Once Upon an Endgame
I
Solace. What a foreign word for Emma right now, for what is displayed before her eyes, brings her as far away from solace as possible.
She finds her with a glass of wine, stiffly positioned in her hand. On the table, she sees a half-empty bottle. She finds her with wet eye-lashes, fluttering to keep her tears from falling, and judging by her smeared make-up - not for the first time this evening. She finds her, sitting as a statue in her office, smoke slowly leaving dark red lips, and a hand lifts to her cheek to swipe away a lone tear. She next dries her glass in one gulp and places it on the table. Then, Emma notices the cigarette in her shaky hand. In a slow motion, she turns her head to breathlessly taking in the mess around the Mayor – havoc is ruling over her office now, instead of a redeemed Evil Queen, as Emma catches a glimpse of red apples, scattered all over the table and the floor around it. She sees the broken mirror at the far wall; she takes a sight at the destroyed furniture around them both and the view of the burnt holes in the walls. She then turns her gaze to Regina once more; freezing in one place, for this time, Regina is looking right back at her. "Go away, Emma." She breaths out, blankly looking away.
"Why don't you pour me some of this instead?" The Savior suggests, motioning at the bottle. "No." Is Regina's hurried answer. "You need to go." She adds quickly, looking away to avoid the hurt in Emma's eyes. "I need to be alone for this, Emma." She says quietly after a brief pause. Emma's still looking at her with the same pained expression. She doesn't move a muscle. Regina doesn't either. They stare at each other, not moving and not breathing, not daring to blink.
At the door, Regina sees the woman, who gave birth to their son; she sees a warrior, she sees a survivor, a savior. Her savior. The woman who made it possible for her to turn her worst enemies into her family. Emma. And she's witnessing as the pain in her eyes is transforming into a determinate look, her position changing as she's making a firm step into the room. Then she hears her say, "I'm not going anywhere." It is a promise, a statement. A reassurance. But for Regina it hangs like a penalty. She shudders. And then she turns her blurry gaze away from Emma. Even in this state, she can not bear a scenery so catastrophically beautiful. So right in all the wrong places. So bravely signing her own death sentence with a single step into Regina's personal Hell. And that Hell has a voice.
"Well, isn't it the right thing to say, Miss Swan?" It's husky and it's dripping like honey over The Savior. Soon it is followed by another dark-red pair of lips, awfully similar to Regina's, and a face is revealed from one of the darkened corners in the destroyed Mayoral office. A face wearing a malicious grin, heavy eyelashes flutter and a pair of dark eyes locks on green ones. And then the crown follows, as the Queen rises in full height. "Isn't that my lucky day?" She purrs, coming out of the dark completely. At the table on her right, Regina is now shaking.
II
She's lying if she doesn't admit that her throat is burning from the grasp of the Evil Queen. A movement so sudden, which leaves The Savior panting for air. She can hear Regina's pleadings - she's begging The Queen to let go, but soon they get replaced by a scream of pain. That is the last thing Emma hears. What follows, she doesn't get to know, as she herself is fighting to stay awake. But the grip is too tight, and the pain is too real. Another scream echoes between the walls. This one serves as a wake- up call for Emma, but darkness is taking over her quickly and she isn't strong enough to fight back. The Evil Queen is killing her, and all she can do is to fall in the debts of her wrath.
"I'm usually used to get the credit for my masterpieces. Sadly, there will be no survivors to tell this tale." The Queen announces with a smile, so proud of her crime.
III
The room is poorly lit; the table is set for two – a bottle of whiskey carefully placed at the center; two empty glasses, and the tools, needed for the game. Scenery, fitted for a masterpiece of an artist with a twisted sense of humor. The air is cool in the small room - no windows to allow the Sun to peek in, for a funeral preparation needs to be preformed in darkness.
Regina walks in first, head held high, but the unsteady rhythm of her heels clicking loudly against the deafening silence, which is hanging in this death-trap, betrays her false confidence. Her breath hitches in her throat as she takes in the view of the following event. She slowly walks over to the nearest chair, her body completely failing to support her as she breathlessly stumbles in her unsteady steps, but when finally reaching her seat, she sits down with her back straight, and her chin high. Her hand reaches instinctively for the bottle, and seconds later, she's blankly filling the two glasses. She doesn't even feel the hot burn the whiskey leaves in her sore throat as she downs her glass, when she hears the door opening again. Then quietly closing. There is an awkward silence at the entrance, and then the confused steps of someone who doesn't want to be here at all; someone who hesitates at the door, hands madly shaking, while wondering if turning back and finding another way isn't a better option. They both know that there isn't another way. Not this time. Their story has to play out. They have reached its destination.
When Emma walks past her, as if refusing to believe that it had came to this, she doesn't say a word. And when she takes the seat opposite from Regina's, she doesn't even look at her. Instead she stares unbelievingly at the pistol placed at the center of the table. That was it – their private pre-death inventor: a bottle of whiskey; two glasses; one pistol, and one bullet.
"Emma," She hears Regina whisper, but cuts her off in a dry voice. "No," She says hoarsely. "Don't. I will not play this game." She adds with a plead. What she receives as an answer is the sound of a sob, caught in Regina's sore throat. Emma's hands are shaking. She watches in horror as her right hand is reaching for the pistol without her permission, completely ignoring her left arm, aiming for the bullet. She has no control of her hands, when she's loading the pistol, aiming it at Regina. In front of the Savior, Regina is looking at her with wide eyes, as if somehow pleading. "Emma," She breathes out, the pistol slightly trembling in Emma's aiming hands. "Please, Regina." Emma's begging. She knows what's to follow; she knows that she'll pull the trigger sooner or later. "Run." She begs.
Note: I'm open for suggestions of what happens next. :)