Work Text:
Walk.
Left. Right. Left. Right
Walk.
Don't look forward into the dark.
Don't look at the shadowy figure leading you forward.
Think about how the crowd has finally stopped yelling, even though it never really reached you when they did.
Think of your mom, of Jan.
Think about how close you are to winning.
Hadn't the Major said something to you? You didn't hear him.
Maybe he'll say it again. Maybe he won't.
Don't think of McVries. The way he smiled. Don't think of how he looked at you when he sat down.
Don't think of Olson. The way he screamed. Don't think of what he got wrong.
Don't think of Baker. Don't think of Pearson. Don't think of Abraham. Don't think of Parker. Don't think of Harkness.
They're gone and you're still here.
At least their feet don't hurt anymore. At least they're not dying standing up, waiting for the exhaustion or the exposure or the sheer lack of will.
When he sat down, McVries looked at you. (Stop it, don't remember that.) He had such a smile on his face, like he didn't mind dying if it meant that you didn't. (Stop it. Please, just stop.) He'd been your buddy on the road. (Was he?) Maybe he was the best friend you'd ever had. (Is that the best word? Was that all he was?)
Now, you're alone.
Even Stebbins dropped. The rabbit. He doesn't seem so tough in the rear-view. But neither are you.
You got lucky. You got lucky and now you're alone.
You want to turn your head but you can't.
The muscles in your neck have locked, keeping your head down and looking at the road.
There are no other shoes walking next to yours.
Your footsteps ring out in the rain, the only sound.
Maybe if you can just slow, you can get your ticket.
Ride that great old train the others already boarded.
You'd be happy for anyone.
Even Barkovitch.
But you won.
And now the road is a solitary place.
This is your confinement.
This is your reward.