. After a beat, he swings the long strap of the shotgun taken from the marauder he'd tore out the heart of off of his shoulder, taking it by its stock and offering it wordlessly to Destiny down at his side. He's decided should they encounter trouble that she would need it more. He doesn't ask if she should need instructions on its use.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Elliot tells Zee. “I don’t eat skittles for the toxins either way, I eat them for the vitamins so I should be fine.” He looks around the local perimeter for any sign of a good starting point. None of the buildings are in top shape, but many of them likely wouldn’t have what they’re looking for to begin with.
Kendall doesn't need a physical gun when he can just make one. Matter of fact, he does just that, slinging an AK-47 over his shoulder that wasn't there mere seconds ago. No loading needed. The bullets may not exist after 2 seconds, but do they need to? “Well we all managed to survive every Halloween so how bad could they have been? I liked the red ones best, personally.”
Tay continues hand-loading some sidearms. “If you find anything big: fuel drum, working vehicle, anything like that, don’t radio back. Just come straight back.” Or be otherwise discreet goes unsaid. It’s been a part of Tay’s leadership style. Here’s the rules for everyone and if you want to be an exception to them, that’s on you. He’s not your dad.
“Anybody who’s got Elliot on speed-dial,” Tay adds with a nod to Elliot, “be verbose. But really, try to limit any radio chatter. We don’t know who else is out there.”
Destiny glances up to Spades wordlessly, a short nod to indicate as she accepts the shotgun that it’s as he suspects — she does not need instruction. Her hand purposefully lays over his as she takes the offering, lingering for a moment along with her gaze. She also remains silent on the notion of going more than a couple of blocks. Of the convoy, they may be the safest duo to do so.
She keeps the muzzle pointed to the pavement, further proving that someone taught her how to safely handle a loaded gun. The small blonde checks to make sure it is loaded, too. Not that she has doubt, but out of some ingrained habit. Des glances around, looking to see where Edward might be headed. The pace with which she makes to follow Spades is a slow one as she assesses her need to protect her de facto guardian, as he has tried to protect her.
Both to varying degrees of success and failure.
Elliot taps his temple in acknowledgment of Tay’s suggestion. Turning to look at the smallest adult member of the convoy holding a shotgun, he wonders if she’ll survive the kickback. He doesn’t ask, assuming she knows what she’s about. “Of the classic Skittles,” Elliot says to Kendall in honest disagreement, “Pink was always the best.” There never was a pink in the original Skittles, but who in this timeline is to say otherwise, the differences are wild. Unless there was a pink Skittle here.
“Dragon fruit? I didn't think anyone liked that flavor, except the people who thought it was cool because it had ‘dragon' in the name.” Apparently, yes, pink exists. “Watermelon all the way. Honeydew wasn't bad either.” That would be the green one, of course. Kendall frowns faintly, absently nodding to Tay, but he's still thinking about Skittles. “Watermelon, honeydew, peach, banana, dragon fruit. S tier to F tier.” Sage nod. And pink took the place of purple. “Well. Dragons are cool.”
"O-kay–" Spades announces flatly, and then starts to direct himself and Destiny away by the nature of a steering hand on her shoulder. "Well, we'll stay off the radio and see you shortly, then. Thirty minutes." He doesn't look toward what he feels to be the Skittle debate debacle that's unfolding. "Time's ticking."
“Don’t I know it,” Des murmurs under her breath, gaze lingering only a second longer before she fully turns and matches pace to walk alongside her partner.
The Following Night
Wahpeton
North Dakota
July 10th
7:20pm
For two hundred miles northwest, the story was much the same. Desolation in all its forms rules the land. Abandoned cities and towns, vast stretches of derelict farmland, the sparse abandoned vehicle, and no sign of human habitation. The Dakotas didn’t prove to be any better, with every town along its way showing signs of conflict, looting, and collapse. Wahpeton should have been no different, the town was destroyed not by war, but by internal strife and resource scarcity following the flood and the war that came after. Climate disaster drove away the remaining residents, and yet…
“And you don’t know anything about what’s north of here?”
Edward Ray sits on the ground around a crackling campfire, flanked by a few members of the convoy. Across from him are rugged, grizzled survivors of the war. Many of them Canadian citizens that fled south as the world cooled, an itinerant mixed community of people who remember a time of cities and borders, but live in the world that came after. They aren’t the ferocious scavengers people in the Pelago tell stories of, but honest, gentle survivors looking to get by.
Edward has set down a collection of tools, knives, one handgun, a dozen rounds of ammunition, and simple comforts like metal utensils and cloth napkins on a folding table the survivors brought from their own caravan. They, in turn, have game. Flanks of venison, hand-made sausage, not to mention a handful of root vegetables.
“Just stories.” James, the weathered middle-aged spokesman for the survivors says.
“I don’t mind a good story.” Is Edward’s attempt at fishing for information. James meets it with a sour but sympathetic smile.
“It isn’t.” James clarifies, reaching to pull a swiss army knife off the table, checking the folding tools within. “A good story, I mean.” He meets Edward’s stare across the fire, then looks at the others from Edward’s convoy. “But I’ll tell it. Help pass the time till dark.”
Leaning her weight against her cane, Robyn watches James and those gathered with him very carefully. She's not the most conversational member of the convoy, but happenings of what's up north are something she has a vested interest in. That alone is another to ensure her presence and her focus as she stands just a bit adjacent to Edward.
"It's appreciated," she offers back in a low voice. "Good or bad, sometimes all we have are stories, so every little bit helps." She smiles, a sad and heavy smile, before shrugging her arms.
Spades cants his head, listening carefully to the setup for the story. His brows lift as he looks the strangers over, supposing to the spokesman just as much as the others, "Happy to swap tales in return. Some of us have been farther than just the coast. Seen some interesting things, met some interesting people." Silas told the tales of the people they met, traveling through the Northwest Passages and on to Japan, then Hawaii, then the ruins of the Panama Canal on the oceanic world tour the Second Star returned from earlier this year. But these people hadn't heard it yet, and he could find himself in a mood for a performance in the form of a dramatized retelling.
The opportunity for those were rare, after all.
James settles in, resting his arms over his knees, looking into the fire. “Those last days, after the flood but before everything went fully to shit, it was different out here.”
As James talks, Edward finds a place to sit down, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. The firelight is brightly reflected in his glasses, hiding his eyes and his expression.
“Borders started to become vague ideas,” James explains. “We had a lot of US military here, rallying. Telecommunications were shot, no TV, barely any radio. We didn’t really know how bad it was anywhere else, but the army was retreating. From what, we didn’t really understand. We assumed “the enemy”, whatever that meant.”
James looks at a couple of local boys who are also listening, both too young to have any strong memories from before the flood. “Turns out it wasn’t any one thing. It was sickness. War. It was their own people and the “enemy,” even if it was impossible to tell which was which. It was like the whole world just unraveled. Which brings us to now.”
Edward leans forward, resting his hands at his chin as he listens.
“Military types never made it. What weren’t killed in conflicts were killed by their own when in-fighting broke out. Blame, confusion, strife. But every so often a handful of them come up this way. Still wearing the stars and stripes, old uniforms. They’re headed north, never talk about the why or where. We never see ‘em again, though, because there’s nothing up there.” James points northward. “Nothing but cold and moose and death.”
Elliot listens with interest, though the man doesn’t seem to know anything useful about the remnant US government. It’s disappointing, but doesn’t otherwise bother him. He looks around, suddenly aware he hasn’t seen Squeaks in a disconcertingly long time. He’s sure that if she got caught practicing spy shit on somebody he’d have heard the shouting by now.
He doesn’t have anything to offer in trade, even if all they’re trading in is stories. Elliot knows almost nothing about what these people have gone through. He’s content to sit in the shadow of his hood and listen.
"There's a settlement on the new coast of old Alaska which we ran into on our sailing trip," Spades offers up mutedly and thoughtfully. "Fair ways west of Anchorage. Ran into it while coming south, looking for the peninsula with its island chain that would point us at Japan."
"They called it Good News, if I remember right," he continues absently. "Couple hundred people, most of them saved from the flood by a vision this old lady had about it before it even happened." He blinks once to try and pull himself from the reverie before he shakes his head. Or maybe to move on quickly from mention of something Special. "… Doesn't sound like where these goons were headed, though. Didn't see anyone like that out there, and I don't think the natives would have put up with the government trying to come up and… you know." One corner of his mouth hooks back in a faintly humorous grin, fishing for a shift in the grim mood.
"Crazy– how after all this time they're still brainwashed with all that for King and country bullshit," he sniffs with no small amount of derision, gaze going to the fire where it dances in the pale green of his eyes. "You'd think with the end of the world they'd have given it a rest."
The glow of the fire illuminates Destiny’s features as she steps out of the dim surrounding it, a blanket now wrapped around her shoulders, collected from her pack. She smiles as she spies Spades gearing up to spin a yarn, always enchanted by the way he is when he steps into the spotlight. Such moments are so seldom when it comes to him. The opportunities are even slimmer.
That smile fades, however, when the supposition is made that there’s nothing but cold, moose, and death the further on they head. The pace of her circuit around the circle stops, gaze shifting to Edward and feeling a knot in the center of her chest. Even recently, James and his fellows have seen military moving further northward? Her chin dips toward her chest as she pulls the blanket tighter around herself to ward off the chill of dreadful anticipation.
Silas grins faintly as Spades takes the stage to tell a bit of their journey to the east, but mostly his expression is pensive as he listens to someone else's tale of the end of the world, the bad old days. "Sometimes people want something to cling to," he murmurs absently. "Even if it only brings 'em misery."
Mostly, though, his mind is on what Nova had told him, some time ago — she'd said something about military types, too, as he recalled.
“I’ve seen it. The clinging.” James says making a fist with one gloved hand. “Some people cling t’things that make sense; ideas of family they lost, the job they used’ta do. It’s hardest when all that’s all they used t’be. I’ve seen this new world eat people alive who used t’only live for their job. People who had no self of self outside of what the world assigned t’them.”
James looks into the fire. “You’ve gotta me more’n what other people say y’are. Otherwise…” He looks up at the rest of the group and feigns a smile, “this world’ll remind ya, y’ain’t nothing at all.”
Days Later
Somewhere South of Winnipeg
Manitoba, Canada
July 12th
3:03pm
Scattered communities and villages numbering in the dozens lined the journey between North Dakota and Canada. The days had been broken up between short stops to reorient with locals, share supplies, and perform routine maintenance on the vehicles. Frizzel blew two tires thanks to the rough condition of the frost-broken roads, leaving the bus with no spares remaining.
The whole of the convoy is in good condition, but it’s clear the long road is putting wear on already worn vehicles. Passengers have been more freely rotating between vehicles since several convoy members departed in Chicago, and aboard Frizzel the atmosphere is quiet and contemplative.
Outside the bus’ windows, snowy stretches of farmland that was once Canada has been the sole vista. Hundreds upon hundreds of miles of snow-dappled nothing. The radio broadcasting from “Katie” has been a godsend, even if the catalog has started to get repetitive this many days into the journey. Soft music plays within the bus, accompanying the pale midday light of an overcast afternoon.
Snowflakes are starting to collect on the bus’ windshield, and the road is dusted as white as the farmland, making the going slow. But out here, it feels like slow is the only way things can go. Like time has, briefly, stopped.
Asi continues to drive the Frizzel forward, hands tense on the wheel, watching each lump in the snow ahead as if it could hold something else deadly to their remaining tires. That it's happened under her watch of the vehicle has left her irritable and protective. As they crawl down the road, occasionally the white blanket over everything statics her vision, brings it to glaze over. Usually about then, a keen onlooker can catch a flash of seagreen burst across her darker eyes as she emits a pulse of her ability, taking comfort in touching her technopathic senses against the radio in the bus as much as those hear the faint echo of the other vehicles before and behind them in the convoy. It recenters her, lets her more calmly refix her focus on the road all while resisting the itch to tunnel across the Network to otherwise occupy her mind. It's something she's refrained from after the second flat, determined to make sure there's not a third.
Silas sits two seats back, his gaze mainly focused out the window. Every so often his gaze wanders back to the interior of the bus — once he'd even caught that flicker of sea green in Asi's eyes in the mirror — but eventually his gaze drifts back to the outside, to the strangeness of it all. Not rolling seas but Canadian farmland, shrouded in that surreal summer snow.
Glory has been quiet for a long while. Chicago and the events transpiring there had put a damper on her mood, but for reasons she doesn’t vocalize. She watches the dreary snow-dappled horizon with a listless expression. When she sees herself reflected in the window glass, Glory shakes herself out of the fugue and opens her window just a crack, letting the cold air flush her cheeks.
The sound of the window cracking is enough of a distraction for Silas to break free of his own pensive study of the scenery. For a moment he considers slipping back into his gray study of the scenery… but moping is a bad habit, and if he's not going to be resting, he should probably be using the opportunity Aces has bought him by taking over driving duties. So he rises up, slipping a couple seats further back to the one opposite Glory.
"What's the story, morning Glory?" he asks with a quick grin… then, still with a grin but a bit more soberly, he adds, "Penny for your thoughts?"
“My rates went up,” Glory says over the seat to Silas. “But since you’re a friend, I’ll cut you a deal.” She looks past Silas, directing his attention to the CB radio above Asi’s head. “I’m thinking I’ve heard American Pie about eight times today, and if I hear it one more time I’m taking this bus off the levee.” She cracks a smile, then reaches into her backpack and pulls out a sun-faded, weathered five-dollar bill she found in the ruins of Minneapolis during the scavenging run.
“Five real American dollars if you get her to radio Hart and put something else on.” Glory hides her worry behind a joke and a smile, but there’s some honesty in the sense of camaraderie.
The money may be worthless, but the sentiment of friendship isn’t.
Days Later
20 Miles to Saskatoon
Saskatchewan, Canada
July 14th
11:13pm
A faded road sign dusted with snow says, “Saskatoon 32km”.
All of the convoy’s vehicles are parked in a row along the side of the highway, each vehicle’s windows darkened. Everyone should be asleep, except for the rotating watch, but sleep is often hard found on a road trip. Especially a road trip to the end of the world.
A few members of the convoy find themselves out in the cold, night air, looking up at the crystal clear sky dappled with stars and the bright crescent of the moon. No light pollution makes the milky way brilliantly visible overhead, and the moonlight makes everyone’s breath look like silvery ghosts keeping the night owls company.
Hart stands with her mitten-covered hands tucked into her armpits, scarf pulled up to the bridge of her red nose. She looks at the night sky with a silent, hopeful wonder, listening to the sound of the wind crossing the flat, desolate plains. There’s a quarter inch of snow on the ground here, enough for everyone to leave footprints scuffed across the crumbling highway. A little, ephemeral reminder as if to say, “I was here.” If only in brief.
Elliot can’t shake the feeling that’s been growing, the weight of inevitably as they approach their endpoint. It’s been eating at them, they’ve been quiet. Looking up into the night sky offers conflicting wonder and primal fear of the unknown. They get their own attention from afar, checking their Wright-pulse to anchor them to it, nod in thanks and control their Elliot-breathing.
The night sky has felt like a blessing for quite some time to Robyn, staring up at the sky with her arms folded across her chest as she leans against Speedwagon. For so long, it meant relief from the blinding light of the day, a time where she could be outside unimpeded. Her perception of it has changed a bit since she gained her ability to see in the dark, but if nothing else it gives her a deeper appreciation of it. Even better, she's not on guard duty tonight, letting her focus her attention upwards on a world where she can see the stars in the sky in the absence of light pollution - a bittersweet thing in and of itself.
The soft crunch of snow beneath boots marks Silas's approach; it's not hard to make out Hart and Robyn stargazing, and Silas can't help but smile. "Beautiful, aren't they?" he asks quietly as he approaches, as much to make sure he's noticed as to start a conversation. "The end of the world wasn't exactly long on blessings or on beauty, but the stars… the stars are something else. Almost look close enough you could reach out and touch 'em."
Elliot takes a moment to look over to Silas, merely agreeing with a nod first while continuing to observe the night sky. They remember a cold night when the Elliot-that-was stood on a late-autumn rooftop to gaze at the stars, his moment of privacy and peace before Eddie came up the stairs to kill him. The moon is the wrong phase, and they focus on that to separate themself from the bad parts of remembrance. The view of the moon from KC is partially obscured by the cityscape, but it’s grounding to look at two of them.
“I can’t help but wonder if other theoretically inhabited planets are relativistically affected by our timeline deviations,” they muse. “Do all of the alien planets have a Bright timeline? A Virus? Do they exist totally unaware of the fact that there are alternate versions of themselves in parallel timelines created by events that can’t possibly effect them until divergent radio signals reach all the way there?”
There is silence for a long moment after Elliot’s question. That Glory is the one who answers is both surprising and not. She is, after all, student to the weft of timeline ways, but also reclusive and quiet. She steps into the group from her former vantage point in self-imposed isolation to offer her own perspective. “Some smart people I know wondered the same thing. They never had good answers.”
Glory lets that reply sit for a moment, only then tearing her eyes away from the beauty of the stars to look side-long at Elliot. “But if that’s the case, I wonder if any time-traveling aliens have made branches we’re unaware of. Or if the whole thing is like…” she spreads her hands apart, “a tapestry. Some threads split, but only partially. Maybe they come back together in other areas.” She shrugs. She doesn’t really know. She doubts anyone does.
Silas is silent for a long moment. "If a tree falls in the woods and nobody's around to hear it… does anybody complain about the sound?" he asks. "Personally, I think it's just local. If there were aliens out there to be bugged by us, they've had plenty of time to do something; either they don't care or they're too far away to even notice. All the crap we stir up stops at the atmosphere, that's my take."
He lets out a breath, deflating a bit. "Many worlds, one sky," he says somberly, and then casts his eyes back to the heavens again, watching the stars.
"I used to wonder, now and again, if it made me a bad person. Finding the stars beautiful, in the aftermath of… everything. Everything we lost. Now, though… I think I was too hung up on being miserable. It's never wrong to find beauty where you can."
With that, Silas falls silent again.
The irony in Silas' observation riles Asi over from where she's warming herself, a careful glance given to make sure those within earshot are all read in, so to speak, and then she steps closer, bitterness warming her almost as much as anger might. "Ah," she notes very quietly but pointedly, not looking at Silas as she counters him. "But it doesn't, does it? Stop at the atmosphere. What's coming with the sun– that's proof enough, isn't it?"
She hates it even as she says it, nose rankling and brow furrowing as she shakes her head. "But it does make many worlds and one sky," she concedes, blunt edges falling off of her voice in favor of something almost soft. It sounds nice, after all, doesn't it? "And it is a nice sky, at that."
“Could use an aurora,” Elliot complains, quietly and unseriously. They can’t remember having seen this many stars with the recent frequency he’s been able to. With zero industrial light-pollution, it’s something to behold. “Spice things up a bit.”
“More festive,” they agree.
It’s a rarity that Des has seen this many stars while on land. Finding Polaris, her eyes track along until she finds Dubhe and Merak, orienting herself to the North Star at the end of Ursa Minor and drawing that line west to Ursa Major. Out at sea, she’s used the constellations to navigate by. Here is no different, just that she isn’t swaying gently while she looks up at them.
That’s something that’s been odd. At least the roads feel a bit like being out on the waves, but to be still for so long again just feels wrong. Dimly, she thinks it reminds her of being trapped beneath the waves. The stars blur for a moment, but a hard blink clears away the tears that had nearly formed. There were no stars there.
But the stars are here, and that’s absolutely wonderful.
Snow crunches as her arms and legs fan out alongside her where she lays, leaving behind an angel in the snow as her signature for however long it lasts before the traces are swept away by the wind, filled in by more snow, or melted by the rays of the sun.
“That there’s no visibility of the aurora borealis suggests a lack of excessive coronal activity,” Des states as she sits up. It’s uncertain if she heard literally anyone mention the sun or auroras, or if she was just making her own unrelated observation. Regardless, the matter-of-factness in her tone as she delivers it is uncharacteristic of her. She frowns, brow furrowing as she gets to her feet and brushes off the snow. Is that even true? Blonde hair scatters as she pulls off her stocking cap, giving it and her head a firm shake before shoving it back on.
Truth is a hard thing to pin down lately. The universal truths across an unknown number of parallel timelines spinning out into divergent branches all their own. The personal truths held fast by the belief of authentic perception. But perhaps Destiny is just getting in her own head.
Edward puts a hand on her shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “Aurora or not, it’s beautiful.” He offers with a reluctant smile. His truth is simple enough, even if it is a personal one. His truth is a responsibility.
As the others stare up into the sky, one other truth manifests itself in shades of teal and pink. Maybe Elliot wished on a star, or maybe just enough energy flickered out from the sun eight minutes ago to manifest now. But the shimmering curtain of a faintly-visible aurora in the sky, like the hem of some great goddess’ skirt, flutters for a moment overhead.
It’s the festive moment of wonder they all needed, the miracle of the northern lights made manifest.
Not the other thing, sitting in the dark on the side of the road. The thing not one person sees on their way back to the vehicles. Partially buried in snow, laying on its side under the faintly shimmering auroral glow.
A lone, red and white striped cup with a plastic lid and a fire engine red straw. Faded blue text on the side reading SLUSH-O.
Tonight is about miracles.
Not their opposite.