The plan to eradicate Xmas

Family Isn't always blood

"What do you want?"

"Come on, Cyra. Just talk to me."

It was snowing in Angel Grove. Even in the heart of the city, the snowplows and salted roads barely managed to keep the space on the street directly behind them bare, small canyons of snow forming on the sidewalks that only the (honestly, maybe fool-) hardiest of travelers of the night would risk trekking through, the gargoyles on each decorative face of the city's buildings dangerously slick with snow, each quatrefoil collecting specks to later melt and run down the great stone cliffs of walls they were carved into. But despite it all, cars were still somehow making their way back to their homes, attempting to line themselves up next to the crowded, nearly snowed-in apartments after a long day of being pelted in front of an office, if they were not sheltered by the brief reprieve of a still-snowy parking garage.

There were houses in the same, or worse, condition. Small businesses, corner stores, liquor shops, a few joints to get food, cell repair shops- all closed. They'd been closed for the better part of this week, the snowplows only coming through this area once a day, towards the evening. At that point, they had thought, why even bother opening up? Despite that, the metal gates were still lowered over the windows, over the entrances to the shops, smaller portcullises guarding treasures worth much less than the rest of gothic Angel Grove's sacred jewels, but much more personally valuable. The sanctity of a single one of these small places, he thought, was worth more than any skyscraper by the bay. Who cared about a view of Stone Canyon when it sucked every ounce of heart from your soul?

Probably, the people who had to give an eye and an arm to be over there, to live that life. These people.

"Quit talking to me, Collins."

"Fine. I won't say a word."

There was another unspoken law, here in this part of the city: the seventh floor of complex 5 off the boulevard was vacant. No residents. Not even squatters. Not even a manged rat, starving for a morsel and desperate to survive. Nothing that lived EVER entered the seventh floor. They didn't know it was because whoever died there didn't either. But as Cyra Drake stepped over to the window, staring down at the frozen streets below, before closing the curtain after a quick surveying of the surrounding rooftops, Wes backed away, laying down, and sighed. They might now know. But he was one of the few. He knew.

"I'll never talk to him again unless it's at gunpoint. Maybe won't even make the mistake twice."

"I wouldn't call it a mistake, Cyra. It's no mistake that you're alive."

There he stood. There wasn't much left in there anymore. Just a mildew-ridden, rotting pink recliner in a corner by the windows. Next to it was a small wooden table and a tall, skinny lamp, its once complete golden paint job faded and tattered, revealing the decaying metal underneath. A small rug, damp and moldy, lay at the foot of the chair, its colors tattered and fading. The table was barren, all except for the helmet, and the picture. In the far end of the room was a rickety nightstand, a single drawer left inside, legs uneven and otherwise vacant. Cyra took a deep breath, then sat, as she opened the drawer, she heard the wind behind her pick up, felt the cold breeze grazing against his skin, saw the petals drifting into her vision.

"What do you want?"

"Just... to be there."

Cyra stopped for a moment. Then, spinning and jabbing a finger directly at Wes's face. "Fine! Then go ahead. Maybe you can enjoy the company, since I can't on my own." Cyra rolled hwe eyes, grabbing her bag, but stopping when she saw Wes's hand up there, felt it attempting to keep him from pulling away.

"Cyra, plea-"

"No!"

Cyra snatched her bag off the table.

"No."

She turned away from Wes.

"I don't know what you want from me, Wes. But don't bother. If you wanted me to listen to a word you've got to say, you're either ten years too early, or ten months too late. Just hearing your 'honey-sweet' voice makes me want to puke. So please, just go, just go back to Jen. I'll be on my way. Enjoy your little not-so-familial-reunion. Be a lot better without me, I bet."

There was a loud explosion, Cyra turned and looked, she looked at Wes then headed off in the direction of the blast.

Wes Collins tood there, a few beats, his heart swaying in his chest like a boat lost at sea, his breathing as steady as a lighthouse's pulsing beams. He could catch up to Cyra. There was so much to say. He still had bruises from fighting Alex after he found out what happened. He missed Cyra, and he knew Cyra needed someone. Something. Anything that would keep her from what she had turned into, and turn her away from what he could become.

As silently as he came, he left.

It was cold