Forty-Two

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Come by Prince

"Wong, what's going on? I saw- Wong, people are coming back. How is this happening? What are you not telling me?" The sergeant spews out into her cell phone. Emerson quickly grabs her book, not even thinking about grabbing her spilled coffee. She'll worry about that later. Using her sling ring doesn't even cross her mind. She begins sprinting through the park, peeling around the corner and heading back to the New York Sanctum.

"I do not have a lot of time to speak but time travel should sum it up for you. There was some time travel, some fighting, and some snapping."

"Snapping? Wong, you're not making any sense. What do I do now?" Everything that comes out of his mouth is rushed as if he were in a hurry to finish their conversation. He must be doing something highly important if he cannot discuss the current matters at hand. People are coming back from the snap and he isn't willing to spare a few minutes to explain what is going on. There is yelling coming from his end of the phone... Sounds as if people were fighting.

"Just keep an eye on the sanctum. I will come by as soon as my duties are done."

"Wong, if people are coming back, does that mean-"

"I have to go. Don't leave the sanctum," Wong quickly tells her before hanging up. She keeps running through the grass and roads to get back to the sanctum. Her lungs are heaving and her calves are burning with each step. Adrenaline and worry pulse through her, making her completely forget about using anything else to get to the Sanctum faster. The weight of her sling ring goes unnoticed, making her completely forget about the teleportation device. She runs full sprint up the front stairs of the sanctum, pushing through the doors in a hurry. The sergeant drops her book on the side table near the door, not caring to put it back where it's supposed to go. Keeping her shoes on, she leans back facing the ceiling in an attempt to catch her breath.

Empty. The New York Sanctum is empty, just as it normally is. There isn't a sound to be heard other than the sergeant's footsteps. It's almost eery. She trails through the sanctum, pacing the halls, wondering what could happen. These people came back from the dead... If they came back, does that mean Stephen could come back too? Her mind continues to race until the early morning hours, leaving her without a moment of shut-eye. She tried watching television and listening to music, even reading, but nothing was keeping her awake. She tried waiting. She wanted to wait for someone. Anyone.

Emerson should have known it was too good to be true. Hours went by and not a single soul stepped foot into the sanctum. Emerson's sorcerer never showed up, much to her frustration. He should have come back to life, just as the others did. Why isn't he here? Stephen must have physically died rather than turned to dust. That must be the reason he isn't coming back. He is just as dead as he was months and years ago. "Fuck," she mutters to herself in disappointment. The sergeant should not have let her hopes get too high.

Her eyes drift close, her head bobbing up and down as she tries to keep herself awake. She sits sprawled out in her office chair, her face laying against the wooden desk. Her eyes close and open once again in less than an hour. The sergeant wakes from her brisk nap to hear the door to her office open. Still half asleep, she ignores it, just assuming Wong was coming to speak with her.

"Emerson," a voice whispers, and her eyes flutter open, still facing toward the table. There is a water stain beside her-- she must have forgotten to put her drink on a coaster at some point. The sun has yet to rise and the room is completely dark. The only light is from the lamp beside her and the few street lamps that shine into her window. A hand gently rests on her shoulder. It's... familiar. Eyes now wide, she freezes in her spot, afraid to turn around. The touch is all too familiar. It cannot be his hand. How could he possibly be here? It's not real and it's not true. It's just her imagination playing tricks on her. The hand makes its way toward her face, moving her hair out of the way. It must be some sick joke. Her chest becomes tight as her breath catches in her throat. She still has yet to make a move, afraid of what she might see. It can't be real. He's not here right now. She blinks and the tears begin to fall, dripping onto the desk below her. The tears trail down the side of her face as she slowly lifts her head from the desk to face the man.

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