Work Text:
“The coast is clear. We can take a breather here. For now.”
Flora declines onto the wall behind her, careful of the weight on her torso. She can feel warmth trickling down the right side of her face, blurring her uncovered eye, but she isn’t too worried about it right now, there’s a kid bleeding on top of her. An iron scent emanating from her tattered cloth.
God, what a fucking mess. At least the kids aren’t dead. Small mercies, really.
Either it’s been too long since she got to wear her suit of armour, or those two bastards really were that powerful. She thinks it’s the latter. If there’s anything to glean from the screwed-up Claydol that one of them had, she definitely was no match for them. She shifts, trying to formulate the most comfortable position for Mosely. Jostle her too much, and she might make some injury worse. She doesn’t really want to inadvertently kill children right now.
Flora sighs. Her side hurts.
She recalls the events that transpired earlier. Hours ago, she was just at the top of the Xenpurgis, leaving the people there, a heart heavier than steel. She felt like she was about to throw up, the thought of leaving Cassandra alive haunting her. The thought of not killing her herself. Stomach roiling and churning at the failed plot, she hops across buildings and catastrophes to distract herself, tries not to replay the scene inside her head. Her father would be disappointed in her, she was his Sprout of Hope. Pride of the family.
Thoughts are shoved away when she stumbles upon one of the league’s Elite 8 and her daughter. They’re injured. Blood cakes the woman’s face—Tesla’s face, if she recalls her name correctly—and the girl, the daughter, cradles her midsection, slowly crawling towards her mother. It’s a nasty sight. No kid should be going through this. She hops closer, finds two other individuals flocking around them, and a little kid passed out by Tesla’s side.
It’s bad news. The other two are mocking the child and her dying mother. They don’t seem to be helping them. In fact, one of them tries putting the child inside a black cage. Flora decisively jumps in between Amber and the two bastards, halting the escalation. One of them curses her, she doesn’t remember exactly what he says. Doesn’t seem to be so important when they’ve already made up their minds in taking their heads.
It’s a blur from that point on. She fights them, tries to let the child handle things behind her. She knows Amber couldn’t do much in the state she’s in, but she’d hoped to bide some time.
Unfortunately, the fight is one-sided. It ends fast. A beam to her mechanical limb when she was distracted by the one with puffed hair, tearing it. A knee to her gut, staggering her back. A blast to her torso when she’s distracted, cracking her armour, sending her careening to rubble. Then, a lacerated side, which makes her hiss in pain. Her mechanical parts are torn off one by one, with either beams, or blades, or that fucking Claydol that she hates.
Smoke fogs her periphery, a Pokémon announces itself, she guesses it’s Amber’s. It distracts the two, blinding them. Adrenaline pumping, she marches over to her when the black air surrounds them. Amber is hauling her mother. Flora promptly grabs the little kid on the floor. Both of them bolting to anywhere away from the two headaches. Flora takes the lead, she’s familiar with these streets.
It’s two hours later when they manage to get to an abandoned store.
She can hear Amber breathing to her left. The kid is ventilating, Flora looks in her direction. She’s steadying Tesla back against the wall, putting her in a position where she can sit perfectly upright so gravity doesn’t make her sway downwards to the floor.
Amber is shaking like a leaf, Flora notices. It’s hardly surprising. She’s seen this before.
(Death rattles, she hears behind a closet. Sputters of blood, gargling from that familiar deep voice.
Her phone is somewhere else, not in her pocket. She shouldn’t scream, she’d be next. She doesn’t know the circumstances, words are beyond her. Even if she did, she doesn’t think she would be in the right mind to speak.
So, she can only watch.
Her tiny body, frozen and incapable of doing anything to help. She watches in horror, feels her emotions shake her to her core; she wants to throw up, wants to squeeze the culprit in between her fingers. Her dad is dying, and she’s angry that her body is congealed in fear. Congealed, her eyes stay frozen at the sight before her; A Television show she’s watching, she doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t understand. The face of the culprit is burnt into her brain at least, it’s a terrible wound.
Minutes pass.
Fantasies of killing the culprit haunt her, she relishes it, even as she is sunk onto the floor. Her mind away from her own body. Tears mixing with her dad’s gore. She can’t move, cradles him, his body far too big for her arms to circle. She’s helpless—deeply, irrevocably helpless. A million hypotheticals run through her mind, of which she saves him, but reality makes itself known when the man grows pale, and his body turns rigid. It’s a slap to her face. His hands never felt so cold.
It reminds her that she should carry out his wish. It’s the least she could do for how useless she is.)
Flora thinks of consoling her, but remembers Amber’s attitude towards her. She’s not owed gratitude, of course—she doesn’t think she ever really deserves that given how little good she’s done for others and herself—but it surprised her how much vitriol Amber carried in her voice. How much Amber insisted on putting distance between the two of them, just in case.
‘Don’t touch her,’ Amber said when Flora first offered to carry her mother. ‘Don’t hurt her.’
It’s rare for a kid to be so adamant; She’s seen adults falter in situations such as these, understandably so, but Amber is a tough one—still cautious of her despite the situation they’re both in. Protective of her only family. Flora respects it, can even understand it. She’d be the same way too. She leaves Amber be, knows that’s what she probably wants.
So, minutes are passing slowly.
Flora’s side hurts, she tries to ignore it. The added weight on her chest doesn’t help.
Unfortunately, Amber is still ventilating.
It’s a puzzle, whether or not to console her. What can? She’s really not good at this. When her father died, no one had consoled her either. Maybe except Florin, but he was a kid too. She’d pushed people away, incessantly avoiding any show of weakness. Her thought process justified it, because if she had, she’d be used, and all the progress she’s made towards cutting Cassandra’s head would be in vain.
She doesn’t know what to do. Again, helpless. Thankfully, it’s not a dying man this time.
Stressed out, Flora shifts uncomfortably. Then, she remembers.
Oh, right.
There’s a pack of cigarettes hidden inside her right pocket. She fishes the pack out, along with the lighter. It’s hard with Mosely sprawled on top of her, but she’s got it. It’s almost a full pack, she hasn’t had the chance to smoke ever since she broke out of prison. She guesses it’s the best time now, when her head and her body hurts like hell. A little pick-me-up.
Flora sets one in her mouth, pinches it with her lips. The lighter takes two clicks for it to light aflame. She takes a drag, a wave of pleasure hitting her. The pain across her entire body doesn’t stop flaring, but the nicotine hit does take away some of the stress. That mind-numbing headache alleviating.
She looks at Amber. The kid is slumping against the wall now, her mother leaning on her shoulder. Amber’s knees are up, her arms rest on them. Her eyes look vacant, breaths still trembling and loud. Flora can tell she’s afraid: Afraid that her mom won’t make it. Afraid all of this effort won’t matter. Afraid that this situation is helpless.
Panic attacks didn’t do herself any good back then, so Flora makes an executive decision.
“Want one? To take the heat off,” Flora says as she juts out the pack towards her, shakes it a little to loosen the cigarettes. One protrudes from the case. “You don’t look too good, Von Brandt,” She adds awkwardly.
Amber sheepishly looks at her. Her brows are furrowed, Flora guesses she doesn’t want to speak to her. She almost pulls away after a couple of seconds, until Amber says, “Fine.”
She takes the protruding one and the lighter. Her eyes darting everywhere but Flora’s direction.
Flora looks away, tilting her head back to the wall. One arm hugging Mosely’s back, preventing the kid from shifting too much. The other limp on the floor, clutching the pack. Flora tries to relax, but she hears the attempts of working her lighter.
Crap, did it run out? She worries.
Flora looks at Amber, tries to apologise for her lighter running out. There’s probably some in the store, she thinks. But the train of thought is cut off when she sees Amber’s state. Beads of sweat fall from her neck, her hands trembling as she tries to work the device. The sparkwheel failing to generate any kind of flame as her fingers keep clumsily slipping.
Flora sighs. She purses her lips nervously. It’s unbecoming of her. She doesn’t remember the last time someone was actively unravelling themselves in front of her. Also can’t think of a time she had unravelled herself in front of anyone at all. Flora feels incredibly out of her depth. It’s the consequences of burying sentiments. She imagines: If she were a better person, if she hadn’t been used, if she hadn’t imposed on herself responsibilities she had never been ready for, then maybe she could have been prepared for such a thing as this.
Poor kid, Flora thinks to herself. Amber needs somebody. Flora can hardly call herself rational—with all the old habits slipping back, thoughts of maiming those two cocky bastards as she had once fantasised for Cassandra—but obviously, with no one else around—no one awake enough anyways—someone needs to pull Amber out of the well she’s fallen deep into. Flora is the only one to do so.
Flora takes a drag. Puts the vice back into her mouth. She shifts uncomfortably, tries to ready herself. Has she become socially inept?
She sticks out her hand towards Amber, palm open. “Here. I can light it.”
Amber is still trying. It’s almost desperate, the way she keeps flicking her thumb down in haste, failing across all the attempts. She’s panting. Flora doesn’t pull away, she tries to wait. Doesn’t know if Amber actually heard her—hopefully she did, she doesn’t wanna ask twice, this was already a lot.
Eventually—thankfully—Amber glances at her. Head slightly panned in her direction.
Flora takes a better look at her expression: The kid’s jaw is hung open, wind coming out of her mouth in quick intervals. Her lips are cracked, scabs on it, she’s been biting them. Eyes devoid of the adrenaline or the anger directed towards her from earlier. Pulled apart, that’s what happened to her and that’s what’s happening to Amber. Flora feels odd about it. Is this what she looked like? She used to tell herself to grow a pair, used to tell Florin. Her bruised ribs flaring at the sight.
After a moment of deliberation, after exhausting herself of attempts, Amber croaks out an answer, “Take it.”
She hands the lighter and the cigarette. Flora grabs the two objects. Groans despite herself as she shifts uncomfortably once more; the soreness of her body undoes her, but Mosely’s on top of her, and she needs to light this damn cigarette. Grimacing at the pain, she rounds her arms around Mosely’s body, bringing her hands closer together for the lighter and the tip of the cigarette to connect.
In her periphery, as she’s trying to work the damn thing through her aching torso, she hears Amber shuffling.
It sounds nervous, the rustling of cloth. Then, a couple of seconds pass; Flora’s fingers are starting to shake as well, the nervousness and the pain overtaking her as her adrenaline winds down. She knows this thing can light, she needs to get over herself.
She hears it then—as Flora attempts to work her device, a thumb flicking down—Amber sniffling. Hiccupping, trying to keep herself silent, but she can’t—Flora knows she can’t, she’s just a kid.
(Flora is replaying the words her dad last said. She doesn’t want to forget his voice. Her lip is quivering, and there’s a never-ending stream of tears flowing from her eyes. Her hands are so small compared to his, remembering the way he patted her on the head.
Rough and calloused, whereas hers are tiny and soft. Not even half the length.
As blood seeps through his shirt, his mouth also oozing the same liquid, the reality stabs deeper. Her stomach feels like it’s gonna cave. Her head aches from how much she’s cried—it could’ve been hours already, and she hasn’t reported anything. She could be jailed if she stays here, tampering with the body before her.
Dad is relegated to that now. A body. Something to inspect, something to prod at. No respect. She realises how expendable people are then. How expendable she is. They killed her dad, and for that, the bastard woman needs to die too. That’s how the game is meant to be played. Make her feel the same pain as he did. Why should she care anymore?
Her dad is dead.
Flora’s thoughts go in circles. Hypotheticals, and replays of the time he spent with her. Fantasies of killing Cassandra herself. She doesn’t notice her hands shaking as she tries to caress her dad. Her body disobeying her mind; She should move quickly, she needs to catch that woman, but she’s frozen, shaken. Hunched pathetically over a man she can’t save anymore.
Flora never hears the door crack open. The hinges already loose anyway. Lock broken by Cassandra’s tools. She never hears it, and she stays frozen. It could be her.
Lupine is hugging her. She thinks it’s a blanket around her shoulders at first, but it’s his big arms.
It’s so damn blurry. She should get up.
Her dad is dead.
When she finally grows conscious after disappearing into her own thoughts, she pulls away. Angry at the world. At Cassandra. She stands up. When she tries to blink away another assault of tears, she feels the heat and dryness of her lids. She sniffles. Then, she’s verbalising herself in inhuman, incomprehensible noises as she realises how late Lupine is. Tries to direct all this vitriol, all these volatile emotions of hers towards him. She reveals how much she wants to kill Cassandra. To cut an artery.
She tries to make a move to the door, tries to pry her eyes away from her dad, but instead she staggers pathetically onto the floor. Lightheaded, nausea controlling her every move. Her breaths are coming shortly and quickly. Chest restricting and caving in, feels like she’s the one who got stabbed instead. She whimpers at the imaginary pain. She sniffles again. Doesn’t even realise she’s crying until she’s lying, curled, on her side, and she sees the tiny pool of tears underneath her cheek.
Lupine tries to touch her, carry her someplace else other than here, but his hands feel like dad’s, so she recoils. He doesn’t know what to do, and she doesn’t understand why she feels so odd. Like her body has been skewered with a stick. She sees—despite the uncontrolled fluttering of her lids, the tilting of her head—Lupine inspecting her dad.
Flora is too spent to react.
Her dad is dead.)
Flora hisses. Tries not to be too loud about it, tries not to give Amber any more reasons to panic. Amber doesn’t hear—of course not—she’s sobbing into both of her hands, muffling her own cries. Tiny hiccups and sniffles as Flora keeps flicking the sparkwheel.
It’s a minute of listening to her. Flora really doesn’t like it.
Finally, Flora manages to light it. It’s like hours have passed; Maybe she should have given up on lighting the thing when the first hour had hit. It’s not like time stops her though; it never did. Time is all she could afford when it came to mourning her dad. It’s not a lot, and she took it for granted, but it’s better than having to be stuck in a wasteland, knowing little of your mom’s status.
They don’t have time now, so Flora hopes the cigarette is enough. There’s probably more packs in the store—maybe those E-lighters where she can just push a button; that’d be nice. She could scout for whiskey outside. Maybe there’s a dispensary near, but she knows Amber doesn’t want to be left alone.
Flora exhales, smoke releasing from her lips. Trying to ready herself once more. Pulls her own cigarette out to talk. She pinches Amber’s cigarette between her fingers and extends her hand. “Here,” Flora says.
Amber doesn’t seem to hear. Her ears are reddened, her hair covering her eyes; she’s trembling.
Flora raises her volume by a smidge, “Von Brandt.”
Amber snaps out of it. She’s startled. Recoiling at the fact that this is a reality. There’s still rubble beside her. Mosely hanging onto Flora’s chest, her mother heavy on her left side. Blood dried, trickled from her forehead. Her eyes wide at everything, darting at the scenery before her. It takes a moment before her pupils land on the object in between Flora’s fingers.
Amber hesitates. Terrified, trembling.
Flora gives it a few seconds. Feels awkward about letting her hand linger in the air for so long. First-world problems.
Then, Amber takes it. Prying it off quickly. She doesn’t make eye contact when she does, only concentrating on holding the cigarette. Gripping it, she shakily and slowly puts the tube between her lips. A monumental effort, Flora thinks. The load on her chest lightens when Amber inhales. Amber’s eyes are downwards, avoiding Flora’s—avoiding everything, really.
It’s a couple of seconds in between. Amber exhales.
“Th—Thanks,” She rasps out, stiff.
It seems to calm her down, that hit of nicotine. Her breathing slows. Flora takes a drag as well, looks away. Towards the broken window. She takes in the catastrophe outside their bubble, takes in the crumpled buildings that she used to be familiar with. She tries to listen for any irregular breathing that isn’t her own. Flora tilts her head back onto the wall once more, looks at the ceiling, smoke flying out.
No kid should have to go through this, she thinks absentmindedly.