Chapter Text
September 19, 2002 (Elora and the Sparrows: 12 years old)
It starts out like any other mission. They're dealing with armed robbers again and, by now, they're used to this. They're outnumbered, but they've done this enough times that they know how to stay calm and level-headed.
At least, they should be able to stay calm and level-headed.
It's the Museum of Natural Sciences this time. Elora likes this place. She's sneaked in here with Sloane a couple of times—on their rare days off—and she could stare at the exhibits for hours. Today, it's not peaceful. It's full of noise and chaos, angry guys with guns and knives. Two of them have backed Elora into a corner.
It's her fault, really. She's supposed to stay with Three and Five during missions, but she'd spotted the gang leader and chased after him all by herself. Ben and Marcus do stuff like this all the time, and they're always okay, but Elora's not like them. She's Number Eight for a reason. She's scared now, not thinking. She doesn't care that the leader and his second-in-command are watching her—forgets that she's not supposed to take her eyes off the target—and she reaches down for her radio. She adjusts the earpiece with her other hand, pressing down on the talk button with shaking fingers. She needs to apologize for leaving Fei and Sloane, needs them to come and get her out of this.
"S-Sp—" Her tongue feels heavy, and the words come out all slow and stretched-out. "Sparrow Eight … Elora to Fei and Slo—"
The knife comes sailing out of nowhere, straight at her. Stupid, stupid Elora, she thinks, you know better.
She takes her hand off the radio, spins on her heel. She's just in time, taking what could have been a killing blow in the side of her shoulder instead. It's still a direct hit, the worst one she's ever had.
The knife goes clear through her sleeve, clatters to the ground. Then there is pain, so much pain, and she sees stars. Eight screams, going down on one knee and trying—failing—to clear the white sparkles from her eyes.
There's a pop. It's too loud, too close.
"Down," she whispers, "get … down."
She falls the rest of the way, onto the floor. They're shooting. At her. She needs to get out of here, but the pain and the noise are making her thoughts slow down, and her body's not listening to her, either.
She sees boots—ugly, grey-brown, not Sparrow shoes—moving across the ground toward her. Her heart beats in her ears. Stickiness drips down her arm and into her hair.
She can't, she can't. She can't she can't.
Her fingertips tingle. She needs to scare them off. She slides herself up to sit, then snaps the fingers on her good arm. The heat that tickles her fingertips is a security blanket—a welcome relief in the chaos.
She throws. Snaps. Throws again. She doesn't aim. She hit something. She smells smoke, then—something else—something wrong. There are screams, awful, painful screams that make her ears buzz.
They aren't hers. Her eyes are closed. She opens them.
Now there are more screams, and these ones are hers.
She'd gotten the men—both of them—full on. They're surrounded by fire, covered in it, and their skin … their skin is—
Eight’s breath gets caught on the way in.
Are they dead? She thinks they might be dead.
They aren’t shrieking anymore, but she still hears it in her head, feels it behind her eyes.
She hears those other screams, too—Emmett, Mom, and Mom's boyfriend—from that day six years ago. She had been screaming then, too. She thought she would never get out. There was so much smoke.
She can't breathe. There's too much smoke. She can't get out. She doesn't remember where she is, can't feel her body or make her brain work right.
Eight screams—again, and again, and again. She's back on the ground. She bites down. There's blood in her mouth. Blood on her arm. She doesn't like this place anymore.
She stays there—frozen with one cheek pressed to the cold tile—until her ears stop ringing and her breathing resumes in gasps and stutters.
She's quiet—everything is quiet—now.
There's a hand on her good arm.
"E?" It's a quiet-sounding, nice voice. Elora knows it well, but its name has gotten lost somewhere in her mind. "E, did you do this?"
Her head is full of thick, grey fuzz. No words come out.
Two worried, dark eyes come into view, along with a too-pale face.
"Did you k-kill them?" the nice voice asks, still leaning over Elora. She sounds scared, like the words are trying to choke her on their way out.
Yes. Elora thinks she did do it. She killed them. She didn't mean to.
Eight's breath catches. She coughs. Everything spins. She feels sick.
She lifts her good arm, pawing around until her clumsy, half-numb fingers find the other girl's hand. She squeezes the other's fingers, hard, trying to ground herself before she drifts away.
Eight hears the other's breathing—first quick and sharp, then slower, and more regular—and she tries to copy it.
"It's okay," the voice soothes. She sounds calmer now, like she believes herself. "You're okay."
Sloane. Elora finally remembers the voice.
One of her arms goes around Elora, lifting her off the floor until she's half-sitting against the wall.
Eight's head is still empty. She tries to shake it because, no, she's not okay. Her body feels heavy. She's cold—too cold—and she's starting to feel sleepy.
She whimpers. Sloane tells her something. Elora thinks she hears shock and then okay again, but her mind is full of blank-canvas white and her heartbeat is echoing in her ears. Nothing makes sense.
Her sister takes her by the good arm, pulls her to her feet. Elora starts to fall, and she can't remember how to catch herself. She never hits the floor.
She's weightless—floating off the ground—on her back. She can't see those men anymore. All she can see is the ceiling—moving along above her. There are designs of stars and moons up there, and it's peaceful.
Elora doesn't remember the ride home, or what the other Sparrows did on the way there. She's sitting in one of the infirmary rooms now, on a hard metal table. She kicks her feet, listening to the clang-clang-clang that her shoes make against the side of the table.
She's freezing. She thinks she needs stitches, but somebody must be worse off than she is, because none of the caretakers are here. It's just her, and Ben, and Sloane.
Ben is staring down at her. He's usually the one who comes back from missions with a kill count, but not today. After two years of doing this, it doesn't bother him when it happens.
Eight wants to be like her brother, for once. She wishes she could feel nothing about hurting the bad guys. She's starting to think about things again, and the panic's sneaking in. They were people, too.
She'd just wanted to get away. She didn't mean to—
"Why do I have to help you?" Ben is asking in his mean voice. He used to be nicer, but lately he's using this tone more and more.
Sloane sighs. She's got her back to Elora, nosing through the first aid supplies. Number Five finds what she's looking for. Drops it.
She breathes in, slow, like she's counting out the seconds in her head. Elora thinks Sloane's hands are shaking, and knows it's her fault. Eight wants to say I'm sorry—sees the letters in her head—but she can't get the words out of her mouth.
Sloane probably doesn't like the museum—or Elora—anymore.
Because Elora killed someone—two someones—and she knows what Sloane saw was bad.
Sloane knocks something off the counter. Ben rolls his eyes.
"Should I do that, too?" Ben says it like Sloane's wasting his time, like she's a little kid getting in the way.
"Please," Sloane half-whispers, straightening up the mess. "Can you try to be nice?"
"Fine," Ben agrees. He still sounds grumpy, but Elora sees something else in his eyes. She thinks he's sorry, but maybe he can't remember how to say it right, either.
Sloane washes her hands, gloves them, then moves slowly toward Elora. Number Eight sees the suture kit in one of her sister's hands and immediately looks away—down at her shoulder. There's still blood, a good amount of it. Her ears are ringing, and she can feel the world closing in on her. None of this would have happened if she'd just done what she was supposed to, if she hadn't chased after those bad guys and let them hurt her and—
"Number Eight?" It's Ben's voice—his nice voice—that brings her back this time. "Over here. Look at me."
She does. He's not glaring at her like he usually is, or trying to be mean about bossing her around.
She thinks he's noticed how out of sorts his sisters are, and he's listening—trying to be gentle—for once.
Something cold drips across her shoulder, then there's a new, stinging pain. Eight hisses in a breath.
"I'm so sorry." The way her sister says it, Elora can't tell exactly which part Sloane's apologizing for.
"No," Elora whispers. Her words are working again, but she still can't say it right. She's the one who's sorry. She didn't mean to get hurt. She never wanted to waste Ben's time and force Sloane to give her stitches, or to—
"My fault." Number Eight finally gets the words out. "Killed them."
“Shh.” Sloane puts a hand on Elora’s arm. Eight thinks it’s meant to soothe, at first, until Sloane keeps talking. “I have to give you the anesthetic. I’m sorry.”
There's a needle-prick in Eight’s arm, then a quick, burning sensation. She starts to flinch away.
"Sit still." Ben's hand comes down on her good arm, holding her in place. "You'll make it worse."
Elora doesn't think there's any other way to make this worse.
"I didn't mean to," Eight whispers, watching her brother's face.
"It doesn't matter." It's not his mean voice, but Ben's words still cut straight through her.
"It matters to her." Sloane tells him from Elora's other side. Eight hears pity in her sister's voice, but doesn't really know what it means.
She must see Elora differently now, now that she knows that Number Eight is a murderer. Does Sloane think Elora would hurt her, too?
"You did it," Ben tells Elora. The words come out cold—not mean, but not sugar-coated—and she thinks he sounds like their adoptive father. "You can't go back and change it. Stop thinking about it. Do better next time."
"Is that what Reginald told you?" She blurts it out without thinking. "When … the first time you did it?"
Ben nods. She can tell he believes it, but he believes everything Reginald says. She thinks—maybe—it's different for her, because she feels it, doesn't think she'll forget this and move on.
There's a small snapping sound, a tugging at her skin, around her shoulder. Sloane whispers something to herself.
“Keep your hands steady,” Ben snaps at her. “Do you want her to have a scar because of you?”
Elora hadn’t thought about whether she would have a scar. It’s another reminder of how real this is—and she needs a distraction.
"You … you … do you—" Eight stammers over the words, trying to be careful about how she asks. "Do you remember yours? The first one?"
"Yeah," Ben says. Elora's surprised. Ben's done this a lot, so many times that she had thought he must not remember them all. But maybe he does. Maybe that's part of why he's stopped being kind.
"Did you know their name?" Number Eight wonders. She hadn't known the gang leader's name, or the second-in-command. Maybe that would have helped somehow, made it less painful.
Ben frowns down at her. Sloane puts two more stitches in Eight's arm. The quiet presses down on them all.
"Yeah," Ben finally repeats, then snaps at her. "Why?"
The next tug on her arm hurts a little, and Elora tells herself that's why she grabs Ben's hand. Normally, he would never let her get this close, but maybe today is making him remember bad things, too.
"Did it help?" Elora stares back at him, trying to understand the half-sad, half-mad look on his face.
Her brother shakes his head.
"I told you." He glares at her, the familiar anger creeping in around the edges. "Stop thinking about it. It doesn’t matter anymore."
"No, but—" Elora starts.
Elora wants to ask him why. She wonders if the thinking is what made it worse for her, why knowing the names won't make it easier, and why this is part of their job as Sparrows. But Sloane's finished the last stitch, and Ben takes the excuse to yank his hand out of Elora's.
"Stop asking questions," he snarls, turning to Sloane. "I'm leaving."
He storms out, letting the door bang shut behind him.
Sloane sighs. Elora still can't look at her. She doesn't want to see the new, scared way Sloane stares at her.
Because her sister must be afraid of her after this.
"Stay there," Sloane says, gathering up what's left of the supplies.
Elora waits until Number Five walks away, then turns to watch her. Sloane could never kill someone. She's always been like Elora—gentle, caring, and never happy about the fighting. But now they're nothing alike, because Sloane wouldn't do this if her life depended on it, and Elora did it without a second thought.
Sloane's wearing the version of her Academy uniform that makes her look like a Catholic schoolgirl. If Elora doesn't look—think—too hard, she can almost imagine that Sloane is just a normal kid, that both of them are.
Sloane's steps are surer—calmer—now, and when she sets the kit down on the counter, her hands don't shake. Maybe she's not scared anymore. Or, maybe she's afraid for Elora, not frightened by her.
Number Five throws away her gloves, and Number Eight asks questions to her sister's back.
"Sl—" Elora starts, then thinks it might come out easier—less nervous-sounding—with the numbers. "Number Five?"
She never calls Sloane by her number when they're off-duty, and it gets her sister's attention. She freezes, halfway through putting away the first aid supplies.
The quick, instinctive straightening of Sloane’s shoulders makes her look like she’s preparing for someone to hit her.
Eight bites her lip.
"Are you scared of me?" Elora blurts, praying her sister doesn't turn to look at her before she gets the words out. "Do you hate me?"
Number Five leaves the kit on the counter. She turns around—slowly—to frown at Elora, then moves to stand in front of Eight.
"No." Five's staring at Eight, wide-eyed. "I could never—"
"But you saw—" Elora snivels, clinching both hands into fists. "I did this. What if it happens again? I'm scared … You should be scared—"
Sloane is shaking her head back and forth, her ponytail swishing frantically. Normally, that might make Elora laugh. But today, she wants to cry.
"I didn't even try," Eight confesses. "I hurt … killed … them. I didn't even try."
"Shh," Sloane soothes. She looks sad now—tired, too—and then Elora sees something else in her sister's eyes. She thinks it's regret.
Then Elora remembers. She had followed Fei and Sloane—in their usual Three-Five-Eight grouping—into the museum. She'd spotted the main target, kept her eyes on him. She had told Sloane that she'd be right back, and then she had gone after the man.
Sloane hadn't followed her. Now Elora understands. Her sister's good at thinking, and good at knowing what to do and how to do it. She's a genius, but she's also a kid just like the rest of them, and she makes the wrong choice sometimes, too. If Sloane had thought about it longer, maybe she would have chased after Elora. Maybe, if they'd both been there, those two robbers would have gone to jail instead. Maybe they wouldn't be—
"Sloaney?" Elora whispers.
"Mmm-hmm?"
Elora slides down off the exam table to face her sister full-on.
"It's not your fault, either."
Eight remembers training, remembers listening to Reginald's talks on split-second decisions. She can hear the lecture in her head, how he'd warned that once you make those choices—by planning or on instinct—it's near impossible to change your mind in time.
She remembers the drills on reaction times, and how when you're scared, you make choices before your brain has time to think. Sloane was there for those lessons, too, and Elora knows she remembers.
Those studies were all about adults, but the Sparrows—
"We're just kids." Eight's not sure what she's trying to get across with the words, and she hates how small her voice sounds.
She thinks that it's not fair—that they shouldn't ever have to make choices like this—and now she's starting to feel the sadness.
They've been training since they were small, been going on missions since they were ten. Those two years have changed them. The fighting has made Ben meaner, Sloane quieter, and—now—it's turned Elora into a bad guy.
"I'm scared," Elora whimpers. She's scared that it will happen again, or that next time she'll hurt someone she cares about. She's scared that things will keep changing, that eventually all the fighting will make her mean and intimidating like Ben.
“Do you—” Sloane hesitates. She opens her mouth, closes it. Shakes her head—like she’s giving herself a silent no.
“Hmm?”
Five shakes her head again, this time to cut off Eight’s question.
"Nevermind. Me, too." Sloane eventually murmurs. “I’m scared, too.”
She wraps both arms around Elora, trying to avoid Number Eight's newly-stitched shoulder. Elora hugs her sister back with the good arm. She wishes they had a parent—a person-mom or at least a nanny—who could be here to comfort them. But they have to do it themselves.
Elora thinks they're upset for two different reasons this time, and neither one knows how to help the other.
Eight closes her eyes. She hopes Sloane never, ever has to kill someone. Elora hopes she never has to do it again. She hopes those robbers didn't suffer for too long, even though they were bad guys. She hopes she doesn't have too many nightmares about them. She hopes one day, her siblings won't have to do this anymore.
She wishes they could all be normal, knows it will never happen.
Eight digs her fingers into the sleeve of her sister's uniform, refusing to let her go. Part of her is still convinced that Sloane will hate her, that she'll walk out and say I'm leaving as carelessly as Ben did. But they're each other's best friend and—deep down—Elora knows that won't happen.
"You're okay," Sloane tells her, for what must be the millionth time today. Eight closes her eyes, trying to pretend it's true.
She sees those men every time she thinks too hard, and she thinks it will be a while before she is—can try to be—okay again.
She's tired, so tired, of doing this.
Elora leans her head against her sister's shoulder and finally—finally—lets herself cry.