Jamie. Jamie, Jamie, Jamie. Dead in a pile of rubble, surrounded by a cemetery of his hopes and comrades. It was tragic, truly, almost to the point where he, as Jamie’s sponsor, wanted to write his obituary.

No. Hearing the ones others would write was just too entertaining.

In truth, he had never anticipated Jamie to make enemies with the Wishbearer herself. An all-powerful being seemingly descending from the heavens to take care of one small domestic struggle, all because he had prodded the wrong beast by accident. It was truly unfortunate, and as the reports came in hour by hour, the details only made it even more of a tragedy. He, as Jamie’s former sponsor, dutifully listened.

He had been courageous to the bitter end, his Jamie, fighting tooth and nail for the greater good, the life he and his many allies thought was just. Who could not see him as an everyman’s hero? A freedom fighter instead of a terrorist?

Oh. He was straying into obituary territory there.

But Jamie had not died in vain, nor would his cause fizzle out entirely. Ideas never died, and that was a fact that could be counted on. They were infinite sources of energy so long as there were people to carry the torch, but he was done sponsoring that cause for now. Greener pastures awaited, and new avenues of attack existed.

Especially now that he had a face and name to put to the title. Evalyn Hardridge, the Wishbearer. Undoubtedly affiliated with Geverde in one way or another, it would not be long before he could finally meet her. His hero, his idol, his final hope.

He knew they would see eye to eye, that they’d find common ground and share a fundamental commonality, a single idea. She would see that the world was hollow, that the world just was and nothing more. She would see the need for reason, the need for morals, the need for right and wrong. She would help him, help him and his allies until utopia began.

She would follow the hostages then; it was practically guaranteed. She would follow the trail from suspect to suspect and finally land on him. How he could not wait.

The chaos in the city had subsided hours ago, and the sun was now on the other side of the sky. Even Elliot, who had stubbornly clung to his sub-machine gun the entire morning had traded it for cooking utensils once he had heard the reports on the radio.

"The siege which briefly took hold of Salan Court this morning has left it, and the neighbouring buildings, in shambles. Along with explosions across several districts and an attack on the Sidosian embassy, this has been the largest attack on the city of Excala in the last decade. The siege allegedly ended when a second wave of Geverdian military personnel stormed the building, finishing off a weakened terrorist force and their main battlement."

The reports had continued in a similar fashion all day, as fake nuggets of information was fed to the press, while the forbidden pieces were bought back. Or, at least Elliot could assume as much. No hostages openly mentioned any golden figures, nor any god-like warrior saving them. Sadly, this meant no praise for the woman of the day, yet Elliot knew the limelight was not exactly what she was after.

The little girl sat next to the uprooted floorboard, curiosity keeping her glued to its vicinity, while fear kept her from touching anything inside. None of the guns were loaded, yet Elliot doubted she could understand that. She had been listening to the radio, patiently waiting for any mention of the woman she had tried so hard to protect, and Elliot didn't exactly have the heart to tell her that she wasn't going to find out anything that way.

"Did she do it?" Iris asked.

"What do you mean?"

"The thing she wanted to do, out there. She said she'd be back after she was done, so did she do it?"

Elliot pouted, wondering if paperwork, approving contracts and accepting payment counted. It was an easy answer though, Iris wanted to know about the more heroic aspect of the job.

"Yeah, I think she has. She made a lot of people happy today."

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"But she made some people sad."

"...yeah. I guess so. Did she make you happy?"

"No."

"Ouch. Don't tell her that."

"I feel weird. Like until she comes back home, I don't want to do anything else. I'm afraid something will happen if I do something else."

"That's just worry, you'll get over it soon."

"When she comes back?"

"Yes. When she comes back. Hey, tell you what. When she comes back, I know a way you can get back at her."

"What does that mean?"

"When you feel mad at someone for doing something mean, you can do something mean back at them. Wanna try?"

Elliot, for a brief moment, thought of the morality that came with teaching an innocent girl the concept of revenge. For a brief moment. He at least held in his snickering while he explained her plan.

Minutes later, the door handle turned and the house's third occupant returned. Unharmed, yet drained. The weight of the past week had latched itself to both her tear-ducts, threatening to open the dams of exhaustion at the slightest bump in the road. Then she saw her ward.

"Hi Mum!"

The unintelligible mess of tears, slurred words and clingy actions rendered the grown woman paralyzed in the most embarrassing way possible. Elliot held in his laughter as his wife reverted to fulfilling her base psychological needs for the day. She noticed him approaching and caught on to what had made him laugh, yet she didn't care.

By both their memories, they'd remember the kiss as messy, and not in the passionate way. Yet it had been the first one in a while, so they took a brief moment to savour it. A brief moment.

Iris watched from the doorway as Evalyn sat on the edge of her bed, polishing her rifle with a white cloth. She ran it across every surface inside and out, wiping the gleaming metal clean of black gunpowder. It had been fired, many times at that. Evalyn’s hands paused and she looked up, finally noticing the small silhouette peeking out from behind the crack in the door.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “You can come in if you’d like.” Iris obliged and slowly opened the door. The overhead lights were dark but the bedside lamp was shining proudly, illuminating all it could while casting long shadows across the room. Iris tiptoed across the floor, her eyes trained on the gun as she sat down beside Evalyn.

“Did you kill?” she asked, unaware of how blunt her phrasing was. Evalyn flinched at the question, but otherwise took no offence.

“I guess so. But I came back, though. Isn’t that what’s most important?”

Iris nodded, pressing up against Evalyn to feel her warmth as best as she could. They were silent for a moment, until Iris felt her headrest start to shake, ever so slightly. She looked up, and saw her guardian pursing her lips, her eyes shiny in the small light of the bedside lamp.

“What’s wrong?” Iris asked.

“Nothing,” Evalyn lied. She dropped the cloth on the ground and lay her rifle against the bedframe, using her free hands to wrap them around Iris. “I just can’t stand how much I like you,” she said.

“Why?” Iris asked. It sounded like a good thing to her.

“Because. There’s things you’ll have to do that’ll change you,” Evalyn stuttered. “There’s things you’ll have to bear that’ll be so, so hard.”

Evalyn’s embrace only got tighter as her voice grew less and less stable. Iris wrapped her hands around Evalyn’s arms in attempt to return the gesture. She realised how often her guardian cried, how strong she was yet how weak her eyes seemed to be when it came to holding back tears. Maybe that was another part about being strong.

“So,” Evalyn said. “One day it’ll be your turn to do incredibly important things, and I will train you for it. I’ll teach you how to read, I’ll teach you how to write, I’ll teach you how to fight, to love, to talk, to lie, to laugh…to be someone. To be…someone, okay?”

“Okay,” Iris said, not understanding the sentiment but fully understanding the warmth of it.

Some number of days. One of the more optimistic of them would've counted, yet Kuarel Farehn didn't count himself in that number. He could only be thankful that his usefulness came from his brain, not from hard labour. He fidgeted with his voice box endlessly, reaching his vaguely formed fingers further and further into the tiniest gaps. At this rate, his fingers would likely remember the shape of them.

Sand. The voice box was never meant for sand. Yet he worked on sand, slept on sand covered bunk beds, saw sand for fucking miles. The only thing he could be thankful for, was that he had no need to eat the food riddled with sand as well.

Out here. Higher Order Armour. In the middle of the desert. This wasn't just one, they had the space to build a small army, and a small army to build it. These people were on another level. S.H.I.A played whack-a-mole with their oppressors, yet these people...these people played games of strategy reserved only for entire nations. Anyone could guess that's what would happen when your city ran on slaves.

He wanted to go home. Home at this point was but an outline in the distance. At this point he didn't care where he landed. Any of the green on the other side of the Northern Chain Ridge would have been more than enough.

Yet the thoughts in his head were mere fragments of coherent speech, even when he was 'living' in what could be considered an oasis. The sand between here and the flat rock, the flat rock between the sand and the mountains, the mountains between the flat rock and home...how would that break him? How long would that take?

He wanted to go home, but the sirens sounding the beginning of the day would never let him leave anywhere besides his itchy bunk bed. He wondered if the mailbox at the front of the compound really did work, or did it only ever deliver dead letters...