Chapter Text
The neighborhood was as she had imagined it - big houses, expensive lawns greener than dollar bills, fancy gates around every home. Cars more expensive than the rest of Mallory's possessions combined. One good thing about that, at least - the stolen car Mallory was currently driving at top speed had great air conditioning. The weight of seven billion lives was on her shoulders, but at least she could keep out the California heat. It would have been funny if it weren't so fucked up.
That seemed true for a lot of things lately.
She took a sharp turn, nearly hitting a street light as she sped through the neighborhood. She was actually a very careful driver, most of the time - always making sure she drove exactly the speed limit, obeyed every traffic signal, had never gotten a speeding ticket in her life. Well, screw that. She was on a tight schedule, and besides, if anyone tried to pull her over, she could deflate their tires with a thought.
"Faser, faster," she muttered, urging the vehicle to surpass its current speed, even though she knew going any faster would be suicidal. Still, even though she was moving fast enough to topple any mailbox she happened to hit, it didn't feel fast enough. The thought kept worrying at her mind - what if she had somehow gotten the wrong time? What if there was no way to stop the coming slaughter, even if she managed to kill him?
What if changing the future was just impossible?
She gripped the steering wheel as she made another sharp turn onto Westchester Place, tall houses and palm trees blurring past. She saw the figure running into the road, and knew who it was even though she couldn't see his face. She pressed harder on the gas pedal as the car sped closer and closer.
For a moment, time stood still, as if Heaven and Hell had paused the show to grab some movie-theater buttered popcorn. On one side of the wheel, a girl barely older than seventeen pressed her foot against the gas pedal as she hurtled toward the only life she would ever enjoy taking. And on the other, the person who would grow up to destroy everything and who would probably laugh maniacally while doing it.
Come one, come all! What are the bets? Do I hear one-hundred? Do I hear one-fifty? You, the young lady putting seven-billion on the line!
The unpause button was clicked, and the scene continued.
Mallory's grip on the steering wheel would have been enough to crush the average human's windpipe. As she raced forwards, her eyes locked onto the person moving into the middle of the street, blissfully unaware of what was coming for him.
Didn't anyone teach you to look both ways, you little shit?
Mallory couldn't help a small gasp at the moment of impact, shoving down the brake pedal as the car skidded to a stop. Her hand moved to her seat belt buckle before her mind could catch up to her body, and she had to dig her fingernails into her palms to stop the panic running through her veins. Deep breaths, she reminded herself as the panic from the impact wore away. You're not hurting anyone who matters.
In the movies, car accidents were always clean, showing the pedestrian with maybe a couple broken ribs and a small puddle of blood, but generally pretty tame stuff. You know, for the kids. That wasn't like real life. In real life, there was a splatter of blood on your windshield and spiderweb cracks from the hit, and you were left gasping for air as gravity tugged your heart down into your feet.
They said the first kill was always the hardest. She hoped she wouldn't have to learn what a second time felt like.
She tilted the rearview mirror, watching as Michael Langdon slowly, shakily, but most definitely pushed himself to his feet. Mallory slammed down the reverse pedal.
The second hit was easier. Maybe it was because the action was behind her this time, and she was only watching through a mirror rather than having it right in front of her eyes. Or maybe it was because she already knew how messy it would be. She still had to catch her breath a moment as she again slammed down on the brake pedal, this time facing forwards.
She glanced next to her, out the window the car's owner had foolishly left open. She needed some fresh air. Instead, she saw an older woman watching her - she must have been Michael's grandmother, Mallory could see the similarities even from a distance. The two made eye contact, and Mallory held her breath, waiting for the woman to start screaming and dialing nine-one-one. Instead, she gave Mallory a slight nod, as if to say, go ahead. I don't care.
It could have been a moment where Mallory felt sorry Michael, that his family members obviously hadn't given two shits about him. But she just felt relieved that she wouldn't have to explain this in court.
Mallory faced forward again, stomped on the gas pedal, and hit him a third time.
She sucked in a gasp of air, leaning back against the seat. Dimly, she realized that she was trembling, and she grabbed onto the steering wheel, reminding herself that she was here, that this was real, but that it wouldn't stay that way if she couldn't do this. She tilted back her rearview mirror, fully expecting to see Michael Langdon sprawled out on the ground, either dead or dying, probably covered in blood, maybe with some spattered on the road around him for dramatic measure.
What she didn't expect was to see him still, shakily, pushing himself onto his feet. "Come on," she half-said half-groaned. "Die already, why don't you?"
For the second time, she shoved her foot down on the reverse pedal and shot backwards. The impact rattled the car, but this time, she didn't even flinch. Again, she pressed down on the brake pedal, and this time felt the seatbelt momentarily dig into her skin. Panting, she watched the figure now laying on the road, covered in blood. The older woman was still watching, and for a brief moment, Mallory thought she might have seen her somewhere before.
For a moment, Mallory thought she had been successful as Michael lay, motionless, blood leaking from various cuts. She was no expert in human biology, but one would think that being hit four times with a car that was being driven by someone who had nothing to lose and every reason to hate the victim would be enough to kill even the most stubborn of souls. Destroy even the most durable of bodies.
And then, uncertainly, weakly, Michael Langdon reached out a bleeding, trembling hand, and pushed himself off the blood-stained gravel.
"What the fuck," she panted, for a moment only able to watch as he stumbled his way to his feet. Then, she was unbuckling her seatbelt and shoving the door open, jumping out of the car and slamming the door behind her, blood boiling in her veins as she stamped to the front of the car.
Cordelia's voice, echoing into the room where Mallory lay, useless as the blood leaked from her wounds and time wouldn't flow through her grasp like it had before. "Satan has one son, but my sisters are a legion, motherfucker." And then, a gasp, and the haunting sound of blade breaking flesh. And as Mallory felt the power flowing into herself, she wasn't Langdon that had received that killing blow.
Mallory growled, raising her left hand the way Madison would when she was being particularly dramatic. Power burned through her, like electricity heating up wires and circuits, except this kind of power was almost alive.
She had never killed anyone before. Everyone else - Madison, Queenie, even Myrtle - had taken another's life at some point. She had never envied them for it. Now, though, she wished she at least had the past experience, the knowledge of what it felt like to be responsible for another's death, so that she could handle this one with grace. Though she knew that when one of the others had killed in the past, it was for far more selfish reasons than her own.
And then, she noticed the eyes watching her.
The man must have been out for an afternoon jog, judging by the damp hair and sweaty gym shorts. He could have been in his late twenties or early thirties. And he was staring open-mouthed at Mallory, a cell phone clutched in one hand. Probably already ringing nine-one-one.
She knew what it looked like. If your car hits someone once, it's an accident that you feel guilty for, and when you get out of the car, you're doing it to make sure that the pedestrian is alright, to see if they need an ambulance. But when you hit someone four times, it's attempted homicide, and when you leave the car to go to the person, you're doing it to make sure you've finished the job.
Which was exactly what Mallory was doing.
Fuck.
She glanced at Langdon, now stumbling weakly away from her, favoring his right leg. It would be so easy. All she needed was a single thought, and she could snap his neck, or stop his heart, or even just blow him up.
You could kill him right now. You could kill the jogger, or at least make him forget. No one has to know.
Her hand was shaking, and she dug her fingernails into the palm of her right hand, trying to ground herself in the moment. She was having a panic reaction, from a combination of stress and exhaustion. She had seen it happen before, to her mother who had stayed up night after night trying to find a way to 'cure' her daughter. She knew it happened in books and movies, when the heroine or hero was under a particularly large amount of stress, and cracked like glass under the pressure.
A lot of people see that kind of thing happen, but no one thinks it will happen to them until it's happening to them.
She glanced at the pedestrian, who was watching her while holding the cell phone to his ear, probably waiting for the operator to pick up. She glanced at the car, covered it bumps and scratches from four impacts. And she looked to Langdon, covered in blood and scratches, leaning heavily on his left leg. She should be taking pleasure from his pain, as he would have from her own, but all she could feel was a sort of detachment. Not guilt, but not any positive emotions either.
She gulped, making eye contact with him. And then, she turned towards the city, and the sparkling blue of the ocean in the far distance, and she ran