Rules of Survival | afi

epilogue

Life doesn't require that we be the best, only that we try our best.

-H Jackson Brown Jr.
•••

Lights flash in my face and the wind whips at my hair as Ashton and I make our way through the mob of people and paparazzi to get to the car parked for us on the sidewalk. I can feel the weight of his hand at the small of my back, and the envelope tucked into my jeans.

Twenty three million dollars. 11 and a half each. We'll be set for life.

The strategists arranged a hotel and getaway car for our first night out of the facility, but we're on our own after that. We have enough money to handle anything that comes our way, after all.

Ashton reads the address scrawled on my hand to the driver as the workers throw our bags in the back of the Sedan and shut the doors. The loud hum of voices dulls mercifully as we drive away.

"The plane leaves tomorrow morning." Ashton says, settling back in his seat. "That should put us in Seattle by the afternoon."

Seattle. My home.

But I know that's not Ashton's main motive. Michael's house- his family, lives there too. Unbeknownst to me. We're going first chance we get.

***

Michael's house is a small, mobile thing in a run-down neighborhood on the outskirts of Seattle. It took us over a week to find, as Ashton had to pull some strings with Calum in order to access Michael's records, but once we got the address we left immediately.

We step over broken toy bulldozers and a few makeshift dolls to get to the front door, which is stained around the edges with age. The whole front yard is covered with evidence if children- scattered play things, dirt castles, a bike with a missing wheel leaned up against the fence corner. Ashton's mouth is a hard line.

Before knocking, he reaches down to grab my hand. I press a soft kiss to his cheek, handing him the small white envelope that contains Michael's dying wish. "You've got this."

Ashton shoots me a thankful look, squeezes my hand, and knocks.

It's several long moments before she answers, but soon a woman with faded pink hair opens the door. She looks exhausted and sad, with bags under her eyes and her hair in a frazzled knot. She's wearing sweatpants and a stained white shirt, and she's noticeably pregnant. A little boy rests on her hip.

"Can I help you?" She asks, looking back and forth cautiously at the both of us. Her voice is ragged. The little boy examines us with wide, curious green eyes.

"We're from the Battle Royale, Mrs. Clifford." Ashton says gently. "We were Michael's allies before he.." He swallows. "May we come in?"

The second the words leave his mouth her expression changes. It goes from vague emptiness to one of anguish so great I look away. Slowly, she nods, and moves to show us inside.

The house is a wreck, but clearly well loved. Toys litter the floor, sippy cups on the tables and shelves. A small girl sits at a kiddy table in the corner of the living room, working on what looks like a puzzle. Framed photos rest around the room, depicting happy pictures of Michael and his family. The sight puts weight on my chest.

Michael's wife shoves a mess of what looks like laundry off the old couch and gestures for us to sit, setting the small boy down and whispering something about going to play with his toys. He scampers off into the kitchen. She takes a seat in an armchair beside us.