Chapter Text
Rey doesn’t mean to be there when it happens. She knows better than this. She had convinced herself that she was safe enough — ever cautious — and that she would be safe straying from her usual side of town, if only for a few minutes.
She knew it was a risk given the current state of the city — the rise of the Resistance and the ever-present gang wars, but it still just didn’t quite sink in how bad things had truly become.
Her parents warned her, when she was finally old enough to go into town on her own, not to talk to strangers and to cross the bridge alone. They always had a new story, a new neighbors son or daughter who had come across something they shouldn’t and found themselves mixed in with the wrong crowd. They taught her to keep her hood up and her head down, but she had never really been one for following the rules.
If her father was here tonight, he would demand to know what she thought she was doing coming to this side of town, alone and at this hour. Her mother would swear that she would never be allowed to leave the shop again. But even more than Rey couldn’t stand the thought of letting them down, she couldn’t bear to see the family that she had come to call her own to continue to suffer like this.
It was just supposed to be one part. She had called the shop before she left class, assured that they had just the right part to fix the unit, even had them repeat the serial number back to her when she didn’t believe her luck. The fortune from her lunch must have been true. A “pleasant surprise” really was waiting for her. Even better, she had been able to charm the young clerk into holding it for her and promising to stay just a few minutes after close in case the train kept her too late.
In this moment, she feels just a faint pang of remorse for the poor boy. She’s going to be later than she thought.
You see, despite the epic catalogue running through her mind explaining why she shouldn’t, she takes a step forward, almost gravitating. She has heard it all before. If you see someone sick or alone on the side of the road, do not get close. Look away. Cross the street. Do not look back. She has heard the warnings, but she can’t help but wonder what those same people would do if they were actually faced with the scenario.
Could they really see a man, alone and suffering on an empty street and walk the other way? If the illness alone didn’t take him, then surely the night in the rain would.
As she edges from the sidewalk into the alley, she knows that it is already too late. It hits her with a slow rumble to her chest — he’s badly injured, and he knows he might not make it. A pale hand stirs, the first sign of life she has seen, moving to clutch at his chest. His breath is slow, much slower than her footsteps, and the small puddle grows wider the closer she gets. The sight confirms what she already knows — she might be too late.
“Don’t move,” she chastises, blind hands rummaging through her pockets, quickly producing her cell phone and unlocking the screen -- the notification of two missed calls illuminating the few feet in front of her.
She can’t risk being seen — her blood rushing at the thought of who might have done this to a poor old man — but the light from her screen illuminates just enough without drawing attention. She can finally get a better view of the man before her.
She had known by the glimmer of white hair in the distance that this man was older, but only now does she see just how old he is. His white hair is thin and his body frail, light catching and revealing the bones protruding beneath the wrinkled skin of his hand, still clutching his overcoat. Even in the dark, she can make out the shine of blood against the black fabric, now beginning to drip across his fingers.
She lowers her hood and bends forward, surveying the scene and weighing her current options.
“Sweet girl,” he coos, without stirring.
Her heart skips at the sound of his voice. He has acknowledged her presence. It is too late to turn around, to return to her trip, to think of anyone other than this man and how she could help him.
“We’ll get you to safety,” she promises, unraveling her scarf. “We just need to slow the bleeding.”
With a quick cut of her knife she is able to produce two makeshift bandages, just like she had seen in so many articles — Self-Help Hacks Using Everyday Items , the Top 10 Tricks for Independent Women in the City . The news seemed to always feeding from the chaos, churning out new pieces targeting terrified tourists. How to prepare should you ever be caught in the crossfire — techniques to save yourself in a society so focused on maintaining its distance.
“Here, I just saw this on the news,” she urges, preparing to wrap the fabric around his waist, “Are you able to lift your hand?”
Despite her urgency, he makes no effort to move. Instead she reaches forward, grasping his hand, which gingerly grasps back. It’s wet with blood and raindrops — colder than she would have hoped. They need to move fast.
“Sweet girl,” he echoes, “It is just too late.”
Despite his calm words, his face remains fixed. Face twitching slightly as he raises his head to look toward her. His face is so hollow.
“Nonsense, we can still get you to safety —”
His hand falls, gingerly tracing the torn fabric of his coat, betraying a lone bullet hole. It had caught him deep.
The rumble shakes her chest once more.
“It’s too late,” he promises. “You can feel it. You know it’s true.”
She can’t stand to think it. She could only imagine if this had been her father, mother, neighbor. Here, this poor sweet man is living the news stories — an innocent caught in the crossfire, left to die alone in the shadows of a society fueled by fear.
“Do you know did this to you? What can I tell your family?”
“You will know soon enough,” he promises, settling deeper into the brick, and letting his head fall once more. “You will see him.”
“See who?” she urges, needing answers like blood in her veins.
“The one with the scar.”
As his eyes fall shut, hers open. She stumbles back, unable to stand beneath the force of the images now rushing over her.
The alley fades, and she finds herself instead in a dark room. A wooden desk, the soft glow of a lamp, and a young man in the distance. She sees him again, closer now, a young face with eyes that hold the sadness of an old soul. Time speeds up. Now they are in a warehouse, in the glow of headlights, in front of her two men fight, blood and bellows and the sound of breaking bottles in the distance. Again, she sees his face — a busted lip and a longing look. Could this be the family he’s left behind? The boy steps back into the darkness, and suddenly they have returned to the study. It’s different now. She feels it in her bones. There’s movement in the distance, many more people than she has previously seen, but she can’t make out any face except for his. The boy — his sad eyes are now full of rage. The soft cheeks of his youth are gone, all sharp angles and sullen cheeks, and a scar just above his right eye. She feels it — the familiarity, the betrayal, the low lying fear. She takes a step back and —
She is falling. She’s in an alley. She’s in the alley. The man is in front of her, now fully collapsed toward the ground. And a bullet, it echoes through the alley, scattering across the concrete toward her. There’s more blood. Her blood.
She feels the wet heat dripping from her arm, falling forward on herself. Another fire in the distance, another bullet scatters — more blood, but this time it’s not hers.
She struggles to move, weighing the options to run for her life or to play dead. What can she do when she’s still seeing double? Bricks and bullets and blood swirl before her, but she still sees the glimpse of places and faces. The past and present swirling together.
More gunshots — here on in the memories, she cannot tell. But she doesn’t feel the burn, but she feels the pressure. Squeezing her arm, pulling her back, lifting her — and another stray bullet ricochets past her, where she had just been sitting moments before.
“What do you think you are doing here?” a voice demands, sounding less like a question and more a reprimand.
She knows the voice, but can’t quite place it. She can’t quite place the gunshots, either, for that matter. She hears them from various locations, just out of sync. Two sprays of bullets, two different angles. Then she sees herself walking toward her.
“Can you hear me?” the same voice bellows, this time gentler somehow.
She feels like she’s suddenly resurfaced, like waking up from a fever dream you can’t recall. That can’t be it. So many questions are still unanswered. Who knew this man? Who could she tell? Who would care what she had seen?
“It’s too late for him,” he explains, as if hearing her thoughts, “But there is still time for you.”
Time. The wet, she feels it again, spreading now. How long had it been? Her vision is weak, her body is weak, but the pressure against her arm is strong.
She winces at the realization, breathing through clenched teeth.
“I know it hurts, but you have to trust me.”
She lets him move her, turning her around toward him for just a moment. He looks familiar, and strong. Beneath his hood, she can make out just a patch of young skin. Maybe she knew him from college.
“Trust me,” he whispered, changing his grip, one arm looping around her waist, the second wrapping under her knees. “Watch your arm.”
Suddenly, she is in his arms, arm tucked against her chest, blood spreading between them. She thinks it must be hers, but there is just so much of it that she isn’t sure. The bullets echo in the distance as he races them across the sidewalk and deeper into the unknown streets.
His heaving chest is warm beneath her, and for the first time she realizes just how cold she is. Her scarf is still in pieces in the alley, her jacket is soaked through with rain and blood, and her vision is almost all too much for her to keep up.
How pathetic is it that he can run so effortlessly, carrying her full weight, and she is doing all she can to just keep her eyes open.
The streetlights trace shadows across his face, the only thing she can see anymore. Rain, or maybe sweat, beads at his skin, trailing beneath his hood.
“Stay here,” he urges, “Stay with me.”
She reaches to wipe it away with the sleeve of her jacket, a gesture of appreciation as her thoughts just refuse to align.
He takes a breath beneath her touch, her hand absentmindedly knocking his hood on its way down. His jaw tightens, he’s walking more purposefully now — they must be close.
She notices his lips moving once again before she hears the words coming from his mouth.
“We’re almost there,” he whispers, “You’re doing such a good job. Just stay awake for me.”
She nods slowly, remembering her parents. It must be late. She is so far from home. What will they think happened to her? What will they say when they find out?
Gritting her teeth, she feels warmth trail across her cheeks. She can’t bear to think of home until she figures her way out of the mess she’s already in.
“Don’t cry. We’re almost there.”
She looks up, again, studying her face. His lips move slowly, purposefully. His skin glows in the streetlight. Even as her vision fades, he shines.
His eyes meet hers for the first time, and she feels a knot form in her stomach. She knows those eyes, and she knows that scar.
The memories wash over her like the streetlights on his face. She sees everything, and then she sees nothing at all.