❛ the ground. that's the dream. ❜
On the list 𝘓𝘺𝘳𝘢 𝘑𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘛𝘰𝘱 𝘛𝘦𝘯 𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘔𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘖𝘧 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦, getting arrested is definitely up there. But, hey! At least there's a silver lining ━━ getting shoved into a drops...
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FORTY-NINE SECONDS are taken to get to the dropship from the tree where she'd slept. Nineteen steps, though maybe it could've been shortened to eleven if her strides were a bit longer (or if she was any taller). If she skipped, probably she could've shortened it down to at least thirty-three seconds, and it would have been a lot fewer steps ━━ zero, technically, if you decide not to count skipping as stepping at all. But anyways, skipping or long strides or whatever, it definitely would've been quicker if she hadn't spent a few heartbeats staring into the woods and hoping she might see a bunny.
(She did not.)
Then she gets to the dropship. Carved into the side with what must have been a knife is five words:
First son, first to dye.
She stares at it in confusion. "Um. Like hair dye?"
"Like, die die," says a familiar voice from behind her before scoffing. "It's Murphy's idea of a threat."
"He can't spell die right?" Lyra blinks because um, what? Then she tilts her head to look at it from a new angle. "Well, I dunno, I mean I guess it's kinda threatening. He's got a knife, hasn't he? And he did take your wristband."
"Exactly," Wells agrees. "What've I got left to lose?"
"Don't say that, that's like, tempting fate or something," says Lyra, turning around to face him. He's cradling a lump of clothes in his arms. "Where'd you get all that?"
"I buried the kids who died."
"And you didn't wake me up?" She asks, a little hurt.
"You looked like you could use the sleep," he says, then shuffles around as he reaches deep into his pockets. "But look - I got you something."
Lyra gasps in excitement. "You didn't."
She practically snatches the two wristbands from his hands in her excitement. Both metal bracelets are halved, a strange sort of gap between two unlocked hinges that creaks stiffly as she starts to flex them, fiddling with them the moment they're in her hands. When she tries to lock one around her bare wrist, it doesn't work. Poking at the dozens of miniaturised metal spokes lining the inside, she bites her lip when there's no spark. Somehow they must have died.
