Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 7 - Through Copper and Steel (BM)

A/N: Still the second version; the first got deleted.

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Empty. It was the only word Beckett could use to accurately describe how he felt. Empty. Nothing but an empty shell of a once loving, kind soul. Empty. Cracked and hollow, drained of any emotion other than self-pity. Empty. Anger seeped in every once in a while, but would always dilute into something he could only call an overwhelming sadness before evaporating, leaving through each breath he took, materializing into a cloud of mist. Empty.

He ran his hands along his arms, but not from the searing cold; mostly from circulating around a repeating thought: I tried to kill myself. Each time it entered his mind, he would inhale sharply, stunned by the words himself. I made it so far, and I tried to kill myself. He let his head droop as he trudged aimlessly through the snow.

A rope was slung over his shoulder, what was left of his personal gallows. There was no point in letting such a valuable resource go to waste. Death did tell him to try again soon, and he might need it.

A stinging sensation spread across Beckett's cheek and for a moment he was lost, until he looked at his own red hand hovering by his face. He stared at it for a long moment before curling it into a fist. Quit thinking about death. If you don't think about it, it'll be less terrifying once. Let's be honest, the odds are not in my favor.

He paused. Who even is left? His thoughts collided with one another as he thought back to every night the anthem had played, to every face in the sky. He knew twenty-two were dead, but who still roamed the frozen wilderness with him?

He looked at his feet, hopeful that his shoes would give him the answer. But instead, he only saw strange imprints dug into snow, like shapes. He furrowed his brow. What is this...? Tilted head. Squinted eyes. An "M" carved into the snow. Curiosity getting the better of him, he jumped to the next letter. An "E." An "R-I." Meri. That's right, she's still here! Wait. Something lurched in his stomach as he looked to the side and saw a "B" that led to other letters, forming his name.

He ran his eyes over the carvings in the snow. Every tributes name had been drawn into the ground, dead and alive. All but one. Wiley's name isn't here...Did he do this? Warmth spread through his chest like a wildfire, the first sign of any emotion he'd felt in hours, days, maybe weeks. He didn't know how long it'd been. But he did know one thing, one memory that decided to spring to the surface.

A high-pitched voice, trembling, commanding him to stay awake. The voice of a young boy, the only voice he'd heard before passing out after the hanging. The realization slammed into him like a freight train: Wiley had saved him. Again. And Beckett had done nothing to thank him.

Doesn't sound unfamiliar. I never got to thank Cameron for the bandages, I never will. For a moment he let himself ache, but quickly rose to his senses. I'll make it up to the kid this time.

A light crack like a twig being crushed made it to his ears. He whirled around, hands clutching the remaining rope like it would be able to protect him. He didn't even know whether a human or a bunny had snuck up on him.

The boy before him was certainly small enough to be mistaken for a bunny out of the corner of one's eye, surely. Once Beckett realized who it was, his muscles relaxed as best they could in the cold. "Wiley," he said, "you nearly gave me a heart attack."

The boy only stared on with wide eyes. "You're alive?"

Beckett raised a brow, nodding. "Pretty sure." He dropped his gaze to the names in the snow. "Did you do this?" The boy nodded, and Beckett smiled warmly. "I'm sure they'd love it, if they were here."