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Everything was perfect. A practiced, well-oiled machine under the steadfast guidance of True Proof; everyone had their place, everyone had their purpose, everyone had their job to do in order to make the whole thing turn. Slip-ups are inevitable, sure, but that’s what Antidote is here for: to patch them up, fill in the gaps, and make sure everyone is running fine.
So why is it that she didn’t see this coming?
It was obvious, looking back — the betrayal, that is. Rumors of a Scythe within their ranks had circulated for quite some time, but that was too easy to chalk up to Hound’s incessant paranoia rather than anything serious. Yet the soldier was right in the end, ugly as the truth is; it was so obvious one of their ranks was rotten, one bad apple in the midst of the bunch tainting them all from the inside.
And now that the fallout is complete… well, the pawns are simply scattered all over the goddamn chessboard. Emily can’t possibly hope to pick them all up on her own.
Razor Claw disappeared into the underbelly of the city long before the brass showed their faces, desperate to hide from both legal repercussions and (more importantly) True Proof herself. Every traitor will drink the poison of hate, she said, and yet that slippery son of a bitch managed to make his bloody escape without enough of a hitch for it to matter. Not for lack of trying on their end, of course… but casualties are casualties regardless of time of death.
Hound went next, a quiet disappearance with only one single goodbye. Emily knew before most — not because the man had allowed her the courtesy of a proper send-off, but because Vera had been restless ever since and the effects ricocheted right towards Emily’s fragile, fragile doe heart. Not that it matters, because Nitre went next, and Inverted Blade was nowhere to be found. That left True Proof, the upper ranks of Requiem and Blood Fan, Emily herself, and…
Something about Vera makes Emily want to do better — no, wish she could do better — as if perhaps salvation could be attained not by devoting herself wholeheartedly into her work but by dedicating herself to just one single person; a person who, for all intents and purposes, is completely well-off on her own, but… if Emily could have just one reason to rest, just one person to tell her it’s okay to sit down and forget about the past and all the reasons she’s here… perhaps it would all be worth it in the end despite the blood that stains both their hands. Perhaps that would be something to strive towards: not prestige within their little faction, not this unrealistic savior-complexed idea of being valued for her skills and little else, but finding a sense of peace in this twisted world.
Of course, where they are now? That is nothing more than a pointlessly idealistic trail of thought.
Vera at least has the foresight to look sorry before she delivers the dour ultimatum, painted eyes downcast as she fidgets with the worn edge of her skirt. Emily knows those holes, those frayed edges; has been the one to press salve and disinfectant on the wounds left behind by wayward shots and knife slash even as Vera’s nose wrinkles in disgust at the corrosive scent. Sometimes she thinks about it: how much of a conundrum it is that Vera despises the smells and toxins of Emily’s work, and yet Emily is allowed to sit so close by her side and exist in her periphery.
How did they get here, to this point? One single kiss stolen after a nightcap smoke; Emily’s shaking hands trying to delay an oncoming mental collapse following some of the worst losses against the Scythes they’d ever suffered and Vera, always Vera, there by her side and steady in her icy demeanor, leaning down to breathe the smoke back into her mouth so they can both die, slow and painful but together.
Some Antidote she is, sharing the bottle of poison with her own damn patients.
But here they are: Emily standing, horrible anchor that she is, and Vera with chain cutters and a broken boat. Of course this life is not sustainable for any of them. Of course it was inevitable that Vera, one day, would move on to better things.
“I’m sorry,” Vera breathes, head ducked from where she sits on the creaky bed — Emily’s bed. Emily’s bed with all its broken springs and loose wires, Emily’s sheets that have been bleached to the point of fraying to try and get the bloodstains out, Emily’s blankets, heavy and warm (just like her, Vera would say, and Emily would smack her upside the head with a pillow in response). Everything in this room is hers. Was hers . Not anymore, it’s not, because —
“You don’t have to be,” Emily responds, painfully aware of how clinically detached she sounds. It’s coping, if one could really call it that; processing and compartmentalizing the way Vera looks away, towards the bottom of the door. She can unpack this later. Not now, when Vera’s headpiece is shockingly absent and the glassiness of her dark eyes is unmistakable as she finally, finally lifts her head.
“I’m not an asshole , Emily,” she says. “Not to you — never to you, at least.”
Emily knows this — knows Vera is capable of far more unpleasantry than what she shows here — but Emily also thinks packing up and leaving is a bit of an asshole move. But she’s not going to say it, and regardless, Vera continues on, because there isn’t much else she really can do at this point. The cards have already been dealt, the towers already stacked. Let them fall.
“This operation is on its way out. You know that, I know that, everyone knows — we’ve lost at least half of our major players. It’s a sinking ship, Emily. If we don’t leave now…”
The way Vera says her name is quiet and hushed, as if each of its three pathetic syllables is something to be cherished. Something to keep close, even as she pushes Emily away. Emily sighs, lets her hair down from its bun and Vera is looking at her as if she’s just witnessed the end of the world. Perhaps she has. Or perhaps it’s already happened, and here they are in the fallout of it all. Either way around it, Emily takes her seat next to Vera with a resounding creak as the bedsprings dip and fold beneath her, because of course something has to be loud and dramatic even if the two of them steadfastly refuse to blow this up into anything bigger.
“You don’t trust True Proof?” Emily asks, but she knows what Vera’s going to say before the question even fully leaves her mouth.
“I don’t trust —“
“ — anyone but yourself, I know. And I don’t want to fight you, Vera, I —“
Whatever she was going to say gets lodged sideways in her throat.
“…I could never do that.”
Vera smiles, pursed — the insides of her lips are cracked and faded from the day’s wear, notable only because in any normal situation her lipstick would have been reapplied five times before the slightest sign of wear. The bags below her eyes are blue even through the layers of powder, and Emily is certain her own bare face is even worse for wear.
Uncertainty has never been Emily’s strongest suit. She prides herself as a woman who can always be on top of things, is always several steps ahead of the curve — some may call it obsession, others paranoia, but Emily herself would call it structure. In a world where most others are flaky and unreliable, here one day and gone the next, Emily has to be a rock of stability.
But where are they going from here? What is going to happen now that True Proof’s operation is falling apart at the seams? Loath as she is to admit it, even a rock needs something to anchor it, and with Vera slipping right through her fingers she may as well be tumbling free-fall down a mountainside with nothing but flimsy trees to even attempt to break her fall. Perhaps she is. Perhaps all of this was nothing but an inevitable mistake, perhaps she is not in fact the rock but Sisyphus himself, having attempted to push her sins up a hill only to have them come crashing back down upon her. Perhaps she is never destined to find peace in this world.
“Would you?” Vera asks, half reaching out in a visibly aborted gesture to pull Emily closer. Yet even without the help, Emily complies, leaning into Vera’s shoulder the way she’s done a hundred times. They fit together perfectly, Emily thinks; her own sturdy curves cushioning Vera’s bony weight in a way that proves comforting to them both.
“It’s selfish,” she continues, lips brushing the top of Emily’s head. “I know it is. Though... I’ve never exactly claimed to be anything but. ”
“Your point, Vera,” Emily says, the words intended as a half-hearted jab, but even she cannot help the smile that twitches at the corner of her lips.
Vera pulls back, but her arm stays snaked around Emily down to the handles of her hips, proprietary fingertips curling in a comforting hold. Emily can see the way she smiles despite herself, despite the furrow to her brow and the regret brimming in her dark eyes, and she thinks she’s never seen anything more horribly beautiful.
“Can I stay just until I go?” Vera whispers, as if the words are forbidden, as if they cannot be heard outside this room on pain of death — or rather, as if the words are simply between them and them alone, Emily’s to keep close to her chest long after Vera is gone. “Would you allow me to stay tonight, here with you?”
Something in Emily’s chest clenches at the way Vera almost sounds uncertain, too — Vera of all people, Vera who is never anything less than perfect, Vera who is constantly put-together and poised and prepared — yet here, she is uncertain, shaky in her footing, guardless in front of Emily and Emily alone, and Emily nearly feels guilty for the spark of pride that shoots through her at this vulnerability that only she is able to see.
“As if I would ever turn you away,” she whispers, and the depths of Vera’s eyes drag her in closer and closer until their lips meet in one final, longing kiss.