Chapter Text
chapter one: kill shot
oh, god can you make my heart stop? hit me with your kill shot, baby
I mean it, so serious god can you make my heart stop? honey, with your kill shot, baby?
- Bay, Magdalena. "Killshot (Slowed + Reverb)" Killshot (Slowed + Reverb) - Single, 2021
June, 2017
When the aliens arrived, they did so quietly. Because naturally they expected to leave with a bang, you supposed.
But in any case, they silently observed in different spots around the world, and for some years watched and changed small things bit by bit in all the waterways they had access to, and everything was okay for awhile. No one seemed to notice, and the timeline of all this secrecy was still unclear to most people outside of covert alphabet soup government agencies, even years later. Then of course, their leader arrived. And well, he did not want things to change bit by bit, and he tried to blow up both the fucking Avengers Tower and the city.
Yeah, and it did not go well. For the aliens – most of them were wiped out handily, but there were consequences.
You remembered where you were when it all happened, downtown in a doctor’s office with your cousin Marci, helping her fill out paperwork while her mother and your aunt prepared for open heart surgery.
Metro-General was filled with sound – the squeak of rubber shoes; the snap of clamps on clipboards; the anxious, quiet conversation of patients. Sometimes there was even an errant laugh, as family members tried to amuse themselves in waiting rooms or medical staff entertained each other throughout the day. Sunlight filtered through dust motes and half-pulled blinds to warm people sitting in uncomfortable hospital chairs, and outside, New York City surged – abuzz and alive. It always seemed pregnant with this anticipation of action; and while some residents and all tourists seemed to relish that quality, most had learned to live with the low hum of nerves in perpetuity. After all, you never knew when you’d next end up trying to hide from Doombots or an enraged Frank Castle or some crazy person in a mask.
Of course, everyone in New York knew, sometimes, the anticipation had to break.
The building shook, followed shortly by your fingers and the beat of your heart. Marci’s hand trembled as she signed yet another form but this time more explosions began to crack, outside but nearby. As she dotted her I, the hospital you were both sitting in rattled alarmingly. People in the hallways and adjoining rooms cried out in surprise as the cycle of disruption began again. Ceiling tiles fell to the floor, dust and smoke filtered through air vents before it slowly filled up the hallways and your field of vision as you tried to flee someplace safe.
It was already a warm summer day and sweat pooled at the small of your back as you searched for safety, and information. The air con had gone down immediately, and every face buzzing past you in the hallway was glazed in a sheen of sweat. You all were the rats in a maze, and any exit door that didn’t lead directly to an open fire or a structurally unsound stairway was the cheese. Marci’s face was ashen and her fingers clutched your hand tight as you turned another corner, hospital personnel streaming by on both sides.
“We’ve been hit!” One of them yelled, stumbling down to the nurse’s station and picking up the speakerphone option to the whole hospital. “Code Green! Follow evacuation procedures now. We’ve been hit!” His voice echoed through tinny speakers and then a ceiling tile fell and hit him directly on the head - of course by this point, everyone was too busy running to notice much.
Across from the nurses’ station, a group of men clad in shades of black and navy stood with weapons pulled, though the smoke slowly turned them grayscale like everyone else. Even more waited in the hospital room, guarding someone, heads poking out into the hallway to see what the hell was happening. They were watching warily, braced against walls and speaking into earpieces and you had this insane desire to scream at them because aren’t they the fucking FBI so shouldn’t they do something?
Anything?
Marci abandoned you for a doctor who was bent over rifling through paperwork and a stack of emergency kits under a desk, leaving you stranded like a leaf in a turbulent stream. You were coughing, your throat dry from panicking too quickly and your eyes burning from dripping sweat but inside your chest felt numb, distraught. You’d seen shit like this before – when you’d lived in Washington D.C. briefly, and the Triskelion fell. And the Helicarriers exploded. You still remembered the great blanket of ash and smoke that saturated the city, and all the funerals in the weeks afterward.
Just the thought of it, surrounded by such chaos, choked a sob out of you, and your eyes glassed over with budding tears, reflexive. Trauma didn’t just go away, you’d learned from that disaster. It hung on with sharp teeth and a sad, angry spirit until you finally gave in — and you were still a target in its sight. The screaming, the smoke, the pumping adrenaline all kept threatening to transport you back to a time you wished never to see again.
A group of EMT stormed by, rushing a critical patient out on a gurney, and they clipped you in the side with the cold metal railing. Distracted, you stumbled with wheeling arms, and a disorienting moment later realized you’d tipped sideways into the grip of a black clad agent. Like gravity had abandoned you and only righted itself at his touch, he rooted you back to the floor and into reality, as terrible as it was. His fingers clamped down on your elbow, firm and so strong that you thought dramatically you’d bruise with his fingertips. So strong - was he one of the enhanced? Did the FBI hire those types of people? The foolish questions never made it out.
He stared at you with lips pursed tight, eyes flinty and dark through the haze. Dusty, dark blond hair cut short severely, a face struggling to be impassive against whatever he held inside, the casual handling of a gun as if second nature. A moment of silence, electric, buzzed through you and the hysterical thought that maybe he felt it too occurred behind your eyes.
The moment shattered as windows splintered violently in the room behind him – another explosion – and the building rocked ominously. Shards of glass speared through the room and an errant few slid across the floor even as far as the hallway. More screams, more fear, more disorientation, more fucking trauma for a therapist you’d never hire — everyone staggered but you were held upright only by this disapproving man’s hold, cemented long enough that another agent yelled at you, voice breaking in the din.
“Get out of here! Go!” He was not mean, simply urgent, a wash of panic over his face as things began to crumble further and further and further. Even this new agent’s warm skin looked pale under the fear and the fluorescent lights, able to tamp it down at all only because of his training. “The building is gonna go. Go!”
You were like a rag doll, the second agent’s free hand trying to yank you from the first – whose jaw had clenched, who had a bead of sweat sliding down the side of his face – and you lurched into Marci’s approaching grip on the other side. Marci. Your beautiful angel of a cousin Marci who always looked perfect, who always knew what to do, and who took you by the bicep and started jogging against the flow of traffic in the hallway whether anyone else hung onto you or not. The agent’s fingers peeled away from your other arm slowly, like rust had tightened all his joints and he couldn’t let go even if he wanted. “Come on!” She called out over the noise, yanking again and barely getting your name out in her hurry. Both men forgotten as a mission coalesced in front of you.
“They said if we get to the cardiothoracic station quick enough, we can help them evac mom!” Her eyes didn’t look frantic enough for the situation, and god you admired that. Wished to emulate it and came up short.
A barrage of gurneys and hospital beds were headed your way, all going in the other direction. The structure of the building creaked forebodingly with fractures breaking through the 1990s cream paint on the walls; lights flickered, and open doors swung haphazardly in their frames before banging shut and you swore that you hadn’t stepped into a damn Conjuring movie or some shit on accident. Someone was speaking over the audio system again, their voice trying not to be frantic but failing as they called for help to the NICU. And you would still have felt awash in the sea of chaos if not for the fact that Marci and Aunt Rebecca needed you on your fucking feet right then.
“Move!” You called, joining her in urgency at least. You felt your hair start to come out of its loose ponytail and instead of fixing it you braced yourself and raised an arm up to make a pathway through the crowd. “Move!”
But then you didn’t get there quickly enough. The results of that terrible day, even in your limited world, were manifest:
Rebecca Stahl died in the explosions. Marci lost her mom and you your aunt – but so did a lot of people, no one was special.
Your arm broke, falling down an unstable flight of stairs in the rush, and all you remembered for 24 hours afterward was a haze of pain as you both scrambled out. It took hours of triage at the next safest hospital and surgery to get you cared for.
And finally: as the aliens were on the last gasps of their battle with the Avengers, they hit the panic button on their final plan. A burning sensation – a terrible, suffocating, blazing spread through the chests of everyone in the city, in the state, in the nation, in the world. People choked, cars crashed, planes spiraled out of control, the world went crazy for precisely 72 seconds. Everyone who’d drunk from those gently altered water sources – and there were a lot of them – frozen in pain and fear for enough time that those aliens left could escape and lick their wounds. And then it gently faded like the lap of waves on a lake, and was all over. The only remnant left? Words.
The final plan was, of course, the words. The soulmates. This new fate. And no one escaped fate.
October 30, 2025
Dex’s back hurt and so did his arm. One of those things was normal, the other was not.
He was climbing up a fire escape, gloved hands steady on the steel rungs, boots barely making a sound with each step. Across his back was a loaded rifle; smoke grenades and 43 knives sat securely in the holsters around his waist, his chest, the small of his back, his thigh. His balaclava was tucked in a pocket; a smaller handgun was snug against his chest, the snap on its holster open so he could access it easily. He had his target’s location, and he had his ultimate goal in sight.
Freedom. A mind that was his own, not subject to the control and machinations of others. Not the heavy blanket of medication that drowned him, not the orders of the federal government that held him back, or the manipulations of one Vanessa Fisk that strung him along. All that stood between him and what he wanted was one job, and he would let nothing stop him.
He set the rifle in position on the rooftop, hunkering down behind it and setting up the scope with secure fingers. Dex had expected to engineer a complicated shot, working within the constraints of his target’s position inside a bar, but here the man was, standing outside free and clear. The chill fall air snapped at his cheeks and lips, and the balaclava came down. It was all going to plan, easier than he expected.
Still. His arm hurt.
October 30, 2025
“Scientists as part of the Maria Stark Foundation announced today that their research led to a breakthrough in soulmate transmissions. Let’s join them on the—"
You let the so-called breaking news report fade into the background in favor of listening to those around you in the bar. Josie’s Bar, a neighborhood institution and one you wouldn’t usually feel nervous to be in. The bar top was sticky and scratched up, and the air smelled like that peculiar combination of cleaning supplies, limes, and cheap beer that haunted any good dive. Around you, everyone buzzed with this desperate desire to make their Friday night incredible – to stave off the Monday doldrums with alcohol and wild weekends they could remember fondly in between conference calls and deliveries.
A few people were paying attention to the soulmate research on the television, and honestly you’d been one of those people, at one time. Not so anymore.
The aftermath of The Words was a carnage of research and romantic entanglements and anger and questions regarding why and how and what the hell?
Marriages fell apart, marriages strengthened. High-profile crash outs on social media and quiet, sad announcements about relationships that no longer existed or, suddenly, did exist. Captain America showed the whole nation the words on his shoulder, indelible on his dark skin in beautiful handwriting – he didn’t say who it was. In LA, She-Hulk went on CNN to confirm that she’d met her soulmate. Spider-Man stammered awkwardly when cornered on social media and disappeared into the sky. On local broadcast, Wilson Fisk confirmed that his and Mrs. Fisk’s words told them they were soulmates – the first words they’d ever said to each other. Better for his mayoral campaign, you supposed.
Others had marks barely legible, like tattoos done in white ink. Not everyone was lucky enough to have a partner still alive, or alive for long.
The aliens, or Kree, or whomever – all so interchangeable at this point that it was only whoever they were not an actual desire to know – had well and truly fucked it all up. With the words. With the introduction of soulmates and this idea that you weren’t crazy, that there really was someone out there just for you. Before, a person might get called lonely or picky for being alone as long as you had been. Now, everyone just swore they were waiting for the right person. Their soulmate. Why date when you could just wait?
You’d given up.
Easily, you were willing to acknowledge.
Despite racking your brain, you couldn’t remember ever hearing the exact words on your skin from anyone else. And in the following weeks, months, and years, still no one had said what was imprinted in blocky, spare letters on your ribs. The words curved beautifully around the heaviness of your left breast, written in block letters by someone with an even heavier hand, and every so often they’d burn like they were pressed to a lit stove. Sometimes you woke to find your opposite hand was pressed in a fist against them and pretended to ignore it. Others vowed to wait a thousand years and you just… were tired. Let it go.
A beer glass plonked down on the bar in front of you, filled with – well, beer you guessed. You didn’t drink much anymore and only knew that it was dark gold, cold, frothy, and nothing you’d ordered. “Sorry Josie,” you said tracing a circle on the bar top with a fingertip. “I don’t think that’s mine.”
“It’s yours.” Josie was wiping down the countertop with a rag that couldn’t have been making it any cleaner. She eyed the way you kept circling a jagged scar in the bar, all concentric circles before starting from the beginning. “From the lady.”
Glancing over, you saw Marci had finally arrived – late like usual. She wore one of those outfits that she called a power suit and waved when she knew she had your attention before going back to her conversation with one Foggy Bear Nelson and one Kirsten McDuffie. Your smile could not have been more forced, but she didn’t even notice in the dim lighting and cigarette smoke shuffle of the crowded bar.
It wasn’t Josie’s Bar or the people rapidly getting drunk that made you nervous per se, you’d been there before – but more that you’d only just started an admin job at Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz six months prior. Obviously, getting dragged to the retirement party of a cop you didn’t even know by coworkers you barely knew at all did not rate highly against your idea of the perfect Friday evening plan. But Marce had gotten you the job and kindly convinced HR that you weren’t so much of a fuck-up. She’d introduced you to all these people and then swanned off to court, confident you’d make a great impression and unaware that you’d immediately curl up like a roly poly bug in your little open plan cubicle and keep your head down.
Okay, yes, it was great to work with Marce. And okay, yes, Foggy Nelson over there was still a really nice guy you’d known for a long time, despite the break-up. And yeah, okay, he’d introduced you to some nice friends of his outside the firm in the last few months, and all the other coworkers were perfectly pleasant. It was, most likely, just your imagination that they all thought you were an imposter who wasn’t even qualified to file old briefs.
“…researchers have confirmed, finally, the existence of phantom sensations between soulmates. So that twinge you feel when your other half eats something spicy? Well, that’s—”
“Are you gonna drink that or are you just gonna sit on one of my bar stools that another paying customer could enjoy?”
You eyed Josie good-naturedly with a cautious disrespect for authority figures and opened your mouth to answer when a heavy arm slung itself over your shoulders without warning. Hot beer breath wreathed your face as a man pressed himself into your left side. The pressure of the wrong human being right there was vile. “Ye- yeah.” He slurred, “You gonna drink that? I can help you if you c-can’t.”
His arm slipped off you as you jerked out of the seat like a hit dog, lip hitching in poorly disguised disgust. Josie, your white knight, slapped at him with her bar rag before anything else could be said and braced one hand on her plaid covered hip. A drunk man with a badge was always a problem. “Get out of here Powell! Go collapse under the pool table or something.”
Not staying to hear the end of that sure to be contentious conversation, you grabbed the beer and slipped into the crowd, taking a roundabout way over to Marci’s small group. Most of the people in attendance were still fairly sober, though for how long, you knew not; they paid you no mind while you wound through their group chats and pool games. Several coworkers from HC&B nodded companionably, but your notoriety for being reserved was already strong enough to stop them from trying anything more.
Only Foggy’s friends, Matt and Karen, tried to wave you over despite your hermit reputation. “I’m on my way to the cool kids table.” You said in passing, notching a thumb at where Kirsten was motioning for something from a bartender.
Karen grinned like this was an inside joke you’d stumbled into, her hand on Matt’s knee, and Matt just smiled companionably. You’d known him casually for awhile through Foggy and he was a nice guy – if strange – always listening too hard and asking questions like he already knew the answers. “Just don’t drink that stout too quickly.” He tapped his nose in good humor.
Ah, a stout.
Marci had already disappeared by the time you arrived, which was understandable. It must have been hard to find that the man you were living with and planned to marry didn’t have your words, and that you didn’t have his. Just because she was still friendly with Foggy & Co. didn’t mean she was eager to stick around all the time. Kirsten reached out and clinked her glass with yours before you could even greet them – though she didn’t work at either private firm, you’d delivered time sensitive paperwork to her at the DA’s office already on three occasions, and the appreciation was mutual. “Hey there new kid.”
“New kid?” Foggy slung an arm around your shoulders too, and his casual affection felt like the care of a friend, not the interest of a lecherous drunk. You let his arm stay. “This isn’t the new kid. This right here is the best little sister a guy could have. Show some respect McDuffie.”
“I’m not your little sister Foggy.” Your disgust had evaporated to a half-smile and a huffing laugh. The little sister thing was a sore subject but Foggy Bear never remembered and you’d never remind him. Finally sipping your beer, it tasted like, well, beer if someone had walked by it with an espresso a few times – you handed it to him as a show of favor. “I’m not even Marci’s little sister.”
Foggy’s hand tapped your shoulder companionably. “Tomato, tom-ah-to. Don’t argue with me, I’m a lawyer.” He too tried the beer. “Oh, I hate stouts. Here.”
And so Kirsten tried it next – she seemed to like it. “Lawyers, amirite?” Her glance was conspiratorial. “Don’t think you’ll escape the conversation Foggy. What’s your game plan for court if you’re so confident?”
“I’ll keep my strategy to myself, thank you very much.” He was comedically trying to drink from his own glass with the same arm draped over your shoulders, half-strangling you with each drawn out sip as any good big brother would. “And no, you can’t worm it out of me. But yes did you know, Josie keeps a bottle of 20-year old O’Melveny’s behind the bar?”
The conversation continued, both lawyers ribbing each other competitively. You laughed with them, feeling yourself start to get hot and sweaty in the crowded bar as just a little chord of happiness rose up within you. Everything felt warm in that soft, golden way of old lightbulbs – it was one of those pleasant moments you knew you’d all talk about as you remembered when. Maybe real friends aren’t so out of reach anymore, you decided, coughing and wheezing because Kirsten had persuaded you to do a shot of whiskey with them. Your face was red but it wasn’t from the alcohol, it was from the inclusion. The cheer.
Damn, maybe this was going to be a good Friday night.
Foggy’s phone rang and the moment faded as he excused himself to take the call outside, the mantle of a serious lawyer settling over him like a funeral shroud. Kirsten made amiable small talk with you instead, asking about how you liked your job and life in a new city. “I’m sorry,” she was saying, “I didn’t know you’d lived here before. I thought you were a total transplant!”
You grimaced at the connotation. “No, no, I was born and raised her like Marci and Foggy. I just saw an opportunity to travel some and live elsewhere for awhile and took it. Moved back and forth a few times.”
“How’d you like it? Washington DC, right?”
The thought of describing your time in DC as pleasant or a good thing or something you even wanted to remember made all those soft, warm feelings dissipate like so much mist. Another divot in the bar top, another set of concentric circles with your pointer finger. You shrugged. “It was okay, you know. But… it was hard. It was really hard.” Glancing at the small watch on your wrist you frowned; Foggy had been gone for several minutes too many for things to be totally okay. “Maybe I should go check on Foggy.”
“I’ll hold our spot.”
The transition from warm bar to chilly night breeze brought goosebumps out on your arms, the back of your neck. No jacket to shrug on because you were lousy with a sleep schedule and had bolted up to get ready for work at the last second possible that morning. How could you grab a coat when your left hand held sixteen different things in three fingers and your right hand was tasked with unlocking and relocking the apartment door?
Your breath puffed out, visible even under the streetlights, and man, you really regretted those last five minutes spent in bed. But the night was peaceful enough, a low hum of traffic and far off car alarms accompanied by the rattle of apartment cats daring to explore rickety old fire escapes. The soft roll of a small, seasonally early fog bank turned parked cars and pedestrians into blurry shapes out of a sci-fi movie, reminding you that it was almost Halloween. A few of the businesses on the street had already set out orange plastic pumpkins, their mouths and eyes spooky dark wells without the candles lit within. The shoe shop next door had a paper flyer in the window advertising kid’s trick or treating from 5 to 8 pm the following night – it promised an adult-only neighborhood party from 8 pm to 2 am a la Nightmare on Elm Street.
Matt and Karen had the same thought as you, it seemed, having left the bar to see what was going on. They stood in a huddled group with Foggy – though they had the wherewithal to have jackets on. Matt held his cane in both fists, his grip so tight that the flesh of his fingers was striped red and white with tension. Even his red lensed glasses seemed to be tilted at a disapproving angle towards Foggy, his brow furrowed and shoulders high up and tense. Karen’s hair was wisping around her face in a golden halo, and she stood between the two men like a bridge or an interpreter or a concerned white flag, trying to keep the peace. Her eyes caught yours briefly but she didn’t even nod you over like you might have expected at another time.
“Is everything alright? Can I help with –” You started, walking hesitantly over to them, trying to assume the best and offer yourself with good intentions of assistance.
Matt slashed you a glance, but he was talking to Foggy Bear. “What’s going on?”
Karen finally leaned over to whisper in your ear, breathy and nervous as the others continued to talk over you both. “Something’s going on with a case.”
Your feet were getting chilled from the cold sidewalk, even through your work shoes, and you shifted from side to side hesitantly, rubbing your arms with even colder hands. “I’m happy to help or run to your office to get something, anything like that. Just say the word, you know that.”
Karen’s eyes were impossibly blue and her nose was turning red in the night air but she nodded sharply and patted you on the shoulder; Matt and Foggy were still arguing – not angry at each other but going back and forth over some sort of case and client named Cafaro. The name was vaguely familiar from a few legal documents you’d filed or emailed out for signature as a third party was represented by Hogarth, but the exact nature of all this urgency was over your head. Foggy’s face was getting red with worry and exasperation at being questioned so harshly, Matt just kept gripping his cane tighter and tighter. A small pit of worry was seeded in your stomach, watching tension ratchet between them – Foggy didn’t get worked up like this for nothing.
“Here.” After another moment of shivering under the streetlamp – damn, could you just be a responsible adult for once in your life -- and Karen handed you her purse briefly before she began sliding out of her jacket. “I’ll make Matt give me his. Take mine.”
“Oh Karen don't, I couldn’t. It’s too cold.”
She smiled briefly, pushing the long, tan coat further into your arms and taking back her purse. Though she was smaller than you, it was oversized, and you did kind of hope to avoid turning into a human popsicle right then and there. “I told you. Matt will give me his. You can repay me with coffee this week and bring the coat back then.”
Karen had said that bit about Matt and his own jacket louder on purpose, trying to defuse the situation with a bit of a redirect, reached out even to tug the collar of his coat – but it immediately failed. Matt only glanced over with lips pressed tight together – only briefly taking in the jacket swap before he was stalking off down the street, cane dinging back and forth rapidly. Foggy stood across from you, holding his phone out in one hand like it was a snake that bit him, and you realized that it sounded distinctly like someone getting the shit beaten out of them on the other end.
“Just stay there. Keep trying to get him on the phone again.” Matt was almost a block away at this point, his voice echoing against the hard shells of the buildings around you, against the scratched glass of the streetlights. For a second, he turned his head as if to see them again – a blind bat using echolocation to find its safe perch in a dark cave – and from a trick of the light it almost, almost seemed like he had horns on his head. You blinked, and the thought was gone – probably that shot of whiskey back in the bar.
“Come on, Benny. Come on Benny! Benny? Benny?” Now Foggy was speaking directly into the phone, and Karen was leaning in close for warmth and to hear better, her breath clouding over the screen. You started to also lean in close, but a tingling sensation of awareness stiffened your spine.
Like fingers slowly climbing your vertebrae, fingernails pricking your skin with each step. Like a sigh sliding along the back of your neck when you thought you were alone. Like the sound of soft footsteps in an empty stairwell, like sighting a stranger at the far end of a dark block while you’re by yourself, like gooseflesh rising on your arms in a haunted house and listening to someone breathe on the other end of a quiet phone line and like and like and like – the sensation of being perceived by the unknown.
You looked up to realize that the others hadn’t felt it. “Someone’s watching us.” You mumbled, still tasting the realization on your tongue. Your words were warming rapidly against your heartbeat, as if they were sitting too close to a radiator, and you almost wished Karen had kept her coat. “Someone’s watching us.” Again, louder, but Foggy was still talking, growing more and more frantic.
“I don’t know what he’s talking about.” Foggy was finally looking at you, but he was frowning and you couldn’t seem to get out the words, again, that someone was fucking watching all of you. “He said someone’s looking for—”
Foggy’s blood splattered everywhere. Small, delicate drops like the start of a rainstorm that speckled your face and your neck and Karen’s jacket. Karen. Karen who had her hands clasped over her mouth in horror, smearing the blood on her cheeks as she screamed, high pitched. And Foggy. Foggy, his face a mask of shock and confusion, still holding that damn phone out like nothing had happened.
He collapsed as a sound like a cannonball on a collision course boomed through the street, and through the smoke you could see that a car had hit the nearest telephone poll with a sickening crunch and a nasty car alarm. The driver hadn’t been able to see the road through the smoke.
Smoke, you realized, not fog. There was goddamn smoke everywhere, all at once, and as you slowly knelt next to where Foggy lay and Karen kept pressure on his chest, your brain whirled. What the fuck was happening? You felt like a statue being forced to life by a wicked fae creature, limbs moving for the very first time, eyes unblinking, skin overtly sensitive to that gaze upon you.
Inside the bar, people were screaming, and a few of them poured out in a rush of chaos – they too collapsed like ragdolls, bleeding. Karen’s left hand was splayed, pale but stained, over the growing red flower of blood on Foggy’s chest; her right was fumbling with her own cell phone, hitting the send button over and over and over again, 911 on the screen. She looked up at you with panic gleaming in every feature of her face, every strand of wild hair. “Jesus Christ! I can’t get the call to fucking go through!”
It was like a shock of electricity through your system. Ignoring the tears slowly dripping down her cheeks, you whipped her scarf off her neck and bundled it into a messy mass, pushing her hand out of the way and pressing down with both of yours against Foggy’s ribs, against his heart. He was aware, his eyes starring at Karen, at you, but his mouth opened and closed silently. You looked away, afraid that if you looked a dying man in the eye you’d lose it and never get it back, and swallowed thickly.
Karen was thrusting her phone in your face, without any rationale behind her movements at this point, and with a terrible, sinking sensation you remembered the car, and the telephone poll. “The cell service is probably out. Go! Run to the next block! I’ll stay with him!”
She jolted to her feet and then stopped, halfway up, eyes pinned to Foggy’s slowly waxing face. “Go!” You were screaming at her now, voice cracking while an anchor of dread tried to drown you at the bottom of the ocean or make you throw up, whichever came first. Your purse, and so your phone, were still in the bar with Kirsten, so it had to be her. “Run till you get to the next tower and call 911. Now!” Again, a hesitation, again a ragged yell. “Go!”
That did it, the order, the mission. You knew that always helped when a crisis came knocking. She was off like a shot, heels clacking against the sidewalk, her long legs taking her halfway down the block before you could blink. She’d make it, you told yourself. She had to.
Your hair was falling in your face, sticking to the blood on your cheeks, and you spared a moment to shove it back. Your hands were already gummy from the blood seeping through Karen’s scarf, and you wondered for the first time in a red fog of panic where the hell Matt was. You couldn’t be the one left to hold this man together with sheer will and tears, could you? It felt like you were choking, suffocating, an overwhelming pressure building in your ears while life leaked out from between your fingers.
Where were Foggy’s words? Who did they belong to? Who did he belong to? The thought made your skin itch, washed the world around you in a wave of cruelty.
Foggy was grasping your wrist now, his eyes were fluttering shut and they only opened again every time you slapped his cheek with one hand. Blood was pooling on the sidewalk and staining the knees of your pants, the edges of Karen’s jacket.
“Come on Foggy,” you breathed out, leaning over him, holding him close to you like he was a brother because for god’s sake he fucking could have been. “Come on Foggy, don’t do this. Don’t do this now. Trade places with me. I’ll trade places with you, okay? Just—just don’t do this. Foggy? Foggy?”
Footsteps behind you, several feet away but growing closer, sure and heavy. You lifted your head to stare blindly through unshed tears at the brick wall of Josie’s Bar, bound in place. The heat against your ribs was growing and you wondered if your soulmate could feel it, the fear, the surge of adrenaline that was making you shake, the way your lungs burned like you’d run for miles and could go no more. Would they worry for you? Would they look to the night sky and hope you were okay? If you died too, would they mourn?
Again, the footsteps, the tink tink of something metal hitting the ground and then rolling, the building smoke.
“Foggy, Foggy I’ll trade places with you, please.” Your eyes were stinging, your voice hoarse, plea useless.
It almost felt like a train was hurtling towards you, a battering ram, because in your brain you swore the ground was shaking, rumbling with a sense of this is it. Of fate. It was all you could do to keep the pressure on Foggy’s chest steady, and with the scarf sodden now with heart’s blood, you tossed it to the side to press your palms down instead. The thought of him feeling the warmth of your body there instead of wet fabric almost too much to bear.
An oblong shape lodged through the front window of Josie’s and dusky smoke began to billow, coating the roof of your mouth and reminding you unpleasantly of a cheap Halloween carnival. The entirety of this strange pressure – both outward and inward at the same time, like suffocating, a pillow over your face in the night – stuttered your thought, your body. The footsteps were growing closer, but the miasma was dense, a whiteout of fear, and even as more people fell out of the bar in their haste to escape, it made you feel so alone.
Because Foggy was gone. You could feel it. In the way his chest didn’t rise any further, in the way the blood stopped pumping against your palm and his hand fell to the sidewalk. You were alone, with only whoever that was behind---
“Hello Karen. It’s nice to see you again.”
Horror. Dawning, clawing, ripping horror.
Your words.