𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

flat·line /ˈflatlīn/
( verb )
INFORMAL
(of a person) die.
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It's never easy, watching someone die, even for someone who's lost countless people on shady calls and uncontrollable fires. The outside of her wanted to burn the bridges of the relationship she had with him, but the inside of her begged for it all to be one big joke for the team to laugh at. Vic wanted to walk out of those doors saying "Gotcha!" and "You're all invited to the wedding!" This, of course, wasn't the case at all. Lucas Ripley was dead, and every firefighter in Seattle knew that.  She took one final glance at his body before she left, head held low as Dr. Peirce read the time of death. She could feel looks of sorrow and disappointment from the other firefighters around her, the tension growing higher as she moved. The hallway lights began to blind her, beaming unwanted heat onto her as she pushed past white lab coats and bloody stretchers. She wanted a safe space. Her pace was quick, panic fueling her every motion. Before she could blink, she was secured in the elevator. The button she pushed was an upper level, she was headed for the roof.
Her body started to tremble, shivers going down her spine. Vic's reflection off the walls of the elevator made it hard for her to see herself, but maybe it was her current emotional state playing into it.

"Can't believe this." She sighed, watching the doors open. The upper level was basked in silence. She spotted the keypad, realizing that she needed a keycard. Satisfaction was still achievable behind the doors.
Taking a step back, dusting her palms off, and roaming upper levels she began to hum the teapot song. Her arms folded as she made her rounds, walking back and forth. Her focus had drawn itself toward the view of the sunset. She pressed her hand against the window, realizing that there was a small moment of peace on this day. She pressed her forehead against the window, the cool, reflective surface gave her strength. She couldn't feel like much at the moment, but she allowed herself to exist.
Her phone started to ring, buzzing against her thigh. She didn't bother to check the caller ID, pressing the phone against her ear.

"Hello?" Her voiced cracked.

"Hey, where are you?" It was Travis, he was on the second floor, preparing to travel to the third floor if needed.

"I'm on the roof." She admitted, leaning on the wall. "I wanted to feel for a moment."

"Vic..." Travis whispered, his mind wandering. "Whatever you're doing, stop it."

"I'm not actually on the roof, the door is locked and even if I were on the roof--I wouldn't even do that."

"Just--hang on, I'm coming." He told her. "Stay on the line."

"I'm not going anywhere, T."

The line remained silent for a moment, silence followed by shuffling and small "Excuse me."'s from Travis as he made his way to her. He would occasionally say her name, asking if she was still there, or if she had anything sharp on her. The only thing she had that could cause harm was her keys or her nails. They sat there for another minute, Travis standing in the elevator, watching the floors change as he neared the roof. He was growing impatient, finding himself back at the point when Michael died. He was standing in the captain's office, previously washing one of the cars when the news broke. He had that devastated look on his face, gripping his ring finger. He wanted to believe that Vic was alright, standing tall and waiting for the doors to open. He immediately shot forward, stopping when he saw her. She was biting her nails, glaring at the wall, and then at him.