( lara has been courting death for so long that she barely recognizes it in the midst of snowfall, in the brisk wind that forces her to wrap her arms around her middle and cradle herself in the cold. she remembers being deep in the jungle prior to this, humid temperatures and mud, not the frigidity of winter, and yet, here she stands shaking at the knees in oddly appropriate boots. her weapons and climbing gear are amiss, leaving her feeling more stripped than the fact that she’s trying to warm up from a leather jacket over a gray hoody combo. she reminds herself to put one foot in front of the other, driven by the fact that she must go on.

( if she doesn’t, who will? )

the wind burns and the fog makes her narrow her eyes, searching for anything with her hands and feet that clues her into what lies ahead. peril is simply a five-letter word for life, and what is living without the struggle to keep it? it’s not until she’s reached the end of her path that her breath lodges in her throat in a hiss. she slips, earth crumbling beneath her, and takes an abrupt seat at a clifftop, feet and palms scrambling for purchase in snow and rocks. she tries, for once in her life, not to go tumbling into the unknown darkness. )

Shit! ( but maybe she’s too late, and maybe, she inadvertently takes an innocent bystander down with her. or perhaps, as the luck of the draw would have it, she’s yanked back at the last second. hard to say with something as tricky as fate. either she wakes up with some broken ribs and a head injury or she’ll have to grovel. honestly, the tumble’s preferable. )

( the goosebumps on her arms that force the fine hairs to stand on end are the only indicator that speaks to the sight she’s entranced by — shadowy figures that aren’t there when she looks at them straight on from inside the room. she takes no interest in the safe, despite the lure of a cache full of means to arm herself. she chases illusions aggressively, stepping in and outside of the building. she wishes she had the luxury of presuming it’s nothing, a figment of the imagination and nothing more preposterous than that. she doesn’t.

if anything, she spends time outside in the weather, pondering whether the blurry images were real or simply sleep deprivation, waiting for someone else to come along and confirm insanity. when she does hear footfalls, she pushes away from an abandoned dropbox for mail and cocks her head. )

Wait. What do you see in the windows?

( perhaps it’s the lifelong spiral into fury and vengeance, of having people ripped violently away from her ( or her current injuries from her arrival ), but by the time she arrives at town hall, she isn’t equipped with the patience of investigating every scrap of paper. she certainly doesn’t have the capacity for warnings, or threats, as the case may or may not be. she knows well enough to recognize blood, although it isn’t fresh. her lip curls and she clutches her side more defensively, staggering over to the stack of paper on one of the chairs with no sense of self-preservation.

she snatches up a ballpoint pen and a piece of paper and then holds it against the bulletin board while she scrawls: let him come and affixes her name to the end like her own promise. she presses it to the push board with a rusty tack, no less impassioned than when she began.

when someone else enters, intent on passing her, she advises them: ) I wouldn’t.