Chapter Text
It’s the stray fingerprint on the gas pump that gives them away.
By the time Sabrina Windsor and Rebecca Gardens realize they are being followed, the offending incident is hours behind. It all seems so far away now— a short hitchhike through Western Colorado. A polite trucker; the kindness of strangers; an offhanded offer to pump the guy's gas for him. They're dropped off on the edge of a yellow-green forest that's thick with afternoon light. Wind kicks up pine needles and dust. There's a happy, casual hum in the air as they make their way past dips and clumps of landscape, to tonight's meticulously researched sleeping quarters.
An old park ranger station sits by the fire lookout tower, abandoned just long enough for nature to begin reclaiming the building. It’s boarded-over windows and “Hunters Keep Out" signs climbing its walls. Sabrina jumps the chain-link fence without a second thought— Rebecca not-quite-scrambling after her. And still, they don't realize they're being followed.
“I just don't buy it. I think you're totally off.” The ranger station has a creaky wooden stoop, and it's here that Sabrina's stretched out, idly scratching at the label of her water bottle. Rebecca is halfway in a heap, trying to shield her game of solitaire from the sunlight.
“Enlighten me then, O Wise One,” Rebecca says mid-shuffle.
“Cooking is so not more important than self defense. That's like saying energy is more important than breath.”
“Sweetheart, you need energy to breathe.”
“What's the point of cooking if someone takes your food, though?”
“Well, what's the point of fighting if you starve to death?”
“Simple," Sabrina grins. “You just steal someone else's food.”
“… Did you take my granola again when I wasn't looking?”
Sabrina lifts up her hand and goes deadpan. “I would like to invoke my Fifth Amendment rights as per the U.S. Constitution and decline to answer that question.”
“I’m just relieved to hear we have rights now.” Rebecca scoops up all the cards and starts them over.
“Shit, babe, you got me there. Under duress I am forced to confess that I did, in fact, steal your granola. And I would do it again.”
“You're such a hardened criminal.”
“I’m not just a hardened criminal. I'm also proof of the valour of self-defense over cooking. Victory is mine and I didn't even have to fight you.”
Becca hurries through her cards, but not before she sneaks her competitive gaze up. “Yet.”
Sabrina winks. “Promise?”
“Don't tempt me, sweetheart.” And Rebecca stands. “That being said, we might want to think about settling in. The newspaper said a 67% chance of rain between four and eight. Along with wind speeds upwards of 45 miles per hour.”
Sabrina pulls a variety of faces. “Ew. Fire tower or ranger station?”
“Fire tower does have a gorgeous view. And we’d spot anything coming miles off.”
“I feel a shockingly well-proportioned 'but' coming on.”
“But we'd be just as easy to see up there. The ranger station’s more hidden—better cover, fewer windows to give us away.”
“So ranger station it is?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
It's on the way inside that Rebecca realizes something is wrong. It takes a second to identify why— the deep-seated feeling of pure wrongness precedes any actual evidence of it. Then it hits her: it's the birds. More specifically, it’s the lack thereof. There was an operatic array of them in the trucking rest area back yonder, but none of that music seems to have followed them.
“Brina.”
“Mm.”
“It might be nothing, but I'm getting a weird vibe right now.”
“Like, 'stay on high alert' weird or 'leave immediately' weird?”
“More the former. Let's just do our protocol.”
“Alright, deal.”
The inside of the old ranger station is all dark wood and musty air. Its walls are dotted with bulletin boards, maps, and instructional posters that are so severely faded it's hard to tell what they once were. In the centre of the room, a rusted potbelly stove is flecked with ash and lined with two-fold cooking rings. The twin bed pushed against the wall looks more like a crude assembly of roughly cut logs than furniture.
Protocol begins— the patchwork blanket is shoved up against the window and hung over the curtain line, an old utility hook is jangled firmly towards the door, and a decaying wooden chair is propped under the knob. Sabrina is checking the locks on the back door as she speaks softly.
“Okay, so we’ve hit the Corn Palace, the SPAM Museum, and that weird place with all the ventriloquist dummies. World's Largest Ball of Twine next?”
Rebecca shrugs off her flannel and tacks it against the window with the flimsiest boards. “Ugh, we missed that one in Kansas. I’m not backtracking just to see some string.”
“You’re just mad because we didn’t find the World’s Largest Collection of the World’s Smallest Versions of the World’s Largest Things.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“We could still hit the Museum of Questionable Medical Devices in Minneapolis,” Sabrina offers.
Rebecca is poking through the vents; behind the bed. No hidden cameras. “A bit close to home, no?”
“… Fair. Okay, Banana Museum. California.”
“I love the concept. I don't know if I love being that near Nevada.”
“Nah, I get it.”
“That might be what's making me jumpy, actually. That and it's just… very quiet here.”
Sabrina unscrews a lightbulb from the lamp at the bedside. “No kidding. We could do Wyoming. Head north. Still keeps us moving and I hear they have a museum dedicated solely to... what was it?”
“Jackalopes. The Museum of Jackalopes.”
“Sounds like our kind of place.”
Then rustling outside. A quivery shudder that vibrates through the little shack. Sabrina and Rebecca freeze. The moment kills all other conversation. Their eyes dart around in the posts and corners of the ceiling. The rustling fades into the unmistakable sound of footsteps—boots crunching on gravel, drawing nearer. Rebecca squeezes Sabrina's hand with a tightness that keeps it so still her veins spider out around it.
A brief, instinctive exchanging of glances, and an unspoken agreement. No words, no moving; not yet. Could be nothing. Could be rangers. Could be tourists. Could be cops. Could be—
Boots stop just short of the front door. A megaphone crackles to life.
"Sabrina Windsor. Rebecca Gardens. ZevsaTech recovery team. We know you're inside. This area is surrounded. Step out peacefully, and no one gets hurt."
All the air in the room goes thin. Everything is slow motion now. Rebecca's stomach plummets. Her heart is slamming against her ribcage. It's the ragged sound of every world they've ever known getting blown up and wiped away. Sabrina's jaw is clenched and trembling, and she's rasping air like she's about to throw up. Her hand is cold, clammy, and locked in Becca’s.
The megaphone buzzes again. It's a woman's voice, loud and hard. “You have sixty seconds to step out.”
Sabrina is the first to speak, soft and shaky through gritted teeth. “Th— they're not—" An audible gulp. “Why aren't they coming in?”
Rebecca's head snaps up now, eyes on the door. The weight of it is closing in on her. Her voice is low, and its stability surprises even her. “They must not know what we have.”
Eye contact. A moment of sustained breathlessness. “They can't storm us if we have explosives.”
“… My abilities.”
“They don't know.”
Crackle. “Fifty seconds, ladies.”
An engine idles somewhere outside. They can hear muffled orders being barked, a click, and the humming of something low.
Sabrina is getting feverishly animated now. “How do we use this?"
“I don't know.”
Outside, the sound of wood splintering shakes them both.
“We— we should act like we have something they don't want to risk. Right?” Sabrina’s voice is a panicked whisper.
Becca’s eyes are darting around the station; the list is comprehensive but it's not returning results. No time to heat up the stove; nothing sharp to turn into a weapon. Nothing. “Maybe if they think we've rigged the place?”
“Lie about the stove?”
“Maybe.”
The voice is getting louder now. “Forty seconds.”
A soft hiss whistles by the window, then the smell of something acrid fills the air. Curling in from between the boards, a faint grey vapour is snaking its way into the room. A sharp, chemical taste catches on the back of Rebecca's tongue, and she pushes a spare hand over her mouth and nose. Then above them— a shrill, piercing ringing nose. Fire alarm.
“Shit. They're trying to smoke us out,” Sabrina mutters.
“Okay. Okay. Let me think.”
“We don't have time!”
“Thirty seconds!”
The fire alarm's sharp beeping drones on, so constant and loud it's unfathomable that a single object could be responsible. “Becca. We need to get out of here.”
Rebecca gives herself a split second. Think; reorient. Don’t breathe. “Okay. Here's the plan.”
Brief words exchanged. Twenty seconds to go. And—
“Wait! Don't hurt us. We're coming out!”
The words hang in the air, and for a moment, the world outside freezes.
“Fifteen seconds,” the voice over the megaphone barks back, but there’s a hesitation now; a brief pause in the crackling static.
Rebecca's fingers curl around the heavy wooden chair that's still braced against the doorknob. She tries not to tremble. Slowly, quietly, she dislodges it. Sabrina is pressed up against the adjacent wall. Three quiet steps back. Ten seconds.
Nine.
Eight.
All in a flash— Sabrina cracks the door open just a sliver. Dashes back back back. Rebecca chucks the chair at the door with all her strength. Loud crash, wooden splinters, brief distraction; bolt.
They toss the back door open and they're both flying through it now. Leaves and twigs crunch underfoot; legs and lungs alike are burning. Cold air whips at Rebecca's face.
Outside— two sedans; four guards. Already pursuing. There’s thick brush of forest to the left and the fire lookout to the right. More of them could be in the trees already; could be closing in from every direction. They need time more than they need secrecy.
“C’mon!” One hand grabs Sabrina's, the other hauls them up by the metal staircase. They both scale the steps three at a time. Rebecca gets to the fire tower platform first; wrenches open the door. They're in.
Brina slams the door behind them. They have seconds, maybe less, before the guards are on them.
“Barricade! Now!”
Rebecca’s eyes scan the room, wild and frantic. “The table! Get the table!”
They lunge for it together, dragging the heavy wooden table across the rough floorboards. It’s bulky, awkward; perfect. They tip it on its side with a crash. The table skids, inches closer, and finally slams against the door with a bone-jarring thud. They can hear the guards now, pounding up the stairs, boots clanging on the metal steps.
The doorknob rattles—once, then again, harder. The sound is enough to make Becca's blood run cold.
“Wedge it! Wedge it in!” Sabrina gasps, panic spiking her voice. She grabs at anything within reach—an old wooden chair, a heavy crate, something to fortify their barricade.
Rebecca snatches the battered chair and jams it under the doorknob, her hands shaking so hard she can barely keep a grip. “Come on, come on." She forces it into place.
The door bucks against the pressure. The handle jerks violently. If it doesn't hold, they might be dead. They might be dragged away, they might be cut open and examined, they might—
A rattling sound. The door shudders, but holds fast. For now.
They both stumble back, breathless, eyes darting around the small room. The fire lookout is old, all lined with split wood and dog-eared books. Green paint is peeling off the place, and the floor is worn down bare in places. Photos and maps are haphazardly pinned up, edges curling, marked trails crisscrossing with hurried notations.
A scattering of notes, scribbled on the backs of envelopes, are stuck to the windows with yellowed tape. But the windows—there are too many. The entire room is lined wall-to-wall with them. Perfect view of the forest below, but now— way too visible, way too vulnerable. They can see the cars from here; the agents regrouping on the ground below. One saying something into a comms. Another pointing up, towards the tower. A young woman in a black pantsuit stepping out of a driver's seat.
“Brina, they have an obliviator.”
They both drop to the floor. "We need to cover those windows," Sabrina hisses.
The doorknob rattles again. It's getting progressively louder. They don’t have much time.
Rebecca twists around on the floor, running an appraising eye over the place. She spots a canvas tarp in the corner of the room; starts dragging it over. “Help me!”
They yank it up, throwing it over the windows, pinning it in place with anything they can find. They drop down behind the bookshelf, now; sweaty, trembling hand in sweaty, trembling hand.
The door isn't shaking anymore, which is somehow worse.
They let themselves take stock. They don't have much. There's a round alidade map table standing like a sacrificial altar in the centre of the room, complete with all its brass angle-measuring gear. Straps and goggles in a box in the corner, a rusted antique fire extinguisher mounted to the wall. The smell of old pine needles mixes with the metallic taste of blood in the back of Rebecca's mouth.
“We're trapped here.” The voice doesn't feel like her own, but it's her throat that quakes when she speaks. “They're blocking our only way out.”
Brina’s got a fist up against her own mouth now, gasping out quick, shallow breaths that echo in the tiny room. “What about your powers? Can you—”
Becca's breath hitches. “I don't think— I mean, on command, and with this many people— I don’t—“
“Ssh, ssh, babe, it's okay, it's okay. Um. Shit. What can I—”
Silence for a few eternal seconds, and Rebecca's eyes lock onto the alidade map table. The brass ruler attached to it gleams dully in the low light.
“That—” Rebecca swallows hard, trying to steady her voice. “That thing— the ruler. We could— we could break it off, use it as a weapon.”
Sabrina follows her gaze. “Right, okay, yeah. Good idea. We can use that.”
Rebecca wrenches the ruler off the side of the dial, grimacing as it creaks. The splintery metal snaps off completely in her hands, and she holds it close to her chest like it's all they have left in the world. “The obliviator stepped out of the car. She's probably on her way up now. That means no one's guarding the driver's seat, right?”
“Oh. Shit. If we could get to the car—“
“Yeah. Yeah. Overwhelm them.”
Sabrina's gaze darts to the fire extinguisher on the wall. Her voice is rapid; out of breath. “I can use the foam to blind them. It's— disorient them. We would only need to— like just for a second, just enough to get down the stairs.”
Rebecca's voice rises hurriedly with her idea. “Get a head start. Drive us somewhere public. Anywhere.”
Sabrina swallows hard. “Okay. Okay. And if they're on us— what? We use the… we use the…”
“Ruler. Extinguisher. Anything.”
“Right. Yeah.” Sabrina meets Rebecca's eyes. “If it gets dicey, can you use your powers at all?”
“… I don't know. I don't wanna hurt you, Brina.”
Brina grimaces, but nods in her shaky, determined way. “Alright. Fine. In this together?”
Rebecca sees Sabrina’s hands quiver. Goes to hold one. “Always.”
“… Becca, I'm so scared.”
“Me too.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
A kiss. Another beat of silence. The panic is something tangible now. It infuses the space between them; it's in the air they’re both struggling to breathe.
“I’m gonna set up the extinguisher,” Sabrina whispers. “We move the desk on three?”
“On three.”
One, two— all of it's done. Extinguisher off the wall; ruler in hand; seconds ticking away. Three— desk shoved across the room. Ready for the onslaught, thrust open the door, and—
There is a reason people wear protective earphones at a shooting range.
The sound of a single gunshot is deafening. It’s not just loud—it’s an explosion that punches through air, reverberating in the skull. Unprotected ears ring with a high-pitched whine that drowns out everything else. The flash of a muzzle in a dim room sears through vision, burning its lingering afterimage onto bare eyes. There is no dramatic scream, no cinematic recoil. Just a sharp, brutal silence that follows, like the air itself has been shocked into stillness.
And then the world becomes terrifyingly clear.
Shattered glass glitters like stardust on the floor. Light reflects all jagged out of a hole where the window used to be. The tips of Rebecca’s fingers go fuzzy; awful messy humanlike flesh. Too fragile. The ringing in her ears overtakes everything else. She sees Brina’s lips move, but there's no sound. The barrel of the gun is still smoking, its cold, dark eye now pointed square at Sabrina.
In an instant, the ruler slips from Rebecca’s grasp. She doesn’t hear it clatter to the floor. She’s aware of movement—of figures, blurred and menacing, advancing toward them—but the details are lost in the overwhelming noise. A writhing in her periphery; the slowly returning sounds of shouting. Sabrina…
Tight grip on the scruff of her shirt as they descend the stairs. Something poking against her back. Stupidly not a single thing she can think to say. She’s stumbling along the dirt path as best as she can. The black sedan is polished with carnauba wax.
Strong hand pushing down on her shoulder. Leathery interior. No one else in the backseat.
Not Sabrina. Where is Sabrina?
No interior car door handles to pull on. Tinted plexiglass divider between the front seat and the back. Even so. If she could just touch the driver's mind— just reach inside and tug at the weakest of his strings— maybe—
Front door opens, and the obliviator and one human guard pile in. They have the obliviator behind the wheel. Smart. Damn it.
Thoughts like this circle her brain like vultures as everyone gets settled. A glance out the side window as the car flees the sun. Driving away, and away. No view out the back window. No view of Sabrina.
A single raindrop smears down the plexiglass. The windshield wipers squeak on. Artificial rainbows spin out of it and scrub away.
Sabrina Windsor is going to fucking kill these people.
She'll find a way. She will. For now, though, she is a curled-up ball of fury in a backseat. Maybe it was the screaming and the endless insults or maybe it was the way she elbowed that one guard too hard in the stomach, but they've opted to cuff her wrists together, and her ankles to a little chain that's bolted to the floor. It's insulting. It's hilarious. They must actually think a pair of handcuffs is going to stop her.
… They may be right. No one's talking at all. Not even reacting to any of the threats being hurled their way. They could at least have the decency to threaten her back. She's trying to foam at the mouth here, and the lack of pushback is drilling an aching absence in the space where escalation should be.
Maybe she'll pull the fucking cuffs apart. Rend them. Break free. Strangle these robots caked in human flesh Halloween costume paint one by one. She yells at them some more; this time not threats but all swear words. They have no reaction to that either.
If Becca hadn't given up— no, that's stupid— if Sabrina hadn't fumbled the fire extinguisher—if they both hadn't folded like that— and why would ZevsaTech track them down just to shoot them where they stand? They could've— fuck. This time she calls the driver a middle-of-the-pack slur.
The yelling dissolves into frustrated sobs earlier than it should. Not that it's a surrender. Just stupid chemicals in the brain. Lingering confusion. Soon the sobs will be swallowed up and spit back at anyone who even looks at her funny.
Hour 2. She's seething in lowercase fury. Both of them, she thinks, are human. They wouldn't be playing that godawful bossa nova over the car radio otherwise. She doesn't have the energy to curse them out for it. She's pretty sure she spots the Utah state sign passing by: Life Elevated.
Rugged, towering peaks loom out the darkened window. Even in the early summer, some are dusted with snow. Closer to the horizon, the view gives way to the stony faces of the Uinta Range. The partitioned interior of the car is a hellhole with AC blasting and nowhere to go. Sabrina considers lying about needing the bathroom. Maybe if Becca were here.
By Hour 4, the landscape starts to flatten out into high plains and plateaus. Once it’s Hour 5, even those disappear into dusty, arid nothingness. Long stretches of dirt road rolling for miles in each direction. Alien salt flats that look like frozen oceans, baking in the sun and coated in layers of opaque whiteness. Sometimes they pass cars going in the opposite direction. Family camper vans. ATVs. Too brief; too ephemeral to call for help. She finds herself hating all of them.
There's definitely an Hour 6 and 7. The ground is all crusty, and the sky seems even bigger and more empty. Sagebrush and Joshua trees sprout up like tortured, mutated bonsais along both sides of the road. Sabrina wonders what she'd say to Rebecca if they were both seeing this of their own volition.
She makes herself stop looking out the windows.
Hour 8, she thinks, she screams again for a little while, just to remind herself she can. She throws a fruitless head-butt at the partition between the front and back seats, mostly because she can't think of a better way to use her head. It makes her see stars and feel stupid.
More hours pass. It's maybe been ten or eleven of them by now when the car finally turns off the main road and onto a long, dirt path. Dust billows up in thick clouds behind them. It settles before a towering fence that stretches as far as she can see in either direction. It’s made of thick, industrial metal, topped with coiled razor wire that gleams under the setting sun. There's a pause, and a checkpoint, and words are spoken from the front seat that she can't quite make out. The gate groans aside. They roll through.
ZevsaTech is shorter than she remembers. Barely two stories above ground. This fact makes her want to chew glass. It's a monster. Skinless nightmare displaying its organs proudly. No clawed fingers. No teeth. Just smooth panels of concrete and glass, like a mausoleum for the living. Littered around it: a secondary fence, multiple watch towers, all surrounding a blocky, grey facade that drains all the colour from the world.
In the absence of Rebecca, Sabrina holds her own hand.