Dark Side.

Chapter 21: Kill or Be Killed. Part I.

"I know that, in theory, love is supposed to be soft.
I have felt soft love, before, but—for the last two months, love has been sledgehammer to my nervous system.
It keeps taking me out at the knees.
For the thousandth time, I remind myself that want and need are two different things.
I remind myself to be needed is not love.
I kiss like a seed trying desperately to put down roots in wet soil.
I keep trying to turn wild animal.
He keeps trying to make a home from my skeleton.
Neither of us is doing this the right way.
In spite of that, we keep crashing our bodies together: expecting someone to catch us even when we've become falling anvils, cartoon pianos, sticks of live dynamite.
I've done this song and dance before.
I already know I will let him turn me shelter even while my roof is leaking."
—Until Then. Ashe Vernon.

The Historical Society Volunteer picnic takes place in the Fell-family-financed park, right on the edge of the forest, near enough to the falls that there's a stream running through it. Large, smooth near-white rocks make up the shore, varying in size from boulders to tiny pebbles. A stretch of vibrant green grass precedes the trees. Mystic Falls is a particularly rich ecosystem, the vast amount of woods surrounding the town are proof of that. Birds chirp to the rhythm of trickling water; woodland creatures hop and scurry around through a ruffle of leaves and freshly bloomed flowers. Spring is closer and closer. This soon-to-be public park is located on the west side of town; Cassandra is more than familiar with it, it's near the Lockwoods' old estate.

She sidesteps over one of the larger boulders—grateful that she decided to wear ballerina flats today instead of heels—until she lands by a growing white oak tree. Crouching, she lifts her old 35mm film camera until it faces the tree's first branch, where a small flying squirrel is currently, serenely, cleaning the pelt around its little head.

Peering through the view finder, Cassandra increases the aperture slightly, and presses the shutter. The camera goes off with a click, quiet enough that the squirrel doesn't even pause what it's doing. She lowers the camera and advances the film, all the while with a small smile crawling its way across her face. She missed this more than she realized. Until, that is she got her camera off its case. It's not her best camera, but it is her favorite. Besides, Mrs. Lockwood has no idea how experienced Cass really is, so she won't expect her to have overly professional equipment.

Cass aims again. This time, portrait, not landscape, focusing on the squirrel's tiny hands, not the scene as a whole. When the camera goes off once more, the repeated sound alerts the squirrel to the fact that it is not alone. He, she notes after further studying. He peers about, large round eyes finding her in seconds. His tiny heart's fluttering increases. Cassandra doesn't move, simply watches, quiet, as his focus returns to the device in her hands. His nose turns towards her, curious. Sudden movement behind her is what makes the little buddy assume her camera signifies danger, not a friendly spectator.

"Cassandra!"

That's what makes the squirrel scurry away as fast as it can. Cassandra watches it get away before turning to the unexpected intrusion: Mrs. Lockwood. She stands before Cass, atop the boulder, perilously balancing on her high heels and pencil skirt suit.

"Oh, no, sweetie." Mrs. Lockwood shakes her head with a tense smile that's only just sweet enough. Inwardly, Cassandra readies herself for whatever this woman is so clearly about to demand from her. "You're meant to be taking pictures of the volunteers, not a tree."

"It's a flying squirrel, not a tree." She points out. "It showcases the town's ability to co-habit with nature and its creatures."

Mrs. Lockwood asked her to document the day for the weekly newsletter the Historical Society sends out to their subscribers and members. It's more of an informative magazine than a newsletter. Except Cassandra's been snapping pictures of the restoring and kids playing for a whole hour now, with the woods right there. Who could possibly help themselves?

"I don't need animals." Mrs. Lockwood protests. She waves a hand behind her, towards the flourishing park. "I need people to see I am working hard to better this town. I'm building a community here."

"This sets Mystic Falls as an example on how to respect nature while still evolving as a modern town."

Her statement does not amuse Mrs. Lockwood. Cass thinks it has something to do with Mrs. Lockwood new approval of bear-traps and other wildlife regulators that are borderline ethical. It was something Mayor Lockwood was working on before he passed, which is why she claims she permitted it, to keep his legacy going, but Cassandra suspects it's also because she doesn't love it when white-tail deer show up in her yard.

"I'm the one paying you. Photograph people." Mrs. Lockwood's smile drops into a stern frown. "And get up before your dress gets ruined. What would people think?"

Cassandra can't keep the scowl that turns her eyebrows down. She glances at herself. Her white, strappy, button-down sundress reaches just to her knees; crouching down, the skirt's hem brushes the dried leaves around the tree's protruding roots only just. Mrs. Lockwood looks at her expectantly, politician smile frozen in her face. It's eerie.

"Yes, ma'am."

Cassandra rises to her feet, letting her camera hang from its shoulder strap around her neck, and stretches her lips into a blinding smile. She walks past Mrs. Lockwood, hopping off the smooth boulder into a smaller rock in the middle of the stream, and then another, until she reaches the green grass on the other side. She doesn't bother helping Mrs. Lockwood across the stream, not even when the woman is clearly struggling to come up with a way to get off the boulder without snapping off a heel.

Cassandra joined Caroline and Elena around two pm. Varnish and paint buckets in hand, the three girls traipsed across the park, searching for a bench or veranda to paint and varnish. Mrs. Lockwood, along with the Historical Society, has everyone helping with the restoration: building bird feeders, benches, even a gazebo. Those not building, plant flowers, hand out food and drinks. It's great, the whole community getting together to build something said community can later enjoy, except there are too many volunteers and not enough work. Which is why the three of them have been walking around, Caroline and Elena with buckets and wide brushes in hand, looking for somewhere to set up camp, so to speak.

"So suddenly, she's in the running for Mother of the Year—" Caroline continues, absently she swings her bucket back and forth. Sheriff Forbes has been trying to get closer to Caroline lately. She's even here, out of uniform, upholding a promise she made to her daughter several weeks ago. "Just when I'm trying to avoid her the most." Caroline finishes as they settle for a veranda near a flower stand, covered from the sun.

Cassandra snaps a quick picture of the flower stand, just as someone picks up some forget-me-nots to plant. She has nothing to say. Caroline and the sheriff don't have the easiest of relationships. Caroline's dad lives far away, the sheriff works long hours, which leaves Caroline alone constantly. Duty comes first, which is probably why Caroline feels like Sheriff Forbes doesn't really love her. Sheriff Forbes being part of the anti-vampire club in town doesn't help towards Caroline's paranoia. There's nothing Cassandra can say that will make Caroline, who is still struggling with her heightened emotions, feel better about her rocky relationship with her mom.

"I'm babbling, you guys don't want to hear all this." Caroline shakes her head when moments pass and it is clear that, if Cass listened but is at a loss, Elena isn't paying attention at all.

"Oh, no, sorry." Elena's eyebrows scrunch upwards. She crouches by a wooden pillar and, dipping the brush into the bucket in her hand, begins to paint over the old paint. Faking interest, she asks: "Then what happened?"

Cassandra raises her eyebrows but says nothing. Elena is clearly not interested, and Cass can venture a guess as to why. They all know Caroline is working for Katherine. Their plan, however, was to act normal. Elena is acting the sketchiest Cass has seen her act in a while.

"Well, I was a bitch which is par for the course with us." Caroline sighs.

Cassandra waits a beat. Elena remains silent; Caroline turns once more to the pillar in front of her, slowly varnishing it without any real technique. Well, at this pace someone else is going to have to redo their work. Elena glances at Cass. She widens her eyes at the brunette, trying to tell her to act natural. Elena simply looks down at her paint bucket.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Care." Cassandra sends Caroline a small smile.

Caroline returns it, before her attention goes back to Elena.

"So, how are things with you and Stefan? Anything?" she casually asks, like nobody is going to realize her whole body perking up at the prospect of getting information.

"No, not since the fight. He's been pushing me away because he thinks that Katherine might get jealous enough to hurt me." Elena explains. When Caroline dips her brush back in the bucket, momentarily looking down, Elena sends Cassandra a look. The redhead shrugs. "I just don't know how to change his mind."

Caroline seems ecstatic at Elena's words. She masks it by inhaling once and letting the breath go slowly. Elena has turned back to painting, missing her friend's clear double intentions.

"You said that Katherine's dangerous… maybe he's got a point." Caroline suggests.

Cassandra fights the urge to scoff. She turns back to photographing. The newspaper's official photographer is here too, but he's only taking pictures of the important members of society: the Lockwoods, the Fells, who bankrolled this whole evening, the most active members of the Historical Society, which seems to include Jenna Sommers, surprisingly. He's not documenting the children, or the other citizens of Mystic Falls.

So, Cass takes a picture of Mr. Featherstone, who has spent the last two hours planting the most beautiful flowers near the picnic tables, not three feet away from where Cass is now, even though he is pushing eighty. She takes a picture of Mystic Falls Primary School's Second Grade students playing tag in the stretch of grass between the food tables and the entrance. And then, because she can't resist a beautiful model, and he's right there, she turns to Stefan Salvatore. He's about twelve feet away from them, so Cass takes two steps closer to him, until she's standing almost out of their little cover, the roof's shadow licking at her shoes. Mostly because it makes her job easier, and mostly because she cannot be fucked to continue listening to the conversation taking place beside her.

Stefan is cutting wood for a bench, circular saw to the side. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, hands splayed against the wood as he calculates where to cut. He looks incredibly handsome, specially with such good hair. Perfect. People are most likely to read a newsletter with a good-looking person in the cover.

"Oh, oh." Caroline chirps up just as Cass is finished taking the second picture. "Longing looks are being exchanged."

Longing looks are indeed being exchanged between Elena and Stefan, which gives Cass a clear view of his face. It would have assured her at least three more quality shots, except Caroline's comment reaches Stefan's ears, who focuses back on the task at hand, obstructing Cassandra's view of his face. She allows a quiet, discontented huff, and drops her camera.

"I'm gonna go talk to him." Elena decides.

While Stefan stopped gazing, she continued. Even now as she makes a decision that alarms Caroline, Elena doesn't bother waiting for approval from either girl. Her paint brush falls into the bucket with a small gulping sound, droplets of paint spraying from the surface. She rises to her feet without looking away from Stefan and walks away with intention.

"No, Elena. I think it's a bad idea!" Caroline calls after her in a futile attempt to stop her.

Elena keeps walking. If she heard Caroline, which most likely she did, she doesn't acknowledge Caroline's poor piece of advice. Caroline blows air through her lips, shoulders dropping.

"Caroline," Cassandra starts. Caroline turns her attention to her. "You need to chill out."

"This isn't funny!" Caroline protests, crossed.

"I'm not laughing." Cassandra's hands rise.

She may not be laughing, but she does find it slightly amusing. Except Caroline's anger is a lot like the one that masks pain and deep-rooted fear. Cassandra's imperceptible smile vanishes.

"I'll talk to her." Cassandra offers.

"No, I can't ask that of you." Caroline refuses with a quick shake of her head. A beat and then, "I mean… what would happen if you do?"

Before Cassandra can answer with a sugar-coated version of the truth, Damon joins their little party. It's the first time she's seen him today and, Norns, he looks sexier than he did yesterday. He wears a well-fitted black button-down shirt, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of black jeans that hang from his hips in just the right way. His hair is messy, probably because it's been considerably growing since she came back. Whether he's not bothered enough to cut it or is trying a new style, Cass doesn't know. Based on what she knows about him, however, her money's on the latter. Her eyes trace the turn of his eyebrows, the squint of his light-colored eyes against the harsh sunlight, the slope of his nose, the dip of his upper lip, the slant of his jaw. The way the crook of his neck leads to firm shoulders, back muscles, strong torso. Her hold on the camera tightens to stop herself from reaching out and touching him. Black suits him, she thinks, swallowing.

It isn't until Caroline snaps with: "Don't worry about it," that Cassandra realizes she's been so busy staring that she missed some sort of conversation. Her cheeks burn; she turns towards the closest distraction from a moment of weakness she prays nobody noticed. Thankfully, the closest distraction is something her companions are also very interested in.

"Do you still care about Katherine?" Elena questions Stefan.

The two of them are close enough that Cassandra doesn't have to focus on them to pick up on their conversation. Damon hasn't reached her level of, say, expertise quite yet, still has a couple more centuries to go, so he needs to fixate on them both in order to pick up every word. Caroline, even more so. She picks up her paint brush again, idly varnishing the pillar in front of them. Damon meets Cassandra's eyes for a second as he, too, pretends to observe Caroline work while listening in on his brother and Elena.

"Don't do this, please." Stefan exhales. "Don't turn this into something that it's not."

"So, this is up not for discussion. That's what you're saying?" Elena counters, crossing her arms.

Interest piqued, Caroline and Damon turn towards the couple. Caroline because this is juicy information she can deliver to Katherine and with which she might buy herself another day of peace. Damon because this is starting to look like a fight he can use to weasel himself back into Elena's life. Okay, Cassandra grimaces inwardly, perhaps weasel is a strong word. Back in the construction area, Stefan gives up on his work. He pushes himself from the worktable, turns to Elena with crossed arms over his chest.

"No, I'm saying that this isn't up for discussion right now because we have ears on us." At that, he subtly nods in their general direction.

Elena isn't so discreet. When her eyes fall on Damon and Caroline, they both look away and busy themselves with anything else. Cassandra stifles a laugh, taking the opportunity to snap a shot of Damon and Caroline's oops-just-got-caught expression. Sure, Caroline's hardships may not be funny, but that definitely was. Damon sends her a look at the sound of the shutter going off. She ignores it by keeping her attention on advancing the film.

"Okay, when?"

"I don't know." Stefan sighs.

"I saw her, Stefan. It's like we are the same person." Elena's words steal Damon's attention away from Cassandra. "How could you hate her and be in love with me?"

Well, Elena has a point there.

"You're reaching. I'm not—I'm not Damon." Stefan argues with a frown burrowing into his forehead.

That frown is mirrored in said older brother's face. Caroline's eyes widen; her lips part in an interested quasi-gasp. Stefan and Elena are better than Cass thought they would be at fake fighting and delivering fake information. Stefan's veiled insinuation brings a scoff out of Elena.

"How about we don't bring Damon into this right now?"

"You know, I can't..." Stefan trails off. His inelegance, the annoyance hitching his voice seems genuine. Cassandra is impressed. "I can't do this anymore, Elena."

Elena takes a sharp breath in at the same time Caroline gasps. Damon does nothing, simply observes the argument taking place a mere twelve feet away from them. They stopped trying to look like they're not eavesdropping a while ago, and the two simply stand side by side, muted, watching. So, Cassandra joins them. After all, she's eavesdropping too. She's just better at hiding it.

"Fine, Stefan." Elena manages after a few seconds. She lets out a breath. "Whatever."

Stefan's only answer is to look down with a clear of his throat. When he fails to provide her with a satisfactory reply, Elena storms away. If Cass didn't know better, she'd say they just witnessed a real fight. Despite the fact that earlier she commented on how good at faking they were. Truth tends to slip out in situations like these. And both Elena and Stefan brought up unresolved issues between them, one of which is standing next to her right now.

"Relationships are about communication…" Damon says with a sing-song-y tone that is so superficial it's actually kind of annoying.

To Cassandra's other side, Caroline sends him a scoff-paired glare, before running after Elena.

"You do get that was fake, right?" Cassandra asks. Damon rolls his eyes at her, angling his body away. "Just in case you decide to try and woo Elena or something."

"I'm not wooing anyone."

He seems on edge. She's not sure if it's because she burst his bubble or what.

"Okay." She concedes. "You seem upset. What's wrong?"

If anything, her question seems to aid to his troubles. Even if she said it with no accusation to her voice. His expression hardens; his eyes turn cold. The blue of them could cut her if she steps too close. Her heart dips further into her chest.

"Nothing," Damon says, walking away in the opposite direction to Caroline's.

Cassandra is left alone, under the cool protection of the terrace. Suddenly, the day seems a little dimmer.

Valerie Ridley stands by the water stand, under the sun, with her chestnut brown hair willowing in the early March wind. Behind at least eight twelve-packs of Dasani water bottles, she smiles at anyone looking for a way to combat the harsh Southern sun, left hand absently running over her pregnant belly. She's wearing a sundress, just like Cass. Hers is a deep red with large white polka-dots strewn across the skirt, which starts just under her breasts. It is sleeveless, with a scoop neck. The color combination sets her dark skin aglow. Or maybe that's the pregnancy, Cassandra muses as she unobtrusively snaps a shot of her arranging the loose water bottles into a pyramid.

"Cassandra, hi!" Valerie greets the approaching redhead excitedly. "I haven't seen you in a while."

"There was a barbeque at the Gilbert's yesterday; Elena invited me. I didn't get back until late." Cass explains once she reaches the makeshift water stand. "And I kind of lay low for a bit."

"Focused on school, huh?" Valerie nods.

"Well, Mason." Damon's voice trails a zig-zagging path to her ears, misdirecting her focus for a moment. He and Mason stand side by side by the few picnic tables that are covered by a laminated roof standing on thick wooden beams, just to Cassandra's right. "Working hard?"

His tone is hard, sarcastic. Damon, please, don't, she silently wishes. Deciding to keep an ear out, just in case, Cassandra returns to her conversation with Valerie, one of the nicest people she's ever had the pleasure of being a neighbor to.

"At least I got to go out today." Cassandra buys into the excuse Valerie herself procured.

She'd rather pretend the reason she spent the better part of a week holed up in her house was she wanted to do well in high-school and not that she spent every waking hour going through centuries of information on her, and then the rest of those hours feeling like she might drown under the pressure of History. In front of her, Valerie's sympathetic smile turns back to excited. Her whole body perks up; her dark eyes light up.

"Yes! It's such a beautiful day as well." She near gushes. Cass can't help but smile back, glancing at Damon and Mason but for a moment. Mason's gone, leaving a Damon behind that's all but seething. "I don't think anyone expected it to be this warm out."

"Oh, definitely." Cass agrees absentmindedly. Stefan has joined Damon now, she can relax. Releasing a breath, she focuses on Valerie. "Where's Phillip? Is he helping out today?" she asks, only now realizing she hasn't seen Phillip Ridley all day.

"Oh, no." Valerie shakes her head. Her voice adapts a disappointed edge. "He got called into work, emergency chole."

Phillip, Valerie's husband of five years, is a general surgeon. According to Elena, he's one of Mystic Falls best. At 6'2'', with a muscular body, and blonder than the sun, he's also one of Mystic Falls best in the good-looking department. He's very nice, amicable. At least that's what Cass has experienced each time they leave their corresponding houses at the same time in the morning and the one time she visited their home; she makes it a habit of not listening in on her neighbors on the regular, only at times where she needs to make sure things are as they should be.

"That's a shame." Cass lifts her camera once more. "Hey, could I take a picture of you? It's for the Historical Society's newsletter."

She asks because she already has one without realizing that Valerie being so heavily pregnant means she's most likely overprotective of her unborn baby boy. Not that Valerie and Phillip know it's a baby boy—they want it to be a surprise, something that Cassandra only found out two weeks ago, when they invited her for coffee. According to Valerie, no teenager should spend so much time alone, regardless of whether her parents are out on assignment or not. A crafty lie that saved her from nosy people, except the two of them are so nice that they decided to take her under their wing, and Cassandra could not bring herself to compel them.

What she could bring herself to do was give the Ridley baby an unnoticeable check over. Her aunt Penelope wasn't just her teacher, wasn't just a healer, she was a midwife, too. Midwifery as it turned out was the only aspect of magical healing that agreed with Cassandra's own rebellious magic, aside from potion making. And, boy, were the Ridleys blessed with an extremely healthy baby boy. That kid wouldn't even get a cold until age five.

"Shouldn't you be photographing the important people?" Valerie asks, suddenly timid.

"To me, everyone is import—"

The violent sound of someone coughing half a lung out halts Cassandra mid-sentence. She turns to her right, eyes falling on the Salvatore brothers out of habit. Or maybe her subconscious was paying more attention than she was. They're still by the lemonade stand, except Damon is now halfway to the floor, coughing like his life depends on it. There's still a white plastic cup in his hand and Cassandra heard enough of his conversation with Mason to know its contents are most certainly not lemonade. Stefan has one hand pressed to his brother's back, eyes frantically looking around for witnesses, or a clue as to what happened.

"Oh, gosh! Is he okay, do you think?" Valerie asks with worry hitching her voice just as Stefan and Cassandra make eye contact.

She's turned towards the lemonade stand as well, face changing into a frown covered in alarm. They're not too far away, the same distance between either side of a sidewalk, a two-lane road running in the space between, but the fact that Valerie noticed so easily has fear's cold grip twisting around Cassandra's heart. Because this is a town with a secret club dedicated to hunting vampires, and that cup was filled with vervain.

"He's fine." Cassandra assures her. She takes her camera's shoulder strap over her neck, gathering the device in her hands and hastily placing it on Valerie's own. "Please, take care of that, okay? I'll pick it up later."

"Oh, o—okay." Valerie blinks, pulling the camera closer to her chest.

Without preamble, she walks as fast as possible, water bottle in hand, until she stands by the Salvatores.

"What happened?" she asks Stefan.

"Mason must have laced the lemonade with vervain, hoped Damon would take one." Stefan explains.

The two sit Damon down on the picnic table behind them. He's still coughing, lips tainted light pink with blood. Cassandra breaks the water bottle's seal off, handing it to him without a second thought. He grabs it, takes a sip. Instead of swallowing, letting the vervain in his throat dilute with the water on its way to his stomach, he simply swishes it around his mouth before spitting it back out. She and Stefan step away from the splash zone. Her hand stays on his shoulder, thumb rubbing at the muscle, preoccupied, as her eyes roam around the park.

"Could it have been the sheriff?" she asks once her preliminary search shows no one else is interested in this. Even Valerie has gone back to her job.

"I don't think so." Stefan shakes his head. "The town is no longer under a vampire threat; the council has no reason to put out traps."

"It was Mason." Damon snarls through another coughing fit. "Dick's trying to expose me."

"Drink the water." She pushes the bottle closer to his face.

Damon shoots her a glare, jumping to his feet. He paces back and forth in the small, confined space of their little terrace, enraged. His fists flex; his footsteps become harsher and deeper with each stride, marking his thoughts. But, drink the water, he does.

"I told you to leave it alone." Cassandra scoffs.

"I don't need you to reprimand me right now, Cassandra." Damon snaps. His eyes are fire. She glares right back. He turns to Stefan, pointing at him with the water bottle like it's a threat. "I am killing him. I'm not listening to any more of your 'give peace a chance' shit. I am killing him. He's dead!"

His voice rises the more he speaks. Stefan rushes forward, shushing him with a sharpness Cass finds intriguing. He grasps Damon's elbow: an attempt to stop his manic pacing. Damon pushes him off with one arm while the other lifts the water bottle back to his lips. Stefan tries again, this time holding Damon's shoulders with both hands.

"Sit, sit!" Stefan orders him.

And they're fighting. There's nothing poetic about it, no scorching lava hitting a raging ocean. No swift river against the constant, unforgiving winter air. The two brothers fight—like children. All shrugging shoulders and slapping hands and interlocked arms, bringing more attention to themselves than needed, attention that paired with Damon's previous too-loud declaration could attract the wrong crowd.

"Oh, for the love of—" Cassandra rolls her eyes, forcing her way between them. "Both of you shut up! You, sit down." She pushes Damon down.

He shrugs her hand off, livid still, with all the strength his years provide. Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead. When she pushes him down into the bench again, this time using her many years on this earth to her advantage, just to remind him who's the strongest one out of them, he flops down on the bench, glowering at her.

"And you," she turns to Stefan. "He's right. Mason's officially a liability. I know you don't like his idea, Stefan, but sometimes the only way to the other side is through." Stefan frowns, crosses his arms. "But we're all going to end up dead if you two don't learn to be quiet. Judas."

"Okay, I don't like this." Stefan relents with a curt nod, expression pensive as he crosses his arms over his chest. His leaf-green eyes alternate between his brother and Cassandra, the motion accompanied by two more nods. "He needs to be put down."

Cassandra grimaces. That was a terrible joke, terrible, terrible joke. The two brothers, however, don't seem to mind it. They share a look of understanding, one that seems to relieve Damon of his ire somewhat. He nods, eyes so blue Cass has trouble looking away. Said blue eyes meet hers for a moment before drifting somewhere off her left shoulder. His eyebrows inch together before relaxing. His features morph into a stoic expression of sober decisiveness.

"Woods." Damon nods. "Trash duty."

Cassandra turns on the spot. There, leading towards the woods' outskirts is Mason. With three large, opaque black trash bags, he climbs up the small slope leading to the stream. Damon rises to his feet, effectively making her the fillings of a Salvatore sandwich. Why do they have to be so damned tall? At least to her, who falls just short of 5'2, even if she claims to hit that mark. The brothers share another look over her head. Stefan walks away first, aiming for the woods. Damon shoots her a glance that's half a question, half a cold stare. She returns it before following after Stefan, surprised when Damon follows instead of stopping her. He's so snappish today, she'd think he wouldn't want her to take part in his victory over Mason Lockwood.

The three of them converge in a clearing, finding Mason without difficulty. He stops arranging branches into a pyre when he hears them approach. He straightens, hands splayed in front of him, ready for negotiations or a fight.

"You'll regret doing this." Mason swallows.

Hell descending upon them stops Cassandra from commenting. Gunshots ring around the clearing, startling the birds. They fly away, hawking, and Cass silently wishes she could go with them. It'd certainly beat the white-hot pain in her back. She stumbles a step forward at the same time Stefan cries out and Damon wavers beside her. Three more bullets are fired. The first one renders Stefan unconscious, the second one manages to drop Damon to the ground. The third one misses her and gives her a clear view of one of their attackers, hiding behind a nearby tree.

She stalks towards him, enraged. The hiss that escapes her mouth, predatory and near-feline, startles their attacker. He steps out of the tree's refuge. He's a deputy, with wooden bullets in his Glock 22's magazine instead of .40 calibers. Taller than her by a considerable amount, he points the gun directly at her chest and fires. She barely registers the bullets tearing into her skin. The deputy's resolve wavers.

Shots are fired behind her. Pain slices through her body, hot and dangerous and pulsing. Idiot, she thinks at whoever just gave up their location in an attempt at saving their buddy. Without hesitation, her hand wraps around the deputy's wrist, tugging him off balance and snapping his neck when that delicate part of his anatomy is close enough. His scared exclamation is cut short.

She turns on the spot. Three feet away is another deputy. His gun is lowered; his face is stricken with the kind of fear that leaves you wondering if death would be a more generous option than having to live with the knowledge that said fear exists. Her blood starts to sing, dancing to the wild beat of her heart as anger gives way to adrenaline-fueled exhilaration. She's a hunter at heart and by nature. If she was dangerous as human, vampirism has made her lethal. Deadly. And while her family's codex taught her to only hunt those who lost their way, who disrupted the balance without contrition, this nimble man is annoying enough.

Cassandra flashes away, running until she stands behind him. The man points his gun wildly around the clearing. Survival instincts strong enough to alert him of the fact he is not alone, that there is an imminent threat even if he can't see it. He breathes laboriously; his heart runs fast enough to break out of its cage. Cassandra's mouth quirks into a sly smirk as his shuffling comes to an abrupt stop. He realized where she is, right on his blind side. He turns around, firing a round aimlessly, one that hits a spot nonetheless. Before he can do any more damage, Cassandra grabs his head and twists. His spine crackles and pops as it breaks, severing the spinal cord and resulting in instant death. The deputy's body drops to the ground. He was the last one, but two against three doesn't seem right. Mason is nowhere to be seen; she must have missed his exist.

Maybe they underestimated how strong the three of them could be? Surely Mason would have warned them of her age. Cassandra stands, unbreathing, in the middle of the clearing. Nothing seems out of place. Birds escaped, squirrels and rabbits made an exit when the first bullet was fired. Thinking this a rare moment of respite, before the second round of deputies arrive, she counts each of her wounds.

One bullet to the back of her thigh, one in her back, digging into her spine with each breath she takes, one in her sternum, too close to her heart for comfort, one to her right breast, which was delivered in close enough range that it tore through the fatty tissue of her breast, past muscle and lining, past her lung, until it left a significant exit wound on the other side—that one hurts the most, even now, when the bleeding is minimal—and, finally, one in her gut. Something important was hit, whether it's her spleen or one of the gastric arteries, Cassandra can't tell. All she knows is that the bullet tore through enough places on its way in and out that her body hasn't had a chance to catch up with all the damage. Blood still pours from her torso, sticking her dress's linen fabric to her body. At least she's still conscious.

Her eyes fall on the Salvatore brothers. Damon first, because she can't help it and her heart settled in her throat the moment he was hit and it's refusing to dislodge. He's unconscious. Lying on his front, his left cheek presses to the forest ground, giving her a clear look of the tiny furrow of his brows, the way his bottom lip is almost pouting. The grass beneath him is darker, blood glistens in the sunrays trickling into the clearing. Stefan lies on his back, frozen in time. Eyes closed, he resembles a marble statue in deep slumber. She can't tell if he's breathing. If his wounds are still bleeding, signifying the beating of his heart, even if it's slow. It's terrifying.

Leaves crunching alert her of another person approaching. It's unsurprising. She killed the first batch of soldiers, there's always more where they came from. The way of war. Cass turns around, flashing towards whoever is trying to sneak up on her. The sight of the sheriff halts her right on the spot. Sheriff Forbes has her weapon up in the air, aimed for the kill most likely.

The women regard each other silently.

The sheriff notes Cassandra's bleeding wounds, realizes she's not overly weakened even if she's losing blood, fast, and acts on survival instinct alone. She takes two steps forward, finger pulling on the trigger until the warning click is heard.

"Sheriff, I don't want to hurt you. I already killed two of your men; you can't win." Cassandra warns, suddenly hesitant. "Let us go."

She's not killing Caroline's mother before at least attempting peace. It's a terrible decision. Sheriff Forbes doesn't consider Cassandra's words; she pulls the trigger the rest of the way. They're too close for Cass to stop her, too close for her to run. The last thing Cassandra remembers is the bullet ricocheting in her brain.

The world turns black.

UPDATED: 16/01/2020