the blood in our future

Two Handfuls of Minutes

A/N: Hi everyone! Hope you're having a nice evening/morning/day/night!!

TWs:
- minor panic attack
- animal cruelty as a metaphor
- but only as a metaphor
- no animals were harmed in the making of this
- except for my cat Lilly maybe
- she's really mad I'm not adhering to the bedtime she's set for me
- she's not harmed physically but she sure acts like it
- anyways sorry to all the bird lovers in our midst

---------------------------------

The lock gave way with a 'click' so silent she held her breath. The iron swung open in front of her, and Lucy raised the clock's hands in an answer to anyone who might be waiting outside her door—

Only to meet no one. There was no one standing outside, as she kicked the door open.

And Lucy supposed it made sense, in a cruel way. Boone wanted no one but him and her to survive. Not even the people working for him. Not even Winkman. He had to have ordered every one of them near the great hall.

The great hall, where he'd said all the relic-men were. Where he'd said the 'show' would commence.

Where he'd release the ghosts.

Grimacing, Lucy swallowed the white in her eyes back down, back into that maelstrom spot in her heart. Even now, she felt it: How they were growing stronger, how she was growing weaker. Time after time, it became harder to know where they ended and she started. Time after time, it became harder to draw the divide. Which Lucy supposed was just the thing Boone wanted for her, destroyer of borders he wished her to be.

But her ghosts didn't. They weren't feeding on her willingly, she knew that. Her flesh was shoved down their throats just like it was ripped from her: without any of their say. It might make them stronger, yes, but they had no interest in it, in ever using it against her. As long as she didn't try and hurt who they thought to be Sam Colby, that was. Although Lucy didn't know if that clause still stood after everything that had happened.

Now, standing in a dark corridor, her ghosts went back to being numb, back to grieving underneath the silver. And Lucy went back to listening.

Her ears throbbed. Hurt. Everything did. Everything burned, still. Always would, maybe, one flame chasing the next. But the fire wouldn't be sated with just her body. It would spread outside of her if she didn't fight it, if she let it stop her now. It would kill hundreds.

There were generations of sounds in her ears. One decayed house atop another, each one built on ruins without ever knowing.

There was the fire, always greedy, always taking—

There were the fading memories her ghosts had shown her, the locks underneath her fingers, still bright, still alive—

There were Colby's Boone's words still hazing her mind, still claiming it as his own—

There were the echoes Jessica had left her with — the slam of a door, the cry that never ended — intertwined with the pure panic she'd felt, interlaced with the clear warning she'd given her, a warning Lucy still didn't know what for—

But she had no time for any of it. So she pushed further. Exiled the low flicker of fear to a skin that would burn anyway.

And there they were: The sounds hidden underneath. The ones actually real.

The hum of music. The chatter of people talking, interrupting each other.

Where did it come from, left or right? Lucy had a hard time making it out. She tilted her head this way, then the other. But the decision of where to go wouldn't be hers to make, anyway.