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Isha’s tears streamed down her face as she let loose a wordless wail.
She’d seen her — her Mama , shambling around out there— tried to call out to her even as she knew she couldn’t. Her Mama— those unmistakable twin blue braids— a mindless walker. And Isha had, for the first time in years, tried to make a sound. Tried to scream, tried to whine.
And her body betrayed her, like it had always done. She’d gotten her Papa’s attention, done her best to sign frantically: Mama. Help. Please please please please please help Mama .
Her Papa ( not really her Papa but he might as well be ) had tugged her mining helmet over her eyes and urged them away. Urged them to turn around, to run. Before the walkers caught up to them. And they’d run, until her Papa stepped wrong-ways into a hole in the ground.
He’d been leaning heavily on her since then, limping along as best he could. Isha could hear his gasps and groans and whimpers— even as she knew he was biting into his lips to suppress as much of his pain as possible.
He didn’t want her to know, but how could she not? They’d been traveling together for months. Since he’d found her in her old home, they’d not spent more than a few moments apart. He held her when she cried, tugged her helmet down over her eyes to make her laugh, ruffled her hair after a good deed, and taught her to shoot.
In their time together she found him to be so much like her Mama in some ways. And so unlike her in many others. But she felt safe around him. She felt comforted— she’d let him in. He was a good person, a funny person.
He had a strange fixation on time, and Isha liked to joke how that was ironic with how often he was late everywhere. And then he’d get this look in his eyes, and wouldn’t look at her for a bit. And he’d tell her “someone else used to say that to me all the time.” And Isha felt like she was in on the joke.
The pair stumbled into a convenience store and Isha left her Papa swaying uneasily as she barricaded the door. A thundering crash sounded out and Isha spun on her heel, eyes wide and searching for the source of the noise. Her Papa was laying face down on the hard tiles, and she gasped in deep concern. She’d not taken the time to notice ‘til now, but his arm was… it was bleeding a lot.
And his dark skin was ashy, his brow soaked in sweat. Isha frowned in suspicion, marching up to her Papa and helping him lean against the wall. Isha crossed her arms and stared him down, pouting in a silent demand for answers. No sign was needed, and her Papa merely groaned.
With great reluctance and effort, he shrugged off his heavy combat jacket and left himself in just a simple tank top. And then Isha saw it— already red and bruising and raw— a bite on his bicep. A deep, festering wound. And tears immediately sprung to Isha’s eyes as her wide amber eyes flickered between his wound and his eyes.
“‘M sorry, Blue Jay,” her Papa croaked, swallowing thickly. Isha sobbed, noiselessly, and her head darted around as she spun in circles, looking for the duffel bag he must’ve dropped. She nearly tripped over her own feet, exhaustion wearing her down, but her Papa needed her. She had to be strong for him— she had to.
Isha found the bag and rifled through its contents, searching for the canteen they’d filled earlier. Her hands trembled so terribly she dropped the canteen, heard it clatter around three times as loud as it needed to be. She heard her Papa groan again, his voice weak and barely reaching her over the blood pounding in her ears.
“Br- breathe , Blue Jay. Remember?” And Isha did remember. She did, of course she did. Her Mama had taught her— before . And then her Papa, more recently. And Isha took his advice. Closing her eyes and checking her breathing, she imagined the tick, tick, tick, ticking of a pocket watch as she unwound and rewound the clock in her chest.
Her Papa’s fascination with time had become to rub off on her, not that she’d ever confess it to him.
Soothed, Isha was able to steady her hands and unscrew the cap of the canteen, tentatively holding it up to her Papa’s lips— chapped and bitten raw. He looked pained as he forced himself to swallow, and Isha realized he was forcing himself to— forcing himself so she felt better. And that Isha glaring at him again.
Her Papa smiled, though that was pained too, like it took effort to do anything but sit there. He reached up to tug at one of her small braids, and Isha smiled at the familiarity even as her Papa winced with the effort.
“Blue Jay. It’s… baby girl, it’s too late to amputate,” her Papa whispered, meeting her gaze steadily. And there were times, like now, where Isha didn’t want to be regarded as an equal.
She knew her Papa placed a great deal of trust in her. And she knew she complained when she was babied, or coddled. But at the thought of losing him, at being alone, Isha craved that comfort. And as tears sprang to her eyes again, the eight year old girl lunged at her Papa and clung to him desperately.
Her Papa reacted instantly, like she knew he would. His arm came around her and tugged her even closer, tugging and tugging until she was in his lap, her face buried in his shoulder. Hands pressed tight to his chest, Isha couldn't sign but she traced the words into his shirt: Don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go.
“My baby,” her Papa croaked, while her entire body shook with the force of her sobs. Images of her Mama’s dirty blue braids and aimless shamble played behind her eyes.
Isha’s imagination was cruel, her overactive creative mind vicious and spiteful, as she could easily picture her Papa in a similar state. His sharp features decayed, his depthless brown eyes— so warm, so kind— cloudy and yellowed. His strong, even gait shuffling and shambling.
She didn’t want him to become that. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t, like Mama, lost, gone, one of them. She couldn’t lose them both like that. But… but she didn’t want to lose him either.
“Blue Jay…” but Isha shook her head immediately. Her tiny hands balled into fists against her Papa’s chest. Her eyes squeezed shut, trying to hold back the fat, stinging tears she was tired of shedding.
The buzzing in her ears was louder than before, the loudest it had been since her first night alone, before her Papa found her. He wasn’t her Papa back then.
“It's okay, Blue Jay. It'll all be okay,” Ekko soothed, forcing his good hand to trace soothing patterns onto the little girl’s back, “you’re a strong girl, Isha. You can carry on without me, I know you can.”
And Isha pulled away, glaring at him while snot blew out of her nose. A strangled sob wracked her shoulders and she adamantly shook her head, bringing her hands right up to his face. Her thumb, index and middle fingers pinching together, again and again and again. No. No. No.
“I’m proud of you, Blue Jay. I'll always be proud of you. And so will Jinx,” his large, callused palm came to rest on the side of her face, then. And Isha practically threw herself into the touch, nuzzling deep as he easily covered half her face. Her helmet was knocked askew but Isha couldn’t care if it was thrown across the room: anything to keep her Papa here, in this moment, with her.
“Blue Jay, you’re NOT killing me, you hear me? I know if it feels like it, but you’re not. You’re saving me. Just like I always did for everyone, huh? Now it's your turn, Ish. My little Girl Savior. Gotta carry on the title, right?” His hand left her cheek to tug the helmet back over her face, but there was no restrained giggling this time.
Isha’s heart twisted and ached at the gesture, wondering if this was the last time she’d ever receive it.
Isha hated the way her Papa’s words soothed her. She hated the way his bad arm, the arm she avoided looking at, reached down to his hip and unholstered his pistol. She hated when he pressed the weapon into her hands, hated how they trembled again.
And now with the gun in her hands, Isha desperately wanted to sign so many words to her Papa before he left, but… She was scared: scared that if she dropped the gun, she wouldn’t have the strength to pick it back up again. And her Papa deserved better than that.
His hand came back to cradle her cheek, and Isha pulled herself reluctantly off his lap to kneel just off to his side. He seemed to understand— could read her wide, bright amber eyes. Isha saw how his face split into a genuine smile, one that reached his eyes and crinkled them at the corners in a way she hadn’t seen in days.
“Now close your eyes, and pull the trigger for me. For me, it’ll be like falling asleep."
And Isha glared again, fresh tears streaming down her face, and shook her head. Message received: she wouldn’t look away. And Ekko nodded back, weakly, wincing at the effort.
His palm withdrew from her cheek, still plush with baby fat, and brought his fingers up to the side of his head in Powder’s old bunny salute. He saw the shock on Isha’s face at the familiar gesture, a gesture he had no business knowing in her eyes… but one he’d never forget.
And then Isha let go of her gun with her free hand, her fingers rising to the corner of her mouth, and she formed a finger gun. She mouthed ‘pow’ and mimed recoil. And it was Ekko’s turn to sob, the gesture something so Powder , and he leaned forward to kiss her forehead. His good hand latched onto her shoulder and Isha sobbed again, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek.
“Don't cry, Blue Jay. You’re perfect. You’re strong . You can do anything . Because you’re Jinx’s daughter. Because you’re my baby. Because you’re you .”
And without blinking, without looking away, Isha raised the gun toward Ekko’s head. Ekko blinked once, twice, and poured as much love and acceptance and forgiveness into his gaze he could. He wanted her left without doubt that this was what he wanted . This was what she wanted. The alternative wasn’t worth even considering.
And Isha stared back, bottom lip trembling as tears blurred her vision. One final questioning expression— a subtle raising of her eyebrow— and at Ekko’s nod she drew a deep breath and then released it.
“I love you, Isha.”
Isha stared, wide-eyed, mouth agape. And then she was blinking rapidly. One hand left the pistol grip, and held her palm toward him. Her ring finger tucked toward her palm— thumb, pinky, middle, and index fingers left extended, and then her middle and index fingers crossed.
I really love you.
And with his soft smile firmly in place, Isha returned her left hand to the pistol and, without looking away, held the gun steady like she’d been taught.
And pulled the trigger.