Panic gripped Calista with the ferocity of a tightening noose, each frantic thrash only sinking her deeper into the quicksand’s maw. The earth beneath her seemed alive, a relentless predator dragging her down, inch by inch, until her torso was engulfed in the cold, stifling muck. The pressure bore down on her chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs, as though the forest itself conspired to crush the life out of her.
Despair washed over her in a suffocating wave, as if the quicksand wasn’t just swallowing her body but her will to fight as well. The sounds of the approaching soldiers grew nearer, their voices weaving through the dense foliage, a sinister lullaby heralding her doom. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she ceased struggling, allowing her body to go limp. What was the point? The forest, once a haven of mystery, had become her executioner. Her mother’s teary voice echoed through her mind, wrenching her gut, “Just don’t resist….its pointless…its our fate”.
Her gaze drifted upwards, past the grasping branches, to where the sky peeked through the canopy in fragmented slivers. Rays of sunlight pierced through the leaves, casting shifting patterns across her vision, and for a moment, they reminded her of that day. A hollow thought crossed her mind, almost too bitter to hold on to: ‘Damon. I’m coming…’
The sinking sensation of the quicksand felt all too real, but then, in a flash of clarity, Calista was transported back to a more hopeful time. The echo of Damon’s words, spoken during their quiet moment together, cut through the chaos of her current predicament, sparking a flicker of determination.
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The last rays of the sun cast long shadows across the cliffside, bathing the world below in a warm, fading light. Calista sat beside Damon, knees drawn to her chest, staring out at the expanse of the forest. The city, with all its noise and suffocating expectations, was a distant blur on the horizon. Here, on this rugged cliff, she felt like she could breathe, if only for a moment.
Damon sat close, his presence a comforting weight beside her. She absentmindedly traced the outline of a bruise on her forearm, a dull ache that had become all too familiar. Damon’s gaze followed her hand, his jaw tightening for a split second before his features softened. He reached over and gently took her hand in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.
“I hate it there,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. The words hung in the air, heavy with the things she didn’t say. The cold, loveless house. The sharp words that cut deeper than any bruise. The way her mother would dismiss it all, telling her to just endure it, like she always had.
Damon was silent for a moment, his hand warm around hers. “You don’t have to go back tonight,” he finally said, his voice low, almost hesitant. “We could stay out here a little longer.”
Calista leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I wish I could just stay out here forever,” she murmured, her voice tinged with longing. “Away from them. Away from everything.”
Damon’s arm tightened around her, pulling her closer, but there was a slight tremor in his hand that she didn’t notice. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead of words, a soft cough escaped him. It was so quiet she barely registered it, but Damon stiffened slightly, his breath catching before he continued.
“You can’t run forever, Cal,” he said softly, his words careful, like he was afraid of pushing her too far. “No matter how fast you go, some things… they’ll always catch up.”
Calista stiffened, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. “I’m not running,” she said, a touch too defensive. “I’m just… trying to find something better.”
Damon’s silence was telling, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he shifted slightly, his other hand moving to gently tilt her chin up so she was looking at him. His eyes searched hers, seeing more than she wanted to show. There was a flicker of something in his gaze—fatigue, or maybe fear—but it passed so quickly she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it. He glanced briefly toward the distant city, his expression hardening for just a moment before it softened again.
“Sometimes,” he began, his voice even softer now, “when you want to do something about the situation, but there’s nothing you can do,” He looked towards the sunset, a hint of weariness creeping into his tone, “you just have to do what you can.”
Calista blinked, the simple truth of his words sinking in. She wanted to scoff, to say that it wasn’t enough, that doing what she could wasn’t going to fix anything. But the way Damon looked at her, the quiet confidence in his eyes, made the words catch in her throat.
She pulled away slightly, looking back out at the darkening sky. “And what if doing what I can isn’t enough?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Damon didn’t answer right away. He just took her hand again, squeezing it gently, though his grip felt a little weaker now. “Then you try again. And again. Until it is.”
Calista stared at their joined hands, the warmth of his touch grounding her. She didn’t know if she believed him, but in that moment, she wanted to. She wanted to believe that she wasn’t as powerless as she felt, that she could find a way out of the life that suffocated her.
For now, she would hold onto that hope, fragile as it was. And she would keep trying, for Damon’s sake, if not for her own. But as they sat there in the gathering twilight, a small, gnawing fear took root in her chest—a fear that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t the only one running from something.
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In the quicksand, that memory resurfaced like a beacon in the dark. Calista’s body was sinking, the cold, wet earth claiming her inch by inch. Her muscles ached from the struggle, and for a brief moment, she considered giving in. But Damon’s voice, steady and sure, echoed in her mind. “When you want to do something but there’s nothing you can do, you do what you can.”
It was enough to spark a flicker of determination. Her eyes darted to the branch above her, the glint of a possibility. She wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet. Not like this. branch dangling just out of reach. It was sturdy enough to bear her weight, if only she could reach it.
Gritting her teeth, Calista forced herself to move. Her fingers fumbled as she unfastened her military jacket, the fabric heavy and resistant in her trembling hands. She slipped her hand into a pocket and pulled out the syringe she had used to incapacitate Alex earlier. The sharp point gleamed in the dappled light.
With a quick, desperate motion, she began to dig the needle into the seams of the jacket, tearing at the fabric. The jacket resisted, each rip and tear coming with a gut-wrenching sound that echoed in her ears like the ticking of a clock counting down to her doom. Time was slipping away, each second a grain of sand falling through an hourglass, and the soldiers' voices were growing more distinct, more ominous.
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“It was just a wild boar… let’s move on,” one of them said, his voice dismissive, and a fragile thread of relief wove itself through Calista’s panic. She worked faster, quieter, tearing the jacket into long strips with a renewed sense of purpose.
But then, the thread snapped.
“Wait… there are footsteps here.”
The words hit her like a physical blow, her pulse spiking as raw fear shot through her veins. Her hands fumbled, clumsy with dread, as she hurriedly knotted the strips together into a makeshift rope. It was too short, dangling pitifully below the branch, mocking her efforts.
“No, no, no,” she hissed through gritted teeth, her voice trembling on the edge of hysteria. She was out of time, out of options. Her mind raced, desperate for a solution, a lifeline. Then, in a moment of wild inspiration, she ripped off her belt, tying it to the end of the makeshift rope. The added length was just enough, barely.
She threw the rope again, her heart leaping into her throat as it caught on the branch. But there was no time to celebrate—only to act. The soldiers were close now, their footsteps pounding like war drums in her ears, each one a reminder of how little time she had left.
With a final, desperate surge of strength, Calista pulled herself upwards. The quicksand clung to her legs, a relentless force dragging her back, but she fought against it with every ounce of willpower she had left. Her upper body emerged from the muck, but her lower half was still trapped, the quicksand’s grip tightening like a vise.
The soldiers were nearly upon her; she could feel the tremor of their approach vibrating through the very ground she fought against. In a move born of sheer survival instinct, Calista closed her eyes and unbuckled her pants. As soon as the button came free, her legs slipped out of the quicksand’s grip, leaving her pants behind as a pitiful offering.
She gripped the rope with trembling hands, pulling herself onto the branch just as the soldiers reached the edge of the quicksand pit. She hung there, breathless and scraped, her body trembling with exhaustion.
Below, the quicksand swirled, a slow, sinister reminder of how close she'd come to losing everything. The soldiers' voices faded into the distance, drowned out by the pounding of her heartbeat. Stripped bare and vulnerable, she clung to life—but she was alive.
Yet, in that moment, she had shed more than just her clothes. A piece of her naivety had been left behind in the pit, replaced by a fierce, unyielding determination to survive, no matter what life threw at her next.
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The apartment was steeped in shadows, the dim light barely pushing back the encroaching darkness. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and anxiety, a heaviness that clung to every corner.
Neal stood by the window, his fingers twitching at the curtain as he peered into the night. His eyes, sharp and restless, caught sight of the car parked across the street—Sterling Wolfe’s car. It lurked there, almost invisible in the shadows, but Neal had already marked it, just as he had marked the persistent gaze of the man inside. Sterling was watching, waiting.
Nelson sat on the edge of the couch, his bootlaces still untied, a small detail that spoke volumes about his fraying nerves. His hands, usually steady, trembled slightly as he fiddled with the laces, his mind elsewhere. The room felt like a trap, closing in on them both. “We stay put. We wait for him to leave,” Nelson finally said, his voice carefully measured, though his tension was palpable.
Neal turned slightly, catching the edge of Nelson’s profile in the low light. The flicker of a streetlamp outside illuminated the barest hint of exhaustion on his brother’s face. “We’re running out of time,” Neal murmured, his voice carrying a dangerous calm. “Big risks, big rewards.”
Nelson didn’t bother looking up. His eyes were focused on the scuffed floor, as if it held the answers he couldn’t find. “That cop’s watching. We move now, and we’re walking into a trap. You know that.”
“And who’s fault do you think that is? You’ve been all over the place since yesterday. No wonder the cop didn’t buy your performance…” Neal’s gaze lingered on Nelson, studying him, as if trying to decide whether to push harder. “And if we do nothing?” he shot back, a hint of steel in his tone. “You think the military’s going to wait for us to catch up?”
Nelson’s face remained stoic, but there was a tightness around his mouth that spoke of inner conflict. “It’s not worth the risk. Besides, that cop won’t tail us forever. He’ll be off duty soon enough.” His words were meant to reassure, but they sounded hollow, even to him.
Neal’s smirk was sharp, cutting through the darkness. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms in a gesture that was more defensive than relaxed. “And what about Alex?” he asked, the question laced with accusation.
Nelson’s jaw tightened, a flicker of pain flashing in his eyes. He didn’t flinch, but Neal’s words struck a nerve. “Alex can take care of herself,” he replied, his voice steady, though his hands betrayed him, clenching into fists.
“That’s what you keep telling yourself, isn’t it?” Neal’s tone was conversational, but with an edge that cut deep. “She wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn’t let Calista slip through your fingers. You think staying here will make things right?”
Nelson’s hands stilled over his laces, the room falling silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant city sounds. His mind flashed back to that moment—the one where he hesitated, where he let Calista go. The memory was a gnawing wound, a reminder of his failure. Alex’s face, filled with fear and determination, haunted him.
“She’s strong,” Nelson said quietly, almost to himself. “She’ll survive.”
“She’s strong, but she’s not invincible,” Neal countered, his smile fading as he stepped closer. There was no mockery now, only cold reality. “And neither are you. But you can still make this right. Capture Calista before the military does. You might even see Alex again.”
Nelson finally looked up, his gaze meeting Neal’s with a hard, searching look. He could see the manipulation in Neal’s eyes, the way his brother was trying to twist his thoughts. But there was truth there, too—truth he didn’t want to face. The guilt gnawed at him, poking holes in his resolve. Neal wasn’t wrong, but somehow, all the reasoning felt like a lie, an excuse to avoid his own failure.
Neal leaned in, lowering his voice. “Remember yesterday? The pod, the Wastelands… all because you hesitated. You think you’re protecting us by laying low, but really, you’re just protecting yourself. From what you could’ve done. From what you failed to do.”
Nelson’s breath caught, the words cutting deep. He didn’t want to admit it, but Neal had struck a nerve. The memory of Alex, the guilt, the fear—it all collided in his mind, a storm of emotions he couldn’t control. He had made his decision, but now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe it was his fault. Maybe Neal was right.
“Sterling’s not going anywhere,” Nelson said firmly, though his voice wavered slightly. “If we make a move now, we’re risking everything. You, me, Alex—everyone. We need to think this through.”
“And if we wait?” Neal’s voice dropped to a murmur; his tone almost conspiratorial. “What happens when the military gets to Calista first? Even if Alex survives the Wastelands, what will happen to her in Reverie?”
Nelson’s fists clenched, frustration and helplessness crashing over him. The room seemed to close in around him, the shadows deepening as doubt gnawed at his resolve. He could feel the weight of his choices, the suffocating pressure of responsibility. He wanted to protect them all, but how could he when he couldn’t even protect himself from his own doubts?
Neal’s voice cut through the silence, cold and precise. “I’m not letting Division A slip through my fingers, Nelson. Maybe if you don’t hesitate this time, you won’t lose another person you care about. Do what you want…” Neal’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes as he looked at Nelson. “…Bye-bye.”
“Wait!” Nelson’s voice was raised for the first time, a note of desperation creeping in. He couldn’t let Neal go, couldn’t let him make the same mistakes. “How?” The word slipped out before he could stop it, tinged with quiet resignation. He needed to know what Neal had in mind.
Neal kept smiling as he glanced at the window. "They’ve only got one car..."
Nelson's eyes sharpened in understanding. "So, we split up? One of us distracts them and the other runs?"
“Nope” Neal chuckled, "Quite the opposite actually…"