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Zoe De Vera doesn’t panic.
There are plenty of moments where she’s stressed or worried or scared, but like any good FBC agent, she doesn’t let herself get caught up in her own emotions. She keeps a level head and doesn’t run around like a beheaded chicken the second a situation takes a turn for the worse. This should be the bare minimum, but shockingly, she has plenty of coworkers who are completely useless in dire situations. Didn’t they go through the same training she did? Who knows.
She can’t afford to lose her cool when something goes wrong. In her line of work, something is always going wrong.
Case in point: In a startling, laughably incompetent lack of foresight, the team responsible for the operation of the diving bell and, by extension, Zoe De Vera herself, have lost Dylan Faden in a sinkhole that could be miles deep. It would be comical if it was happening to anyone else. One of the most powerful parautilitarians ever recorded, and his handler has lost him in a big hole in the middle of Manhattan.
Actually, she isn’t going to consider him lost. She knows exactly where he is. Again, he’s at the bottom of a goddamn fucking sinkhole.
It had all happened so fast— one second, she was walking Dylan through setting up a number of different sensors, the next, every single device within a hundred-foot radius of her started blaring out alarms and flashing red warning lights and, helpfully, a scientist told her that they might have, probably, potentially, possibly broken the diving bell beyond any hope of repair. Some sort of shift caused by their sensors.
The things she said in response weren’t very professional or kind, but that’s not important. She’ll deal with the potential HR complaints later.
Her vantage point at the rim of the sinkhole didn’t give her a good view of what was happening in the lower levels, but the tremors were unmistakable and didn’t suggest anything good. The ground lurched beneath her, lifting then dropping as if the entire street was being held by some unimaginably large hydraulic arm. She only barely kept her balance and avoided bumping into one of the many pieces of recording tech littered around. The last thing she can afford right now is to destroy even more FBC property.
(Because that’s what Dylan is, huh? A weapon to be aimed and fired, then locked away once his purpose has been fulfilled.)
Once the researchers were relatively sure that another paranaturally-powered-earthquake wouldn’t happen, she grabbed onto the handheld microphone that hopefully still connects to the diving bell’s speaker system. Her voice definitely didn’t shake as she spoke into it, repeatedly calling Dylan’s name and waiting for the inevitable silence she’d get in response.
She chewed on her bottom lip and shuffled her feet, though again, neither are signs of her being nervous. Definitely not panicking. Again and again she tried, but nothing happened. Then, she realized with more than a little embarrassment, that a broken diving bell probably means Dylan either can’t hear her or can’t respond. The thought does make her feel a little better but the relief is short-lived and miniscule. She starts to give a condensed version of what happened, on the off-chance that he can hear her and the fact that she needs to do something.
Her eyes darted across her surroundings, towards the researchers frantically rushing between different devices, arguing with each other in-between noting how fascinating all of it was. How could they be so focused on the readings when one of their own was trapped down there?
(But he isn’t one of their own, is he? Everyone she’s spoken to has made it excruciatingly clear how they feel about Dylan. Sometimes it feels like they’re trying to shift her own opinion of him– to nudge her towards sparing the praise and being heavy on the stick, so to speak.)
Could they have avoided all of this if they hadn’t wasted time waiting for someone qualified to pull a lever? She knows the Bureau’s rules are written in blood, but there’s a point where they become inane and, bluntly, stupid.
What a mess.
Good thing she was the one tasked with cleaning up Dylan-involved messes. She can’t imagine anyone else would be willing.
When she mutters into the microphone that she’s going to try and send down a recovery team, it’s hard to not feel like she’s lying.
One hour after the collapse
For some reason, everyone is pretending like they’re completely incompetent. No one wants to talk to her and when she manages to pin someone down long enough to speak, they’re quick to bring up something else that needs their attention. Bitterly, she recognizes that they know what she wants to achieve and they don’t want to be roped into it.
Arish isn’t any better.
She’s been trailing after him for at least ten minutes by this point while he stubbornly does his best to ignore her. It’s not the sort of behavior that the Co-Director of the Federal Bureau of Control should be displaying, but she still has just enough sense to not say as much out loud. He’s making a point out of focusing on everything besides Dylan. There’s no way in hell he gives a single shit about the cost per meter of the diving bell’s main cable.
“Wouldn’t you at least agree that a rescue team being sent in is the standard procedure in cases like this?” She asks with a huff. They’ve been walking in circles and Arish keeps speeding up every time they finish a loop. It won’t be long until she’s forced to sprint after him. “We have the personnel, it doesn’t make sense not to send—“
“Rescue teams are meant to recover FBC agents.” He spits out, abruptly coming to a stop and whipping around to shoot her what she assumes is meant to be a withering glare. “Faden isn’t an FBC agent. I’m not going to send the people under my command to die trying to save a murderer.” Each word is spoken with tangible venom— like he’s angry he needs to explain any of this. “Sometimes— in our line of work, you start to recognize that not everything needs to be saved. Sometimes— a loss is a blessing in disguise.”
His mouth is curled into a nasty smile, though it quickly turns into a grimace as he squeezes his eyes shut and mutters something about needing more pain pills for his headache.
It takes everything she has to not give him the reaction he’s clearly gunning for. She clenches her jaw and balls her hands into fists, squares her shoulders for good measure. He cuts her off right as she opens her mouth.
“If you can find Rangers willing to kill themselves for Dylan Faden, then you can send a rescue team,” He says. One corner of his mouth curls into a sneer. They both know he’s offering something impossible. “That’s the last I’m going to say about this, got it? Faden going out by himself is the best case scenario. Maybe if you actually read his files, you’d understand that.”
Zoe De Vera is not very good at keeping her thoughts to herself.
“You’re going to stand around and let him die over a fucking grudge?” She asks incredulously. “You’re supposed to be better than this! Are you so goddamn petty that—“
“Unless you’re trying to get marked for insubordination, I’d suggest you watch your words, Agent De Vera,” Arish cuts in, pointing an accusatory finger at her, his eyes narrowed. She definitely succeeded in pushing multiple of his buttons. “You’d be smart to remember that you’re the one who sent him down there. You’re the one who let him loose. Don’t act all pissy now that you’ve found out why he shouldn’t be given a long leash.”
“Fucking unbelievable,” She scoffs in return. “There’s no way you’re stupid enough to think that letting Dylan— letting the Director’s brother— die! I mean, do you do this with everyone you don’t like? If I got trapped, would you not send out a team because I’ve hurt your goddamn feelings?”
Arish’s eyes narrow, his mouth curling into a snarl. “Now you’re accusing me of being inept?” He asks, each word spat out.
“It’s not an accusation if I’m only making an observation,” She answers.
The two of them have gathered an audience of sorts, even though everyone is clearly trying their best to look like they aren’t listening. It doesn’t matter to her. Let them see just how petty and vindictive their Co-Director is. Let them see that he’s willing to let their coworkers die.
His jaw clenches, the throbbing vein on his forehead all the proof she needs that he’s royally pissed. “I already said my piece,” He starts, and it really does sound like the effort of stopping himself from screaming is causing him physical pain. Something about that makes Zoe feel better. At least he doesn’t get to say his one-liner and then strut away with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “Either you accept the terms I provided, or you turn around and walk back to the watchtower. Those are your only options.”
“I’m sure you’d like to think that,” She says snidely. It’s probably not a good idea to keep going, but it’s also impossible to stop herself.
He mutters something under his breath that she doesn’t catch but can tell is nothing kind. Then, he turns and walks away.
Her jaw aches from the force of not making another smartass comment and continuing the argument. There’s a time and a place for getting into fights with her superiors, but now isn’t it. She’s already spent enough time trying, pointlessly, to get through to Arish. Dylan is waiting for her and every moment wasted means a smaller and smaller chance that he’ll be found.
She glares daggers at Arish’s back. Who cares what he thinks. He’d have gotten Dylan killed on day one if their positions were switched. He’d probably be happy about it, too.
He wouldn’t even be willing to send a rescue party if Dylan was trapped at the bottom of an empty swimming pool. They haven’t even tried anything and he’s already acting like they’ve exhausted their options. Arish is just too childish to see past his own feelings. He can’t be objective the way Zoe can.
And who does he think he is, suggesting that she hasn’t even read Dylan’s files? She’s read the shit out of them. Out of the whole five-foot-tall stack of papers, half of them completely redacted and acting as nothing more than giant wastes of ink. She knows the names listed and the gruesome, dutifully scribed nuances of their deaths. She knows that some of them could only be identified through genetic testing.
(The records of the incident were plentiful and detailed. The ones on Dylan’s upbringing were, in contrast, almost useless with how heavy-handed the FBC was with redacting. What she’s found paired with what Dylan’s told her doesn’t paint a very good picture.)
She isn’t going to say that what happened didn’t matter, or that people don’t have their own reasons to be wary of Dylan. Everything she’s seen so far has told her that Dylan is making an active, intentional effort to right his wrongs.
Who is she to look down her nose and say that he doesn’t deserve a second chance? People don’t change, but from what she’s seen, maybe Dylan hasn’t changed. Maybe, and she’ll admit this is a wild and brand new idea, people do stupid and bad things when they spend most of their lives trapped in glass boxes being poked and prodded. Revolutionary, she knows.
Arish can have his grudge. He’s not Dylan’s handler (thank god for that) and he isn’t responsible for fixing this. Also a good thing, since he’s clearly willing to let people die over personal issues.
(They’re both lucky he left before she could say anything worse to his face. She’s sure this will be brought up in a disciplinary report some time in the near future. Not that she cares. Her record is already littered with similar marks. It’s not her fault that she has issues with things like professionalism.)
When she picks up the radio mic and speaks into it, she’s almost doing it more for her own sake than for Dylan’s. She tells him that she’s going to try her best to assemble a rescue party— that even though Arish is being an ass about it, that doesn’t mean she’s going to give up. Her foot taps out a quick, definitely not anxious rhythm as she talks. When she glances down at the blocked entrance of the sinkhole, she tries to not let it get to her.
All she needs is to find a few volunteers and track down any alternate entrances to the sinkhole. It’s not rocket science.
She can do this. Dylan is counting on her. She has to do this.
Two hours after the collapse
Shockingly, it’s impossible for Zoe to find more than two people who are willing to help. One ranger seems like he’s willing to do just about anything as long as a fellow FBC agent asks him to, and the other appears to think that this might be a good way of earning goodwill and potentially getting a promotion. She’s not sure why he thinks that, but it’s none of her business.
Two rangers does not a rescue team make, but it’s better than nothing. Arish isn’t willing to help and, despite everything Dylan’s done to assist the FBC, neither is anyone else. It’s bitterly unfair and she wishes she could get the others to understand that without coming across as some fucked up backwards version of Stockholm Syndrome.
Not to mention the fact that they still don’t know how to get into the sinkhole in the first place. No new openings have appeared as far as they can tell— the surrounding buildings are largely normal, and the asphalt (where it hasn’t been cracked by either patterning or combat) is intact.
She doesn’t want to think about the possibility that the entire sinkhole collapsed in on itself. Or the idea of Dylan being trapped in some small pocket of air in the dense rubble. The MCD tells her that it’s still intact and is still managing to send a signal, but the tracker has been stationary for the past two hours. That means either the area Dylan’s in is small enough for his movements to not register, he’s currently unconscious, or, somehow, the collapse managed to kill him while leaving the MCD intact.
Zoe decides that she isn’t going to entertain the latter. The second seems unlikely, considering the sort of blows she’s seen him walk off, and thinking about the first one makes her skin crawl. She’s not claustrophobic, but it’s hard to not feel freaked out by the idea of being trapped miles underground.
Dylan doesn’t deserve to be in a position like that. Even if so many of the others think he’s a lost cause, Zoe isn’t about to just give up on him and call it a day.
She lost her team. She isn’t going to lose Dylan too.
She needs a plan. Something to focus on so that she’s not just standing around getting caught up in worst case scenarios. The rescue team idea is a dud. She has two volunteers, but there’s nowhere to send them into. Cross that off the list and move onto the next option. But what is the next option?
It takes her approximately five minutes to lock in on the conveniently un-exploded box of explosives sitting tucked against the side of a nearby building. It was meant to be used further into the sinkhole— she’s not sure why some of the scientists thought that they’d need to blow open something inside of it, but now that she can benefit from it, she’s not in any mood to ask too many questions.
Arish isn’t here. He’d left to go oversee some task he decided was a million times more important than saving the younger brother of the Director. That leaves a conveniently Arish-shaped hole in the potential issues with her next idea.
It’s surprisingly easy to convince a few of the rangers to help her set up the explosives around the entry ring of the sinkhole. They might not be willing to go down to help Dylan, but they’re certainly happy to blow stuff up. The common sentiment is that they might as well try to see if this will open the main hole back up, and that even if it doesn’t work, they’ll at least have something fun to watch.
They’re helping. Even if she’s more than a little irked over their reasonings for helping, she knows she can’t do this by herself. Unlike flipping a lever, she actually isn’t confident in her explosives training. Not that she ever received any.
Once everything’s primed, she grabs the radio mic again. Even if Dylan is potentially unconscious or similarly unable to move, she figures he’ll appreciate having a heads up. And if he can’t hear her, then saying everything out loud still helps her to feel a bit better. She tells him that they’re going to try and blow open an exit for him— that he’s probably out of range of the explosion, but to just be aware that it’s going to happen.
There hasn’t been any response since the collapse, and yet she still finds herself waiting silently for his voice to crackle out of the speakers, tinny and compressed with distance and a weak signal.
When did she start enjoying their conversations? She’s not sure she’d be able to point to any moment in particular– no sudden snap when Dylan changed from a loaded weapon to a tentative ally. He was right, when they first met and he said she wouldn’t accept his help if she knew who he was. Before she even read through his reports, his reputation preceded him. Ruthless and bloodthirsty, without a remorseful bone in his body. Over 500 deaths all tied to him.
She chews on her lip and feels the MCD remote weighing heavily in her coat’s pocket.
Now isn’t the time to think about any of that.
Three hours after the collapse
The explosives don’t work.
Zoe feels stupid for thinking they would. This isn’t a simple cave-in they’re working with. When the smoke had cleared and she was able to peer down the sinkhole entrance, she found that it was (and this is a very generous estimation) a foot deeper than before.
No one was hurt in the blast, and that’s really the only reason why she was saved from having to report to Arish about the whole situation. She’s sure the info about wasted FBC ordinance will reach him eventually, but she’s sure she’ll be able to twist it into a scientific endeavor and not a blindly naive attempt at saving Dylan. Arish isn’t stupid enough to actually believe that, but she’s pretty certain that explanation requires less overall paperwork, so he’ll be willing to pretend that she’s telling the truth.
She tells Dylan that the plan didn’t work even though that much is obvious and completely unhelpful. It’s starting to feel like the lack of response is driving her crazy.
She doesn’t need some long-winded answer where he states exactly what’s happening to him and what his surroundings are, but the fact that she hasn’t heard a word doesn’t bode well. No movement, no responses, nothing. The pit in her stomach is growing deeper with each passing minute. The stale rations she had earlier are easy to blame for her queasiness. Zoe doesn’t panic. She’s not panicking.
The MCD is still broadcasting a signal. Dylan is far more resilient than a normal human. He’s not dead. He can’t be dead.
A part of her thinks (irrationally) that she would know if he was dead. That she’d be able to feel it.
A shivering sigh escapes her mouth. She just— needs to stop obsessing over the worst possible outcome. Positive thinking. What is she going to do when Dylan’s found, maybe a little worse for wear but alive and kicking? She needs to stay professional, but it’s hard to not imagine hugging him. Not that she’d ever actually do something like that. He probably doesn’t like being touched, anyways.
Maybe an approving nod or a smartass comment that hides just how worried she was when he went missing.
She’s his handler. At the end of the day, she needs to maintain a healthy distance between them while also fostering trust. It’s a thin line to balance and she’s still not entirely sure why Pope thought Zoe would be fit for the task. The last thing she’s going to do is let Pope down.
Zoe is competent. She isn’t a troublemaker who just so happened to land in this position out of sheer luck. Pope had a reason to pick her and even if she doesn’t understand why, she’s not going to fail at the starting line.
Reflexively, she checks the MCD tracker again.
Nothing.
Six hours after the collapse
Plan after plan ends in failure. Zoe still isn’t any close to reaching Dylan and the others are getting visibly fed up with her efforts.
They think she’s wasting her time and the FBC’s resources. They think, like Arish, that Dylan is an acceptable casualty in the name of progress. His name will (maybe, if they’re feeling generous) be listed amongst the other deaths and then sealed away with the rest of the records of the Manhattan AWE.
She paces back and forth, clutching the radio mic in one hand like a lifeline. The MCD remote sits on a nearby table, next to the tracker. She thinks, probably falsely, that the dot has moved just a smidge. Maybe half a centimeter to the right. She also might have just imagined it. A folder is placed over the screen because if she can look at it, she’ll do nothing but look at it.
The diving bell is starting to run out of power. Systems are failing and the engineers don’t know how much longer it’ll keep working. She asked if the radio was still online and got a response of maybe, we’re not entirely sure. Something about the main cable failing.
Another helping of shit that’s been heaped onto her plate.
There aren’t enough volunteers for a rescue team. The mining explosives barely made a dent. There are a few clearly annoyed rangers currently chipping away at the entrance with jackhammers, but she already knows they’ll be called off soon.
The only real progress they’ve made is finding the original entrance to the apartment building, which still contains the main entry hall and the administrative office. A desk, a chair, a pile of paperwork, and the controls to an intercom system. It seems to still be connected to something, but she’s not sure if it’s actually reaching the sinkhole. Once the diving bell dies, she’ll probably turn to using it. Even if Dylan can’t hear it, if she doesn’t at least pretend to talk to him, she’ll go crazy. She uses the office as a mobile workstation— slinking away when the noise is too much or the weight of everything starts pressing down on her.
Rain bites at her skin— she’s completely soaked but that’s the last thing she cares about. She blinks away the stray raindrops that cling to her eyelashes, wipes away a strand of hair that’s plastered to her forehead.
(If only someone hadn’t stolen her umbrella. Maybe she could think better if she was dry. No— she thinks that would make her feel worse. At least now her misery shares Dylan’s. She hopes he isn’t hurting. Isn’t injured. What if the collapse broke his spine? What if he’s stuck, perfectly aware of the minutes counting down, too far away from the diving bell to call for help?)
(She knows, secret even to herself, that she would swap their places if she could. He deserves more than dying slowly, agonizingly, to benefit the FBC.)
What else is there to do? The only reason the others are entertaining her at all is because they want to study the sinkhole itself, maybe look for any surviving civilians, if they want to pretend like they have a more moral reason. The rangers are searching further and further out. Already, she has them looking in buildings a block away, hoping that maybe some random basement happens to connect to the main hole. Nothing yet. A whole lot of fucking nothing.
It’s close to midnight. She doesn’t feel tired at all. In fact, she feels like she could run all the way back to the watchtower without a single break. There’s a slight tremble to her hands that she tries to ignore.
A number of the researchers have left to sleep. The idea of getting any rest feels impossible.
She needs to do something. A part of her thinks that in another hour, she’ll be trying to dig away at the rubble with her bare hands. Even if it’s pointless, at least it’s something. At least she’s trying. Dylan deserves that much.
(Why is he being punished for trying to amend his past? She wishes she could get a straight answer out of Arish without him turning it into some sort of rank pissing contest. He can threaten her with suspension all he wants, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s willingly and knowingly letting someone die.)
She presses her thumb against the button on the side of the mic. “It’s been six hours, Dylan,” She says in a shaky, huffed sigh. He doesn’t have a watch– the FBC didn’t feel the need to provide him with one. He probably doesn’t know how much time has passed. “Arish doesn’t want to help and the explosives were a bust. I… I’m still trying to figure out a way to get you out. I promise I haven’t given up on you, okay?” Her throat suddenly feels tight. It’s easy to say the wetness in her eyes is from the rain. “Just… hang in there. We’re going to get you out. I’m– I’m making sure they’re still trying.”
A choked laugh leaves her mouth. “Everyone’s sick of me already. I’m annoying the shit out of them. But I’ll keep annoying them until you’re out. It’s my job to get you out of stuff like this, okay?”
There’s no response. Not that she was expecting one.
One day after the collapse
The apartment building’s office is eerily silent. It’s as if every single wall has been sound-proofed. Zoe can’t hear any of what’s going on outside, but maybe that’s for the best. She doesn’t want to listen to the researchers prattle on about why or how the sinkhole swallowed itself. She doesn’t want to see the fascinating numbers still being sent by a few of the probes.
She hasn’t slept. It feels like she hasn’t even blinked.
Still no word from Dylan and she still can’t tell if the tracker has moved at all, or if she’s just so desperate for any sign of life that she’s tricked herself into thinking it’s shifted two millimeters to the left.
She tucks a strand of still-damp hair behind her ear then rests her forehead against the heel of her palm. What kind of handler loses their charge in the first week? She was a terrible choice for this job. She doesn’t know why Pope chose her and she doesn’t know how she’s going to explain this to Pope either. The Co-Director almost certainly already knows, but Zoe is very familiar with the FBC’s bureaucracy. She’s going to be filling out papers about this for the rest of her life.
The diving bell finally died an hour ago. It felt like a crushing blow. Even if it was broken beyond repair, it was still one of the few points of connection between her and the inside of the sinkhole. Irrationally, it felt like Dylan might have died alongside it.
Now, she sits in the apartment’s office— cast in the warm orange glow of a single lamp, still shivering from the chill of the rain, staring at the MCD controller, tracker, and an intimidating packet of papers that had been sent by Arish. More details on what happened seven years ago. More cases of deaths caused by Dylan. There’s a handwritten note on the front, just above the FBC’s logo.
A reminder of who you’re risking your career over.
Every time she thinks he won’t sink any lower, he finds a new way to surprise her. Is it some sort of roundabout punishment for actually acting as Dylan’s handler and not immediately sending him off to die pointlessly? It’s starting to feel that way.
She sighs heavily, using her free hand to nudge the PA microphone back and forth idly. It’s not her fault that Pope trusted her with this.
God, hindsight truly is a bitch. All she can think about is everything she should have done differently. Why had she sent him down in the first place? She thought he’d be able to handle it, but even powerful parautilitarians aren’t immune to being crushed to death. She was such a dick, too. He’d tried asking about her personal life and she shut him down immediately. Made some snide comment about how he doesn’t need to know about her to do his job.
It was easy to push him away. To ignore just how painfully naive and hopeful his actions were and to focus on the horror of his past. She knows so much about him. Too much.
What’s it like growing up with zero privacy? The exact details of the Prime Candidate program are heavily redacted and buried under layers of red tape, but considering everything about Dylan… If she was trapped inside the Oldest House for almost her entire life, would she end up any better than him?
No. Probably not.
With a weary sigh, she pulls the PA system closer, the mic bumping against her chin and she briefly closes her eyes. Her fingers find the on button almost instinctively.
“Hey, Dylan. I have no idea if you can hear this, but I’m just gonna keep talking because everyone else is sick of me. We, um… still haven’t found a way to reach you, yet. The diving bell kicked the bucket, too, but maybe you already know that. We found part of the apartment, and I’ve, uh…. Found the PA system. We can’t tell for sure if it’ll reach you, but…” She trails off, opening her eyes to watch the steadily blinking light indicating that the mic is active.
After a pause, she sighs again. “Just… wanted to say that I’m sorry for being a jerk earlier. You didn’t deserve any of that. I’m… I’m trying to keep the search going, but it’s getting harder. Everyone else thinks this is a lost cause. Heh, I’m really going to enjoy the looks on their faces when we get you out. I’ll be expecting one hell of an apology.”
The joke leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, and her lips curl into a frown. She doesn’t know what to do.
After what feels like an hour but is probably closer to five minutes, she reaches into the pocket of her coat and pulls out her cassette player.
“You liked the other songs I played for you, right?” She asks, propping it up so that the speaker is as close to the mic as possible. She presses play and sits silently as the familiar notes begin to play. It feels both juvenile and appropriately somber. Like she’s trying to live through some fairy tale where Dylan will be guided back home by the siren song of her mixtape. She swallows past the lump in her throat.
Unbidden, her brain catches on the memory of his face. The way he looked at her every time he visited the watchtower— how uncharacteristically soft his features are, considering the violence he’s capable of. He’d always stand a few feet away, shuffling in place awkwardly like he had no clue what to do with himself. Hunched over as if trying to make himself look smaller.
(He was still taller than her, despite his terrible posture.)
They’d talk for a while, Dylan asking such innocent questions that they almost bordered on being cute. He was always so… disarming. His files told one story, but it was hard to look at him and imagine him doing those things. He always wanted to help. Always seemed so keen to talk to everyone around him.
(He’s her type. She tells herself that isn’t true, but she’s lying. It was easier to ignore the way she’d wait eagerly to hear his voice over the radio when she knew he was always a call away. Now she feels his absence with all the pointedness of a missing organ.)
“Do you hear the music?” Silence. Her shoulders slump. “I don’t know if this is working. I… I’m out of ideas, Dylan. I feel like I’ve tried everything. I don’t even know if you’re alive down there…”
The rest of the song passes, and the soft click of the tape coming to an end feels horribly, crushingly final.
Two days after the collapse
Zoe only realizes that she fell asleep at her desk when the sound of a door slamming open startles her awake. It takes her a moment to recognize where she is, and then another to realize that it’s Arish standing at the entrance to the office. There’s a terribly smug expression on his face that causes her stomach to sink.
“You’ll be happy to know that you don’t have to worry about Faden anymore,” He says, clearly trying to keep the smile off of his lips. “Search efforts have been cancelled. He’s been marked as a loss, and you’ll be transferred to a different position. Something where we won’t have to worry about your little outbursts. Effective immediately. Get your stuff together and head back to the Field Office.”
Zoe’s chest clenches and at first she thinks that she’s just misheard him. There’s no way Pope would approve calling off the rescue mission— she’s the one that’s been pushing for Dylan’s involvement this entire time. She was the one that argued to deploy him. The one that told Zoe to give him some grace, to not let everyone else’s opinion of him cloud her judgement. Why would she do this? Her and the Director were close, weren’t they? That’s what the others say– the ones that spent the last seven years inside the Oldest House.
“Pope—“
“Was informed of the continued failure of previous attempts, as well as the lack of any proof that Faden can be retrieved,” Arish cuts her off with all the sneering amusement of a teenager telling a child that Santa isn’t real. “It was a hard call, but she understands that sometimes, we just have to admit our limits and move on.”
He’s too happy about this. Unnervingly gleeful over the idea that Dylan is gone. That he’s dead and Arish can pretend like the blood isn’t on his hands.
Zoe stands there for a long moment, her mouth hanging open as she tries to figure out what to say. How she can convince the brick wall standing in front of her that he’s making a mistake. “I’m not just going to– to sit around while Dylan slowly starves to death!” She cries out.
“Faden’s already dead,” Arish counters with a casual shrug. “We haven’t heard a word from him, and if you saw movement on your tracker, you wouldn’t be shutting up about it. He’s dead and we’re going to stop wasting precious resources on some useless corpse retrieval mission. I’ve humored you these past two days, but it’s time to get a grip and focus on the actual issues threatening– oh, I don’t know– the entire world.”
She gawks, staring hard at his face because she truly can’t believe he’d do something this undeniably petty and cruel. He doesn’t even have the decency to act like he’s not happy about the news.
“I’m not—“ She starts, quickly realizing that for once, she doesn’t know what to say. That’s it? Dylan is dead and she’s just… supposed to move on? Do something else? She hates that he has a point about the tracker and hates herself even more for wasting the past two days on false leads. “I’m sure if I could talk to Pope—“
Arish huffs loudly in annoyance. “Shit happens, Agent De Vera. People die. A lot of people have died in the last seven years. Look— technically, Faden’s classified as MIA. That saves you a whole lot of paperwork. Try and look on the bright side, okay?”
She grits her teeth and looks away. It’s unfair. It’s so bitterly, agonizingly unfair that she thinks if she tries to explain it to him, half the words that leave her mouth will be one some HR generated list of non-workplace-approved language. She thinks that if she opens her mouth, she won’t stop talking until she’s been fired and blacklisted for insubordination. She clenches her fists and pointedly does not look at Arish again.
“That’s childish,” He scoffs under his breath. Whatever he says after is lost under the sound of her own heartbeat thundering in her ears.
The search is being called off. Dylan is officially a lost cause. Everything she’s done over the past two days has amounted to nothing. Her first major responsibility, and she’s failed it to a spectacular degree. She’ll be lucky if she’s trusted with anything more important than scrubbing the toilets of the Oldest House for the rest of her career.
Dylan. Dylan is as good as dead. She was supposed to be the one helping him adjust to life outside, and how does she accomplish that? By sending him off to his death so that a few researchers can get data.
Her legs feel like they’re about to give out from underneath her. Arish prattles on and on for hours and the moment he finally leaves, she collapses into her chair. That’s it? It’s the one thing she keeps asking herself. This isn’t how she thought this would end. A sad, lonely, slow death at the bottom of a hole. Just thinking about it is making her feel even worse.
(Dylan at least deserves the kindness of dying outside. He spent too many years trapped inside. If he has to die for the sake of the world, at least let him die with the sky above him.)
She closes her eyes against the rising wave of nausea. Her entire body buzzes with cold dread. The nerve— the audacity— to try and paint this as something positive. To try and act like she’s the one being unreasonable. Who the fuck does he think he is. Massive goddamn ego. Thinking he’s better than everyone else. Co-Director obsessed with a grudge. Pulling everything around him down to try and get back at someone. She bites down on her lip hard enough to draw blood. The tracker sits in front of her. Nothing. Always nothing.
Zoe slumps forward and pulls the PA mic close. He deserves to know. If Dylan is still alive down there, he deserves to know. She clears her throat and squares her shoulders.
“Dylan,” She starts, and already she feels like she won’t be able to make it through this without having some sort of breakdown. “We’ve… We’ve been ordered to give up the search. I tried to argue with Arish about it, but… I’m sure you know how he can be. He thought the whole thing was a waste from the start. You, uh…” She pauses to pull in a deep, steadying breath. “You’ve been officially declared MIA. Which means I’ve been relieved of my duties as your handler. I’m being reassigned immediately, according to Arish. Guess I can’t blame him too much for that. There’s always another crisis. Always something else that needs to be fixed.”
It’s easier to smash everything she’s feeling down when imagining Dylan listening to her. The last thing he needs is her crying over the loudspeakers about how much of a monumental screwup she is.
“I really thought we’d be able to find a way down to you by now… I just– goddammit! Fucking Arish! I kept telling him that we should at least try, but he’d try to stop me at every single turn! And I thought… I really thought Pope would stop him from calling it off, but… I’m sorry, Dylan…” She presses the palm of her hand over her eyes, squeezing them shut to try and stop herself from tearing up. It doesn’t work.
Now that she’s started talking, it feels like she can’t stop. She tells him about the things she read in his file– about how he lost his entire family at such a young age, about how the FBC held him in its custody for so many years. She knows everything about him, but he doesn’t know anything about her.
It won’t save him. She knows that this is more for her own sake than it is for his, but… The least she can do is keep him company. She talks about her own family even though it’s not a happy story in the slightest. It’s probably the first time she’s told anyone else about what’s happened in years. There’s something therapeutic about letting it all out. Shamefully, she recognizes that she can only tell it to someone that’s either dead or soon to be dead. That’s not the sort of connection Dylan deserves.
(In another world, maybe they’d be having this talk in person, over cheap coffee from the break room. She’d grant him precious vulnerability in return for his own. She would show him that it’s okay to talk about bad things. Maybe he’d try to comfort her in his awkward, stilted way. He always seemed so lost during conversations, but he never failed to come across as entirely genuine.)
“It was rough, but… y’know. I didn’t have it as bad as you.” Despite everything, she manages a weak laugh. “Not that it’s a competition. That’s not really how stuff like this works. But if it was, then… Well, you win. I can’t beat getting locked in a cell for 20-something years. And the coma is just cheating at that point.” She sniffles and wipes at her eyes.
The papers on the desk stare back at her, the bright red ink of Arish’s note taunting. She flips them over.
She clears her throat and resumes her rambling. “Research says I’m wasting my time. That there’s no way you’re hearing this. Not after how many hours have passed. How many days. I guess they’re probably right, but… What kind of handler would I be if I just left you by yourself? A pretty shitty one. And… Well, I’m definitely a shitty one already, but… I might as well try my best here at the end, huh? I… Oh, who am I kidding.”
Her finger slips off of the PA’s on button. What is she even doing? Sitting around, feeling sorry for herself, feeling sorry for a man she’s known for less than a week but has already gotten weirdly attached to.
(She knows what these feelings are, but she’s going to deny them until her last dying breath.)
For a while, she does nothing but sit there. The idea of trudging back to the Oldest House with her tail tucked between her legs and her chest heavy with grief is daunting. Insurmountable, even. She doesn’t want to have to endure any more of Arish’s gloating, not to mention what everyone else will have to say. All of those bastards can rot. Doing nothing but standing around while they let Dylan do all the dirty work, only to turn around and celebrate when he dies. Awful. Everything is just completely awful. A total waste of–
A quick, sharp beep pulls her out of her thoughts. She holds her breath as she glances around, almost convinced that she had just imagined it, but then–
Again. Her gaze darts to the MCD tracker and the bright, beautiful signal that it’s picking up. The marker shifts, displaying that the MCD is undeniably on the move and is most definitely very close. She blinks. The dot remains.
Zoe lunges forward, picking up the tracker with one shaking hand and fumbling with her personal radio with the other. Her heart pounds in her chest, her entire body filled with adrenaline. “Dylan?” She nearly shouts, her voice high and tight with emotion. “You just pinged on my radar. Can you hear me?”
His voice– sweet and worried and perfect– answers immediately. “Zoe? Yeah, I hear you! Do you hear me?”
She can’t help the laugh that escapes her mouth. It’s loud and sharp and borderline manic. The stress she’s been living under for the past two days falls away, her entire body unwinding. She clutches the tracker to her chest and stands on trembling legs, stumbling towards the entrance and outside into the rain. The signal is coming from somewhere down the street– she watches the dark windows of the nearby buildings like a hawk.
“Loud and clear,” She breathes out, ignoring the looks she’s getting from the surrounding researchers. Who cares what they think. All of them were wrong and she was
and she’s never going to let that son of a bitch Arish forget it. Her breath comes out in puffs of white in the cold air. Already, she’s soaking wet again. “Hey, let’s not do that again, okay?”
She really doesn’t think she’d be able to handle this a second time.
“Zoe… Thanks. For not leaving me alone down there.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see a few of the others stop whatever they’re doing to turn and stare. None of them matter. It’s hard to think of anything else as important when her head is filled with something warm and horrifically soft. She thinks, with no small amount of embarrassment, that the sheer vulnerability in his voice is what’s causing the sudden rush of heat across her face. He heard her. All of her rambling wasn’t just a pointless way of wasting time. Something in her chest flutters.
Her mouth feels impossibly dry, and it takes her just slightly too long to gather herself enough to respond.
“Yeah, well… There’s a lot more paperwork to fill out if you die,” She teases. It’s a bad attempt at lightening the conversation and she’s sure that if she was talking to anyone other than Dylan, she’d be called out for it immediately. Shit– maybe it’s a bit too casual. “And… And I don’t abandon people that I’m in charge of.”
Movement– she catches sight of the doors to a laundromat swinging open as Dylan Goddamn Faden strolls outside like he hasn’t been trapped in a sinkhole with no food or water for two whole days. Almost immediately he turns to look at her. It only takes him seven seconds to sprint and jump up to the platform but that time might as well be an eternity. The moment she’s able to, Zoe grabs onto both of his arms, tugging and pushing and trying her best to fully look him over. She’s no doctor, but even she can tell that he’s in surprisingly good shape, all things considered.
Because she’s already in too deep and she might as well take the plunge, she places both palms against his cheeks and squints at him. He isn't covered in dust and rubble from the collapse... Nothing indicates that he was ever trapped. He blinks slowly and calmly at her, his skin is warm and his beard scratches at her hands slightly. From this close, she can see just how long and thick his eyelashes are. She might be a little jealous of them. There’s no gauntness to his features– he looks exactly the same as when he did when first entering the sinkhole. Very confused, but not obviously hurt.
“How long has it been?” She asks.
“I dunno,” He answers, seemingly unbothered with the impromptu physical. “At one point, you said it’d been six hours, so… Around that long? It didn’t feel like that long, though… Maybe the threshold has some sort of time-altering effect? It only seemed like an hour, at most.”
An hour?
Jesus. She’s been working herself into a frenzy thinking about the worst case scenarios, and to him, he’s only been down there for an hour. She sighs heavily, letting her hands fall to her sides. “That… Makes a lot of sense. It’s been two days up here. I had no idea if anything I said was reaching you, and your tracker wasn’t showing any movement. We… I really thought you were gone. I was–” She pauses to let out a weary chuckle. “I thought I managed to kill one of the most powerful parautilitarians ever recorded.”
His eyebrows furrow in concern. “I’m sorry. I… didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Don’t apologise over being trapped in a sinkhole, you moron,” She groans as she lightly punches his arm. “Look, how about we head over to the field office and get you something to eat? Just– for my own sanity. Plus, I really want to be there to see the look on Arish’s stupid face when he realizes you aren’t dead.”
The smile she gets in return only worsens the weird feeling in her chest. But that’s not something she wants to think about right now. Not when Dylan is here and she gets to live with the satisfaction of knowing she never gave up on him.