XV: Day One, Afternoon.

Verity Alameda, 13
Applicant #3

She finds Damas crying, bleeding, and generally in a pretty terrible place.

She's all of those herself, minus the bleeding part. Her knee is scraped up from where she tripped down the road, but she doesn't really think that counts, not compared to whatever's going on with him.

She can't get it out of him, either. What happened. She thinks it's the shock. She saw a little bit of that look in her brother's eyes when he broke his ankle, when he couldn't put any weight on it. This is worth, though. He's bleeding from the side, maybe, or the stomach. She tries to touch it and he shies away even though it looks like it hurts, bad.

"Just let me look," she pleads. "What happened? Tell me what happened."

He opens and closes his mouth again, soundless. A lot, she wishes she could laugh, like a gaping fish. One that's lying on the sand, dying, struggling for breath...

It's suddenly not so funny anymore.

There's another gunshot, outside. There's been a lot of them. Is that it, then? Is there a bullet inside him right now and he just won't tell her?

"It— It hurts," he chokes, finally, clutching at his side. "It hurts."

"Okay, okay," she breathes. "Take it easy, just sit down."

He leans up against the wall of their little shack, sliding down to the ground, blood pooling between his fingers. It's soaking through his shirt. There's a lot of it, but not too much, she doesn't think. Not enough to kill him. Maybe that's just her optimism talking, in the desert in this little rundown shack with a hole through it's roof, like the sun is beaming right through.

Her optimism hasn't done anything for the two people that are already apparently gone.

"Two of them," Damas says. "Two of— two of the guys. One distracted me, the other one had the gun. From far away. I don't think he meant to kill me."

"If he wanted to kill you, you'd be dead," she says through gritted teeth, trying to pull his fingers away. He only clamps them down tighter. At least he's keeping the bloodflow to a minimum, stemming the worst of it. It very well be keeping him alive, though it's not doing him any favors to keep her away from it. Someone will have to, eventually. It's that or it only gets worse. To be honest, she's not even sure she wants to look - it's just the fear in Damas' eyes that is keeping her capable of caring instead of running in the opposite direction.

She looks towards the door at the sound of another gunshot and he latches onto her arm, leaving a bloody handprint that seeps into her sleeve.

"Don't go anywhere," he begs. "Please, please don't."

"I wasn't going to," she assures him, and begins tugging her sweater off. Don't need a sweater in the desert, she wants to laugh, but Damas wouldn't find it funny. She was just prepping for back home, for the slight chill that's already in the air. She didn't think a simple tee would be enough, but here she is.

It's enough now.

She presses the bulkiest part of the fabric up against his side and torso and then ties the sleeves around his opposite side as tight as she can despite how badly her hands are shaking. Only then does he remove his hands, exhaling shakily. She tightens the knot again. "Good?"

He nods, though she doesn't trust his judgement. She wedges her hands in, feels for any sort of give, but the sweater stays put. She'll have to check it, so long as they're moving. They'll probably be moving a lot.

She tugs Damas to his feet. Quick and gentle aren't two words usually associated with one another but she tries, so help her God she tries, at least for his sake. He presses his lips together, keeps silent as she pulls him up, and then clings to her waist once he's standing. His eyes are still wide, unfocused, occasionally looking down at the blood on his shirt like he's almost confused.

The door in the little shack crashes open, and she nearly screams. She grabs back at Damas as she stumbles, nearly sending him back to the ground. Whoever it is is a whirlwind, not unlike a hurricane. They nearly fall once they get in and again when they reach back to slam the door shut, collapsing against it.

"Percy?" she asks, and only then does he really seem to notice the two of them standing there. His hand fumbles back against the door but he stays there.

Better in here with the two of them that outside in bullet alley.

He's gaping, almost like Damas was but it's somehow... worse? He's breathing in and out, rapidly, but it doesn't look like any of the air is doing any good. Certainly none of it's reaching any of the important bits he's exhaling so quickly after he breathes in. That's not how the human body works, she's sure, but that's what it's look like. He's trembling like a leaf, and if Damas' fingers on her waist are shaking then Percy is about to come apart at the seams.

He's unharmed. A little dusty, but who's not, at this point?

"Percy?" she repeats. His eyes are filled with tears, she notices, and only then do a few spill out, rolling down and wobbling off the edges of his cheeks. "Where's Nic?"

They were together. Of course they were together, that's how it would go no matter what the situation was. He opens his mouth again, whatever words held in the back of his throat clogging up there, and he presses a hand against his chest.

"Breathe," she says, and he shakes his head. That's not a good thing to ignore. He's still crying. That's worse than Damas' now dried-up tears, too. It doesn't really look like he's able to stop.

Her optimism up until now had been quick, fleeting. At least it was there.

Right there in that moment it shatters and falls apart.

"No," Damas whispers. "No, God no."

"Yeah," she answers, barely audible. It doesn't feel like enough of a word. Nic is... no, he can't be. Someone as good as him can't be dead. It's not right. That's not how the world works, not anymore. They ended that nine years ago.

The little twenty-two on her bracelet is saying otherwise, though. Two people are dead, and Nicator is one of them.

She swallows back the lump in her throat, blinks back the tears. She's the only one who isn't, and that's the way it needs to stay.

"We need to get out of here," she decides. "The longer we stay here, the harder it will be to get away."

Damas is nodding. Damas is also crying again, but this time it's silent. Silent is sometimes better, but it doesn't feel like it is now. Percy's not as silent, though she can't say she blames him. If Nicator really is dead, and it's looking more likely by the second, then it's justified. He can cry as long as he likes.

"Percy," she says, giving him time to look up. "Will you help us? Will you come with us?"

Getting Percy to help with this will make her life a hell of a lot easier. If not she'll have to drag Damas out, watch for the Sentinels, and figure out where she can go that won't end with one of them getting shot all on her own.

Again. She didn't ask to be alone. In fact, she'd rather not be.

Percy scrubs his hands over his face, smearing away the mess of tears that have gathered across his cheeks. They're still coming, there's no stopping them. He's trying, and that's what counts. She holds her breath, sucks in what feels like all the air in this little shack so quickly her chest aches. There's no doubt that Damas can feel how tense she is, and his own hands tighten in response.

"Where do you wanna go?" he asks finally, voice cracking in the middle. It's awful, hearing that. Like the normal loud, rambunctious him is falling apart before her eyes.

She didn't want to pick where to go, either. But right now she has to. Neither of them are in the condition to do it.

And if she has to step up, if she has to be the one to do it... then so be it.

Meliodas Vergara, 18
Applicant #18

"Stop moving," Meris orders, so he tries.

He really tries, but Ria is five foot nothing and Meris is at least managing to make herself look small, crouched behind a half torn down wall and a particularly thorny bush that's jabbing him in the spine. They got all the good space. He took the bad stuff.

Which is good, at least. If Ria was getting jabbed with thorns she'd probably just leave, the same way she already wants to.

He hadn't really given her much of a choice. He had practically carried her down the steps at the back of the building after Meris until she had stopped putting up a very lackluster fight, and then put her down when he was satisfied she was stuck with them.

They can see someone in front of them, far off. Way too far to even tell who it is.

He doesn't really care who it is, if he's being honest. They can't go back; it's much too far, and besides, why risk the other several Sentinels probably wandering around when there's only one they can see in front of them?

"Think we should beat them up?" he murmurs, and Meris sighs.

"You're welcome to. We'll be here. Have fun when they spot you from a mile away."

Tall, gangly, wearing a blue sweatshirt to boot - she's probably right. It's no different than Ria's hair, though. He reaches forward and tugs the hood of her sweater over her head, concealing it. At least it's one less thing to worry about. He still feels the urge to nudge her even further behind the wall, even though no one can see her anyway. He doesn't need to take care of her. She found more supplies than they did.

In fact, they found practically nothing, and it terrifies him. They're not going to last long in the desert with hardly any water and no food. Ria has to have something besides the odd assortment of items that he can see in the bag over her shoulder, but if she does she's not telling him.

He can't imagine her withholding food and water from them.

He's hoping he won't have to.

He lowers his head again. "If one of us distracts them—"

"Are you volunteering?" Meris asks. "My plan was for none of us to die today, not that."

He could laugh at that, normally. What a simple goal to have, one that seems so large now when two other people have apparently decided to take dirt naps today. He doesn't want to imagine who. He can't imagine who. He doesn't want to, or else the confidence he's displaying now will fall apart.

It could be someone he was close to, someone he had dozens of conversations with.

Someone who's number he had in his phone, for after. They don't have an after now.

Ria's not even watching the person in front of them. She's looking off in the distance to their left, hunched over. She keeps shuffling her feet, so he waits for her to run. He'd catch her, if he didn't get shot in the back for his troubles.

"What?" he asks. "You wanna go that way?"

When she turns she actually looks him in the eyes. He considers that progress. "There's no one that way. The hills aren't that big, but the cliffs are steep. They won't go to so much trouble to follow people into them right off the bat."

His plans are idiotic, will get him killed - Ria is actually thinking.

"Did anyone else go that way?"

"Just a car, I think. With some of the girls. I'm not sure, but I think—"

"No, that's what I think, too," he assures her. Better not to let her doubt herself now. Most of the girls, and he thinks Jupiter and Mal went with them. The entirety of that group, except for Meris.

"There's a few buildings that way, too," Ria points out. "There might be something in them if no one's walked that way yet."

It's a good goddamn thing he went back to check the room in the first place, or else him and Meris would be sitting here in the dirt for another six hours until nightfall, until the Sentinels finally gave up and moved further out. He looks to Meris, who shrugs. Even she's looking off the way Ria has suggested, now, someone who didn't seem so eager to have her join them.

But they really, really need the brains. Meris is smart, he'll give her that, but she's no Einstein.

"Why not," she mutters. "Stay low until we cross the road, keep one eye on that person up the road. Ria, if you can watch the right—"

She nods, quickly. Her eyes are already flitting in every direction anyway; Ria won't miss anyone coming. She's too smart for it.

Meris goes crawling through the dirt behind the wall, staying just below it. He nudges Ria, gently, until she starts to follow.

"Do you want me to take the bag?" he asks, creeping along behind her. It doesn't look all that heavy, but she's small, and it slips down her shoulders every time she inches forward. He expects it, but still frowns when she shakes her head, clutching it closer. What he thinks are random supplies are probably very important to her, kept close to her chest for safe-keeping.

"Well, if it gets too heavy, I can take it."

"Thanks," she murmurs, and he smiles. Shouldn't be smiling right now, but he does. To be honest, he doesn't think he'd trust this girl on her own. All the silence is good, it keeps herself safe, but does it do any good for the rest of them?

What is that they say, about keeping watch on the quiet ones?

Well, he is. And he's certainly glad to have her for an ally, right about now.

Faye Ackerman, 12
Applicant #7

As Esma would so eloquently say, this is bullshit.

Of course she's flashing back to her sister right now. Her sister who wanted to be accepted more than anything, who would've been in her place right now had their positions been reversed. Esma would be the one in the death match, Sentinels hot on her heels.

And no matter how much her and her sister disagree, she would never wish that on her.

She'd never wish that on anyone, except for all of the people who left her, maybe.

Every single person abandoned her. Verity lost her, darting in-between all the buildings, like it was on purpose. Everyone else already had a little group of their own and hadn't looked so keen to let her within their ranks.

And that's how she ends up alone, in this scrubby, desert town, wondering what the hell to do next. And Faye does not usually have to wonder, not about anything. That's not how it works for her. Either she does things so thoroughly that the answers all but fall into her lap, or she's just graced with them without trying at all. That's how it works, the world.

But this is a different world, out of here. Something that none of them ever planned on living in, running in, dying in.

She's absolutely not dying today, or any day from here on out.

So she has a plan. That plan mostly rides on her finding anyone else that may be left here, if she can. It'll be easier to get out of here with someone else, whether it means throwing them under the bus or using them to help her out of here. She doesn't want to do that to anyone, use them to further her own survival. That's not how most allies worked, she doesn't think. Maybe the Careers... but is she really a Career? Not even close. No one would consider her one - brains alone didn't get you chosen to volunteer.

She's not sure exactly what it is she hears. Something dragging through the sand, an awkward sound. The awkward sound of something clicking together, like a chain.

None of the Sentinels would be making that much noise, that she's sure of. It's the one thing keeping her calm. This is another one of the applicants, surely, one of the few people stupid enough to still be lingering around.

She pauses behind the beginning of a metal fence, ducking into the brush. She sees it first - the motorbike, out in the open, and then a shadow disappearing away from it, headed back towards the buildings. The wheels are dug awkwardly into the sand, stuck. Maybe it's out of gas. That would explain why the person who found it hasn't left yet.

Her first instinct is to run out there and take it, push it away before whoever it is comes back, but what good is that going to do, if there's no gas? It won't get her anywhere, and then she'll have some furious person or other on her tail, angry at her for stealing their stuff.

The shadow disappears, put the person still has to be close. She stands up, trying to get a better look at them, and they turn at the same time she does, like her feet shifted too loudly in the sand, like her presence cast itself all the way over to them.

Sabre turns and looks at her. She stays very still, watching. He looks confused, a little lost. It's an odd juxtaposition to how she feels, driven, with a purpose.

He looks at the bike, and then back to her.

"I'm not going to steal it, if that's what you think," she says.

"There's gas back in the building. You wouldn't get far with it."

If there's gas back in the building, why hasn't he left yet? It's like he's asking for it, wandering around in circles to tempt fate.

She clambers over the fence and he tenses. She's reminded of what happened in the simulation, of what she did to him.

"Don't worry, there's no explosive mines around here to make you fall into."

"That's a relief."

If she's being honest with herself, he looks a little distraught, and not at his current situation. At something else that she can't place, something she wasn't privy to. One of the deaths, maybe. She's not letting herself think about that.

"What are you waiting for?" she asks, trying to shake off the sudden awkwardness. "Go get the gas."

He backs up towards the building, keeping an eye on her. She inches a little closer to the bike. It looks like it's in working condition, not that she's ever ridden one before. Everything looks intact. Finally she gets close enough to unscrew the already loose gas cap, peering inside. It doesn't look like there's anything in it. It's certainly not big enough to hold much.

Sabre returns holding two gas cans with a small bag over one shoulder, eyeing her and her proximity to the bike, no doubt.

"Do you know how to drive one of these?" she asks.

"No. Do you?"

She shrugs. "Can't be any different than riding a bike."

An electric bike that needs gas, obviously, but it can't be that different. Only issue is it's big, as big as she is. For her to get it started first she'd need legs long enough to reach the gas pedal, and she doesn't think hers are going to cut it.

"Are you... coming with me?" he asks slowly, avoiding her eyes.

"Do you want me to?"

She doesn't want to ask. The words feel like glass coming out. But she knows the best way to get Sabre into agreeing with this is to grovel, to stray as far away from the girl who killed him in the simulation as she can. Yelling, insisting he hurry up, cracking a few awkward, terrible jokes - none of that will help. Anyone else, maybe. But not him.

He offers her the backpack, carefully, not so much as touching her, and then gives her the other gas can. She sets to work on shoving it inside, along with the two water bottles at the bottom. Water is good. Food they'll just have to worry about later.

It's a tight fit, but that's alright. At least they'll have gas for later. She keeps her head down, focused on the zipper, instead of looking up to worry about what it is Sabre is doing. The sounds of the gas hitting the empty gas tank seem too loud, but no one else even appears to be close. That, or they won't risk it. She just had to, in order to get out of here, or give her the best chance of surviving.

Sabre shakes the last few drops out. A few patter into the sand at her feet and she scuffs her flats through them, wiping them away.

He wedges the stand up and gets on the bike, testing out the balance. She knows he's more than capable of doing it.

"It won't be as hard as it looks," she says. "We can go slow."

They absolutely cannot go slow. They need to get the hell out of here.

She doesn't tell him that. Like she said, it wouldn't help. Just because she knows best here doesn't mean it will get them any further, with someone who won't listen to her controlling the bike.

She shoulders the bag and clambers on behind him, praying the bike holds steady. She's not even sure if it's properly meant for two people, or if they're both just thin enough to make it work. She wraps an arm around him, just one, and feels him tense at even just that, at the feeling of her arm around his torso, ribs digging into her own skin.

"All good?" she asks, and he nods, after a long moment in which she fears he's about to toss her off.

Sabre wouldn't, she doesn't think. He's too good, even if he doesn't realize that himself.

It doesn't matter if he's good or bad, though, because he's going to get her out of here. It doesn't matter.

She can be the bad for both of them, if need be.

Myra Callaghan-Alistair, 18
Applicant #5

It's a good thing she insisted on her Uncle helping her get her learner's the second she turned sixteen, or else they'd be in some deep shit right about now.

She's certain someone else in this car can drive, or are at least capable of it in a pinch, license or not. If someone is, no one's said anything. When they found the car no one else had stepped up to drive, not even Arwen, who she expected to tackle her to the ground for driver's privileges.

But no, she hadn't. She had just climbed into the back with Emmi, forfeiting the passenger seat to Jahaira without so much as a word.

It's odd. They get along, but there's this sort of... tenseness.

She's blaming the dead people they left behind in the starting town, and the threat of it hanging over their heads. Whoever they may be.

"Who do you think died?" Jupiter asks quietly. Coming from them that's almost a surprise, but Myra's begun to realize that not of all of society's finer cues have chosen to grace Jupiter with their presence. She can't say she really blames them. She wouldn't have many either if she spent most of her childhood in a hospital bed, wondering if she was about to die.

"Two people that would have considered killing us, hopefully," Arwen says.

"Hopefully," Emmi and Gideon mutter, at nearly the same time.

If she's being honest, there might just be a tad too much savagery in this car. She looks at Jahaira, who looks torn between joining in and just crying. She wouldn't blame her for that, either. She's only keeping a cool because she has to focus on driving, on getting them as far away from that place as humanly possible for the night. Only then will she allow herself to really think about what's happening.

She has to trust these people. She let them all in the car that she's arguably in charge of.

She spent several days in a room with all of them, save for Gideon, and if Jupiter likes him then that should be reason to trust him. There's not a bad bone in Jupiter's body - that she's certain of. She wouldn't readily like someone who does, hopefully.

"Did anyone get anything of importance?"

"Besides your goddamn shovel?" Arwen asks, nudging it at her feet. Sue her, it could be useful. She's not sure if she wants to imagine for what just yet. "Found a first-aid kit. There's not much in it. Some bandages, ointment for.. something important, I'm sure, gloves, tweezers, band-aids. That's about it."

Emmi waves a packet of matches at her in the rearview mirror. Jahaira fiddles with the backpack tucked between her feet. That's their entire supply of water, right there. In a normal environment that would be fine, at least for a few days, as long as they ration it. In the desert she's not so sure. It's hot as hell, and that's being generous. They don't have the luxury of drinking every time they get thirsty right now.

"I also have this," Emmi says, unfolding a little pocket map. "Not sure how old or accurate the thing is, but I guess it could help? At least we know where the boundaries are."

"Should we not consider trying to get help?" Jupiter asks quietly. "They can't stop us from leaving."

"No, but they can kill us," Gideon says flatly. "We'll figure something out."

Will they? If he's trying to be optimistic for Jupiter's sake that's touching, she'll be the first to admit it, but it doesn't sound anywhere near realistic.

Gideon doesn't want to die any more than the rest of them. Anymore than the two people who have already died.

She can't imagine they deserved it, whoever they are. Even if it was someone she didn't talk to or like... nobody could have deserved that.

"Well, do you know where we are right now?" she asks, watching Emmi trace a finger across the map.

"Chloride City," Jahaira murmurs.

"How do you know that?"

Jahaira points a finger ahead and she follows it, to the little broken down sign at the side of the road. Choride City Ghost Town it reads, along with a bunch of little symbols underneath, something about clearance.

They're in the hills now, too. They can no longer see the town they started in or the people who looked like ants from a distance, headed in the same direction. She doesn't want to know who they are.

"Well, that's one way to figure it out," Arwen says. "Ghost Town. Sweet."

Sweet on a normal day, maybe. A day of fun with friends, of exploring abandoned places and wondering what happened there once upon a time.

Right now, though, she's not wondering what happened here, hundreds of years ago.

She's wondering what's going to happen, now that they're the ghosts.

Kidava Vaud, 15
Applicant #19

She kind of wants to die.

Not in the stereotypical sense, anyway. She certainly doesn't want to give anyone in this car the satisfaction of killing her. Not Soran, who's already done it once, and not Trojan, who would gloat about it after he got done with it.

And definitely not Icarus, who doesn't know what shutting the fuck up means, when he's very evidently terrified and failing to hide it.

She's never in her life seen someone cycle through emotions as quickly as Icarus is doing right now. One second he looks like he wants to cry. The next he's complaining about how Kidava kicked him out of the front seat, or complaining that he's being forced to share space with Trojan. Mostly he's just babbling, again, she suspects, because he's terrified.

But he won't admit it. She's going to kill Soran for allowing this in the first place.

"Could you be quiet for like, five seconds?" she asks, banging her head against the window.

"Could you be quiet for five seconds?" he mimics. "You shut up, then. Believe me, the quicker I get this out the quicker it ends. Until then, you're gonna deal with it."

"Yippee," Trojan deadpans, and Icarus kicks him in the leg. That devolves into the two of them scuffling with each other, feet smacking back and forth, hitting the seats more often than they hit each other.

She hates boys. Again, most of all Soran, who allowed this to happen in the first place. And here she was about to credit him for being intelligent.

"God, this is stupid," she mutters, and Soran hums in agreement, like he wasn't the one that basically planned all of this.

She eyes the hammer stuffed into the side pocket of the door over Soran's lap, wondering. It unsettles her, it being so close to him. It's no real weapon, not like the bow and arrow he ended her with, but her could probably make it one.

"Did they teach you to be a badass in the Super Secret Quinn School, or something?" she asks, and Trojan snorts.

"Don't."

"Oh, I'm absolutely going to," she insists. "You can't let the secret spill about being a Quinn and not want to talk about it."

"I didn't let anything spill," he says flatly. "Why don't we talk about the other elephants in the car?"

"Yeah, like the fact that you've almost killed someone," Icarus says, looking to Trojan. "Is your head okay?"

"Is yours? Or did something break, and that's why you talk so damn much?"

She can't help it - she busts out laughing like she hasn't in the past three days, so much that her stomach aches. Soran looks at her weird. All three of them do, really. They need to leave her alone.

"Why don't we talk about her head?" Icarus asks. "She's the one laughing right now."

"Well, it's not me that's dead, so I'm fine."

"Oh, of course. Will you be laughing when you are dead, then?"

She swivels in her seat, staring back at him. He stays resolutely put, hands folded in his lap, smirking. She's already grown to hate that smirk.

"Is that a threat?"

"Haven't decided yet."

"Yeah, well I'll be certain to laugh when you're dead," she spits. "Even if I'm the one that has to do it."

"I'm terrified," Icarus says, voice as unruffled as can be. She nearly finds herself reaching a hand up to smack him, or else she'd ask Trojan to do it. Like Icarus said, he has almost killed someone. Hitting someone would be nothing compared to that.

She flops back into her seat, scowling, and ignores how wide Icarus' smile grows in the mirror. It's infuriating. Soran looks amused - well, half-amused and half impossibly annoyed, like they're all inconveniencing him to the greatest degree. She locks eyes with Trojan, the only one who seems to be on her side.

Should we get rid of him? he mouths, and she forces her own into a flat line, refusing to smile. Maybe she could reach across Soran's lap to grab the hammer. Unless he wants to risk crashing, he probably wouldn't stop her. It would be pretty easy. She's seen kills with a hammer before; quite a few of them, in fact. It's not the most practical thing, but when it's the only thing you've got.

"Don't," Soran repeats, and she looks at him.

"Don't what?"

"Don't do what I know you want to do," he responds. "'Cause I know you will, and then you'll regret it. And I don't plan on being the one that has to clean that fucking mess up."

"Oh no, go ahead," Icarus says. "Try it, I'd love that."

"You're tempting me more and more by the minute."

"But not enough for you to really do it. You'll talk but you won't actually make the move."

"Oh, shut up," she growls. "Are you forgetting who came second in the simulation?"

"Are you forgetting who won?" Soran mutters, but she ignores him, and it looks like the other two do as well. Clearly there's something more behind it. That's the reason he won, the only one. Not because she looked away, trusted him for a second too long. It definitely wasn't that.

She doesn't even bother to turn around. "I could kill you in two seconds flat. I can think of a dozen ways in less than that. Do you want me to start listing them?"

"Be my guest," Icarus invites. "I'd love to hear them. Love to hear what you're so eagerly going to do to everyone in this car and everyone else too, once you find them. I'm sure everyone will be running scared. Maybe some screaming, too. You'd probably like that, huh?"

"Hold this," Soran hisses in her ear, and she flinches at his sudden proximity. He's leaning over her, half in the backseat, and wrenches one of her hands to the wheel. She goes from listening to Icarus to focusing on the dunes they're driving through, trying to keep them in a straight line.

She only glances back for a second, if that. Soran leans into the backseat, over Icarus, and pops the door open to his right. The wind that buffets over them is hot, stinging her cool skin, and she flinches further away. There's no seat-belts, Trojan had made a joke about that. She had even thought it was funny herself. But Soran lets the door swing free, all the way open in the wind, just to plant a hand on Icarus' chest and shove him out.

She sees him fall out into the open air, a question on his lips, and then nothing. She doesn't even see him hit the ground. Soran reaches out to close the door, slamming it with a thud, and then returns to the front seat. She lets go, dumbfounded, and then rolls her window down just enough to stick her head out.

They're driving fast, fast enough that she can't make out much, but she can still see Icarus lying there in the sand. He's not moving.

But she looks down at the bracelet, and it's still at twenty-two.

"Um," she manages.

"He was annoying me too," Soran says, by way of explanation. "And you're more useful than he is."

She'd find a retort to that, normally, but doesn't have one this time. Soran rounds another dune and Icarus is gone from view.

"He's not dead, though," Trojan points out.

"Fine by me. He can find himself another way to die that's not talking himself to death, or getting his tongue ripped out by one of you."

"Or you," she says, leaning back in. "You'd have done it too."

"Believe me," Soran objects. "If I wanted him dead, he'd be dead."

My version of starting with a bang is pretty lame considering I can't kill more than a puddles-worth of human being in the bloodbath so my next chapter is generally stupid.

Perfect example tbh.

Let me know what you though if you feel so inclined.

Until next time.