The sun filters light and warmth through sheer curtains onto the back of a resting man, gently waking him from his long sleep. With a stretch and a wipe of his glossy eyes, he sits forward and clutches the red blanket pooled in his lap. He draws his legs over the edge of the bed and feels for his movement aid, placing a large cap resembling a halo on his head and reaching for his nearly opaque glasses.
"Kámá!" He calls, peeking out from his bedroom. The hallway was cold, yet a warm, delicious scent wafted through the house. He knew the way to the stairs, grasping the railing and following the smell of syrniki and buterbrody. "Kámá?"
"Right here, little brother!" The woman, wearing a pair of denim shorts and a tank top with her hair clipped up messily to one side, replies in Russian. She is swift to greet him and take his hands. He smiles warmly, letting her lead him to the dining table and taking a seat before his plate. "I'm making your favorite."
"Have you slept?" He asks softly, listening to the familiar crackle of bacon on a frying pan. The woman hesitates a moment, turning over the eggs.
"Yes..." She says, feeling as though she was lying even though it was true. "Yes. I slept alright." She nods and turns the eggs, cooked into a rose shape and still soft on top, onto a thick slice of sourdough bread. She tops it with bacon that was only slightly crunchy, and the syrniki pancakes next to her, with sour cream and a drizzle of honey. "Don't worry about me. You should eat up."
"You know I will." The man chuckles, hearing the serving plates hit the table and excitedly grasping his fork. "I missed having you around to cook, sis."
"Not as much as I missed you, Arkady." Ritual smiles softly and sits across from him, brushing his hand affectionately. "Do you want to hear the news?" She asks. The man nods and she turns on the television just around the corner, listening idly as they enjoy their breakfast.
The voice fades as Ritual sees a sliver of light from her phone, face down on the table, flash in a way she hadn't seen in a long time. Resisting the urge to clutch the pit in her stomach, she grasps the cased edges and turns it over as she walks out of the kitchen, answering the video call.
"Rasêmûse..."
"Six?" She nearly whispers as her eyes land on his face. She had never heard the man sound startled.
"Oscar escaped." He warns, with little introduction to brave the blow. Ritual's eyes widen, a shaky breath escaping her as she feels for the wall behind her, feeling an overwhelming dread that nearly brought her to her knees. "His real name is Garrson Cross. We've tailed him all the way to Russia... I believe he's trying to finish what he started."
"How much time do I have?" The woman glances to the kitchen, making sure her brother couldn't hear.
"Hours... Maybe a day if they're preparing something big." Harry replies, a deep fear lining his stern tone. "Rainbow is very spread out. I don't know what you could manage, but I am giving you complete clearance of the following operation and priority over all local authorities. Call anyone you need to shut this down, quickly."
Ritual pauses for a moment, looking at the time on her phone. She parts her lips to speak before tenderly brushing her engagement ring with her thumb. Harry furrows his brows. He knew the look in her eyes.
"Anyone?" She asks finally and looks into the man's eyes through the phone. He hesitates for a moment.
"Anyone." He affirms, nodding slightly before signing off. "This is your chance, Kámámê."
"Arkady, I need to go." The woman springs into action, rushing upstairs to find the equipment she'd long buried. She drags the crate forward and rips the top open, pulling out her black uniform and beaten helmet. Zipping her tight bodysuit and throwing her Gorka 4 overtop, she then layers her vest, padding, and laces up her heavy boots. She opens a locked safe and examines her scuffed Makarov for only a second before pushing it into her thigh holster.
"Kámá." Arkady addresses the frantic woman, making her stop completely to look back to the man. He was resting against her beaten black shield, left long untouched now. "You need this."
"How..." Ritual asks shakily. She rises to her feet and takes a step up to him, resting her hand on it beside his. "How did you-"
"He's sending you a message." He warns, reaching out and caressing her helmet.
"It's time for me to send mine." Ritual nods and lifts her weighted shield, pulling out her phone and dialing a number she knew by heart. The man answers nearly immediately.
"Kámámê?" The familiar voice would have warmed her if it weren't for the circumstances. She rushes to her garage, grasping her keys along the way, and yanks the cover from the motorcycle to reveal its black and red paint.
"Able..." She breathes his name and leans on it for a moment, continuing to tap at her phone. "I sent you the brief. The three Germans and the two French men; How fast do you think you could find and bring them to Moscow?"
"You don't want Gunnar?" He asks curiously, yet cautiously. Ritual seems stricken by the question.
"I do..." She finds the words caught in her throat, gently placing her fingers to it. "But Oscar would do anything to lure him here. I don't want to put him danger again."
"Ritual, he chose you knowing that he would be in danger. He would want to be here with you so you two can finish this..." Able insists, "Together."
"I know." The woman swallows her fears, closing her eyes for a moment and resting her head against the wall.
"I'd be flying halfway across the world, but if you give me the clearance, I can make it by tonight. Just say the word." Able calmly awaits her order.
"Forget the formality. Go get them... Go get him." She affirms and starts her motorcycle, enjoying the purr that followed the roar. She tears through the streets of her quiet neighborhood.
"Hey!" Another familiar voice patches through her headset and a flash of red catches her eye. She glances to her right to see a man clad in black, starkly contrasting the motorcycle that matched hers.
"Vyacheslav!" She exclaims, setting the pace to ride next to him. Before she can think of what to say, she notices his long, clear shield stowed on his back.
"I heard you needed me." He nods to her, ducking into an exit with her following closely. "Where are we headed?"
"To find Shuhrat!" She answers, weaving in-between the lanes of traffic like wind between skyscrapers. "Brief him and meet me at the Mirage."
"Copy that. We'll see you soon." He nods firmly and ducks into another lane, vanishing among the cars. The ride from here was short, silent, her heart racing faster than she could drive. Over the edge of the tallest buildings in Moscow, she can see the hotel, closing the distance and riding to a stop in front of it.
Her eyes scan the building, which stood exactly as it had all those years ago. She could vividly see herself in the lobby, fighting through waves of white until they became red. Headlights soon beat over her dark form, reflecting off the windows, breaking her from the flashback. There was nothing there.
Turning to meet the van rolling through the alley she concealed herself in, the doors swing open and she jumps into the back to greet her comrades. The plan came, rushed, yet somehow stalling, time spent foolishly hoping that reinforcements would arrive. Within hours the table becomes littered with blueprints, weapons, and by the door remains a box of colored helmets. She looks at them with a slight stinging in her chest. She couldn't wait any longer.
Stepping out onto the street, Ritual lays her eyes on the massive hotel, feeling the wind whistling between the buildings around her. She glances back at all of the cars as though there would be familiar faces in the crowd. She turns to Fuze for a moment, who matches her gaze, before gently grasping his arm.
"What if I told you there was no one to save us?" She whispers. There was a pain in her eyes as he looked into them. He leaned close so that she could see through his mirrored lenses, showing a sympathy in his gaze that his voice wouldn't convey.
"I'd tell you that's enough talk." He strengthens her morale, knocking on her helmet. "The time is now." He says and grasps her by her hips, lifting her up onto a nearby car so she could be seen. She seems surprised, clinging to his arms, before standing on the roof of the armored vehicle to speak.
"Everyone step back!" Ritual stands tall and shouts in Russian, falling onto the ears of every officer. The street becomes silent. "I am going in. I want dead silence; not a single light on the building, no incoming comms, and no local reinforcement will enter under any circumstances. Rescue and medical are to be on standby until my team confirms the building is clear of all threats. All non-military, clear the block!"
"Kill anything with a mask." The woman addresses the two men as she lowers herself from the vehicle, watching the dozens of cars rapidly disperse into the alleys. She pats Vyacheslav's shoulder. "Let's move."
Ritual was always one to clear from the top down, but she knew the roof would be guarded better than last time, so she braces a compact hook launcher against her shoulder and looks for an entry. Over the tip of the hook she spots a window propped open on the ninth floor. The hinge looks sturdy, so she squints down at it and fires, catching it and letting the rope cut through the air and swing against the building.
"See you inside." She joins her ascender to the line, holding on tightly as it takes her up the side of the hotel. She could see her reflection against the chromatic windows. Part of her wondered how everyone else would see her now.
Thrusting herself through the small gap, she plants her feet into the soft carpet, slinging her beaten shield from her back. Her gloved fingers are tight around the handle, like her first day all over again. She peers cautiously through the peephole at a White Mask patrolling the hallway, brushing past doors left ajar, corpses of those who tried to run splayed in their way. Pinching the lock in her thumb, she silently turns it and braces her foot against the door as she eases it open, not letting it make a sound.
The lone White Mask stride with his back to the woman, so she keeps herself low to the ground until she's close enough that she can smell the harsh chemicals clinging to his jacket. The only sound is the piercing of his flesh as she plunges her tomahawk handle-up through his chin, grasping him tightly under her arm. She wraps her other hand under the mask and stifles his gurgles as she drags him back into an open room. Nearly every drop of blood caught on the man's shirt as she lay him down, taking both hands and dragging the blade down into his throat to end him.
Footsteps bounce off of the open doorway, making her press her anxious body against it, waiting. She looks at her knuckles, gripping the scratched handle, and takes a small breath to steady herself. She turns her arm over the shield and just as the man walking through catches her black form, the last thing he sees over the suppressor is her Spetsnaz patch before he hits the ground.
"Ritual," Fuze's voice nearly startles her as she kicks the body aside. "What is your status?"
"Sweeping for more hostiles." She whispers, shaking one of the door handles. The small team had to move agonizingly slow to secure the massive hotel without compromising themselves. Clearing the floor she was on, the cold stairway echoes as Ritual opens the door, meeting the men in the stairwell and beckoning them to follow her.
"Mimic, stand in front of the window." She orders, pointing to the door to the roof. "Fuze, place a Cluster Charge and clear the outside."
"It won't be quiet." Fuze remarks, lifting one from his belt. "Are you sure?"
"Without keys, it's our only good option, and this is our only escape." Ritual affirms. "Wait until my call." She turns and walks back down to the eighth floor. Bracing the door and taking a step further before turning to check the lower stairs, a terribly familiar hissing from behind her causes her to stop dead.
"Look who made it." A chuckle escapes the Bomber staring at her. Ritual meets his eye, feeling her hands tremble slightly. The lights overhead cut off, drenching the woman in pure darkness, making her whole body lock up. All that remains is the faint glow of the Bomber's vest. "She's here!"
Suddenly, the barricades above her break to reveal swarms of White Masks, flashlights trained. She quickly turns as they open fire, bashing a man with her shield and watching as he falls over the railing and into the spiral to the bottom. A gut-wrenching crack echoes as his bones shatter on the decorated floor.
"Send it, now!" She cries into her radio. The assailants persist, thrashing and kicking at her shield, to which she bashes them into each other's lines of fire. In a moment of respite, she lays her shield on the top of the staircase, planting her feet onto it and drawing her submachine gun. Each of her bullets strike the impending White Masks, piling a mass of bodies atop the stairs. As she slides to the base of the steps, she rolls on top of the shield and kicks it upright as she lays on her back, grabbing it by the top and bracing it on her feet.
As the Bomber springs to detonate on top of her, she flips the man over into the crowd of White Masks rushing from below. The explosion wipes them out and sends the shield flying back to Ritual. By a hair, she catches it from over her head, falling over with the momentum. Catching her breath, she turns to see one of the White Masks crawling from out of the mass grave, reaching weakly before tumbling down the stairs to her feet.
"Mercy..." He begs, resting his bloody fingers on her boots. She draws her tomahawk, observing her reflection in its shining black surface. She gently turns him over with her boot and watches blood stream down his side under her flashlight. His breathing starts to slow as she kneels over him, looking into his frantic eyes, watching him close them and grasp her wrist. She understood.
"As you wish." She cuts into his throat as swiftly as she can, leaning him slowly onto his side to rest.
"Ritual?" Vyacheslav radios in, sounding startled. "What the hell is going on?"
"I've been compromised," Ritual replies quickly, looking at the partially collapsed stairs below. "The stairs to the seventh floor are destroyed, so there's no way back up." She looks behind her one last time, hesitant. "Don't follow me."
As Ritual lifts her foot to take the jump, several gunshots ring out underneath her, making her jolt. She could hear the screaming of civilians paired with running and falling. A click, a turn, and a scream. The realization hit her like one of their bullets.
"Masterkeys..." She whispers to herself. She takes a running start and jumps the gap in the staircase, falling onto the landing with a groan. Her feet barely even touch the steps as she breaks into a sprint to the next door, bursting through and preemptively firing down the long hall. The enemies knew she was coming now, spraying her blindly over each other's shoulders in pitiful attempts to take her down.
Ritual clears the floor, then the next and the next, until the shooting and screaming was so loud that she could barely tell what was clear and what was just starting. Desperate to catch her breath, she slid down one of the open doors and felt her chest for her remaining magazines. In the back of her mind she knew that the White Masks were trying to lure her in, and they would make it to her any moment now.
Hands in her lap and shield at her side, her head lolled to the right, looking out the window to see Moscow, her home, enveloped in the setting sun behind the buildings she looked up to each day. The blood red on the horizon stained the gray, reminding her of how much time they'd wasted already. Her eyes fled desperately back to the fresh snow, praying that the others would arrive before there were no civilians left to save.
"I know you're here!" A voice broke her thoughts. He grips his pistol tightly, walking with it trained on the end of the hall. Silence looms as a bead of sweat drips from his head and meets the carpet. He clears each open room as he walks, analyzing every corpse before moving on. "Come out you fucking coward!"
A White Mask cautiously leans out from one of the doorways before him. The man takes a step forward before stopping in his tracks, looking with furrowed brows. It leaned forward, almost unnaturally, before falling to the floor and displaying a mangled throat.
"Be careful what you wish for..." A shadow stepped over the corpse, revealing herself. "White King."
"I just knew you wouldn't be able to help yourself." Garrson shakes his head, the only thing visible through his mask being his soulless eyes. "Where is he?"
"He's not coming." Ritual swallows a lump in her throat. She wasn't sure if it was the truth.
"A crying shame, really..." He paces slightly, taking a cautious step towards her. "And as usual, you're nothing without him. Cowering behind your shield, like always." He gestures, making her wince. "When are you going to face your past, Scorned?"
'Scorned'... How could he know about that?' Ritual feels herself trembling in a fit of pique. 'Only NIGHTHAVEN calls me that.' She grimaces, clenching her jaw. Without another word, she raises her gun over the notch in the shield, firing at him. Her bullets only fly by as he makes distance down the hall, returning fire as he maintains his speed. One of his rounds catches her shoulder. It was the first hit she had taken all day, and with how tired her body was, it knocked her to the floor.
Ritual braces her shield, watching as the man hesitates for a moment to see if he'd killed her. She lifts her weapon to shoot at him again, but it only clicks, having jammed during the misfire when she fell. Over the sights she sees him bracing the door and escaping to the stairs.
"Damn it..." She forces herself to crawl out of the fray with a groan, slumping against a door. "I'm hit!" She whimpers through grit teeth into her radio. Picking up her pistol from where it rest in her lap, she opens the chamber to see the round lodged crooked. Trying to ease it into place with one hand was impossible, but she remembers what her father taught her.
With a deep sigh she readies herself, pulling off her glove and pressing her finger to her bleeding wound, stifling her groan of pain and wincing as her hot blood drips into the chamber. The greased bullet moves with ease and the slide snaps shut.
The woman manages to dress her injury, wrapping gauze over her sleeve and knotting it tight between her hand and teeth. She notices that her radio is strangely quiet. Tapping the piece on the back of her helmet, her fingers trace the short wire, realizing that it was severed. She was alone now.
Her body screamed at her to lay down and give in to the silence, and yet, in it she found clarity; knowing what she knew now, the next course was to find her target in the lobby, and likely explosives too, before he could escape again. She gathers herself and flees to the steps once more.
Through the small window in the door, Ritual can see the White King pacing around the tattered lobby littered with hostiles. The front door is completely barricaded, both boarded and blocked with furniture, letting barely any light through. Something about it made her teary-eyed.
The hot blood staining her uniform, both hers and theirs, creates a startling chill on her skin that recaptures her attention. Drawing a smoke grenade from her belt and twirling the pin in one hand, she breaks the window with her pistol to toss the canister through. It rolls between the hostiles and leaves a dark trail. Her heartbeat counted down for her.
'Three... Two...'
She kicks the door open and uses her strong arm to slice her tomahawk through the back of the man's knee on her right, swiftly turning and bashing the back of her fist and the hilt into the man on her left, hearing his sternum crack. Flashlights sift through the smoke onto her form, gunfire and shouting surrounding her. She squints at the shadows, watching as they fall before she can even pull the trigger. Confused, she glances around.
She sees Montagne standing in front of her, glancing back at her for only a moment through the smoke clinging to his body. A burst of light coming from her right makes her wince, the German blinding the assailants as he steps over corpses, his new partner jumping past him and planting his feet before firing a shell into the crowd. It makes a loud crack before bursting and knocking them across the room, the rumble continuing as they splatter against the walls and are thrown to the floor. The thunder to his lightning, Blitz and Donner shoot each other a look.
On her other side, she watches as Mimic springs from hiding and bashes his frightened enemies underneath a Cluster Charge, Fuze promptly bombing that half of the room until nothing remained. As her sight clears she sees Graves, shield folded against the reception desk, aiming down towards her.
"Kámá!" He recognizes, sliding over the desk. He notices her wounded shoulder as he comes to her side. "Regardez ici! She's hit!"
"I'm fine," She quickly brushes off and pushes him aside, using her pistol light to look around frantically. "Where is Garrson?"
"He's gone..." Mimic gestures to the spotty blood trail. Ritual brushes past to see all that remained was a large ring of keys. She clenches her fist around it.
"Do you hear that?" Fuze suddenly asks, both breaking and resuming the silence as he enters the room. The team exchanges glances before searching around the room for the source of the faint beeping, all ending up at the same spot. Donner pries the heavy elevator doors open with his hands, letting Ritual peer inside. Her eyes trace the cut lines until they fall onto the barricaded hatch.
"The bomb is in the elevator this time..." She shudders. With all means of breaching spent, there was no way to disable the explosive, and they all knew it.
"The elevator doors are open on every floor," Donner slowly turns to face the group, all of them stricken. "He's filling the building with gas."
"To the roof! Now!" Ritual quickly ushers, funneling the operators into the dark well, their flashlights sifting through the railings and strobing against the walls. White Masks sprung from their hiding spots on every floor they passed, swinging wildly like zombies from newly open doors and ambushing the group.
Ritual's body ached as she cut through the assailants' limbs like thick brush, her team weaving through them and each other's bullets. Hurdling over corpses, jamming doors shut, the squad comes to a halt at the broken stairs on the seventh level.
"Cut across, I've got the keys to the other stairwell!" Ritual orders. The men stumble into the corridor, keeping their flashlights trained on the exit. Ritual frantically tries the masterkeys in the lock until she finds the right one, bursting through. The stairs only lead to the final floor, forcing them to run back, making their way to the grand staircase to reach the roof. "Go! I'm right behind--" She barks before she is thrown backwards, ripped from the door and gasping as her back meets the floor. The attacker slams the exit and quickly locks it, trapping the men on the other side.
"Ritual!" Fuze screams desperately for her, bashing the door with his fists. He raises his voice as he watches helplessly. "Ritual!"
Panicking, she scrambles to crawl backwards, but the man claws at her legs, dragging her back while she scratches desperately at the carpet. One of her frantic kicks lands on his chin, knocking him back, buying her time. She scoops up her pistol and breaks into a sprint to the other end, but she knew there was nowhere to go.
The man rises to take a shot at her, piercing her side and making her fall with a scream, looking back with terror in her eyes. What little light remained dotted the halls through the open doors, falling onto the man as he stepped out from the shadows.
"This is it." He huffs out, reddened eyes beating hatred down onto the woman's form over the detonator in his hand. "I finally got you all here for one last reunion... Now, I'll make him watch me take everything he loves."
"They're already gone." She spits back, rising to her feet once more, bracing on her shield weakly. "No matter what you do now, you failed her. You sent her to that factory and she sacrificed herself to protect you." Ritual wobbles slightly, feeling her body giving in on her, but her voice is unwavering. "She wasn't your queen, she was your useless pawn!"
"Shut the fuck up!" The man screams over her and fires multiple shots into her shield just to drown her out. Once the magazine is empty, he lowers the gun, trembling slightly as a tear rolls down his cheek. "I loved her..."
"We both lost something we loved that day." She stumbles forward, leaning on her cover again. "Do your worst to me- Destroy my home, threaten my men, take my life -You'll never get your hands on Gunnar now."
Gunnar... She felt her ring brushing her pistol through her glove. She could imagine his face, his gentle eyes. She could hear him as he swore that he would cross any distance to reach her. Where was he now?
"Maybe." The man scoffs. "But you're a good start." His gaze hardens as he watches the woman lean back, almost acceptingly, resting against the shield that had been with her since the very beginning. Her blood dripped onto it, mixing with the massacre etched into its surface. It seemed only fitting that it was here now.
Through the window in the doorway beside her she saw it again; the sky was now a deep blue speckled with snow and stars. She prayed that what came next would be just as inviting as the warm fires she made on nights like these, where her fondest memories slept soundly. Memories of her family, her comrades, of love. Maybe death would be like those nights, smelling the smoke before she even opened her eyes. Maybe the warmth on her back was the fire again.
"I'm here." She feels herself against the man's chest, watching through glazed eyes as her shield hits the floor with a clatter and he grasps his hand over hers, pulling the trigger for her. Her last bullet strikes the White King's chest, spinning him until he falls face down into the floor.
Gunnar eases the woman down slowly, holding her in his lap. He takes her face in one hand and hesitantly looks down at her with tears in his eyes. They scan her blood soaked uniform and shoddy wound dressings, and the words catch in his throat.
"I told him..." She breathes slowly, lifting her visor and looking into the man's welcoming brown eyes in the dying light. "You weren't coming."
"I'm so sorry, I was on a different flight, and..." He whispers, sliding one hand to the back of her neck to support her head. Tears streamed out from underneath his helmet, landing on her cheek, where they mixed with hers. He could barely bring himself to breathe. "You're okay, I'm... I'm here."
"Make sure..." Ritual lifts her wounded shoulder to take his hand, placing it onto the pouch that rest over her heart. He could feel a single bullet inside. "That he's dead."
"Kámá..." Gunnar gulps, looking at her knowingly, and slowly takes it in his hand. He lays her down and lifts her shield, stepping over her. The blood trail was short, fresh, pooling into a puddle on the carpet. Gunnar watches as the man reaches for the detonator only feet away.
Glancing back at Ritual for just a moment, he grips her shield firmly and looms over the White King, holding his breath as he raises it. He plants it firmly into the man's spine, watching him writhe underneath him. Ritual lifts her head with what little strength she had left to see.
"Checkmate, Garrson." Gunnar declares as he loads the last bullet into her sacred Makarov and pulls the trigger, killing the last of the White Masks. The only sound that remains after Ritual lets out a deep breath and finally lays her head down is the faint beeping. He steps over the fresh corpse and lays his eyes on the detonator, seeing that it was not truly that, but just a timer. A cold chill runs down his spine.
"Gunnar, what is your status?" He could faintly hear his radio. Time was too short to respond. He rushes to scoop the woman up, pulling her aside into an open room. He quickly wets small towels in the bathroom sink and stuffs them against the bottom of the door. Lifting himself onto the window sill, he bashes the stiff hinges until it opens with a creak and uses the last towel to fan the air out. As he feels for the button on his radio, a sound like the Earth collapsing rattles the entire building and knocks him to the ground.
"Kámámê..." Gunnar places himself over Ritual and cradles her. Hesitantly, he closes his eyes and rests his head against hers, taking her hand and brushing his thumb over her ring under her glove. "I love you." He whispers, knowing that she couldn't hear him now.
Glass had blown out, flames quickly leapt through the air on each and every floor, the gas combusting and swallowing everything it could. Only the fallen remained to be cremated, the last trace of life being in this very room.
"Gunnar!" Several voices all meet his radio. "Ritual! Gunnar! Do you copy?"
"We're trapped on the fourteenth floor." He says softly, looking up to see flames lapping at the door and eating away the ceiling. The ventilation had saved them, but not for long. "Ritual is dying, please..." He begs. "Adder..."
"I'm on my way!" The man responds, his feet meeting the roof as he leaps from the helicopter. He holds his angled shield close as he enters, his breathing reverberating through his sealed mask and the flames seemingly bouncing off of his uniform. Pressing the button every few seconds to sweep the areas he was carefully walking through, each room was dead, empty, no signals showing on his screen. "Gunnar?" He calls out, shaking one of the door handles. "Can you hear me?"
"In here!" Gunnar rushes to the door and bangs on it harshly, feeling the blazing heat through the thick surface. Kicking aside the sopping towels, he bangs again until the door handle jingles.
"Is she alive?" the German man stumbles in, pulling a fireproof blanket from his back. He takes Ritual and tenderly lays her in it, picking one of the wet towels from the floor and wrapping it over her helmet vents. "Move quickly."
Gunnar takes one of the towels for himself, carrying his wounded partner and walking briskly behind his teammate through the hellish haze. The cracked paint peeled and fell away from the walls all around him, the dancing flames in the doorways looked almost like those the duo had slain when they fell to his peripherals. He trudges faster, squinting through tears, feeling as though he was being chased.
Brushing the scalding door handle, Adder leads him into the stairwell, hot and dark like a chimney. It felt like how he had imagined death, something so far from Ritual's. The only light here was the tiniest embers drifting around him, a sea of orange specks rising like snow in the wind. His arms stung from carrying the woman, and his feet from running, yet for just a moment all of the pain and noise subsides.
He closes his eyes and braces for the harsh light, ready for whatever came next. He couldn't tell if he was moving up or down now. A sudden peace seems to wash over him as the white light steals his eyes.
He could hear voices, faintly.
"They're alive, barely..." One says.
"Not for long," another comments, searching frantically for something. "We used all of the A-Positive blood..."
"Gunnar?"
"Kámá?" He nearly whispers, turning around. Ritual stood a short distance behind him. She slowly extends her hand, watching with a small smile. Gunnar lets out a small breath, seeing it become fog as snow falls around them, his feet crunching it as he steps slowly towards her. Her hand feels so warm as he takes it.
"It'll take about ten minutes to draw, do we have enough time?" The two medics look at each other. One shakes their head before quickly searching for equipment.
"We'll hook them together." The other suggests. The chatter around them was so loud, filled with cries, yelling, beeping, gushing water, crackling. The only thing Gunnar can hear is his heartbeat as medics hook the man's IV.
"Three... Two..."
"Where are you going?" Gunnar gently tugs her arm. She stops, turning to look at him, seeing the horizon clearly. A small red string connected the arms of the hands they clasped together. He nods, and she somehow understood, turning to follow him instead. "It's not time to leave yet."
The group watches as their hearts beat life back into each other, their skin gradually warming to deep, healthy colors. Ritual's chest rises and falls softly, her masked expression gentle. After several minutes of silence, she draws in a deep breath, bobbing her head around weakly before coughing.
"Kámá!" Gunnar can bring his burnt voice no louder, waking just as she does, turning and slipping his hand under her helmet and caressing her cheek with his free hand. "Kámámê..."
"Gunnar...?" She whimpers, slowly realizing where she is as her eyes land on him. She rests her head again and leans into his touch. "Is... Is everyone okay?"
"They're all here, thanks to you." Gunnar smiles softly, looking to the group over the edge of their bed. With a nudging gesture, the medic invites them to step into the ambulance. Fuze comes to her side first, brushing the back of his hand against her helmet without a word. Vyacheslav, Anton, and Fritz rest their hands on them, Beau holds her weak hand in both of his, and Able, Blitz, and Montagne stand at the end of the cot.
"Is he gone?" She looks over them all slowly, her head bobbing. Over their shoulders she can see the dying embers of the Mirage, the heat warping the view of the street beyond. Glass littered the way, twinkling under the lights and mirroring the starry sky above them.
"Yes..." Gunnar answers softly, turning her head to rest his forehead against hers and gently shushing her. The comfort and warmth of his heart beating lulled her, satiating a craving for safety left long unfulfilled. His blood coursed through her, and her through him, making them whole. She closes her eyes, finding peace in a different kind of darkness, like that between a page and cover when a book is finally closed. "It's over."