WHO: Ellie, Abby WHAT: Ellie and Abby finally cross paths. WHEN: Somewhere in between the world falling apart. WHERE: Some corner of Kirkwall's Lowtown. NOTES: VIOLENCE, probs some references to other violence/torture/death. It's on sight with them.
Likewise, it's fucked up that if Abby would only give herself time to process everything she'd fall to pieces. The indent of teeth in her arm is a sick reminder, but she doesn't let it progress beyond the surface-level pain. If she acknowledges that hurt she has to think about what put it there, she has to go back to the aquarium. The cold, blood-slick floors. Abby can't think about that without wanting to throw up and so she doesn't. She fills up her days with new places and strange people, and ignores everything else, pushes it back down deep.
That doesn't make it lock up and leave. It's in her dreams again and twisting them into nightmares: Lev crumpled up on the hospital floor with his skull split open, a new feature. She wakes up jaggedly, because once she's awake she has to move. Lying still would be a luxury, if she could achieve it.
Doesn't matter. Abby's handling it. Walking herself out helps her sleep later, keeps her mind fed and distracted even while her jaw clicks, popping when she yawns, teeth aching away in her mouth. Kirkwall is interesting, genuinely. She people watches and she uses what little coin she has to buy foods she's never tasted before. She spars with other people in the Forces division, teasing out her strength, threading it through a new combat style, and it helps her feel like she's doing something.
Maybe it's slipping into old habits, how she leans up on a faction and follows orders, but she's only doing what she can. It's better than the alternative, which is something she can't even name.
Lowtown is crowded this time of day, they've opened up the markets. Abby is out with a slice of apple bread for company and exploring half-heartedly. She's being fitted for proper armor later in the afternoon, something new and interesting to pad out her day, and she isn't paying attention to where she's going, just following the surge of the crowd. Rounding a corner, she almost knocks somebody over with a rough check of her shoulder.
Abby snakes a hand out to grip an arm, keep them from going over backward.
"Sorry–" she huffs (as if she meant for it to happen), glancing down– and it's the world that falls, right out from underneath of her feet.
Everything freezes over. This includes the hand seemingly welded to her skinny arm, fingers wrenching tight into skin: ironic because what Abby wants to do most is throw her down on the ground and run. Her chest heaves like she's already started, fear and wild, disbelieving anger a molotov churning in her gut, sloshing around, waiting for a spark.
Abby didn't leave her for dead, only broken, and choking around blood licking up the back of her throat. So why does this feel like a haunting?
The still-healing scar on her cheek pulls tight when she opens her mouth to speak.
It's not the first time Ellie's knocked into a stranger in Lowtown -- she doesn't generally look like a mark, but she's been here long enough to know it's usually either a prelude to a pickpocketing or a brawl followed by a robbery.
So they might be reaching out to steady her, and they might be distracting her while they look for a coin purse. On reflex Ellie plunges her free hand down into the folds of her cloak, wrapping her fingers around one of the many daggers she's taken to carrying, her arm going tense in the grip.
And then she speaks, and all the blood in Ellie veins feels as though it's been replaced by bees. Squirming, stinging. Acidic. The breath catches painfully in her throat, and Ellie meets her eyes, equally as horrified.
Abby is healthy and hale, not hollow and haunted, with sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks. The stitches on her cheek pull her healing skin together, and Ellie knows that cut, because she watched Dina slice her goddamn face open. Her hair is long, instead of chopped cruelly short.
Maybe that's what sets her off. Not even the fact that it's Abby.
The fact that it's this Abby, the Abby that nearly beat her to death with her bare hands on the rotten floor of a theater, left her crumpled and struggling to maintain consciousness, half-shattered and fighting to breathe around a froth of blood.
"You-" Ellie echoes, their voices twining together.
Before she can think, she pulls the knife, drawing it as hard as she can across the back of her arm, to force her to let go.
Of every Abby she could have been, she's this one. The Abby that made it out of the theater only to collapse on the way back to the aquarium and struggle to get up again, the one who got ripped away from her own world before she made it to the boat, the one who got no chance to sail the west coast learning how to unclench her fists and to live for something other than ghosts.
To her, this woman is the same. There's nothing different in the way that she goes tight and furious and scared in one fluid moment, so tense in Abby's grip. She flicks forward with a cruel flash, like a switchblade, and a knife scores her arm through her shirt.
Abby doesn't even remember her name.
She shrieks, half in surprise of the pain, half because of it, and shoves her away by her arm as hard as she can to try to knock her off balance. People around them reel backward to create room for the disturbance, spilling over each other as Abby draws out her gun from the holster on her thigh.
It only makes the sound, it doesn't do anything outside of that, but she needs an edge. She certainly gets it when pointing, and firing it no less than three times directly at her opponent makes the crowd surge, and scream, and break.
It's far from the first time she's made Abby scream, and as Abby shoves her backward, Ellie fights to keep her feet, surprised by the utter strength of her, her heart jumping into her throat as she realizes just how much stronger she is compared to that salt-and-death scented beach in Santa Barbara.
She has a split second to regret not going for somewhere vital when Abby pulls her gun.
Automatically Ellie dodges to one side, diving to the ground and into a roll to come up again -- but in her heart she knows she was too slow, and braces for the pain that, inexplicably, doesn't come. It doesn't occur to her yet that the rounds aren't live.
She wasted three bullets.
Ellie gropes across the ground, grabbing up the first solid object that meets her hand, which feels something like a discarded old boot, and hurls it as hard as she can at Abby's face. It's with her left hand, unsteady with her missing fingers, and the shot's going to go wide-
But she's coming right behind it, with her dagger out. She goes for Abby's gun hand rather than the kill; she's too fast, too well trained to let Ellie get past her guard, and Ellie knows it.
Abby catches that flinch in response to the gun firing, and knows she's lost her chance to get away, or hide. There's nothing around here to duck and crouch behind, only stalls with people still manning them, trying to put distance between themselves and the fight. Fuck– but it's not the first time she's fought her with no weapons and won, so Abby keeps light on her feet, and fires at her once more just to keep her heartbeat in her ears and throat.
Perhaps that's the reason that the boot comes sailing back wide enough to dodge around, even though she's there on the follow through. Always there, always coming, hard to stop, surging up like a wave to break across her. Didn't she learn anything from last time? Abby catches her wrist but only just, and even then it's a struggle not to drop the gun.
She's probably figured out that it isn't working. It's useless to Abby now, save for trying to strike her over the head with it, holding her knife at bay as best she can, fingers slipping on her skin.
This time Ellie doesn't hesitate. She's more experienced now than the last time they met, stronger and faster and better-fed, uninjured- though that changes when Abby manages to give a glancing blow across her temple with the gun.
Ellie presses forward, ignoring the way Abby's fingernails score defensive wounds into her forearm, and twists her arm to break free, jamming her elbow into Abby's solar plexus.
As her arm comes forward, her eyes flash a stunning golden color, near-glowing in the wan light, and the hit comes harder, much harder, than Ellie's small frame should be able to muster.
She's angry, she thinks, as the two of them struggle for control, Abby's nails digging in and leaving stinging red lines behind in a skinny wrist. Angry in a deep, righteous way, and so confused. What was the fucking point of bothering to spare her in the first place when they're right back where they started? She should have killed her when she had the chance.
Abby has the chance again now. Lev isn't here to help her consider otherwise. That thought flashes through her head, sharp and dangerous and scary, and then punches out of her when an elbow slams up into her diaphragm.
It hits so bad for a second she thinks she's going to throw up. She heaves for breath and nothing happens, her muscles tensed up, spasming around the hurt. That was a strong, solid hit, something she hadn't been expecting at all and it nearly knocks her over but the memory of a switchblade digging into the meat of her thigh is the only thing that keeps her balance.
There's a golden set of circles burnt on the backs of her eyelids. Abby can't even muster the breath to curse her out; she drops even further into her lowered stance, and aims a shoulder for her chest.
As Abby doubles over and wheezes, Ellie gasps for breath, reeling. She should go for it now. She should drive a knife into her, over and over, there are so many places on her skull, on her neck, in her spine and back, her sides and throat, arteries below the arms.
But she hesitates, just for a split second. Just long enough. Even she doesn't know why. She tosses the knife upward, flipping it in her hand to lock her grip into something better for stabbing, only for Abby to ram her in the chest.
The impact takes Ellie off her feet with the force of what feels like a battering ram. She's frightfully strong, and Ellie, breathless, only barely manages to react, punching the blade of her knife in deep. She skids off Abby's shoulder blade, missing vitals with the less than perfect strike, but it's still going to hurt.
They crash together into one of the stalls, and the contents rock and spill as Ellie's splayed across the counter, Abby over her.
Ellie strikes again with her dagger, this time going for her side.
It does hurt, enough to wrench a high cry out of her when the blade pushes in and drags back out as they crash backward, ripping skin. First blood. Far too slow, she should have stabbed her back when Abby was reeling, open and vulnerable.
Now, she's making up for lost time. The blade comes slamming in for her side, but Abby catches her and shoves back, slamming her arm down against the counter hard enough to rattle her bones. Her and the fucking switchblades– she twists her wrist, digging her fingernails in as hard as she can, anything to make her drop it.
It's too easy to use the rest of her weight to lean into her, press her down, eyes burning. She wants to yell something at her. Ask her why she's here. Part of her wishes this could pause so she could get answers, and catch her breath. That feels more pressing to Abby than encouraging this old, tired hatred, but they've already started. They've started, and it's too hard to stop.
Ellie's lost her opening. She gives a blunted curse as Abby slams her wrist down onto the countertop, and pain arcs up through her shoulder. It's the arm Abby broke in the theater, and the memory's close to the surface, especially when she digs in with all of her strength. How easily she could have killed her then, how easily it could happen now.
She has no leverage, no way to wrench free from underneath her, and bucking only twists it tighter. Ellie makes one more desperate sound of pain-
And then her fingers slacken, just enough for the dagger to start slipping free.
The second it happens, Ellie swings up with her other hand, gouging her thumb into the fresh stitches on Abby's cheek.
She's concentrating too hard on one point, the bones bending underneath of the press of her thumb. Abby could do it, she could snap this wrist with a firmer push and leave it dangling the rest of the fight. She should do that, and she doesn't, she just squeezes, and opens her mouth in a low snarl as fingers finally slacken on the blade's handle–
Pain explodes across her cheek, too close to her eye socket. A jagged thumbnail, digging into tender skin.
Abby yelps, reeling back, and slams her forehead hard into her face.
It's not the first time she's fucking done this, either. Ellie really should have expected it. But pain still explodes across her vision, a brilliant red with black spots. Blood floods her mouth, leaves her reeling, and Ellie chokes back a Jesus Christ, clinging to consciousness for the good second or two it takes to ride through it.
Then she gathers up the blood in her mouth and spits, as hard as she can, directly at Abby's face. Brings her knee up to aim at her middle.
She's disoriented, though. In pain. And somewhere in this, she definitely lost her dagger. The blow isn't as well-placed or as vicious as she could've made it.
Instead, she tries her best to wrench away, to drop to the ground and roll under the counter.
For the first time their movements work in tandem. Abby shoves her away and she pulls back, and disappears underneath of the counter. It gives Abby a moment of clarity in which to wipe the bloody spit out of her eyes, the burn of pain in her shoulder flaring when she tenses her arm.
It's oddly quiet. Weren't they surrounded by people? The square is mostly deserted, and there are– potatoes, every where. What the fuck... probably from when they crashed into the stall.
Abby's words feel thick in her mouth. "Come out!"
It's not like she doesn't know where she is. She's curled underneath the counter or on the other side of it, ready to snatch up her fallen blade and leap over the top. Abby's moved far enough away that she'll see it coming, straining her ears for any telltale sounds over the top of her own pained breathing.
Abby knows where she is; would even if she hadn't seen her roll under the stall's counter. Ellie's forced to breathe through her mouth, dripping blood all down her face and into the front of her shirt. It's loud, ragged, a little choked.
She wipes her nose with the sleeve of her tunic, smearing the blood grotesquely across her face, and spits again before holding her breath. She pops out of sight, and a second later, the knife disappears from sight too, grabbed up into the palm of her hand.
For a second, all is silent -- and then spots of blood appear on the dirt before Abby's feet, the sound of liquid pattering down like hot rain. The imprint of a bootprint, like a fucking ghost.
Abby's tired. The realisation hits her like a bat to the back of the head, her limbs shivering as she takes another step away, panting, and waiting. Waiting for everything to explode around them again, reluctance cold and hard in the back of her throat.
Does she have to do this? If she doesn't, she spends the rest of her time here glancing over her shoulder every five seconds. Trying to look for her, in crowds. Sleeping with one eye open, and a knife in her hand.
She takes out her pistol again from her waistband, the weight too-heavy in her palms, and curls her fingers around the polished, smooth grip. That's when she realises, with a lurch, that she can't hear that heavy, wet breathing any more.
"C'mon Abby..." she mutters, trying to jostle herself back into the mindset. "Concentrate."
But the wet drip of blood draws her attention, shakily, and for a stupid moment she trains the gun on it, muzzle curving around the outward sole of a shoe appearing in the dirt. She's losing her mind. She's– wigging out, or something, scared like some teenager forced into a first encounter with infected.
The marketplace around them is deserted, or near to it.
Ellie's just feet away from her, Abby's gun trained on her shoe, another drop of blood dripping down her face and thickly into the dirt. She can feel it pooling in her mouth. Coppery and disgustingly warm. Her fingers are tight around the grip of her knife.
... and Abby is pale and scared, and within arm's reach.
It wouldn't take much. One step forward, one quick slash across her throat. She'd bleed out fast. She wouldn't even suffer. She could end this shit for good right now, but-
Ellie's hands tremble, and she grips the knife tighter, listening to her whisper to herself, her face ghastly white, blood splashed across her skin like something out of a nightmare.
Like this, she doesn't look terrifying. She doesn't look like the woman from her memories. Not the one in the theater, twisted and hurting, even the dead-eyed one on the beach, putting up her fists, resigned, desperate.
She looks like a scared little girl.
Ellie's lungs burn, blood dripping, and she grits her teeth until they hurt.
Blinking back the threat of tears, Ellie loosens her grip on her dagger, and tosses it in between them. A heartbeat later, she takes a shaky breath, and puts her hands up.
It's too quiet, but she can't focus. Hard to, with the past breathing down her neck, and her heartbeat thumping in her ears. It's blurring her vision out at the corners, and her hands feel sweaty and slick on the gun as she jerks it upward again, brandishing it angrily at nothing.
She's going to get herself killed. She's going to die in the dirt of some unfamiliar world, and Lev will never know what happened to her, left all alone without a clue–
"Oh, fuck–" Something hits the ground near her feet, and then all at once, she's there again. Right in front of her, palms up, like empty space spat her out.
It's all Abby can do to keep from firing point blank at her face in shock. The feeling rolls through her far too strong, a wave of cold sweat that wipes the adrenaline from her system, leaving nervous, frantic panic behind.
Slowly, the gun lowers. Not because she feels safe to put it down, but because her arms won't hold it up any more.
Ellie half does expect Abby to blow her head apart; she still hasn't realized that the gun doesn't actually fire. She has her eyes half-shut, tense in anticipation, but it doesn't come.
When she opens them, they faintly shine a bright blue before it fades away.
She tries to draw a deep breath as Abby lowers the gun, but instead chokes on the blood in her mouth, coughs hard, and spits it out again. Slowly, she lowers her hands. They only barely tremble.
"Didn't know you were here," she mutters quietly, and wipes her face, breathing through the adrenaline.
Abby dares to squeeze her eyes shut tight for half a second, pulling breath into her lungs as deep as she can to disperse the fear shivering through her. Mel's body is prone on the undersides of her eyelids, throat torn open by a knife.
Could have been her. Could still be her, if she doesn't get her shit together, but the fight is decidedly over, even though Abby doesn't know why. Weapons have been lowered. Arms are by their sides. Her shoulder is radiating pain, sick and hot, but clarifying. She concentrates on it, and tries to relax her jaw.
"Just got here." This is what she wanted, but it's so odd. To stand across from her, the both of them bleeding, and talk with level voices. "A month ago."
Ellie lets her breath escape slowly, and crouches down to pick up her knife. She wipes Abby's blood off of it, onto her breeches, then slides it back into the sheath, letting her cloak fall back into place. She flexes her left hand, shaking away the last of the jumping nerves, the ones that still want to tremble. Her whole body feels tight, too.
"Great," she says shortly, reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose, ignoring the pain that radiates through her face.
"Should've known the Fade would pull your ass through. Something always does."
The last part is almost a mutter, but she shakes her head, fixing Abby with a cool stare. They may have a tenuous truce between them, but she's still not inclined to tell her the whole story.
"Oh," Abby says, the word a borderline scoff, her gaze darting briefly toward where she sheathed and hid away her knife. Noting, where exactly it hangs on her belt, "Okay."
Magic. She knows how to do that, here. Abby might have called her on it if she hadn't seen that happen right in front of her, and she's already thinking back to that hit that fell so much harder than it should have. The golden glow of her irises, a light trail streaking across her vision.
So she really could have killed her, then. She was invisible just then, tucked away into thin air. She was right in front of Abby with a knife in her hand.
"You stopped." Not a question. She doesn't want an answer for it, only for it to be acknowledged.
They're both killers. Ellie marks the way Abby's eyes follow the knife, resting on the comfort of knowing that it's only one of several. She doesn't make that mistake anymore. She flexes her fingers again, her lips thinning out into a line as she gives her as steady a look as she can manage.
The adrenaline's still plain in both of them as they catch their breath, leaving this feeling even more surreal than it actually is. The fact that she's standing here, talking to her.
"So did you," she says, flatly. Almost accusatory.
Not just here and now, either. She stopped in the theater. Back in the lodge. And on the beach, whether she remembers that or not.
Not the beach, no. Not yet, but the rest of it is true and Abby weighs all of it for a moment with her mouth shut, shoulders pulled back despite her aches.
"I'm not here for you."
Has she ever been? Even in the theater Abby was initially there for Tommy, though that changed the moment she realised the truth of it– and then she walked away, despite that. She put it down, in much the same way the knife got dropped at her feet in the dirt. It felt good, to let it go. Felt good to leave her lying on her back in pieces, knowing she'd have to force herself to her feet to pick it all up again.
"Look," she says, her voice low. Whatever they've got left between them is still simmering. Abby can feel the heat prickling underneath of her skin, scorching hot. It keeps her at bay. "Why don't you back away from my shit, and I'll back away from yours?"
I'm not here for you, she says, and there's a prickling in the back of Ellie's mind- because that doesn't quite make sense, and it never has. Abby's intentions were always second to the violence, in their history together, and it doesn't quite occur to Ellie that her assumptions might not be completely right.
It doesn't, even now. Doesn't click. But there's a sense of something not lining up, not exactly. Easy enough to dismiss, but not as easy as the times before.
"Fine," she answers, straightening in kind, lifting her chin to meet Abby's eyes, her skin crawling.
"You stay out of my business, and I'll give you room."
Getting stared at kickstarts that clench in Abby's chest all over again; it's the flint, in her gaze. The gun gives a tremble in her hand but she stows it, easy, and slow, back into its holster.
Room. Like she can shove Abby away into a limited space and slam the door shut on her, maybe get her fingers caught in the process. Abby wants to snort in response. She wants to roll her eyes and say something withering like wow, am I supposed to thank you for that, but instead she opens her mouth and says:
The question freezes something in her, something horrible in the pit of her stomach that turns and rips things open. Ellie feels sick, has to make herself take a breath.
All of this, and Abby never even knew her fucking name.
Ellie wants to ask why the fuck it matters to her now, wants to break something. Instead the blood drips down her face, and she spits it out, onto the dirt between them, staring her down because if she lets this show that it fucks with her, she's not sure she'll make it back to the mage tower.
Odd, but now that she's said it out loud, the sound tickles something in Abby's brain. She knew that already, she's heard it before. Shouted in a moment of desperation, she thinks, or something along those lines; lost it, in a swath of freezing anger. Abby stares at her for a moment, trying to place it, then gives up.
"Okay."
Her next question hovers on her tongue for a long time before she dares to ask it, but– well, she's still clinging to hope, perhaps foolishly.
Ellie rests her hands on her hips, lets the question roll over her, and rocks back, looking at the ground. She knows what Abby's asking, and why. But it still aches.
God, she needs to get out of here. To be anywhere else, to not be pinned down by those fucking eyes.
"Yeah."
A muscle works in her jaw. She doesn't want to help her. But somehow, for once, it isn't fucking about her. Or even them. She wishes she knew, really, if he made it.
She's glad Ellie averted her gaze before she answered. Means she misses the way Abby's expression crumples into something hurt and anxious, her head lifting as she turns it to look away from her completely. It shouldn't be a surprise, she knows that Lev isn't here. If he was, she would have found him already. She's been asking around, discretely. No leads.
Hearing it again, but from her, makes it worse. Makes it real.
"'Kay." She's chewing the inside of her cheek, and can't quite muster herself to say thank you. If she could, Ellie probably wouldn't want to hear it from her anyway.
It's time to go. Abby's got everything she wants out of her. The rest she can find out by digging around, especially now that she has a name. She exhales lowly, and turns on her heel without a word to leave. Time to find a place, and patch herself up.
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faderift2021-08-09 10:00 pm
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That doesn't make it lock up and leave. It's in her dreams again and twisting them into nightmares: Lev crumpled up on the hospital floor with his skull split open, a new feature. She wakes up jaggedly, because once she's awake she has to move. Lying still would be a luxury, if she could achieve it.
Doesn't matter. Abby's handling it. Walking herself out helps her sleep later, keeps her mind fed and distracted even while her jaw clicks, popping when she yawns, teeth aching away in her mouth. Kirkwall is interesting, genuinely. She people watches and she uses what little coin she has to buy foods she's never tasted before. She spars with other people in the Forces division, teasing out her strength, threading it through a new combat style, and it helps her feel like she's doing something.
Maybe it's slipping into old habits, how she leans up on a faction and follows orders, but she's only doing what she can. It's better than the alternative, which is something she can't even name.
Lowtown is crowded this time of day, they've opened up the markets. Abby is out with a slice of apple bread for company and exploring half-heartedly. She's being fitted for proper armor later in the afternoon, something new and interesting to pad out her day, and she isn't paying attention to where she's going, just following the surge of the crowd. Rounding a corner, she almost knocks somebody over with a rough check of her shoulder.
Abby snakes a hand out to grip an arm, keep them from going over backward.
"Sorry–" she huffs (as if she meant for it to happen), glancing down– and it's the world that falls, right out from underneath of her feet.
Everything freezes over. This includes the hand seemingly welded to her skinny arm, fingers wrenching tight into skin: ironic because what Abby wants to do most is throw her down on the ground and run. Her chest heaves like she's already started, fear and wild, disbelieving anger a molotov churning in her gut, sloshing around, waiting for a spark.
Abby didn't leave her for dead, only broken, and choking around blood licking up the back of her throat. So why does this feel like a haunting?
The still-healing scar on her cheek pulls tight when she opens her mouth to speak.
"It's you."
no subject
So they might be reaching out to steady her, and they might be distracting her while they look for a coin purse. On reflex Ellie plunges her free hand down into the folds of her cloak, wrapping her fingers around one of the many daggers she's taken to carrying, her arm going tense in the grip.
And then she speaks, and all the blood in Ellie veins feels as though it's been replaced by bees. Squirming, stinging. Acidic. The breath catches painfully in her throat, and Ellie meets her eyes, equally as horrified.
Abby is healthy and hale, not hollow and haunted, with sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks. The stitches on her cheek pull her healing skin together, and Ellie knows that cut, because she watched Dina slice her goddamn face open. Her hair is long, instead of chopped cruelly short.
Maybe that's what sets her off. Not even the fact that it's Abby.
The fact that it's this Abby, the Abby that nearly beat her to death with her bare hands on the rotten floor of a theater, left her crumpled and struggling to maintain consciousness, half-shattered and fighting to breathe around a froth of blood.
"You-" Ellie echoes, their voices twining together.
Before she can think, she pulls the knife, drawing it as hard as she can across the back of her arm, to force her to let go.
no subject
To her, this woman is the same. There's nothing different in the way that she goes tight and furious and scared in one fluid moment, so tense in Abby's grip. She flicks forward with a cruel flash, like a switchblade, and a knife scores her arm through her shirt.
Abby doesn't even remember her name.
She shrieks, half in surprise of the pain, half because of it, and shoves her away by her arm as hard as she can to try to knock her off balance. People around them reel backward to create room for the disturbance, spilling over each other as Abby draws out her gun from the holster on her thigh.
It only makes the sound, it doesn't do anything outside of that, but she needs an edge. She certainly gets it when pointing, and firing it no less than three times directly at her opponent makes the crowd surge, and scream, and break.
no subject
She has a split second to regret not going for somewhere vital when Abby pulls her gun.
Automatically Ellie dodges to one side, diving to the ground and into a roll to come up again -- but in her heart she knows she was too slow, and braces for the pain that, inexplicably, doesn't come. It doesn't occur to her yet that the rounds aren't live.
She wasted three bullets.
Ellie gropes across the ground, grabbing up the first solid object that meets her hand, which feels something like a discarded old boot, and hurls it as hard as she can at Abby's face. It's with her left hand, unsteady with her missing fingers, and the shot's going to go wide-
But she's coming right behind it, with her dagger out. She goes for Abby's gun hand rather than the kill; she's too fast, too well trained to let Ellie get past her guard, and Ellie knows it.
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Perhaps that's the reason that the boot comes sailing back wide enough to dodge around, even though she's there on the follow through. Always there, always coming, hard to stop, surging up like a wave to break across her. Didn't she learn anything from last time? Abby catches her wrist but only just, and even then it's a struggle not to drop the gun.
She's probably figured out that it isn't working. It's useless to Abby now, save for trying to strike her over the head with it, holding her knife at bay as best she can, fingers slipping on her skin.
no subject
Ellie presses forward, ignoring the way Abby's fingernails score defensive wounds into her forearm, and twists her arm to break free, jamming her elbow into Abby's solar plexus.
As her arm comes forward, her eyes flash a stunning golden color, near-glowing in the wan light, and the hit comes harder, much harder, than Ellie's small frame should be able to muster.
no subject
Abby has the chance again now. Lev isn't here to help her consider otherwise. That thought flashes through her head, sharp and dangerous and scary, and then punches out of her when an elbow slams up into her diaphragm.
It hits so bad for a second she thinks she's going to throw up. She heaves for breath and nothing happens, her muscles tensed up, spasming around the hurt. That was a strong, solid hit, something she hadn't been expecting at all and it nearly knocks her over but the memory of a switchblade digging into the meat of her thigh is the only thing that keeps her balance.
There's a golden set of circles burnt on the backs of her eyelids. Abby can't even muster the breath to curse her out; she drops even further into her lowered stance, and aims a shoulder for her chest.
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But she hesitates, just for a split second. Just long enough. Even she doesn't know why. She tosses the knife upward, flipping it in her hand to lock her grip into something better for stabbing, only for Abby to ram her in the chest.
The impact takes Ellie off her feet with the force of what feels like a battering ram. She's frightfully strong, and Ellie, breathless, only barely manages to react, punching the blade of her knife in deep. She skids off Abby's shoulder blade, missing vitals with the less than perfect strike, but it's still going to hurt.
They crash together into one of the stalls, and the contents rock and spill as Ellie's splayed across the counter, Abby over her.
Ellie strikes again with her dagger, this time going for her side.
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Now, she's making up for lost time. The blade comes slamming in for her side, but Abby catches her and shoves back, slamming her arm down against the counter hard enough to rattle her bones. Her and the fucking switchblades– she twists her wrist, digging her fingernails in as hard as she can, anything to make her drop it.
It's too easy to use the rest of her weight to lean into her, press her down, eyes burning. She wants to yell something at her. Ask her why she's here. Part of her wishes this could pause so she could get answers, and catch her breath. That feels more pressing to Abby than encouraging this old, tired hatred, but they've already started. They've started, and it's too hard to stop.
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She has no leverage, no way to wrench free from underneath her, and bucking only twists it tighter. Ellie makes one more desperate sound of pain-
And then her fingers slacken, just enough for the dagger to start slipping free.
The second it happens, Ellie swings up with her other hand, gouging her thumb into the fresh stitches on Abby's cheek.
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Pain explodes across her cheek, too close to her eye socket. A jagged thumbnail, digging into tender skin.
Abby yelps, reeling back, and slams her forehead hard into her face.
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Then she gathers up the blood in her mouth and spits, as hard as she can, directly at Abby's face. Brings her knee up to aim at her middle.
She's disoriented, though. In pain. And somewhere in this, she definitely lost her dagger. The blow isn't as well-placed or as vicious as she could've made it.
Instead, she tries her best to wrench away, to drop to the ground and roll under the counter.
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It's oddly quiet. Weren't they surrounded by people? The square is mostly deserted, and there are– potatoes, every where. What the fuck... probably from when they crashed into the stall.
Abby's words feel thick in her mouth. "Come out!"
It's not like she doesn't know where she is. She's curled underneath the counter or on the other side of it, ready to snatch up her fallen blade and leap over the top. Abby's moved far enough away that she'll see it coming, straining her ears for any telltale sounds over the top of her own pained breathing.
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She wipes her nose with the sleeve of her tunic, smearing the blood grotesquely across her face, and spits again before holding her breath. She pops out of sight, and a second later, the knife disappears from sight too, grabbed up into the palm of her hand.
For a second, all is silent -- and then spots of blood appear on the dirt before Abby's feet, the sound of liquid pattering down like hot rain. The imprint of a bootprint, like a fucking ghost.
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Does she have to do this? If she doesn't, she spends the rest of her time here glancing over her shoulder every five seconds. Trying to look for her, in crowds. Sleeping with one eye open, and a knife in her hand.
She takes out her pistol again from her waistband, the weight too-heavy in her palms, and curls her fingers around the polished, smooth grip. That's when she realises, with a lurch, that she can't hear that heavy, wet breathing any more.
"C'mon Abby..." she mutters, trying to jostle herself back into the mindset. "Concentrate."
But the wet drip of blood draws her attention, shakily, and for a stupid moment she trains the gun on it, muzzle curving around the outward sole of a shoe appearing in the dirt. She's losing her mind. She's– wigging out, or something, scared like some teenager forced into a first encounter with infected.
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Ellie's just feet away from her, Abby's gun trained on her shoe, another drop of blood dripping down her face and thickly into the dirt. She can feel it pooling in her mouth. Coppery and disgustingly warm. Her fingers are tight around the grip of her knife.
... and Abby is pale and scared, and within arm's reach.
It wouldn't take much. One step forward, one quick slash across her throat. She'd bleed out fast. She wouldn't even suffer. She could end this shit for good right now, but-
Ellie's hands tremble, and she grips the knife tighter, listening to her whisper to herself, her face ghastly white, blood splashed across her skin like something out of a nightmare.
Like this, she doesn't look terrifying. She doesn't look like the woman from her memories. Not the one in the theater, twisted and hurting, even the dead-eyed one on the beach, putting up her fists, resigned, desperate.
She looks like a scared little girl.
Ellie's lungs burn, blood dripping, and she grits her teeth until they hurt.
The hell were you doing in Seattle?
Blinking back the threat of tears, Ellie loosens her grip on her dagger, and tosses it in between them. A heartbeat later, she takes a shaky breath, and puts her hands up.
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She's going to get herself killed. She's going to die in the dirt of some unfamiliar world, and Lev will never know what happened to her, left all alone without a clue–
"Oh, fuck–" Something hits the ground near her feet, and then all at once, she's there again. Right in front of her, palms up, like empty space spat her out.
It's all Abby can do to keep from firing point blank at her face in shock. The feeling rolls through her far too strong, a wave of cold sweat that wipes the adrenaline from her system, leaving nervous, frantic panic behind.
Slowly, the gun lowers. Not because she feels safe to put it down, but because her arms won't hold it up any more.
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When she opens them, they faintly shine a bright blue before it fades away.
She tries to draw a deep breath as Abby lowers the gun, but instead chokes on the blood in her mouth, coughs hard, and spits it out again. Slowly, she lowers her hands. They only barely tremble.
"Didn't know you were here," she mutters quietly, and wipes her face, breathing through the adrenaline.
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Could have been her. Could still be her, if she doesn't get her shit together, but the fight is decidedly over, even though Abby doesn't know why. Weapons have been lowered. Arms are by their sides. Her shoulder is radiating pain, sick and hot, but clarifying. She concentrates on it, and tries to relax her jaw.
"Just got here." This is what she wanted, but it's so odd. To stand across from her, the both of them bleeding, and talk with level voices. "A month ago."
A pause. Then, "How did you do that."
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"Great," she says shortly, reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose, ignoring the pain that radiates through her face.
"Should've known the Fade would pull your ass through. Something always does."
The last part is almost a mutter, but she shakes her head, fixing Abby with a cool stare. They may have a tenuous truce between them, but she's still not inclined to tell her the whole story.
"Magic."
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Magic. She knows how to do that, here. Abby might have called her on it if she hadn't seen that happen right in front of her, and she's already thinking back to that hit that fell so much harder than it should have. The golden glow of her irises, a light trail streaking across her vision.
So she really could have killed her, then. She was invisible just then, tucked away into thin air. She was right in front of Abby with a knife in her hand.
"You stopped." Not a question. She doesn't want an answer for it, only for it to be acknowledged.
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The adrenaline's still plain in both of them as they catch their breath, leaving this feeling even more surreal than it actually is. The fact that she's standing here, talking to her.
"So did you," she says, flatly. Almost accusatory.
Not just here and now, either. She stopped in the theater. Back in the lodge. And on the beach, whether she remembers that or not.
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"I'm not here for you."
Has she ever been? Even in the theater Abby was initially there for Tommy, though that changed the moment she realised the truth of it– and then she walked away, despite that. She put it down, in much the same way the knife got dropped at her feet in the dirt. It felt good, to let it go. Felt good to leave her lying on her back in pieces, knowing she'd have to force herself to her feet to pick it all up again.
"Look," she says, her voice low. Whatever they've got left between them is still simmering. Abby can feel the heat prickling underneath of her skin, scorching hot. It keeps her at bay. "Why don't you back away from my shit, and I'll back away from yours?"
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It doesn't, even now. Doesn't click. But there's a sense of something not lining up, not exactly. Easy enough to dismiss, but not as easy as the times before.
"Fine," she answers, straightening in kind, lifting her chin to meet Abby's eyes, her skin crawling.
"You stay out of my business, and I'll give you room."
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Room. Like she can shove Abby away into a limited space and slam the door shut on her, maybe get her fingers caught in the process. Abby wants to snort in response. She wants to roll her eyes and say something withering like wow, am I supposed to thank you for that, but instead she opens her mouth and says:
"... What's your name?"
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All of this, and Abby never even knew her fucking name.
Ellie wants to ask why the fuck it matters to her now, wants to break something. Instead the blood drips down her face, and she spits it out, onto the dirt between them, staring her down because if she lets this show that it fucks with her, she's not sure she'll make it back to the mage tower.
"Ellie."
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Odd, but now that she's said it out loud, the sound tickles something in Abby's brain. She knew that already, she's heard it before. Shouted in a moment of desperation, she thinks, or something along those lines; lost it, in a swath of freezing anger. Abby stares at her for a moment, trying to place it, then gives up.
"Okay."
Her next question hovers on her tongue for a long time before she dares to ask it, but– well, she's still clinging to hope, perhaps foolishly.
"Are we the only two here?"
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God, she needs to get out of here. To be anywhere else, to not be pinned down by those fucking eyes.
"Yeah."
A muscle works in her jaw. She doesn't want to help her. But somehow, for once, it isn't fucking about her. Or even them. She wishes she knew, really, if he made it.
"If I see the kid, I'll point him your way."
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Hearing it again, but from her, makes it worse. Makes it real.
"'Kay." She's chewing the inside of her cheek, and can't quite muster herself to say thank you. If she could, Ellie probably wouldn't want to hear it from her anyway.
It's time to go. Abby's got everything she wants out of her. The rest she can find out by digging around, especially now that she has a name. She exhales lowly, and turns on her heel without a word to leave. Time to find a place, and patch herself up.