Warning: Mentions of death and gore.
Something blocked Liza's view of the charcoal bodies, and she shrieked in surprise, trying in vain to get away.
Something wrapped around her waist, against her tender ribs, and her yell became a howl of pain. "Don't TOUCH me!" she screamed, her eyes wild with a terror so potent she couldn't focus on anything else. "STOP! No! It hurts! Please!"
Touch, touch, touch—
Was it Mitchell? Had Mitchell lived? Was he trying to take her away from the crash site? Where was he taking her?
Oh, God, what the hell was he going to do with her?!
The pain was easily dismissed by adrenaline as she fought even harder against her assailant. "NO! Let me go, let me go, let me go!" She was crying.
Or, she thought she was. Or perhaps it was raining?
The arm disappeared, a voice following shortly after, but Liza couldn't distinguish anything through the ringing in her ears.
"Tim!" She called, stumbling toward the wreckage, focused once more on her original mission. She would find Tim, and he would help her. He would make sure that Mitchell never touched her. "Timothy! Tim?! Tim! Tim, it's Liza!"
There was no response, but it was fine. She'd been unconscious for a little while, so he was probably unconscious too. That was to be expected. She'd wake him up. All she had to do was be faster than Mitchell and get to Tim before the other man could touch her again.
"Tim!" she hollered again, her voice hoarse. "Tim, where are you?!" There were so many bodies. Some of them didn't even appear to be in one piece. An arm there, a leg there, someone's head was too far from their neck to be normal—
Was that metal in a woman's chest?
Liza shook her head, unconcerned. She just needed to find Tim. Maybe Minna knew where he was? She would ask if she happened upon her boss first.
She caught a hint of baby blue in her peripheral vision and whipped to the right, squinting at the color. Was it . . .?
The voice registered again suddenly, closer, and she darted to what she was sure was Tim before Mitchel could snatch her away.
"Tim!" she cried, relieved, ducking around an especially large hunk of metal only to halt at the sight before her.
Tim was unconscious, but it was odd. His limbs didn't look right.
Oh, he didn't even have them all. His left leg was missing, his right sported the same charred look as some of the other passengers, and his arms were twisted in a way that was sure to leave him sore once he woke up.
Still, Liza would help him. It would be difficult, of course, but if she supported him on his weak side, then he would likely be able to limp alongside her until they succeeded in escaping the pilot.
"Tim!" she ushered again, sliding to a stop beside him, grateful that her pain had vanished. Clearly she hadn't been nearly as injured as him, but that would be all the better for them. "We have to move. God, you're sweater's dirty. Rebecca will be so mad."
He didn't reply, even though he definitely knew of the consequences. Rebecca had made that sweater herself; she'd be pissed it was covered with blood and dirt and burned parts.
"Tim," she shook his shoulder, ignoring the sticky warmth of blood against her fingers. "Tim, we need to go. Have you seen Minna?" He wasn't waking up. "Tim, come on. Tim. Timothy." She shook him harder, her actions lined with hysteria.
Mitchell was surely catching up with her by now—why wasn't Tim waking up?!
"Tim, please," she begged. "Tim, I need you to help me. I can't find anyone else."
Nothing, and Liza felt her sanity fraying.
A thought nudged at her incessantly, something important, but she pushed it away.
She had to wake him up. She had to.
"Tim, why aren't you waking up?"
The voice was nearby once more, and she wanted to cry suddenly.
Her heart felt heavy in her chest, and her stomach was filled with something like dread.
Dread because she didn't want Mitchell to touch her anymore, she was certain.
"Timothy!" Her tone was stern then, almost angry, and her movements weren't kind when she slapped his cheek in a desperate bid to wake him from his stupor. "Tim, damnit, wake the hell up!"
Fingers wrapped around her again, and she yowled her protests like a captured wolf, fighting rabidly to get away. More hands were against her in the next second, touching her, hurting her, keeping her from Tim, and she snarled, "Get off me! Tim, help!"
Something landed on her face, and she squealed as she tried to scramble away, only to hit another solid wall of person.
Did Mitchell have help? It couldn't be the flight attendant who had been so kind to her, but what about the other attendants? She had no clue if they were nice.
She couldn't afford to take chance.
But when she tried to flee, she found herself bound by straps, and her voice was tinny with panic as she turned back to Tim. "We need to go!" She insisted, her words muffled through the mask over her mouth. It was a breathing mask, and it helped, but there was no telling if there was anything else mixed in with it that was meant to knock her out and make her easier to kidnap. "Please, Tim, we need to go! Now, Tim, get up!"
He wasn't getting up!
Why in the actual hell was he not getting up?! Didn't he hear her?!
Didn't—
The thought that had been trying to force its way through the terror earlier tried again, only this time, it was successful.
In between spurts of oxygen and bouts of pain from every nerve ending inside her body, Liza realized a truth so horrifying and earth-shattering that her entire body shuddered with the force of her understanding.
A keening wail left her mouth as she fought at the hands touching her—that damn touch!—in a vain attempt to return to Tim's side.
"No!" she howled. "NO! Tim! No, please! Timothy! Tim, Tim, Tim, wake up! Let me go! Stop touching me! STOP IT!"
Through her agony, a sudden, cool sensation resonated from her shoulder, and she faltered.
"What?" she wanted to touch the spot, but she couldn't move her arms to do so. "What? What did you do?!" Her eyelids were growing heavy.
They'd drugged her.
They were going to take her away from Tim.
Who would tell Rebecca? It should come from her. Who else would understand that pain?
But Liza could no longer move.
She tried to—God, did she try—but all she could manage was tilting her head to face her beloved friend and coworker.
His stunning blue eyes, reminiscent of the baby blue sweater that Rebecca had made him, were empty.
Blank.
Dead.
And then Liza was lost to the darkness, too.