Wilson Hopkins doesn’t know where the story begins nor where it ends.

He only knows he’s dreaming and whispering Emmaline in his sleep until he wakes up one day to the hum of his phone, signaling the arrival of a new text. Through sleepy tears he can read the words “urgent” and “mission” and “now” amongst the blurred lines, so by some sort of miracle he pulls himself out of bed. But as the weight moves to his feet, he collapses with trembling legs. It should hurt, he knows this, but for some reason he feels nothing as he stands back up with slow ease. Tired, unwilling, but somehow standing (orders are orders if you’re a soldier) he rolls his neck. Bones slide against each other, releasing pressure to relieve the pain as he strides toward the main office.

The life lead smiles and in the back of his oxygen-deprived brain Wilson compares it to the Cheshire Cat. Before his mind can wander too far off the beaten path (if the doctor is the cat does that make him Alice, falling into the rabbit’s hole called Deus ex Machina—) he hears the sharp grating of Caelius’ voice.

His superior spreads papers across his neat desk. “Quite a dearth of reports, don’t you agree?” he begins.

His own eyes are already glazed over before Caelius can fully launch into his latest tirade. It goes on for x number minutes before he finds himself thrown at the wall and struggling to breathe against the glowing blade of Circe. Common sense screams for him to struggle, to claw his way for another gasp of air, but his arms dangle lifelessly at his side. A funny thought rolls over in his mind, over and over. He falls beneath the waves, the currents dragging him deeper into the water. When he opens his mouth he can feel the cold, salt water sliding down his throat. Maybe death wouldn’t be so—

“You’re friends with Elliot Sjökron, aren’t you?” And suddenly a hand is reaching for his arm to pull him above the surface. “I know about your backstories. There’s no need to be surprised.”

Eyes narrow, throwing the two leads an empty look coupled with slightly-parted lips. “So—“

“He’s defected.”

His mouth shuts. How—

Surprising? Stupid? No, totally expected. To Wilson Hopkins, Elliot Sjökron is a book he’s read front to back, word for word with annotations between the lines.

“You’ve been slacking off lately—“ The words slide out of the doctor’s grinning mouth. “—so we thought it’d be a nice opportunity to redeem yourself. Are we clear?”

A tiny nod, and x hours later he’s walking through a portal to a familiar city. If he takes a left turn at the next intersection, he knows he’ll find his old college. Then if he continues straight he’ll find the different class buildings, and eventually he’ll find Elliot.

Elliot is the same as ever. He realizes this immediately when the older man turns around slowly, lazily. His eyes are still gleaming blue and his smile is still self-assured and he still stands with poise. Elliot glances at him before grinning wider. “Looking just a bit under the weather, aren’t we?”

He turns his head away like Elliot won’t see the thoughts brimming across his face or the way his heavy body shrinks, but to Elliot Sjökron, Wilson Hopkins is a picture book. There’s no need to read the words when the drawings explain everything.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Elliot smiles smugly, and for a moment he imagines they’re college students again. He’s staring cross-eyed at his textbook while Emmaline is smiling politely, trying to explain the concepts while Elliot is sprawled on the opposite of the table. You can’t just cram the night before, Hopkins. “There are more important things in this world than your job, Hopkins.” He spits it out mockingly. Being a hunter has never been a duty for Elliot Sjökron, just a whim. His mouth is still open, still wanting to say something, but he finds no need in continuing when he sees him crumpling further.

I haven’t forgotten Emmaline, have you?

Gloved hands reach for the lime green goggles on his head. He pulls them over his cloudy eyes so that the gasmask hides the tears pooling in the corners. I would never. “Elliot Sjökron, you have abandoned your post and are hereby commanded to return to the island to receive punishment.” He tries to steady his voice, but the demand only comes out choppy and monotone.

Breathless laughter. “If I refuse?”

He pauses, bends his knees into a ready position. “You can’t.”

“Oh?” Elliot snickers, pulling out his own weapon to point the blade’s tip at Wilson’s face. “We’ll see.”

The younger hunter tenses, expecting Elliot to make the first move, but both of them continue to stand frozen. He crouches until his fingers graze the dusty ground. Even with a mask, Elliot can still read him as easily as breathing because reading him is just child’s play.

“You’ve never been the type to strike first, always the pacifist, always waiting.” He stops suddenly to hold his tongue, but Wilson knows. And that’s what I hate about you.

Wilson continues waiting, even when Elliot lowers his arm and beings turning away. Something refuses to click inside his mind until his target is clearly walking away. The distance has grown from a couple yards to three, five, ten, he’s really leaving—

He bends his knees until he can press his palms to the floor. Elliot is leaving forever.

There will be no coincidental meetings in the dorm hallway, no glaring contests and no insults hissed underneath each other’s breath. No more pulling at the collar of each other’s shirt and no more thrown punches and kicks. Dreams of cold grey eyes and empty smiles and repeated mantras will stop, but so will the dreams of elbowing each other in the ribs, laughing side-by-side as they chase after their most important person. The good and bad will trickle away until he is just a body tied by neither the past nor future.

No, I won’t allow that.

( because everyone desires something )

For once, he runs forward. Wilson stretches a hand out, grabbing a fistful of Elliot’s coat to tug him back. He pulls him to the ground, but Elliot is already spinning and slashing his blade across Wilson’s chest. The force sends him stumbling backwards, giving Elliot the opportunity to thrust his gunblade into Wilson’s side.

Wilson bites his cheek when he hits the dirt. He keeps himself propped up with one arm while the other aims a canon at Elliot’s face. After he fires a shot of poison there’s no time to think, only time to stand back up with one hand slung back for a punch, the blades of his weapon already extending out.

Just as he begins to fall into pace, Elliot’s laughter jerks him back out. Out of habit, he stammers, “W-What?”

No response, just a forceful shove to knock him back down. When the gas thins out to reveal the other’s face, Wilson can only see green-tinted sneers and amused, mocking smiles while Elliot lands kick after kick, nonstop. Growing bored, he grabs Wilson’s shirt to pull him to his feet so he can tear off his mask and punch him to the dirt. Wilson blindly swings, but Elliot pushes the blows away with his gunblade. He takes a step over Wilson and positions himself until he is towering directly over him. The fight ends in five minutes.

He points the blade at Wilson’s neck. Wilson brushes it away, and Elliot pulls back as he chuckles, “You know I’m always better.” The difference in hunter rankings didn’t matter; he would always trump Wilson when it comes to combat.

“It doesn’t matter.” Wilson props himself up on his elbows, the wires and metal of his weapon clacking. “Orders are orders.”

Elliot’s stare freezes his blood. His eyes are dead, empty. “You’ve always been like that—blindly following the leader. Can’t you think for yourself for once?” He points the blade’s tip at Wilson again, and this time he refuses to pull away. “Leaving Emmaline to you was a mistake.”

He can’t decide if this is wrong or right, so he lashes out, bashing his cannons against Elliot’s knees to disrupt his balance. As he stumbles, Wilson scrambles to his feet and jumps backwards, kicking up dust. The air clears, and Elliot hums disappointedly as he observes the bladed cannon pointed at him.

“That was a perfect opportunity to end everything, but you didn’t take it.” Always cautious and hesitating. Why can’t you make your mind up for once? Wilson flicks his gaze away while Elliot steps forward. The world slows down, each step ringing louder and growing quicker with each moment. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind.”

Briefly, Wilson hopes—wishes, really—Elliot will return to the island with him. They can return to fighting each other, balancing the fine line between enemies and comrades because friendship no longer exists for them.

When he looks back, he feels a pressure that moves him backward.

When he looks up, he sees grey eyes and bright red trailing down Elliot’s chest, right where his heart is.

Lips pull into a thin smile and Wilson can’t tell if Elliot is smiling from the horror on the death hunter’s face or knowing he’s bested his junior again or something else altogether. He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s already falling, sliding off the blades with a sickening sound.

Wilson can’t hear the words coming out of his own mouth as he collapses to his knees and curls over Elliot. Everything blurs together as he tries to apologize one more time. I’msorryI’msorrypleasedon’tleavemetooyoucan’tjustgopleasepleaseI’msorryI’lldobetternexttime.

And again, Wilson doesn’t listen when Elliot breathes one last time. Emmaline.

The tears blur his vision completely until he squeezes his eyes shut.

He doesn’t know where the story begins nor where it ends. He only knows he’s dreaming and whispering Emmaline in his sleep until he wakes up one day to the hum of his phone, signaling the arrival of a new text. Through sleepy tears he can read the words “urgent” and “mission” and “now” amongst the blurred lines, so by some sort of miracle he pulls himself out of bed.

Which is the dream and which is reality? He can no longer differentiate. He’s looped through the dream x times when finally he wakes up in a cold, dark pod.

A hand slowly reaches out, pushing at the door until it slides open. Wilson drunkenly stumbles out, tripping over his feet until he collides against another pod and props his weight against it. His eyelids are heavy and his body is sore and he doesn’t know how long he’s been dreaming or if he’s truly awake, but what he does know is he wants to see her one more time. He doesn’t need to actually look to know. He crawls toward the xth row and to the xth pod and traces the line of the star clip still perfectly pinned to her hair. He’s done it a thousand times, if not more. Her cold, constant presence calms him down enough to drag himself back to his dorm.

Except in the xth row, the xth pod is not Emmaline Grant at all.

I'm not okay, but it's okay.