[justify]It had been curiosity that pulled Chrys toward the lottery draw, or at least that was the version she’d settled on. Curiosity sounded cleaner than the truth. It sounded better than [i]I’ve run out of reasons to stay[/i] or [i]what the hell else am I supposed to do[/i]. Curiosity made her sound like someone who still had the energy to care.

The walk to the facility was long, but long walks had become a kind of rhythm in her life. Grief stretched distance, made every journey feel familiar. She’d walked to hospitals, to vigils, to places she didn’t want to remember. This was just another path in a world that had already taken too much from her. Maybe it was duty that kept her moving. Maybe guilt. Maybe the quiet, stubborn belief that she owed it to the people she’d lost to at least try again. Or maybe she just wanted a place where the world wasn’t constantly collapsing on top of her.

She already knew she wouldn’t stay with the others once they crossed through. She’d get tools, supplies, whatever they issued, and then she’d slip away. Slow, careful, methodical, the way she’d been taught. Fell a tree. Shape it. Build something that didn’t need permission to exist. What could they do to her on the other side? Drag her back through sixty-five million years?

The facility interior was exactly what she expected: metal walls, soldiers, the hum of machinery pretending to be mercy. She stepped into the scanner without ceremony.

“Clear.”

That was it. No welcome. No explanation. Just clearance, like she was a piece of lumber being graded. Inside the holding room, she found an empty cot and claimed it without fuss. Bag down. Body down. One foot on the floor, the other bent. She let herself sink into the thin mattress, eyes half-closed, letting the noise of the room fade into a dull hum. The air was too clean. Too still. It made her skin itch. Then the announcement came.

[i]All personal belongings.[/i]

She exhaled a long, slow breath. [colour=6B8E23]“Fucking bullshit,”[/colour] she muttered, shoving her things deeper into her bag. There wasn’t much she cared about anymore. Not really.

Except the paper. Her fingers brushed the folded scrap, soft at the edges from being handled too many times. She held it for a moment, thumb tracing the familiar crease. It wasn’t valuable. It wasn’t even particularly useful. But it was the last thing she had that still felt… warm. 

Could she hide it? Maybe. But then the woman across the room broke, panic sharp and raw, and Chrys watched her get dragged out with the same numb recognition she’d felt at too many protests. She knew what happened to people who pushed back. She’d seen it. She’d lived through the aftermath.

Her jaw tightened. She closed her fist around the paper once, just once, letting the ache settle in her chest. Then she tucked it into her bag and shut her eyes. If losing it was the price of stepping through that tear, the price of doing the one thing she knew she was still capable of, then she’d pay it. She’d already lost everything else.

The line moved. Slowly at first, then faster after the screaming stopped. Chrys stayed seated until the last possible moment, until the guard’s gaze flicked toward her with the faintest hint of impatience. She rose, slinging the bag over her shoulder, and stepped into line.

When her turn came, she didn’t hesitate, not outwardly. She set the bag on the table, fingers lingering for half a heartbeat before she let go. The officer reached for it. Chrys lifted her eyes. Her stare was flat, cold, and utterly unblinking, not loud, not dramatic, but sharp enough to cut. A silent warning. A promise. The kind of look that didn’t need volume to be understood. The officer didn’t flinch, but Chrys saw the tiny shift, the way their shoulders stiffened, the way their breath paused for just a fraction of a second.

[i]Good.[/i]

Chrys stepped back, hands empty now, the absence of weight on her shoulder feeling like a bruise. She returned to her cot, lowering herself onto it with a slow exhale. She didn’t look at the wall right away. Across the room, the little boy, the one who’d clung to his mother like she was the last solid thing in the world, was curled against her chest, shoulders shaking with quiet, exhausted sobs. His small hands fisted in her shirt, his face buried, his grief raw and unfiltered. Chrys felt something in her chest twist. Not sharply. Not suddenly. More like an old wound remembering itself.

[colour=6B8E23]Yeah,[/colour] she thought, settling back onto her cot, eyes drifting upward. [colour=6B8E23]Me too, kid. Me too.[/colour]

Only then did she let her gaze settle on the wall, jaw tightening as she braced herself for whatever came next.[/justify]