Chapter Text
It takes Emily a year to compile Flamethrower Guy's knowledge into something she can work with. The first two months of are filled with online research, checking old library books, and frantically trying to remember the pages of the old man's book that she glimpsed. She does her best to pick Ashley's brain, strip mining the redhead's memories for useful information, using Ashley's attempt at throwing her to the wendigo as leverage. When Chris interrupts, he is extremely protective of Ashley these days, Emily coaxes him into sharing his experience fighting wendigo with a shotgun.
Once both Ashley and Chris run out of knowledge to share, Emily turns her attention to their last surviving friend.
Mike refuses to talk to her at first.
The first few attempts to talk to him about wendigo don't end well.
"If you hadn't made us leave, then Jess might still be alive."
"You tried to fucking shoot me, you bastard!"
"It's always about you. It always has to be about you doesn't it Em? You selfish fucking bitch!"
"Oh, I'm the selfish bitch? It was pretty selfish of you to leave Josh alone to die Michael."
He blames her for Jessica's death. She blames him for nearly killing her. It is ten months of vicious insults and cruel taunts before they finally reach an understanding.
xXx
On the anniversary of that terrible night Emily buys two bottles of Jess' favorite vodka and shows up at Mike's apartment. He lets her in without a word, looking ragged and worn thin by grief. To be honest, she doesn't look much better.
"Thought you'd be wearing makeup."
Her smile is brittle,"Oh, I stopped wearing makeup. I don't have a reason to do so now."
"Oh." He takes a drink straight from the bottle. It takes Emily a moment to realize that he has already opened the vodka she offered him. With a bitter smirk she follows suit, downing the sickly sweet liquor without a comment. This kind of sweetened, flavored vodka is not Emily's drink of choice but it seemed appropriate to buy. Jess was her best friend, something as simple as drama over boys hadn't changed that. It still hurts that her last words to her best friend had been targeted at the blond's biggest fears, regardless of Jess' own cruel comments about her own insecurities.
"It was supposed to be me and Jess you know?" Warmth floods her cheeks, the vodka infusing her blood and loosening her tongue. "The two of us together forever." She catches Mike's questioning gaze and takes another gulp. Emily gathers her courage, flops onto the upholstered couch, and sighs. "Just two stupid, ugly little girls who no one wanted to be friends with."
"Well, you see how that turned out." The old ache hurts, but she's had a long time to get used to it. "I guess it was cause Jess grew prettier than me and I ended up smarter than her. Hard to equals when your social circles refuse to intermingle."
"I didn't..." Mike's voice is rough, slow with intoxication and alcohol-dulled misery.
"I'm going back to the mountain." That causes a flurry of movement from Mike along with a string of curses when he almost drops his bottle of vodka.
"Are you fucking insane Em? Why would you-"
"I'm going to look for Jess and Matt." Despite her increasing blood alcohol levels the words come out clear and steady. "Their bodies need to be found."
Mike appears in her vision, looming over her head with panicky eyes. "Em, going back there is suicide. There are still those fucking monsters back there. You'll die if you go."
"I'll only die if I don't know how to deal with the wendigo Michael." Emily pushes as much conviction, drunken conviction still counts, as possible into her words. "We survived Mike. You survived. Flamethrower Guy survived for years." She cuts him off with a surprisingly sober look, "I know he was killed. I know that we barely survived. But it is possible Mike. And I need to be prepared if I'm going to survive."
"This why you kept asking me about the wendigo?" Mike stumbles toward the other side of the couch, collapsing into the cushions, and takes a long drink from his bottle. "You...you, fuck. I can't fucking. I can't."
"Michael, please."
"Okay. Okay. Just...fuck." Alcohol wears away at the barricades that keep memories at bay. The dark smudges under his eyes are more pronounced than ever and guilt prickles at the back of Emily's mind. She ignores the feeling and pulls out her phone, fingers swiftly turning on the recording function. "Those things can't be killed with guns..."
xXx
The information that Mike gives her is riddled with hints on wendigo hunting behavior. Favored angles of attack, what terrain is favorable to the wendigo, what to do if locked in close combat. Emily absorbs the knowledge with fervor that her friends would be frightened to see. Plans are drawn up and refined, supplies gathered, and exercise regiments are followed with military discipline. Expensive makeup, fashionable clothing, jewelry, all are stored away in favor of more rugged gear. Training leaves her body callused and scarred, skin glossy with healed burns from experiments with fire weapons.
Emily is 26 when she deems herself ready to return to Blackwood Mountain.
She is not content with just surviving this time.