Dream(e)scape

Participants:

Scene Title	Dream(e)scape
Synopsis	and i could be the fire inside of your collapsing home / i could be the storm that tears down everything you hold
Date	July 3, 2021

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Knives and forks and spoons clink against uniform and round white ceramic plates, featureless but for the scratches left by previous unseen clinking. Coffee stained maybe, though that would be less out of place if restricted to likewise bland coffee mugs. Perhaps just on the napkin that rests under a mug where the coffee could have sloshed over the rim; it seems as good a place as any for a coffee stain and the napkin has no complaints becoming stained as suggested.

There are and aren't any other diners right now, only ever the flickering suggestion of their presence. They're the source of the clinking, the occasional vocalization or complaint to be expected from poorly behaved elderly people feeling entitled to perfection and compensation for failure to ensure that every bite of their breakfast is moved into their mouths to be enjoyed in a way that lets you know they're only enjoying it despite the work you do to feed them. Such phantoms are despicable but rarely remain manifested long enough to require an outburst to tell them to be better. None can be seen in the direction Merlyn faces, a blessing to be able to ignore them when they're there.

Elliot takes up space directly across the tabletop, unsure if they've placed their orders yet or if there's a plate of food in front of him. The entire room smells of pancakes and sausage patties either way, and he decides that he'll eat what's in front of him and order again if they haven't already. "I have never been to this diner before," he says, having forgotten saying it before they came here.

Merlyn seems content not seeing whatever diners or lack thereof that there are, the proper ambience of the diner seeming to entirely fit what seems to be appropriate. She doesn't give it a second thought until Elliot mentions never having been there. The pause to linger on the moment is for more of a thought and less of an observation. She's not looking around to find what's there, not seeking out details of the diner, but instead digging through memories of something familiar.

"I have," she says after a moment, sounding confident. Or at least, she does for a moment, then seconds later she seems unsure. "I think I have. It's familiar. I can't remember when I was here, but I think I was."

"Is it where I dumped you?" Elliot asks, then takes an unhurried sip of room temperature coffee. It's not bad coffee for a diner, but not as good as the smell of the coffee in his townhouse every morning. The question is off-hand, his eyes never leave the laminated menu. "I can't remember where we were because you were being so clingy."

Merlyn scrunches up her face, reaching for the sugar packets for her own coffee. “Trust me, I remember where we were for that.” It’s actually one of the few things burned into her memory. If she forgot that, something would be wrong. She rips open two of the packets at the same time, dumps the sugar in, and discards the empty packets to her right, where they seem to melt into the table.

“I’ve been here, though,” she says, attempting to refocus the feelings of familiarity. “I wonder why I can’t place it.”

Elliot shrugs. "I don't remember where we were," he says, setting down his phone. "I wasn't really paying attention." It seems cruel, even for him, though there's no malice in his expression. He's just kind of an asshole.

"Did you come here on a field trip?" he asks.

Merlyn’s face scrunches once more, a glare offered across the table. It doesn’t feel like their fun banter this time and she doesn’t like it. Instead of dwelling on the bitter feeling, she takes a sip of the much sweeter coffee before she tries to recall again. “Why would anyone take a field trip to a diner? Although I suppose it’s cheap enough that the adults wouldn’t mind paying and the kids would only notice pancakes.”

It’s not pancakes that jog Merlyn’s memory, even if the smell helps. It’s the waitress she caught sight of in the distance. Even only catching her from the side, she’d always recognize Katie King in the uniform she’d come home in. She always likes to be able to greet her mother when she came in the door.

Her mother.

“Oh no,” she says abruptly, the coffee almost dropped as she sets the mug down with rapid speed. “That’s why I remember this. Mom used to treat me to pancakes when she’d have to work late. Pancakes from here.” She reaches across the table for Elliot’s hand, seeking to find some way to ground herself. “Mom’s not supposed to be here right now,” she says, heart pounding in her chest.

“We’re not supposed to be here right now.”

"Why?" Elliot asks, looking baffled and not putting much effort into holding Merlyn's hand. "If you wanted to eat somewhere else you could have said that. We already ordered."

Merlyn doesn’t have time to fuss over if Elliot is suddenly uninterested in her again, mostly because she’s got a lump in her throat as she sees the waitress—her mother—beginning to turn towards them with a fresh coffee pot in hand. Frantically, she seeks out something with a date. Conveniently, behind the counter on the wall is a worn monthly calendar with the days crossed out.

She swallows hard, seeking another confirmation of her suspicions. A newspaper seems to be abandoned on a table nearby and her eyes fix on the date. “We’re not supposed to be here because the bomb’s going to go off,” she says quickly before adding, “and we have to get out of here. We have to see if we can get my mom to come with us. We can’t leave her to die.”

Elliot looks confused, he wasn't here when the bomb went off, though he was about to die. He turns toward the kitchen thoughtfully. "We could probably get out through the kitchen," he suggests. "We might get in trouble for going that way, though. We're not allowed back there."

His gaze moves to the outside world, to the orange of sunset. What time of day did the bomb go off? How much time do they have? He seems more cognizant of the dangers suddenly, rubbing his palms over his thighs nervously.

“We can try the front first, then the kitchen,” Merlyn says, looking around nervously. Now she’s entirely unsure of what to do. The stress of getting out is almost overwhelming, and the fact that her mom is right there, alive, makes her practically paralyzed in fear.

Even if she could muster the courage to get up, there’s Katie suddenly at their table. “More coffee?” She asks, her voice cheerful.

"Yes please," Elliot says with a smile, sliding his mug of tepid coffee toward the end of the table. As the mug gets filled he looks back toward Merlyn, frowning to see her still anxious about the impending nuclear explosion that will level Midtown and kill her mother.

He sidles out from the table as Katie finishes filling his mug, then steps around her to Merlyn's seat. "Hey," he says calmly, then leans down to kiss her softly on the brow. "It's okay, we can go." He scoops her hand from the table and guides her up.

Merlyn doesn’t even look up until Katie’s gone back to refill coffee elsewhere, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The feel of Elliot at her side is calming and she manages to get up when guided, but her hand quickly tightens around his.

“We have to get her out,” she says, hoarsely.

"Okay," Elliot says, still calm. He leads Merlyn down the length of the diner toward where Katie is quietly marrying thick glass bottles of ketchup.

"Hi, Katie," Elliot says, lifting his hand to show her how it's holding onto Merlyn's. "I'm Elliot. Merlyn and I are getting married so you have to come with us to the wedding now."

Even though this was one of the most traumatic days for her, Merlyn can’t remember the details. Where exactly did it hit and when? It’s all a fuzzy mess and she can’t seem to sort it as hard as she tries. All of that is even entirely crowded out when Katie turns to face them.

“I’m sorry… what?” She asks in confusion, looking between them. The waitress looks over to her daughter who should very much not be here. “Merlyn?”

If Merlyn was petrified before, she certainly had become a statue now. Her hand desperately clings to Elliot’s, the only thing keeping the whole world from crumpling in on itself like a wad of paper. She meets her mother’s gaze, but manages to at least find her voice.

“Hi Mom,” she says, swallowing down her fear for a brief moment. “We need to go now.”

"Yeah," Elliot agrees. "I don't have a car so we'll have to take the train north out of Manhattan. You should grab your stuff so we can go, we need to move fast." Not just because they're about to die, but because he's going on his mission and might never come back.

Katie’s confusion remains, but she smiles kindly. There’s a wedding, after all. “I’ll go get my purse,” she says before stepping around them to retreat in the direction of the employee break room. Merlyn almost reaches up to touch her with her free hand, but she restrains herself and relaxes her other hand at her side.

“Do you think it will be fast enough to get us out?” She’s grateful not to be in this situation alone. Had it been only her, the scenario could have been very different.

"I don't know," Elliot admits. "I've never been in this part of Manhattan before. By the time I got here this was all gone." He's told her this before, which is the only reason he knows it now.

"I don't even know where a train station is," he adds, trying to remember if he has a phone capable of looking that up in 2006. "There must be signs though, it would be weird if there weren't. This place was built for tourists."

It’s a bizarre thing to think of, the fact that the place they’re in is supposed to be gone. All Merlyn knows, though, is that there’s supposed to be a bomb and the two people she cares about most are right there and about to be killed if something isn’t done.

“Maybe my mom knows, she took the train to get to work sometimes I think,” she says, though she’s unsure. Everything she remembers about all of this was when she was a child. Memories tend to blur over the years, becoming unreliable.

When Katie emerges from the back room, purse in hand, Merlyn doesn’t hesitate to grab her hand to pull her along with them. “We need to get to the train station,” she explains. “Can you show us the way?”

“Of course, Lyn,” Katie replies, her tone one of both concern and unasked questions. “It’s not far.”

"You're really cute when you're afraid," Elliot says, lifting their linked hands to show her how childish she's being. He doesn't need her help crossing the street. Amusement plays with secret understanding on his face; she's in on this joke even if she doesn't like it and doesn't want to be.

“Thanks,” Merlyn mutters, eyeing him as her mother directs them towards the station. “I hope I’m cute when I’m angry too.” She turns her gaze away from him and in the direction where they’re going, but her gaze goes momentarily towards the sky as she tries to rack her brain for the time when the bomb went off.

Katie, while she leads the way, glances towards both Merlyn and Elliot, and raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure you want to get married?”

"Yeah, she's obsessed with me," Elliot says before chuckling. He suddenly pats down his jacket and pants pockets, coming to a stop just outside the diner. "I forgot my phone. I'll be right back."

“Elliot, you can’t,” Merlyn says, her voice tight. “We need to go. We can get you a new phone later, we just need to leave.” She’s positive the panic on her face should convince him the phone isn’t worth it.

The panic, though, draws Katie’s attention. “Lyn, he’s going to come back. I know emotions can be high around weddings but you’ll be fine. He doesn’t have cold feet if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m just happy you found someone you love who loves you back.”

Whatever sweetness she could have gleaned from her mother’s comments about her marriage are drown out by the words “cold feet”. Merlyn’s gaze snaps to her mother, not in anger but still in a panic. “No, Mom, I’m not worried about that, we just… we need to go. I’m not leaving without both of you. We all have to go.”

Katie tries to offer her daughter a comforting smile. “Sweetie, I promise you won’t miss your own wedding.”

"It's not like they're going to start without us," Elliot says, "that phone cost like three thousand dollars. I'll be right back." He steps into the building regardless of Merlyn's panic, or maybe just to have some time to himself since she's being such a handful.

As Elliot disappears into the diner, Merlyn’s heart goes to the pit of her stomach. She turns towards Katie, her face grim. Before she’s able to speak, she takes something in. She’s getting to see her mother. She hears her mother’s voice. It’s hard to see her and not almost be in tears.

“Mom, you trust me, right?”

Katie’s brow furrows, suddenly more concerned. She squeezes the hand she’s still holding. “Of course I do,” she says, the confusion clear on her face as she studies her daughter. “Lyn, what’s this about?”

“I can’t explain it, it won’t make any sense, but we need to get far away from here as fast as possible. It’s really, really important, okay?” Merlyn is quietly proud of herself for keeping her composure.

“If you’re so concerned and so convinced about whatever it is, I trust you, we’ll take the train,” her mother replies, smiling one of her brightest smiles to comfort Merlyn. Merlyn misses those smiles.

As cars pass by in a fuzzy blur, Merlyn begins to feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. He should have been right back. Elliot’s taking too long. “Mom, he’s been in there for too long. I need to get him.”

“He’s already being deployed, hon, it’s not going to help.”

Merlyn’s heart almost drowns out her mom’s voice at those words. It doesn’t matter what else is going on, she needs to find Elliot. He can’t be gone yet. “Mom, go to the train station, take it out of here,” she says, her voice quickening as her heart does. She drops Katie’s hand, not waiting for a response from her mother as she dashes to the door of the diner and pulls it open.

He can’t be gone yet. Not yet. Not without a goodbye.

The restaurant is busy now, so much so that Merlyn has to scan the crowd to look for Elliot between the tables. It's loud in here, louder than he would prefer. The tables are arranged badly, circles thrown at the floor seemingly at random. Table cloths uneven, draped too long over the thighs of exasperated customers. The only thing they seem to want to do is clink clink clink their silverware against wine glasses and champagne flutes.

In the corner of her eye, maybe just a figment or a memory, a tall figure slips from view between the swinging double doors into the kitchen. A figure with a series of small, faded, black X's and numbers tattooed around his scalp and hidden beneath his hair. They're barely visible any more.

Too many people. Merlyn is almost overwhelmed by the noise, the sound of everything clinking feeling like nails on a chalkboard. “Elliot!” She calls, desperate to catch him. He couldn’t be gone yet.

It’s the slight feel of someone near the kitchen that makes her head in that direction. She hurries, pushing her way through people who certainly shouldn’t have been a crowd in the diner. Reaching the doors, she places her palms on them and shoves, desperate to get through.

The kitchen is abuzz with activity. Uniformed workers weave through each other's paths with clockwork efficiency; nothing less would be tolerated in a restaurant this high above the streets of Manhattan. Sautee cooks play with fire, bakers line papered baking sheets with raw dough, prep cooks shred industrial quantities of shallots with knives sharp enough to kill.

Their only reactions to Merlyn's presence is annoyance that their paths are blocked by someone unfamiliar with the dance practiced by the employees of a reservations-only five star dinner destination. The disruption creates waves of disorder that ripple through the back of the house, where someone notices. The queen bee can't allow some tourist to lose her a Michelin star.

"Who you looking for, honey?" a small and friendly voice calls out. It's attached to a woman with dark hair and warm brown skin. While her uniform doesn't set her apart from her co-workers, the thin steel band and orange foam ear pads of her headphones do.

Merlyn’s not sure when the diner became something high class entirely, but it’s not something she dwells on. Dream logic wins in these cases. She quickly tries to step out of the way, mumbling apologies as she tries to intrude less in their space.

“My… husband,” she says, unsure of when that changed between all of this. “I thought I saw him go this direction. His name’s Elliot, he’s much taller than me, very awkward, hard to miss. Please, did you see him come this way?”

Every worker comes to a sudden halt and the kitchen becomes as silent as the grave.

"Elliot," the woman says, pausing between words for emphasis, "Got. Married." She lowers her headphones from her ears to hang around her neck, then peels off her nitrile gloves like she's about to start a hockey fight.

"Come here," she says, already moving toward Merlyn, "Who are you," she continues, more of a statement than a question, "Give me a hug. I love you." Not a jilted ex lover then, which is always a possibility with Elliot.

Merlyn's gaze darts about the room, suddenly concerned as to what it was about Elliot that made everyone react as if she'd said something surprising or profound. There's the only slightest bit of relief that comes when it sounds like this is a positive situation and she moves towards the woman to give her a hug, even if she feels awkward about the whole thing. "Uh, yes, we're married. I… I'm sorry to interrupt here, but I really need to find him."

After all, they very clearly know who Elliot is and what he looks like.

"Oh, yeah," the woman says, shaking her head like she's forgetful as they disengage from the hug. Up close she smells pleasantly of earthy spices and a faint touch of rosewater. "Sorry, this is just very exciting news!"

She sighs dramatically, hands on her hips. "He went ██ ██ █████████ ████████," she says, pointing toward the door that leads to the employee access ways of the skyscraper. "Tell me about the wedding though! He didn't tell me anything, I always have to dig facts out of him with a spoon. You must know how it is." Her eyebrow arches in commiseration.

Those are supposed to be words and something about the way her brain tries to parse it makes the hairs on the back of her neck rise. “Ah, well, it wasn’t exactly a big wedding, it was a private thing, very untraditional,” Merlyn says absently. “I’m glad you’re happy for us. I’m really sorry, but I need to go.”

She moves to weave around the woman and the staff, ready to make a run for the door if she has to.

"Wait wait wait, Merlyn," the woman says, reaching out to take her arm as all the workers reach as well. Her touch is gentle, pleading, not forbidding. Her accent slips from native New Yorker to something foreign, Pacific. "I need to give you something before you go. I need you to tell Elliot something for me. Please."

As weird as the situation is, the use of her name and the way even the workers reach for her is way more than Merlyn is prepared for. She knows she didn’t say her name. She smiles sweetly, as if she’s going to comply. “Sure, okay,” she says.

And then she proceeds to make a break for the door.

As Merlyn jukes the flurry of activity in the kitchen begins anew, buzzing louder and more urgently. Worker bees step toward her in unison, each footstep perfect, each arm threaded through the press of all the other bodies as dozens of figures in white weave themselves into a blockade of limbs that pin Merlyn to the wall without ever touching her once. If she flinches even a hair she'll touch them herself.

“Fucking hell,” Merlyn mutters under her breath, not moving a muscle when the whole kitchen bands together to prevent her from leaving. She smiles, sheepishly. “Sorry, I didn’t know what you wanted and I’m really in a hurry to find him.” She’s going to make the most of a bad situation. “You know my name, but I don’t even know yours. How am I supposed to deliver a message without a proper introduction?”

"I'm sorry," the woman says, the only sound other than the breathing of the workers. "My lola always said I'd forget to breathe if I could get away with it. Which is hilarious, considering I now remember everything perfectly."

"So, pleasure to meet you, Merlyn," the voice, now closer, says. Then, a ripple appears in the net of bodies as they move themselves so their contortions allow for the passage of their queen. A perfect dance of shapes that allow exactly only her movement. "I'm dead." She slips behind Merlyn and gently places her headphones over the other woman's ears.

Dead isn't a name. So when Merlyn hears the word, this feels a lot less like a stress dream of the bomb and more like some kind of creepy horror film. She doesn't resist when the headphones are put over her ears, though she's half expecting to hear some kind of hypnotic chanting or screams. The fact that it's not that is only a partial relief. She remains still, not seeing the situation as one she has much of a choice in, it would be hard to make a break for it now. So, instead, she listens to the music, trying to focus on exactly what it was that this dead woman wanted to pass along. She looks downwards, not wanting to catch the eyes of either the woman or her host of worker bees, or perhaps just to focus on the lyrics.

The workers pull away in unison, each arm and leg unweaving from the press to be returned to work. All that remains is the dead woman and the CD Walkman that she uses at work even though she can remember every song perfectly. It seems out of place, even here in 2006. Weren't mp3 players commonly available? Shouldn't a chef working here be able to afford one? Perhaps it's too well loved; the silver paint on the buttons is worn down to bare black plastic. The sticker of a bright pink anemone is ticked up at one corner, never to adhere again.

She lets Merlyn keep the song, but not the CD Walkman. The headphones are returned to their place around her neck, and one sheepish hand is extended in apology to the woman she waylaid. She seems to want the hand to be taken, palm up and free of hazards. "I loved him too," she explains.

"Ah, I think I understand," Merlyn says, her eyes focusing on the sticker for a moment to remember it. She hesitates to take the hand, but at this point it seems better to catch a fly with honey and not vinegar. She takes the hand after that tiny moment of hesitation. "Love is a very complicated thing. I can understand wanting to relay a message. I hope he'll understand who it's from?" Merlyn's still entirely unsure that the lack of name will be enough to go off of. "I really should find him, though, it's urgent."

For a brief moment, she even forgot how urgent.

The woman takes Merlyn's hand and hold it the way that means I love you, then smiles. "He'll know," she says, then walks past Merlyn to where she'd been trying to escape.

"My shift is over," she says, motioning toward the exit. "I need to leave before everybody here dies, I still have a good five years left in me."

Mentally, Merlyn does the calculation and holds that thought somewhere in her head before she looks at the woman. The woman who clearly knows what's about to happen with the bomb as well as the fact that she's dead in the present and is entirely aware of it. This feels like dream logic, but there's also something unsettling about the amount this woman knows. There's an honestly grateful smile that Merlyn flashes as she moves towards the exit. She needs to find Elliot and leaving unhindered now is something she seriously is grateful for.

She's about to offer a polite rote small talk goodbye, then decides she doesn't want to even engage any further with this dead woman and instead pushes the door open to leave the amorphous eating location as quickly as possible.

The woman beams a smile at Merlyn, neither requesting nor returning a farewell. As the door closes and clanks shut, Merlyn is left without any windows leading to the light of evening.

The restaurant's back door accesses a strange sort of space. Two stairwells — one of them inaccessible — sit in opposing switchbacks, one for staff and the other for hotel guests. Carpeted hallways gently slope up and down in either direction. The light is pleasantly dim, outlining rows of serving carts bearing all manner of dinnerware.

The place is quiet as is the way of carpeted spaces; the clinking of glasses and buzzing of workers cut off by the closing of the door. Not a soul can be seen, just footprints in mossy carpet and and the heel of a safety cone orange sneaker disappearing around the corner upslope from the restaurant.

If Merlyn were uncertain where to go, the footprints and glance at the corner are enough to give her a destination. She glances behind her for a brief moment, perhaps to check that she’s not somehow been followed. It’s only a passing glance and she’s off in the direction of the disappearing heel. She rounds the corner, entirely unsure of whatever’s going to be around it.

The phantom remains elusive, only ever just around the next corner. The layout of this building is mystifying; only ever up but with the sensation of getting closer to sea level rather than further away. The halls zig and zag, intersections run off into darkness and flickering fluorescent lights. Maps on the walls do little to illuminate the floorplan, and windows that appear really do indicate that Merlyn is closer to the ocean now.

Doors carry no useful indication of what might wait behind them. Pipes and outlets abound, ringing elevators with key-only access packed to bursting with towering bins of linens. No carts are to be seen, no room service platters left on the floors outside the doors. Not a sound to indicate life as the lights get progressively dimmer. As the hallway walls grow further apart, leaving no choice but to choose one while the other recedes into darkness.

While not as directly terrifying as the dead woman had been, the way this space exists is frightening in its own way. Merlyn tugs her lower lip between her teeth, biting on it to focus herself on finding the way forward. He was there, somewhere, and she’d find him. Wherever he was, she could never let him go without a goodbye. The sight of the ocean outside the windows is one that worries her—where, exactly, was this place taking her. Was she still in the blast radius? Did it even matter now?

She glances quickly towards the elevators, but they are soon ignored in favor of Merlyn trying the handle on a room door. Was she even able to get into one? The sense of dread of simply being in the hall is rapidly increasing and she swallows down the lump in her throat.

The room exists mostly in dusk, figures at a table silhouetted by a hanging lamp that does nothing to illuminate the features of the forms of their bodies and faces. There's repeated clicking, clay poker chips being stacked and shuffled and fidgeted with. There's tapping on the felt tabletop, followed immediately with the whisper of a playing card shooting from the top of a deck into place with the others at hand. There's a voice.

“High table shit,” the voice says, deep and calm and controlled. “Kind of card games the dealer doesn’t say anything that doesn’t move the game along. Big wigs. Big guns.” He scratches at the growth of hair on his chin with his thick fingernails, losing the yellow earned by smoking after all this time in the dungeon.

“Didn’t take long until the handlers started getting suspicions,” he continues, flicking nothing from the cuff of his Institute jacket. Always just too cold down here. “And I waved ‘em off, of course. 'Look the other way' shit on a whole other level. The magic of you didn’t see shit. But what I do doesn’t leave with you. So players, I could tuck a card in front of a packed table, but the math was always wrong. Somebody counted.”

The sight of the table is interesting, but Merlyn freezes when she hears a voice. She’s not certain if the words are meant for her, but the story feels like an explanation to someone and she decides that’s her as the intruder to the room. Her head turns towards the voice, but she otherwise makes no movement. She’s still unsure of what exactly the situation is.

“So they made you even if they couldn’t figure out how,” Merlyn muses, her gaze settling briefly on the table. “I take it they didn’t care that they had no solid evidence you were playing them.” She prompts the story to continue.

“Exactly, yeah," the voice in the darkness says. "When I was running Find the Lady off a box on the sidewalk, every sucker who handed me a twenty knew they were getting conned. Every asshole thinking they'd be the one fast enough to catch me in it, but I never handed a Jackson back to anybody. Up here? People expect a legitimate hand. A lot of trust required to deal for these types, and they assume the dealer's been vetted. Easier to fleece that type, pros were harder."

"Had this one man come to the table gave me the bone-deep creeps. Eye contact at a table full of squirrelly motherfuckers. Prolonged. Crisp words, practiced banter.” He snaps his fingers once, twice, crisp like a gunshot. “Next night I got an invite to deal at another place. Hotel wasn’t good enough, I thought at first, despite the stars.”

There’s a part of Merlyn that deeply understands this. While cards were never her hustle, it’s still a hustle. She focuses on the voice again. “Takes some balls to come to a card table and have that kind of composure,” she comments. She’s careful to not detract from the story even though she has a sinking feeling she knows where this particular story might lead.

“I take it you didn’t get a free continental breakfast.”

The throaty chuckle that pierces the darkness tells her that she imagined correctly and that he appreciates her keen take on the matter. An acknowledgement of mutual understanding.

Then he sighs, incredulous, at his naivete. He runs his hands through the motions of a deal, box, box, riffle. A few sleights of hand. Cutting and tucking cards in his mind to exactly where he knows they’ll be in the deck. “Second I was in that room I was on edge. On the wrong foot. I don’t know how I kept from sweating but I knew this was a setup.”

“Dealt the whole game straight!” he laughs, can you imagine. “But they knew.” His memory of the panic of leaving the place is all over everything within five feet of the table. Leaving the building. His apartment. The neighborhood. Laying low. Playing three-card monte on a box, no segue. Suddenly back where he started.

“And it didn’t even matter,” he says, not amused, the deflection being meaningless here where Elliot can see and feel everything. “He found me there. Threw his bill down like he was just another idiot. But still in the suit. Still in those goddamn horn-rimmed glasses.”

“Fuck, he sounds like a bit of a stalker,” Merlyn notes. “And a bit terrifying if he just found you.” The idea of being in that sort of setup and then found again after is an unsettling thought. That’s danger for someone trying to make their way like that. She exhales slowly, thoughts racing as to where the story might come to an abrupt end.

“Did you let him win?”

"He told me that if he couldn't pick the right card he'd let me go," the voice says. "I have never been as intimidated of anybody in my entire life as I was when that bastard dared me to lose. So I threw the box at him and ran. Cards and everything. Screamed to Jesus, swear to God Abuela almost came outta heaven to slap me for waiting until then." His laugh is helpless and good humored.

“That’s exactly what I would have done,” Merlyn agrees. “Getting the fuck out of dodge at that point was absolutely necessary. I can’t say I would have wanted to stick around with a guy like that. Really, I’d get as far away as possible. That sounds like mafia bullshit.”

There’s a long pause before Merlyn continues. “But he still got you, didn’t he.” It’s less of a question and more a statement that she has a hunch is correct.

"I think so," he says thoughtfully, distantly. "Things about my life changed in ways I could never really put my finger on. Furniture not exactly right. Neighbors a little more distant."

"That was the weird part to me," he says, toying with a sore spot that he'd never let heal. "I already kept my neighbors exactly where I needed them to be. You know better than anybody how to keep people at just the right distance. How to be invisible when you need to be. Deflect people's attention. If you had my ability you'd be a huge problem, honestly. This maze shit being a great example."

“There are times I’m glad I don’t have an ability,” Merlyn says, though there’s the quirk of her brow. Did he somehow know her or was he making assumptions of her skills? “Not sure if the weirdness you experienced was better than if he’d killed you or something at that point. I honestly thought that was how this story ends.”

She glances back towards the door. “It does feel like a maze. It keeps shifting and changing when I thought I’d figured out the direction to go.”

"Nah," the voice says. "Still alive and kicking, waiting for our boy Bennet to realize you missed pickup. Any day now." He draws out the any and laughs bitterly. He doesn't really hope that his tormentor — the man who sent Elliot here in the first place — will do anything other than write him off as a loss.

"Don't doubt yourself now though, I think you're right," he offers in encouragement to the current predicament. "Kind of let yourself get lost in it but keep it just at the threshold of familiarity. Let your feet kick the path into shape as you walk it. I think once she adds some new rooms the hallways will start to feel more relevant and easier to misdirect somebody down. Just need to remember to set landmarks. Something even she will remember when she sees them."

"Wow," the woman from the kitchen says. You laugh not at her but with them both; she knows better than anybody that all the memory storage in the universe is nothing in the face of ADHD memory retrieval problems.

Merlyn blinks a few times, her brow furrowing in confusion. This had been some kind of nightmare about her mom and then she somehow ended up here like Alice falling down a rabbit hole. It had changed but there’s also a strange feeling she can’t quite place, like the laughter.

“Okay, that sounds super easy,” she says, a half frown sticking on her face and remaining there, “but I suppose that’s how it is with mazes. They’re supposed to be complicated as fuck. Satisfying when you get through though, I must admit.” She glances back in the direction she came from.

“I need to get back to looking, though. I need to get back out there.” There was still that sense of urgency.

"Be sure to tell me how you get out of here," the voice laughs. "I'd love to make my way to the exit myself."

The hallway offers little comfort, it's as dark and wide and forboding as it was before. It's hard to imagine how a business could survive with its employees constantly getting lost in a labyrinth. Even if employees died of starvation back here, somebody would have to collect their bodies. How do they see through this darkness?

Merlyn has the sinking feeling that even with a flashlight the place would hardly be illuminated, so she doesn’t bother pulling out her phone and simply hopes her eyes will adjust. There’s no real clue anymore where anything is, but that doesn’t stop her.

She recalled mentions of hallways and landmarks, so she trudges down the hall, squinting as she tries to find something that looks different: a door, a window, anything that might get her a lead on moving past this maze of oddly merging businesses. “Elliot,” she murmurs to herself, “where the hell did you go?”

Eddie took him to the roof he's going to push him off of it he said if I tell anybody he'll push me off too

Her head whips around as Merlyn tries to discern where the hell that information came from. She does remember Elliot’s story of the roof and how the bomb ended up saving him, so the urgency of that happening right now tugs at her.

“I need to go to the roof, but I don’t know the way.”

She feels a little awkward saying it outloud but dreams were already very fucky things, better to feel silly than to stand alone(?) in a hallway.

The answer is as ominous as it is helpful. The hall begins to grow hotter, brighter, as the nuclear detonation slowly begins to claim the building. How long until it gets to here? Until it gets to the exit before Merlyn can?

“Okay well fuck, you didn’t have to do that!” Merlyn replies to the dreamscape. It springs her into action and she darts for the nearest door, practically shoving it open as she tries to just see if any of them provided a better location than the hallway to be in.

Door after door lead to empty rooms. Small conference rooms where the chairs spin from everyone having just evacuated. Cubicle farms where the only hazard can be seen as a glow like the sun obscured by carpeted work boxes. A bowling alley cast in an ominous blue light and silent as the grave. An indoor swimming pool, empty, cluttered with discarded floats and mispositioned chairs. The oil change garage where you were certain someone was watching you from the darkness of the pit below your car.

The light of the hallway is more helpful if equally worrisome. The hall, as wide now as a freeway, leads to a long row of fire escape stairwell doors. Some bang open and shut like chattering teeth, others look welded shut, all seem to lead to the same wide stairwell and countless sets of stairs.

“Fuck fuck fuck…” Merlyn says, frustrated at the lack of good options behind the doors. The stairwell looks promising, but there’s nervousness as she races towards it. It could just perpetually keep her on a loop until the bomb takes her, but it’s a risk she has to take. She scrambles for the stairs, racing to try and ascend them as fast as possible. She curses her shorter legs, picturing how Elliot would probably be able to take them 2 at a time.

The explosion can be seen creeping up the stairs below her, and at a slightly faster pace. The fire rises like a tide, washing each step and rail as it surges toward the only door which can stop its passage.

The door is tan, though the darkness creeping in from outside causes it to look a chocolate brown. It's propped open with a baseball bat, whoever opened it knew they couldn't get back inside without a key. That they don't have permission to be up here.

Intruder was something Merlyn could be called as well. She, though, at least had good intentions. Shoving at the door while being careful not to knock the bat in a way that it’ll lock her out too. She stumbles forward and looks behind her briefly to ensure the bomb isn’t going to overtake her.

The bomb seems unafraid of the baseball bat and uninterested in stopping at the door. The bat begins to smoke as the fire, now a wall rather than a rising tide, surges toward the door seeking more victims.

The bat is ignored as soon as Merlyn crosses the threshold. Merlyn scrambles to get as far as she can, not caring about stopping as at this point she’s only focusing on getting away. “Fuck fuck fuck…” She keeps uttering breathlessly, the desperation driving her to find anywhere safe at this point.

"What is that?" a young voice asks. Further along the roof a tall man holds one hand up against the unexpected brightness, casting a shadow against his face. The fire bulges from the door, blackening the edges as it seeks exit through the narrow access. The baseball bat fully combusts, and with no obstacle to keep it open the door slams shut. Red hot edges ensure that it won't be opening again; the devastation of the bomb remains inside.

She doesn’t stop to think of the situation. Dreams are weird, but sometimes real life felt like a nightmare so it was always a blurry line. Getting out is all she can think of and so when she hears a voice, Merlyn ignores it for a second as she checks behind her at the door. There’s no backtracking, but it seems like the bomb isn’t getting any closer.

Breathlessly she says, “Bomb went off.” There’s a twinge of pain when she thinks of her mom, wondering if this time she got out. Maybe a happy ending for once. Satisfied with the relative safety, she turns back around towards the voice.

The sudden absence of light makes the whole world black as Merlyn's irises try to relax. "What do you mean a bomb went off," the voice asks again, incredulous and cracking between the tones of childhood and adulthood. "I didn't hear anything."

The lack of light is almost terrifying, but with no immediate danger, she holds still to let her eyes attempt to adjust. “Midtown. Bomb exploded, it’s just basically gone now,” she says, finally catching her breath. Merlyn turns towards the voice. “Door back there is sealed, we won’t be able to go that way.”

She remembers when she was told about the bomb. It didn’t feel real. It didn’t sound real. It wasn’t until Merlyn got the chance to look out and see it at a distance that it really sunk in. It was strange being in the other end of the situation, to be the one to tell someone about the horror.

"What?" The voice calls in confusion as it starts to take form in the darkness. A tall man, a teenager, stands at the edge of the roof. The fingers of one hand are tangled in the cloth of the shirt of another teen being held out over the railing along the edge of the rooftop. The one standing tall looks suddenly conflicted as he attempts to understand the gravity of the situation. The other one, shaking in fear and unable to speak, is Elliot.

Merlyn’s attention darts briefly between the two. She wasn’t supposed to be here when this happens, but she’s certain she’s not supposed to be in any of this at all. Still, Elliot’s in a dangerous position. “Bomb went off, nuclear I think,” she says. “I didn’t think I was going to make it.” She gestures vaguely behind her on the other side of the roof.

“You might want to go look,” she says with a tip of her head in the other direction.

The aggressor looks conflicted. He eventually leans back, allowing Elliot space to crumple to the safety of the rooftop. Elliot lets go a staggered handful of voiceless sobs as he curls into himself.

The bully gives Merlyn a look intended to convey a warning if she's lying, but it's clear the truth is already in his guts. He walks into the stairwell, considers removing the bat to strand Elliot on the roof. Eventually the door quietly thuds shut against the wood of the bat.

With the focus of her search finally found, Merlyn waits for Elliot’s tormentor to leave before she moves to kneel down next to him. “Hey, you’re okay, you’re safe now,” she says softly, a hand moving towards him in comfort but then hesitating. After all, she’s not sure how he’ll react to it. “I won’t let him come back,” she continues, “and if he did? I’d punch him right in the face for you.”

Elliot sits up at the sound of her voice, embarassed to be seen so weak. He wipes tears away harshly and sniffles. He's young, maybe seventeen; the bloodshot eyes that finally look up to Merlyn hold none of the experience she sees in her husband. His mouth opens to say something in thanks for the interruption that saved his life, but no words come out. He was really going to kill me this time, he signs. Thank you.

“Sorry, I…” Merlyn glances at him, heaves a sigh, then fully sits down on the roof. It’s strange to see him as young as he is here, but there’s a relief that at least he’s there. She turns to look in the distance, towards where the bomb will have destroyed so many lives. “… I don’t even know what to do now. I don’t even know how to say goodbye when you’re…” She trails off, looking down at her hands.

“You’re safe,” she says finally. “That’s all that matters, I think.”

Elliot clears his throat to try to prompt words but none form. He looks at his own hands in frustration, shaking less now than a moment ago. After a deep breath he tries again. "I'm not safe here," he says softly. "I need to get my things and leave tonight."

“I know,” Merlyn says, cracking a smile. “I just meant you’ll be okay now.” She looks him over, taking a moment to double check that he is okay. “Getting out is a wise move. Group homes are bullshit anyway,” she agrees. “I know this isn’t going to make sense at all to you, but if I don’t see you again before you go… I just wanted to say goodbye while I had the chance.”

All this to say goodbye. It’s a hell of a farewell.

Elliot looks confused, then nervous. "You could come with me," he says shyly. "Nobody's ever run away with me before. But if you want to, we can go to New York together. I just need to get my book."

He shakes his head when he realizes the problem with the idea. "They probably won't come looking for me," he says, "but you're just a kid. They'd say I kidnapped you. Sorry, I don't think I can do anything to make Eddie stop. I think about what I'd do if I had a superpower; I'd make him go away. But those aren't real. So when I'm gone you stay away from him as much as you can until he ages out."

Merlyn realizes after a moment that she is just a kid and she laughs after a second at the thought of someone looking for her. “I’ll be fine on my own,” she says, glancing over at him. “I’ll run off eventually. Like I said, group homes are shit. Pretty sure you’ll have someone to watch your back too. Tell her hi from me.”

She lays flat on her back, looking at the sky as she suddenly feels helpless all over again. “No one came looking, though. I was too afraid to go anywhere in case Mom came back so I watched from the window and waited until I ran out of cans of soup before I went to see if I could find someone to explain. Canned soup was the only thing I knew how to make on my own.”

She clears her throat, swallowing back the emotion. “You better get your book and go to safety.”

Elliot feels awkward sitting against the wall, and decides to lay down on the roof as well. "I can't cook yet either," he commiserates. "I guess I'll have to learn, or maybe just find somewhere with a soup kitchen nearby. I don't think anybody will hire a runaway."

He sniffles quietly as he stares into the sky without enjoying the view. "Wright used to have my back but I haven't seen her in three years. We haven't chatted online in ages. Her parents go out of their way to keep us apart so she doesn't get in trouble for protecting me anymore."

"I'm sorry you're on your own, I mean," he says. "I guess I'll know what that's like for real now."

"Her mom's an asshole," Merlyn mutters, turning her head to look at him. "Someday you and Wright will always have each others' back and you won't have to worry about that. Being alone sucks, but you'll have each other." She lets out a huff of air. "You might not see it yet, but you're stronger than you know. You'll want to make sure to learn the symbols on buildings… people on the street mark things as safe or unsafe, so you know if an abandoned building is gonna fall on your head or not."

This kid is apparently a pro at this. She clears her throat, realizing that sounds weird coming from the younger her, the her that had barely come to terms with the being alone, much less figuring out street life. "That's what I've heard anyway."

"Yeah," Elliot says softly, though it's unclear which statement he agrees with. "Wright was the older one, but she'll graduate next year. It's weird to think of her living a whole separate life. Solar storm baby buddies. Not that that was a factor when she got adopted. They apparently just wanted somebody who could love America violently enough while drunk. And always got what they wanted."

He sighs and rubs his face, then sits up slowly. "You should come downstairs so you don't get locked out on the roof," he says. "It's not fun, especially at this time of year."

Merlyn pushes herself up and gets to her feet. “You’re probably right. I don’t particularly want to try climbing down the side of the building either.” She reaches over to give him a hand up if he’ll take it. “We should get you out of here anyways. No point being here any longer than necessary.”

Elliot laughs quietly as he offers his hand up to the much smaller girl above him, but is kind enough to use his own leverage rather than pulling her down. He dusts off his hands on his pants, then opens the door for them. The bat is scooped up and thrown carelessly over the side of the building. "After you," he says.

Merlyn looks amused, heading in first to lead the way by descending. She’s idly trying to figure out if they’ll have to go through the hotel again or pass through the kitchen when the handrail is no longer the thick bar of an industrial stairwell but something wooden, turned mostly black from usage and never having been cleaned. She makes a face at it for a moment, choosing to take the stairs without the assistance of a railing.

It’s not until she smells the overpowering and sickeningly sweet smell of a candle in a mason jar that she starts pulling pieces of this area together. It’s on top of an upright piano, something that looks more like it belongs in a saloon than the living room of a group home. The jarred candle, dusty lid resting to its side, proudly proclaims its scent as ‘sugar cookie’. The top of the piano is dusty, though about half of the keys are not. Someone touches it sometimes.

As they reach the bottom of the stairs, which somehow now seem to have become carpeted, Merlyn’s already looking for the front door. “Nope, no, we are absolutely not doing this right now. We are walking right out that door,” she instructs Elliot. “This isn’t your group home, it’s mine.”

"Don't you need to get your stuff first?" Elliot asks. "We could also steal some food for the road." He rankles at the scene of the candle, stuffing the lid inside to snuff it without permission.

“No,” Merlyn says, her voice tight with some kind of emotion that’s hard to entirely define. “There is nothing in here that means anything to me.” The suggestion of stealing some food for the road gets a choked laugh. “Sure, you can try that. How good are you at picking locks?”

Her vague gesture in the direction of an open archway reveals a kitchen. A kitchen with a giant chain and padlock on the fridge doors, the door to what would likely be the pantry also sporting a hefty lock. “They don’t trust any of us. Pretty sure half the shitty furniture is nailed down too. You’d think we were felons, not kids by the way the place was ran.”

She looks anxiously towards the sturdy looking front door and heads in that direction. “We really just need to get out of here before someone notices us.”

"It'll be okay," Elliot says calmly, offering out his hand and he turns toward the kitchen. "I can get past the locks and I'm very sneaky. If anybody wakes up I'll just knock them out."

The reassurance should have been enough, but Merlyn is tense. She looks behind her to double check that no one is following them. She follows after, glancing back over their escape route. It’s hard to just not do much, but Elliot seems fine so she keeps her mind as central it can. “Wish I had picked up something useful,” she comments, thoughtfully. “Didn’t know you such knew so many useful skills at this point of time.”

She stretches, her eyes following his attention to try and fathom what she can do for their situation. “Guess it’s easier to do this when you don’t need to worry quite as much about getting out.” Perhaps she’s dealing with just as much, but she’s unsure of what she’ll be dealing with.

"Aid work doesn't really pay the bills," Elliot says with a shrug. "Housing is still an issue. Getting into buildings for a night or two is easier to get away with when you don't have to break your way in." He stands in the kitchen, reviewing the locks and his options for bypassing them.

"Which is not to say that I'm great at picking locks," he continues, then pulls a stainless steel soup ladle from a tall can full of utensils. "Or that I won't occasionally have to go about things in a more direct way." He shrugs, you do what you have to, then slides the flat spoon handle down the refrigerator gasket to slot in neatly behind the metal latch that's been installed on the appliance.

He retrieves a hand towel from the oven handle, which he drapes over the upside down ladle head. "Sometimes though, it's fun to be vindictive," he admits, then picks up a heavy can of pasta sauce and raises it above his head before driving it down against the ladle with impressive force. There's a loud clack, though the sound on metal versus metal is subdued as the head of the utensil forces the latch away from the fridge hard enough to pop the small screws out of the metal exterior.

“I’m not bad at it now,” Merlyn chuckles. “I keep forgetting it doesn’t matter if I’m young or old here.” That and the whole place is giving her a sense of overwhelming helplessness—part of the reason she was so eager to leave. She watches the way he works to get the fridge open and she grins. “Being vindictive can feel pretty good,” she agrees. “Especially when they really deserve it.”

Elliot smiles in answer, popping the refrigerator open and scanning for food that will work in the short time before it spoils. "What time of year is it?" he asks, an important question for food preservation.

“Ah, that’s complicated. Well, it was starting summer, and then in here it was the end of fall approaching winter but I really can’t tell anymore,” Merlyn says, frowning. “Sorry, I’m sure this doesn’t make any sense. It was supposed to be the day of the bomb. If I had to guess I’d say we’re hitting winter.”

"Weird," Elliot says, pausing in consideration but not otherwise questioning the inconsistency. "Probably have time to take some perishables then, if you want to grab some things. I'll work on getting the pantry open. Snacks are important."

He doesn’t question it—dream logic. Merlyn doesn’t quite know how to explain it any better than she did. Shrugging a shoulder, she moves towards the fridge to look for anything that would hold up a bit. She looks around to see if there’s any bags she can put things in, but gives up shortly after when she can’t find anything. She pokes around in the fridge half-heartedly, mostly just keeping an eye on Elliot.

“We… really should leave,” she says, softly.

Elliot looks up from a crouch beside the pantry door. His eyes move from hers to her posture and the nervousness that radiates from it. He feels the oppressiveness of the room around them, emotion imprinted on the scaffolding behind reality. His expression weighs immediate needs against her comfort, resulting in discarding the task at hand. He can steal food later.

Standing, he washes his hands of a job well done, if only in a comforting display of good humor. "Okay," he says warmly. "Where should we go?"

Merlyn glances over her shoulder towards the living room again, then looks towards the front door. “I… I don’t know. Out. We just need to be out.” While this isn’t the pressing urgency of the bomb, she’s clearly both uncomfortable and scared. It’s an entirely different feeling, being able to feel like she could act when she was struggling to save people she cared about from the bomb. This?

This was that feeling down in her core that she was the one not safe and there was little she could do about that. She’s now fully ignoring the fridge, moving towards the front door and looking around to make sure she’s not getting caught by anyone or anything looking at her.

Elliot walks behind her through doors and beside her where there's space. He offers out his hand should she wish for the feeling of security. "My group home felt different," he says curiously. "Negligence in the walls and danger only a creature roaming through it. This whole place feels like it could attack at any time."

Merlyn doesn’t hesitate to take his hand, seeming a bit reassured that she’s not alone in this. Not this time. “It does,” she agrees, then shakes herself from the thought. “It did.” That was the past, but it was hard not to sink into those feelings again. The crush of how alone she felt, how quiet and subdued it felt like she had to be. She reaches the front door and undoes the chain above the lock, then the lock itself with a twist.

Elliot keeps an eye on the room as they prepare to leave. It's odd to feel the emotions tied to a space that he doesn't recognize. It's almost like being on the cusp of one of Wright's dreams, associating her feelings about a place with his own experiences before one of them thinks to test the other's sentience through the Index. Imposters are a real threat; they can carry false feelings into real life with no influence or intent from the other. There are also free-floating consciousnesses manifesting to torment him with incorrectly recited poetry.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.

"Didn't like being yelled at," Merlyn says, glancing at the dark wood of the door. "I couldn't do anything right, or at least that's what it always sounded like. It didn't feel anything like a home. Mom made things a home." She swallows hard. "I liked it better when there was no one in the house, when it was quiet. It wasn't very often. It felt less like it could hurt me. I just… didn't like it." She's having problems articulating what exactly she means, but the feeling of her feeling as if her whole being is wrong simply for existing in this space is palpable.

Her hand shakes a little as she tries to turn the doorknob with her free hand.

"I get that," Elliot says. "A lot of my teachers weren't equipped to give me the help I needed so I got in trouble a lot for shit I had no control over. It's important to have a quiet place to go sometimes. We can go somewhere quiet now, if that helps." It doesn't feel quiet here, even if they're the only people making noise.

It felt like there was never quiet and even when it was she was somehow intruding. She turns the handle, giving Elliot a small nod. "Yes, please, just… anywhere else. I don't like it here." Merlyn's hand tightens on his and she tugs the door open, doing her best to keep her anxiety and the sick feeling in check. This wasn't a battle she knew how to fight. The bomb had an easy solution: just not to be there. This felt more like she was trapped and slowly shoved into a corner.

"I did much better when I got out on my own," she says. "Made my way. Learned how to be however I wanted to be and not let people treat me like I didn't exist or that I wasn't worth existing."

"Would you like to find somebody who made you feel that way so I can punish them?" Elliot asks. He squeezes her hand as the door finally opens. "We can plot how to best ruin their life in increasingly bizarre ways. Fill their car with expanding insulation foam. Make them totally lose their shit. Maybe push them down a flight of stairs. Whatever works best in the moment, really."

There's a sudden grin from Merlyn at the suggestion, pausing only a moment to look at him seriously. "You know, I honestly want to deck that guy that was bothering you. I know Wright wasn't here for that, the Bomb was the reason you survived, but that kid deserved a good punch to the nose." She moves forward, tugging him by the hand. "I don't know that I'd know how to fight back against that place and the people there. A lot of it was me just being mad at the whole damn world because I didn't feel like my mom deserved to die like that and that I had to be there. I was her world and then I was just some person who only had a few things that she had to carry in a trash bag."

She frowns at the thought. "I've got a suitcase now. I bought it myself with money I earned doing odd jobs right when I was old enough for someone to actually take me seriously enough to pay me. I dunno that there's anyone to punish for this shit. I'm sure the home was alright for some people, just not me." She glances over her shoulder at it as they stand on the porch. "Maybe I'd be happy if the place burnt down. No one inside, just… the place gone. The stupid candles and the dust everywhere that no one ever cleaned and the locks everywhere because no one trusted anyone." She doesn't realize she's misty-eyed until she sniffles a moment later.

Elliot isn't sure what to think about getting revenge against Eddie, it's not something he thinks about often. It always spirals so quickly into knowing that if he'd had the ability to kill Eddie back then, he would have done it. Whatever happened to the kids at the group home exists in a quantum state of ignorance. He'd never gone back to check, never looked into them. Never got around to seeing if he could get his birth records from the town hall, despite thinking he probably should.

"She didn't deserve it," he says, bypassing the first thing entirely and wrapping Merlyn in a hug on the porch. "She deserved to get to watch you grow up. You deserved to have a full life with her. You deserve the right to burn down a building every now and then if it really deserves it."

Merlyn's full-on in tears now, clutching to Elliot tightly. "I miss her a lot," she says, "and I know I can't just change things. I'm glad you survived, though. Honestly, I feel like she'd feel like it'd be worth it, knowing where we are today. She'd probably like the idea of 'saving someone's life' even if it wasn't really her choice and she didn't have an effect on all that. She would have liked to be some kind of hero even if she didn't realize she was. Single mom, working her ass off to make sure I was okay and loved. That's fucking heroic."

Elliot keeps Merlyn close, gently resting his chin on her head as she speaks. "She did a good job," he says. "I'd like to think she'd see you as her great achievement, not me. You turned out really good despite the bad you endured. And let's be honest, if she did get a chance to meet me, she would have told you to stay a mile away from me and would have been right because I was the worst."

"You were only the worst once," Merlyn insists. "You got better. We aren't always the best versions of ourselves, sometimes you have to work up to that. I think if she met you now she'd like you. She'd see how happy I am and she'd find you absolutely charming. She's a sucker for a happy ending. Or, at least, happy moments. She had a lot more faith in the world than I do, but I try to keep up with her." She heaves a heavy sigh. "Maybe one day I'll put half as much good in the world that she did."

"I'm trying very hard to no longer be the worst," Elliot says softly. "Still a work in progress, but I like to think I am better at considering the consequences of my actions now. And I'm better at honestly appraising my emotions so they stop running away with the plot." Even if his actions are almost all suspect, he hopes that someday he won't have to keep being bad to everyone in his life.

“I believe you will try. You already have been. That’s all I can really ask of you,” Merlyn replies with a smile before she hugs him again. “Thank you for being here, helping me.” She gestures behind her as an indicator. “Haven’t faced that issue in a very long time.”

"Always happy to ward off formative traumas," Elliot says. "Maybe do a little vandalism while I'm at it." He rubs Merlyn's back with one hand as he looks around.

He isn't familiar with this area, most of his dreams take place in spaces adjacent to the Apartment Complex. It's nice to be outside, wandering a crumbling labyrinth for hours with no real objective isn't always the uplifting thrill he'd prefer. "Where are we going?" he asks.

“I don’t know now. I was just trying to get my mom out of the diner, then get you out and find you and now we’re after the bomb so now I don’t know if the diner’s even still there, or if my mom is out…” Merlyn trails off, glancing around. “I found you at least and you aren’t dead.”

"If you had to come find me," Elliot asks, clearly confused, "where was I supposed to be? Why would I be dead? I survived the bomb, that was years ago."

"You went into the diner when…" Merlyn trails off, glancing around, then back over at Elliot. "Oh, is it after the bomb? I guess I don't really need to go looking for my mom then." After all, she likely didn't save her. This place was a little more confusing than she anticipated. She blinks a few times at him, trying to get her head straight. "I came to find you before you left for your deployment. I didn't want you to go without saying goodbye."

Elliot looks confused, then sad, then away. "I forgot I went away," he says quietly, and the dream makes it so. He'd been standing here for her to tell him goodbye, and then he had already been gone this whole time.

“And you’re going away again and I don’t know when I’ll see you again,” Merlyn says, shifting her eyes downward. “I came all this way through the kitchen and the hotel and it was a lot. Now I’m here and it’s just to say goodbye. I just hope it’s not for long.”

She’d even visited a place she never hoped to see again. It felt like such a long time, but it seemed like time was irrelevant here. Maybe, if she was lucky, he’d be gone and then back again in moments.

“I met some strange people, too…”

The porch of Merlyn's group home offers nothing in reply, merely leaning down oppressively from above. It looms large in the space left by Elliot not being here. The weather is cold or hot, the sky is bright or dark, waiting to mean something, preparing to be something else.

“Fuck!”

Merlyn swears loudly, taking a few steps off the porch, just wanting away from that thing at this point. Without having Elliot as backup, it felt even more of a hurdle. He wasn’t there, her mom had to be long gone, the diner will have been wiped away by the bomb. How would she wait? Where would she wait?

She spends a few moments standing there, unsure of anything before she looks around. Even if the diner might no longer be there, she could see what was left of it. Elliot knew where it was now if he looked for her. If he remembered. She wasn’t sure. Sucking in a deep breath, she focuses on the formica tables and the smell of pancakes and starts walking.

The sidewalk crunches loudly, pummeled to gravel by foot traffic in an area not affluent enough to matter. The cool wind of a spring night competes to drown out any thoughts of being somewhere else. It seems to suggest Elliot wouldn't know to look at the diner, because he'd never been there. It whispers in the leaves that never made it out of the city last fall, blown into corners and drains with the rest of the mounting trash of daily life.

But not everyone is so indifferent to Merlyn's needs. Wright sniffles from the other side of the table, embarrassed and trying to bury embarrassment with large sips of coffee that radiate the scent of brown liquor. She clears her throat, taps her fingernails anxiously against the vinyl tabletop. Her hand is curled angrily into the hair behind her ear to keep Merlyn from seeing she's on the verge of losing it in public again. "It feels like I just got him back and we were doing so well," she says, trying to use annoyance to keep deeper truths at bay. "And now he's gone and I was supposed to be here for him and he's never coming back."

"What an absolute fuck up," she adds of herself, not the unfortunate situation. Her food remains untouched, slowly becoming even more unappetizing.

“No,” Merlyn insists. “He’ll be back, he has to be back.” Her hands grip the edge of the table, something to ground her senses. It’s not Elliot, but Wright was there and that felt like comfort, even if it was in a different way. “You’re ready to be here for him when he gets back, just like I am.” She stares at the table in front of her where she looks at a stack of pancakes. A few bites had been taken, and her mouth seemed to taste like syrup.

“Please don’t cry. You’re going to make me cry and I look awful with a red blotchy face,” she quips, trying to lighten the mood.

Wright scoffs at the idea of crying to make it real. She was well educated in keeping everything bottled up, soldiers don't need to be little bitches.

"Nobody's ever come back from where he went," she says bitterly, polishing off her coffee. "He would have been the first and now he's just part of the fucking statistic. It was all lined up by the people who are the best at this sort of shit too. People I thought I fucking respected because they could do anything but it's all just more fucking swagger. More assholes who think they know better than everybody else but just fucking sweep aside the losses and keep throwing more kids into the fucking kid furnace."

She shakes her head, angry but not done. "He wasn't ready for the mission, but he wanted to be so badly. Just because he was doing better doesn't mean he could actually handle the pressure of an operation like this. But I wanted to support him so I agreed that he had it in him and guess what, my encouragement probably just got him fucking killed. And I just got him back." Her fingers turn white as she clenches her hand around the mug hard enough to crack her knuckles.

"But here we are again," she sneers. "Opposite sides of another one of life's fucking partitions that it just can't stop using to cut us apart. Fuck life and fuck the fucking Ferrymen. I should have realized that sending people to their fucking deaths is baked into the name."

There’s a lot there, so Merlyn waits patiently for Wright to get out what she needs to. She then slides her pancakes out of the way, followed by her coffee, and then she places her hands on the table. It’s a casual gesture, her leaning forward, but it serves to leave her hands there in case Wright might actually want a comforting hand.

“I don’t care if no one’s come back,” Merlyn says, her voice firm. “It doesn’t mean he won’t be the first. He wants to come back, and that’s something I want to believe more than anything. It’s a shard of good in the world and I want to hold onto that for dear life. Elliot’s strong in his own way, even if it’s not the same as how you are. But you’re both fighters.”

Her tone is still serious, full of a stubbornness that doesn’t seem to falter at the moment. “You’re a fighter too. You’ve been there for him and you still have him, even if he’s off doing… whatever it is he does. You are not going to give up on him if I have to drag you kicking and screaming to do it. He needs you to have his back and you’re fucking going to keep doing it.”

"He missed his pickup window," Wright says emotionlessly in order to stay in control of a situation she's already lost. "It would take a large armed forces assault to get him out of there now, and the place is impenetrable. It took months of planning just to get him in there. It's a literal secret underground fortress city. Nobody has any accurate ideas about the fucking scope of the place even. They know it's huge, and that it's full of fucking kidnapped Evolved."

Her lip curls into a momentary snarl before she shakes her head to dispel it. "I don't know if it's better or worse for him there. It's not like he has some flashy ability that the psychopaths in charge are after. He wasn't gobbled up off the street like those other helpless sons of bitches. He's an infiltrator. There's no way he doesn't get interrogated and when he's stressed out he can't talk so they're probably going to think he's being macho and fucking torture him for as long as it takes to realize he's not going to be able to give them anything and they'll just shoot him in the fucking head. I guess that would be a blessing at that point. But the more they hit him the less he's going to be able to talk and he'll just scream helplessly until they kill him and I did that to him. I told him he could do this." Fissures are appearing in her composure, but none of them lead to tears, instead she quakes with self loathing and focuses it all inward where she can do the most damage as penance.

"I promised him it would be okay," she says, her voice ticking up at the end almost like a question. "And look at me, a fucking liar who just got the only person she's ever cared about killed."

Merlyn listens again, but her face is a mask of stone until there's a break in Wright's ranting for her to speak up again. "So you're just giving up on him when he's not even dead? You're a self-fulfilling prophecy if you do that. If you give a shit about him, you'd be trying to figure out some way to get him out. I'm no fucking infiltrator. I know enough to talk my way through bullshit and get out of some scrapes, but I'm not going to give up on him. I'm going to find every damn person who can help if I have to. That's what you fucking do when you love someone, Wright. You give a fuck too, so don't give up on him."

Merlyn hasn't realized she's almost in tears until she blinks a few times, moisture welling in her eyes. She reaches for her cold cup of coffee, taking a sip of it to try and refocus herself again. "I'll stupidly throw myself at the damn place until I get in if I have to or die trying."

Wright looks annoyed that somebody would call her out on her frustration, but it slowly dissolves into embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm angry and helpless. I just don't like being apart, I guess. My parents would be disgusted, they think they successfully cut the weirdo out of my life. Sent me off so I'd stop fist fighting bullies and start fist fighting military school kids instead so we could do the more preferable state-sanctioned violence instead of the morally correct kind. Whatever causes the lessers to suffer, basically, that's the important part. It's what Jesus wanted. Not that we were like, actually Christian in any way. We just went to church to feel superior to people."

She looks into her coffee cup, but doesn't feel desperate enough to add whiskey to the empty mug. "I'm just waiting for orders at this point," she says. "The people who make the plans keep making them, I'm just the one with the gun. If you want to go in after him now I hope you brought a shovel, he's somewhere below us as we speak. Or in the general area below us, I'm not actually sure if this diner is technically above it but it's definitely Cambridge, as you probably noticed when you got hopelessly lost trying to get literally anywhere in this fucking city designed by evil men bent on lowering the quality of human life. I guess the one thing nice about the arcology is that it would have had to have been built more sensible than the city above it. It couldn't possibly be as much of a nightmare as the Big Dig, could it? There's a horrifying thought. Cost twice as much, took three times as long, made things four times worse. The Big Dig but with kidnapped Evos. Christ."

“Your parents are assholes,” Merlyn states, wincing. “You deserved a better family. Especially because Elliot is delightful and anyone who thinks otherwise will have me punch them in the face. Probably hurt my hand in the process but it’d be worth it.” She glances around for a moment, the mention of digging seeming to give her a thought. “Maybe we can see if there’s a way into a sewer or some kind of hidden elevator…”

She isn’t really focusing too hard on the idea of what they’d have to do if they got in, just the idea that maybe they could.

"If you think my parents are bad, you should meet my nana," Wright says with a laugh. "What a loathsome vicious bitch. Like if the Crypt Keeper went to family reunions for the sole purpose of being openly racist and homophobic and telling people they got fat and then whispering to you that if you were her real granddaughter maybe she'd treat you like a human being. Wilhelmina, she's like a hundred and five. Pretty sure she was the plus one of somebody who came to the country as part of Operation Paperclip."

She considers the idea of just breaking into the Ark. What's the worst that could happen? She knows the answer, but at the same time, what has she got to lose? Something about the idea feels off-limits in a way she can't figure out, so the worries just bend against her mind and fall away. "I have a feeling that the subterranean layers of Boston are probably even more of a maze than the fucking roads," she muses. "Like if the surface was made so that people would become angry all the time, the tunnels and sewers and rail access is probably as nightmarish as the Labyrinth of Minos. Fucking Minotaur and everything, like that giant alligator in the New York sewers. The paths probably form some kind of black magic sigil that traps the souls of the damned. That being said, I mean there needs to be some way in and out, otherwise they couldn't have gotten Elliot in. Also there needs to be air purification and supply deliveries, so there's probably cargo elevators somewhere, probably big enough to get a truck in. Probably guarded like Cheyenne Mountain, though hopefully without the nukes or the portal to other worlds. I don't want to end up fighting Egyptian aliens."

"God, your family sounds awful," Merlyn shakes her head. "I'd say you had it worse but I know the bullshit that I went through and Elliot went through so it's not necessarily true. Just different bullshit, really. Kind of glad sometimes I only know basically one family member." She's distracted from the talk of family, however, because the idea of breaking into some base is somehow kind of interesting and she sits up a little, interested.

"There's got to be an entrance. Obviously we can't just dig our way through, so we need to figure out how they get supplies in. Maybe we can find crates and smuggle ourselves in like they do in movies. Probably not great but it might work if we're careful…" She shakes her head. "I guess the good thing is that I don't have an ability so it's not like I'm super of interest… but that could also be a bad thing because then they could just shoot me or something." She doesn't seem too worried about getting shot. "Not getting caught would be best. We don't have to take on a whole place, just need to get in and cover our exit if they catch on."

Tactics, for someone who doesn't even really have any infiltration experience. But there's always a first.

Wright shrugs, and stands from the discarded breakfast and empty coffee. "Might as well," she says. Worst case scenario she dies, and she's feeling okay with that in what she knows is an unhealthy way. "I also have access to guns, so shooting our way out is also an option that I'm morally okay with. I feel like once you're in the human trafficking business it doesn't really matter if you're just a door guard cashing a paycheck. Also I feel like shooting somebody would feel pretty therapeutic right now if you're interested, I have more guns than hands. Well, two guns but one takes two hands so I can only use one at a time. You seem like a pistol in one hand, shotgun in the other hand kind of girl though so maybe we hit up the gun store and get some largely unregulated murder machines. Or if you're anti-gun we could get something more practical like nunchucks." She chuckles for the first time this evening.

"What is your comfort level if shit goes tits up?" she asks. "I don't want to plan on you doing something you're not actually comfortable with because that's not great in a dangerous situation." The sidewalks here are well maintained, there's an annoying amount of brickwork just waiting for a winter so it can cause a lot of problems. She pulls up her hood and zips up her leather jacket as they walk past people who don't know about the nightmare growing beneath the streets.

"I'm not the biggest fan of shooting someone, but I'll do what it takes if necessary. I'm a realist when it comes down to it and realistically, someone's going to get shot and it's not going to be me. If shit goes bad, I'll do whatever I need to in order to get the three of us out," Merlyn lets out a huff of air as she buttons her jacket up. "Honestly if people there are aware that they're keeping people prisoner against their will and they aren't upset by that, I don't care if they get shot. That's fucking cruel."

She glances over at Wright and heaves a sigh. "I'm getting him back," she says, her voice stern but still sad at the same time. "We're not losing him. This is a hill I'm willing to run up if I have to and it sounds like I have to."

"Well then," Wright says, offering her hand to hold as they walk, "remind me to never kidnap and imprison my partner in a mad science dungeon. I don't want to have to fight you, small people are terrifying when they get into it." Dry leaves rasp across the road on a cold November wind.

Merlyn accepts the offered hand, cracking a bit of a smile at the words. “I don’t know that I’m so terrifying, but I certainly get fierce if people I care about are screwed over by anyone. I also know that there’s no way I’m about to let him die in there. I like to think the world will someday show me it’s got its bright side, but realistically the world is shit and not fair so you hold onto the good things as tightly as you can.”

She looks at Wright. “Elliot’s a pretty good thing to me, and I’m pretty sure you agree since you’re ready to jump in guns blazing with me to save him.”

"Yeah," Wright admits. "We met before we can remember. We've seen a lot of the dark together. A lot of the deep blacks. My connection to him is difficult to express in a way people can really understand." She smiles wide, love radiates, a complicated feeling. But she takes a moment to squeeze Merlyn's hand in a way that means but I'm no threat to you.

Merlyn smiles warmly, squeezing the hand in return. "I'm glad he has you to watch his back. That's something I would have killed for in my position. It's easier to worry about him a little touch less when I know someone's looking out for him. I imagine the connection is hard to explain, but I find it a positive. You both benefit from it."

There's a long pause before her gaze returns to Wright. "The deep blacks. Huh. You aren't the only person I've met who talked about blacks like that."

"That sounds like diabolical plagiarism," Wright says, affecting mild annoyance that somebody would preemptively copy what she would eventually say. "Was it the devil? Is he trying to undermine my divine plan again? I'm sick of that shit." She smiles though, stopping in the street for a moment as thick flakes of snow begin to drift from the sky in no hurry.

“Uh, I don’t know what to call her but she sure wanted to find Elliot one way or another. She wanted to make sure that he knew she loved him and she had me listen to a song she played. She wanted me to pass that onto him. I’m not sure if you know anything that might explain her or give me context.” Merlyn glances up at the sky to watch the snow. “I really thought she was going to kill me.”

Wright looks away from the snow to appear baffled at first, then worried. "Can you describe her to me?" she asks. "I know he was a wrecking ball to a few people but nobody ever seemed murderously jealous."

Merlyn shakes her head. "No, it wasn't murderously jealous. She seemed to just want to make sure I passed a message onto him. Very pretty, dark hair, warm brown skin, I met her in a kitchen. She seemed very happy at first, but when I tried to just leave without getting her message to Elliot she seemed to make the whole kitchen come alive to stop me. Nothing violent so much as a 'I am in control here'. She died… five years after the bomb, I think. She was absolutely convinced Elliot would know who she was. Kind of gave me the creeps, though. I didn't exactly want to deliver any message for her."

"Oh," Wright whispers. "That's today." The snow muffles the sound of the drones in an oppressive way, gently filling the cracks between plates of shifted and pitted pavement. The sidewalk fans up and away to form a barricade against escape from their goal: a large sewer access. Nothing foul spills out from within other than bodies and bodies, climbing over one another only to die in a heap and in pairs and all alone. The snow covers them as a mercy, but red spreads from each huddled form infectiously to remember where the bodies lie. The red spreads ever upward, and soon the falling snow falls red as well.

"Tala could be oppressively cheerful," Wright says idly, because it beats wondering which of the mounds is her. "And she definitely ruled her kitchen with an iron fist. But she kept Elliot alive, and she loved him."

“This was her reward," Wright motions at the frosted caerns filling the culvert. "None of them were ever supposed to die. It was salvation that damned them." She looks up into the snow again, heartbroken. She'd rather not be buried in the snow with the others and the snow is kind enough to leave her alone for now.

Merlyn's eyes seek out the piles of bodies, her brow furrowed as she looks at the red snow. It doesn't fully make sense to her, but she's not sure it has to. "I guess I should be thankful she helped, and sorry she didn't make it out of…" She's not sure what, exactly. Her heart aches, seeing the world and what it had done to people who, as Wright put it, were never supposed to die.

"This is the Ark," Wright says. "The Ferrymen stormed the place to free the prisoners, and the government response was to try to kill them all with drones. Adults and children alike finally escaping imprisonment only to be mowed down like enemy combatants. Elliot was with Tala and Yancy and they both died here. Bastian never made it out, they couldn't get to him so he died when they detonated the nuke at the core." She sniffles helplessly.

"I came all this way and didn't even find him," she says sadly. "It was a nightmare and I didn't even know he'd made it out. I found him with the injured when we got to Pollepel Island. Even then I didn't really get him back."

“I’m so sorry,” Merlyn murmurs, her eyes going from the scene in front of her to Wright, whom she solely focuses on for the moment. “It’s… there really aren’t words for how awful this is.” How awful it is and how she didn’t even know about what happened. “You still found him, but you didn’t get him back? Why?” She looks concerned—especially because she can’t imagine it getting worse than this.

Wright sniffles again, radiating the weight of struggling to keep hope alive during one of the darkest times of her life. "He was linked to all three of them when they died," she explains. "The shock trapped him." She turns away from the massacre, pulling Merlyn's hand gently to lead her away.

“God…” Merlyn murmurs, almost under her breath. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.” It takes the gentle tug on her hand to really pull her back into herself after dwelling on those thoughts. She follows Wright, her expression grim but laced with determination.

"So he's not really here all the way," Wright says, not wanting to speak to Elliot's experience of how awful it truly was. That memory had to go into the BLACK BLACK BLACK where the damage they did to it after he woke up couldn't rear its ugly head. Her memory of a memory is little more than a summary at this point. "And you shouldn't touch him."

She pushes open the door to the makeshift infirmary to a draft of cold air. The castle isn't as much of a ruin as it appears from the outside, but the winter winds still regularly make themselves felt in even the deepest recesses of the building. Elliot lays on his side; Wright can still see how she tucked the blankets behind him to make it easier to slip in and fall asleep holding him. His eyes are open, and occasionally blink, but that's all just meat and electricity.

There’s a lump in her throat as Merlyn studies him, a quick glance given to Wright. This is an Elliot she doesn’t know how to help. Would he even respond to her at all? Would he know her? She doesn’t ask about not touching him, that’s a boundary she’s willing to leave up without question. She opens her mouth, trying to find words.

When none come, Merlyn moves next to the bed, promptly sitting on the floor as an attempt to be eye level. It doesn’t end with her being quite where she wanted—being short isn’t always just in the legs. Still, regardless of the cold discomfort of the floor, she wants to be there where he can see her.

Wright sits on the edge of the bed and ignores her own warning, taking Elliot's hand in hers. She squeezes twice to let him know she's there and wishes she had something to drink. Her gaze shifts to Merlyn, surprised that she's still here. Wright's never had to share this part of Elliot before.

Sitting on the floor, Merlyn’s not entirely sure that Elliot’s even aware of her, but she wants to be. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, Elliot. I wish I had words to help, but I don’t have any for once. I don’t know if you’re listening or even able to, but I want you to know I’m here.” She makes no move to touch him at all, given Wright’s warning.

"I'm linked now," Wright says. "He might be able to hear you. Emotions are harder for me to differentiate because I've been drinking and that makes things weird but I feel like I'm on the threshold of knowing I can share." The sound of tools clattering on a metal tray can be heard but in a way that seems like it's being heard somewhere else in the castle, not from here. The slow realization that something is happening that she can't understand and that will change her life forever.

Merlyn’s gaze moves away for a moment to listen to the sound, but then it lands on Wright. “It’s alright. I just want to be able to let him know I’m here.” She looks back towards the blank face of Elliot. “Because I am here, for as long as you need.” There’s still a lump in her throat, the brief image of what failure might be like flashing through her head.

"Would you like me to give you a hug?" Wright asks, full of sympathy. "I can't promise he'll feel it but at the very least I give prescription strength hugs so you might get something out of it either way. Also, I myself would not say no to a hug because this has been like a really stressful and confusing day and we're under siege by the government so things are not looking great as far as quality of life improvements go. Just an all-around mess really."

Wright looks embarrassed, withdrawing a bit while simultaneously hogging all the space an answer could go. "Also I'm not going to be mad if the answer is 'no hug', so I'll stop offering if that's not your thing," she says. "And I realize that I talk a lot when I'm stressed out and also at all other times so if you want me to shut the fuck up so you can talk to Elliot, I totally get it. He tells me I'm lethally allergic to shutting my mouth and he's not wrong, I can't blame him for thinking that even though my allergy scratch test showed otherwise."

Merlyn looks up in surprise, the smile spreading across her face at the words. “You know, when you ramble on like that it reminds me of Elliot,” she says, moving to get up since she, the short one, sits on the floor. “Hugs are good. I’d like it if he felt it, and even if he doesn’t, I could use one. We both could.”

While she doesn’t fling herself at Wright, the desire within the hug is plainly evident as Merlyn moves to hug her.

Wright contemplates the most advantageous posture for hugging the short woman, and decides to stand. She brushes her hands off as though they might be dirty before wrapping Merlyn up in her arms without further delay. She crouches just enough to encapsulate Merlyn in what feels like the most optimal fashion and puts everything she has into a firm but gentle squeeze, letting it carry on as long as she can.

The embrace is something Merlyn’s content to stay in. Her arms wrap around Wright with surprising strength as she realizes that the both of them probably need it. Really, all three of them. Knowing that Elliot will feel it as well without her actually touching him is an extra addition to all of this. She lets out a heavy sigh, the weight of seeing and knowing almost being far too much to carry.

“I know it’s a lot. For both of you. You’ll make it, in spite of everything.”

Wright sniffles, shifting to put as much intent into the hug as possible. Gratitude overflows, mixed with anxiety about being separated. "Some of this is his fear of losing you too," she explains as the feelings permeate. "Fear and love and hope. You mean so much to him it hurts sometimes." It can be felt in the hug, in the air, in the walls of the castle.

“He knows I’m a fighter,” Merlyn cracks a grin, even if she doesn’t pull back from the hug to show it. “I know that pain, though. It hurts to think about losing him. Terrifies me. That’s the risk of opening yourself up to love. I’m used to being hurt and knocked around by the world but damn if I’m gonna let it keep me from something good. Something I want. I’ll fight for him. Hopefully symbolically and not literally, I’d hate to have to deck someone. But I’d do it.“

She sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly once she’s cleared her thoughts.

"Don't worry," Wright says with a laugh, "if we are in a situation together where somebody needs to be fought I'll fucking throw down, you don't need to do any punching or shooting. Hopefully. That's all firmly within my wheelhouse. I didn't get shipped off to patriotism academy just so my parents could say they were doing their part supplying orphans to the military industrial complex, it was also so I could toughen up and shoot people. Which is ironic, considering they are almost certainly on the side of the people bombarding this fucking castle who will be the ones I end up shooting at." She's relaxed but makes no move to be the one who ends the hug.

“I’ll be charming, you can do the fighting, and Elliot will be cute and awkward. It’s a win in any scenario,” Merlyn says, feeling a little more like herself again. She eventually releases the hug, partially because she doesn’t want to make it awkward and partially so she can check on Elliot. Not that she expects anything to have changed, but with him like this, she can’t help but feel protective.

"He's awkward for sure," Wright says as she figures out what to do with her arms now that the hug has run its course. They swing oddly for a moment before she comes around to what needs to happen next.

"I can wake him up now," she says nervously. "I just have to go get shot."

Merlyn’s eyes widen, looking quickly between Elliot and Wright. “Jesus, fuck, don’t do that. I can absolutely see how that would wake him up but you can’t just do that! I worry about him but I give a fuck about you too. We can figure out a way to wake him up later. I don’t think it’s hurting anyone to have him like this for a little bit. That’s not an option.”

“It’s okay,” Wright says quietly, already committed. “It has to happen. Everything needs to change and this is where it starts.” She smiles sadly, looking between Merlyn and Elliot.

“He’ll save me.”

"Fuck," Merlyn utters, her tone shifted downward but accepting. "Yeah, sometimes we all need a catalyst for change, so I can understand. Doesn't mean I have to like you getting shot over that." She looks between the two again. "I know he'll save you. It just… it still hurts either way. Emotionally, I mean. Obviously you get the physical pain." Her tone is colored with humor, an attempt at levity and deflection the way Elliot tends to do. That's one thing they share.

“I’ll be okay,” Wright promises, smiling but terrified. She takes one last look at Elliot and leaves the infirmary to make a fruitless stand against superior forces. The sounds of combat linger in the room along with the sound of Wright’s footsteps; as though Wright left but her footsteps didn’t. Elliot’s eyes remain unfocused, his body motionless.

Merlyn's eyes remain on the door, frozen for a few moments as she leaves, heart thudding in her chest. She slowly turns her head back to Elliot, sucking in a deep breath. She gets to her feet in anticipation that he'll be jumping out of his skin the second Wright takes that bullet. "Fuck I wish there were a better way. Elliot, you really got lucky being tied to her because fuck do I know if anyone'd take a bullet for me."

"Hey," Elliot says, "what's wrong? You look worried." He places his hand over Merlyn's, turning to face her on the bench. The snow falls in sharp bites like flies, his hood hisses softly from the impact. Ice skates rasp on the artificial pond, and colored lights accent the area in a magical way at odds with the fact that this is where Elliot is going to break her heart.

“I was worried about—“ Merlyn starts to try and explain, but they’re somewhere different. It takes her a second to process; the snow, the skates, the lights, it’s beautiful and romantic. It also happens to be a place she remembers well. A place of significance because of what happened here. All the feelings rush back to her, abrupt and unfiltered and she stiffens, swallowing hard.

“You’re going to break up with me. Again. Fuck! Why this?! I, just… anything else but this.” It’s taking all she has not to cry, overwhelmed by every single feeling and detail she remembers of the moment.

Elliot looks confused, his expression seeming to wonder how she could know what he's planning. He was terrible to her here, but she shouldn't know that. Something else plays across his features then as he recounts their interactions up to this point of this crazy night.

"Merlyn Alabaster Hitchens," he says softly, standing, "I'm not breaking up with you, I am far too madly in love with you."

He extends his hand to her, his countenance not the cowardice of years past but of the man who holds her face as they drift off to sleep. "We're dreaming," he says. "So if you'd like to join me on the ice, I swear to you I won't leave you behind on it. I'll get this right this time."

Merlyn exhales what was probably part of a panic attack, and grabs for his hand instead. There’s a soft squeeze as she gets to her feet. “I know, but there’ve been some bad dreams. I just want this one to go right for once,” she says, then suddenly cracks a smile.

“You remembered we’re married.”

"I'd never be able to forget that we're married," Elliot says with a laugh as he leads his wife on an exploratory skate out into the rink, his skates make no noise though everybody else's seem to. "Best decision I ever made. Were you worried I'd forget?" It troubles him to think she still doesn't fully believe how much he's invested in her.

Her grip on his hand is tight, either from making sure she's balanced or from the fact that she doesn't simply want to let go. "Not so much worried you'd forget," Merlyn says as she moves onto the ice with him. "More that I was worried it wouldn't be you." She cracks a smile. "Flattering to say that I'm the best decision you've ever made. Surely there are some pretty amazing, life-changing things you've had to muddle over." He's assured her enough that it's him, that he's not leaving her, and it's easy enough for Merlyn to fall back into their usual gentle banter.

"You'd be surprised," Elliot responds seriously. "Up until now, all of my life-changing decisions have been of the 'make things worse' variety. This one time I willingly infiltrated a double-secret mad science torture dungeon. Top-tier bonehead stuff. Honestly I should probably stop muddling anything other than limes."

He leads them on a lazy arc around the rink, skates still strangely silent. The hand that isn't clasped with hers extends to the side, his own balance seemingly unsure. "I take it you had a dream about me, was I the worst?" he asks solemnly.

“You are very good at muddling limes,” Merlyn insists. “You don’t have to lower the bar just for me. I would like to think I’m a catch, husband.” Her grin is wide, but it fades slightly at his words. “You were. I wanted to try and save my mother and you were just…”

She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and glances back over at him. “I’m glad you’re back to non-asshole Elliot. It really makes a very stark reminder of how different you are now.”

"I can see where that is a less flattering analogy than I had intended," Elliot admits. "Let it be known that, despite the lowness of the bar, I fucking cleared it. I skewed all the other results and there's talk of not recording it because it isn't fair for all the other athletes. But we know and honestly that's more important than my legacy at this school."

He looks thoughtful for a moment, coasting to a stop over the ice. "I didn't have that dream about your mother," he says. "That must have been before we started dreaming together. I was having a nightmare about the group home when you showed up the first time. Before I caught on that something's fucky. I don't understand why this is happening, actually."

Merlyn chuckles, leaning in to plant a kiss on Elliot’s cheek. “Glad you know I’m a catch, thank you.” She squeezes his hand, but looks thoughtful after a moment, reflecting on the dream. “Yeah, my mom and the diner she worked in and the bomb… I was trying to find you again.”

Merlyn glances over at him. “After that, though, things just got weird. Our dreams got squished together or something? Just to find you in that nightmare was a whole mess, I’m still not certain the ice isn’t gonna drop out from under us or something.” She looks down, as if to double check that they are, at least, on something solid.

Looking down, it's apparent that Elliot isn't wearing ice skates; he's wearing his favorite sneakers and standing two inches above the ice. "Easy solution there," he says, gesturing to his feet, "is that if you don't really know how to skate, you can just fly and the ice doesn't matter!" He chuckles awkwardly.

"Sometimes dreams can be shared across the network," he says thoughtfully. "I don't remember linking you in though, we've kind of not been doing that ever. It's possible to not remember things that happened when you were awake though, dreams are weird."

"The other possibility," he continues, looking around with restrained anxiety, "is that we got roped into the dreamscape of a dislocated dreamwalker consciousness that manifests as a stone angel statue who misquotes poetry. It's happened a few times, though this doesn't have any of her signature creepiness. No creepy children, no snakes.

"Angel," he calls out just in case, "are you here?" There's no response, though the noises of the rink seem to have faded away with their conversation.

Looking down at Elliot’s shoes, Merlyn laughs. It relaxes her a little, but both suggestions as to how they’re experiencing the dream do get her a bit nervous. “Both situations don’t sound ideal,” she says. “But maybe if we did rope me into the network it was for a good reason?” She gazes back over at Elliot.

“I guess if you can’t always remember a dream when you wake up, it makes sense that it would work the other way.”

"Or," Elliot says, looking down uncomfortably from his fruitless search for Angel, "I linked you in unconsciously while I was sleeping. That's only ever happened once before with Wright. Well, technically I was catatonic. I don't know if I'd even be in the correct brain state to accomplish it while sleeping."

He sighs, then stoops and scoops Merlyn up into a carry before floating above the ice again toward the edge of the rink. "I'm sorry if that's the case," he says. "I've been comfortable with you loving me from the outside. I don't need the assurance of feeling your emotions directly because I trust you."

Merlyn loops her arms around his neck when he scoops her up, comfortable in the carry. “You don’t have to apologize for that. I know you don’t need reassurance, and I’ve known you trust me for a while now. I trust you as well, so it doesn’t matter to me if it’s an accidental link.”

She leans in to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Having every moment I can with you makes it worth it.”

"I appreciate that," Elliot says lovingly. He bypasses the crowd, the rink, the sidewalk, the street, depositing Merlyn before a utility door in a clean alley between two upscale clothing outlets. "Do me a favor? Close your eyes and remember the diner with as much detail as you can." One hand holds hers, the other the handle to the door.

There’s a brief moment where Merlyn blinks a few times at something, but she shakes it off and squeezes his hand. “Okay, I’ll do my best. Shouldn’t be too hard, given how many times I’ve been there.” That and it’s where her dream first started, asshole dream-Elliot making things complicated. She shuts her eyes, thinking of the smell of pancakes and the feel of the metal ridged edges of the tables.

With her eyes closed, Merlyn can only hear the door latch turn, the suction of air pressure differential as it opens, the clack of the latch bolt in the frame as the door closes again. Then she hears the door latch turn, the suction of air pressure differential as it opens, the clack of the latch bolt in the frame as the door closes again. Then she hears the door latch turn, the suction of air pressure differential as it opens, the clack of the latch bolt in the frame as the door closes again. Then she hears the aluminum runner under the door scrape, the bells tied to the door chiming their arrival, the voice of her mother welcoming them home.

It’s an innocent question, she thinks. That voice in the back of her head is reasonable enough. Merlyn pauses with a soft exhale. “What’s your name?” That shouldn’t be a question he’d have problems answering.

Knives and forks and spoons clink against uniform and round white ceramic plates, featureless but for the scratches left by previous unseen clatter. Coffee stained maybe, though that would be less out of place if restricted to likewise bland coffee mugs. Perhaps just on the napkin that rests under a mug where the coffee could have sloshed over the rim; it seems as good a place as any for a coffee stain and the napkin has no complaints becoming stained as suggested.

There are and aren't any other diners right now, only ever the flickering suggestion of their presence. They're the source of the clinking, the occasional vocalization or complaint to be expected from poorly behaved elderly people feeling entitled to perfection and compensation for failure to ensure that every bite of their breakfast is delivered into their mouths to be enjoyed in a way that lets you know they're only enjoying it despite the work you do to feed them. Such phantoms are despicable but rarely remain manifested long enough to require an outburst to tell them to be better. None can be seen in the direction Merlyn faces, a blessing to be able to ignore them when they're there.

Elliot takes up space directly across the tabletop, unsure if they've placed their orders yet or if there's a plate of food in front of him. The entire room smells of pancakes and sausage patties either way, and he decides that he'll eat what's in front of him and order again if they haven't already. "Sorry, did you say something?" he asks, having forgotten what she said before they came here.

Merlyn seems content not seeing whatever diners or lack thereof that there are, the proper ambience of the diner seeming to entirely fit what seems to be appropriate. She doesn't give it a second thought until Elliot mentions having not heard her. The pause to linger on the moment is for more of a thought and less of an observation. She's not looking around to find what's there, not seeking out details of the diner, but instead digging through memories of something familiar.

"Did I?" she asks after a moment, sounding unsure. Or at least, she does for a moment, then seconds later she seems confident. "I think I did. It's familiar. I can't remember what it was, but I don't remember if it was important."

"Maybe you asked if I was afraid to meet your mother?" Elliot asks, then takes an unhurried sip of hot coffee. It's good coffee for a diner, as good as the smell of the coffee in his townhouse every morning. The question is interested, his eyes never leave hers. "No worries though, let me know if it comes back to you, okay?"

It's all too familiar because she knows somehow this has happened before. How, she isn't sure, but there's the feeling on the edge of her mind like remembering a tune but not the lyrics. She taps her fingertips lightly on the edge of the table as she thinks, her brow furrowed just slightly. "I'm not sure it was that," she says slowly, then cracks a smile. "There's no way you'd be afraid to meet her. She's the sweetest saint of a woman to ever walk the face of the Earth. No pressure there."

The playful tone is her usual, but her brow remains furrowed and her eyes slightly distant as she's going through her mind over and over as to what she was trying to say, to ask. She was asking something, Merlyn was sure of it.

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