It's a Slow Fire of Sorts: Part I

Reunion

At 1300 hours on August 2nd- sitting in-between a drunk power lifter and an even drunker Xylatian- Brunnhilde has long since given up.

Days one through five post-Vers were full of hope.

It's a concept Brunnhilde swore she'd never feel again, but she gives herself grace for it, because a lot can happen in five days. Five days is a sliver of time. In the grand concept of life, five days is less than a week, and less than a week of radio silence doesn't exactly justify descending into a murderous, panicked spiral... but then, day eight happened.

Then, day eight left and as it flipped over into day nine, the truth finally set in.

She refused to believe it at first. "Maybe V did it," she told herself. "Maybe she destroyed them... just got lost or some crap, and all your freaking out is overbearing and embarrassing," but the two-month mark was yesterday.

It's day sixty- one now, which means Brunnhilde's feelings of hope are no longer justified.

Vers is dead. Brunnhilde is not.

Brunnhilde- for some horrible, god-forsaken reason- cannot die. So, at 1300 hours on a Monday, she's in Sal's bar like she is every day, picking through Gurin stew and guzzling down a bottle of Krylorian Ether until her liver explodes. Life isn't sucky or awful or painful... not anymore.

It's all just numb.

She's parked her ship in the North with the hopes that by this time next week, she'll be dead. That a few hundred hours from now, it'll be her body leaching out onto the stairs of the Palace, courtesy of starvation and desperation. She's effectively rich. Most people in this city are killed for less, but with two words and an excited voice, Brunnhilde's entire worldview changes.

"They're back!"

She freezes.

Sal is heaving, gasping for air as he stumbles into the bar, "Kree... front fields East quadrant- go now!" and time immediately starts again.

Brunnhilde lurches from her chair. She rushes to the door as fast as her legs will carry her, shoving through a pack of Hurctarians with new-found vigor and taking off for the East.

The Sun is agonizing. Within minutes of running, the sand and dust have caked around Brunnhilde's ankles, building up inside her shirt and making it harder to breathe. She's pretty much drenched in sweat before she's even half-way to the fields, but she doesn't give a shit about any of it- the heat, the stickiness, the nauseousness in her stomach- because the pain doesn't matter.

All that matters is Vers.

Vers. Vers. Vers.

What if it's her? Brunnhilde's brain whispers. What if it's her? What if it isn't? What are you going to do when it isn't?

That question alone is enough to break her resolve.

The tears come fast, spilling out onto her skin and joining the sweat running down her neck. She's dead, she's gone, she's never coming back, so why are you running- but Brunnhilde forces it all away.

Just a few more steps. Just a few more paces, and with one final heave, she practically hurls herself to the top of the Eastern quads. She's teetering on the edge of the wasteland, digging her eyes into garbage below- scanning the dust, the rusty colors of abandoned cultures and beliefs. She begs the gods and the heavens for mercy, just this once. Just this once, and she'll never ask for anything ever again.

C'mon c'mon c'mon- blue, yellow, orange, and then she sees it:

Green.

Right size, right shape, right color, and Brunnhilde is already shooting off into the pit. She stumbles, falls halfway into a chasm of rock and sand, but keeps going because it's her. It has to be, and with every step, the recognition grows. Yellow to blonde, hazy lines solidifying into a mouth- a nose- a face. Dark blue eyes and pale, white skin. The hope turns to relief and then to joy and then to anger and then to rage as Brunnhilde barrels into Vers' chest, composure be fucking damned because she's alive.