From miserable drooling rain to killer sweltering heat in one day. Their body made it own rain as they trudged. Sweat, sweat, and more sweat. At this point they had given up on ever being dry again, and their side hadn't quit burning since their slide down the cliff face.

They lifted their water bottle to their chapped lips. The last warm dregs sloshed at the sides of the canteen. They slowed, ears and eyes piqued. They were in the mountains. Well, big foothills. There had to be running water somewhere. Wasn't that what mountains were? Big rocks, always have water running down them? They kept walking, searching for a source of water.

At least they didn't have to keep an eye out for the bear. They'd passed a suspicious brown lump flopped on the forest floor, a swarm of flies forming at the root of a dried river of blood caking the fur around its hindquarters. Of course, they hadn't gone near the thing. They weren't about to lose a limb poking a bear twice. But the had held their breath for the world's longest minute while the bear-lump gave not the faintest hint of motion or noise.

Delicate burbling caught their attention. They split from the deer path and marched towards the sound, snapping twigs to mark their trail as they went. It wasn't far before they came to a stream of shallow, crystal water rushing over a bed of time-smoothed stones. They couldn't have asked for a better source. Mother nature was smiling on them today. They scrubbed a trickle of sweat from their brow before it dripped in their eye. Okay, maybe Mother Nature was close-lipped grimacing at them, but they would take it.

The source of the burbling was a little ways upstream, where a rise in the land had created a miniature waterfall. A basin fed the stream. Crouching, True dipped their bottle in. Cool water rushed over their sore fingers, soothing, whisking away old blood and sweat and the heat of the day. A sigh escaped them before they caught it. Their bottle filled, but they lingered, indulging the feeling.

Biting the tip of their tongue, they clocked the water beyond the tiny waterfall. Ages worth of dirt and sweat, merchant's blood, stranger's blood, their blood, caked on their skin. In every crevice and pore. Would it kill anyone if they stopped here for an hour or two?

Knowing the Faction, probably. But the Faction was also probably going to kill them when they got to Vancouver, so they climbed the rise in the land and shrugged off their pack.

First things first, they put their shoes and socks up high. They had all the blisters they could manage. With their bag also out of the immediate splash zone, they plunged into the frigid water.

Two steps in and the bottom dropped from mid-shin to elbow-deep. Icy water seared the open scrapes on what had to be more than half their skin at this point. They sank and dipped their head back to drench their hair. Ugh, that felt better than anything had any right to feel.

Retreating back to the bank, they dug a lump of tallow soap from their pack, making a note to re-sort it. They'd stuffed everything in haphazardly earlier and nothing was where it was supposed to be. Stripping, they scrubbed as much of the grit and the grime for their ragged clothes as possible. Sullied water flushed from them like toxic run-off from the factories of old. Relieved of a thick layer of dirt, the ragged clothes looked even more threadbare.

"Even feels lighter," they joked to themself as they hung the clothes over some branches. A breeze raised goosebumps across their brown skin as they returned to the basin to scrub the layers of dirt from themself. Clear water, cool and tranquilizing wrapped around them like silk. Inviting them deeper. They obliged, sinking to their chin and letting their eyes slide closed. Everything was calm. Quiet. Nothing but the slow rush of water on their skin. Nothing but the silver burble of the waterfall and the hush of the breeze through the leaves. And a twig snapping on the shore.

Their eyes flew open and they whirled, half-rising from the water. Stones grinding underfoot and threatening to give way to a twisted ankle if they weren't treated with more respect.

Radio's moppy head and raggedy clothes loomed on the bank. If ever there was a perfect time to strike, this was it. True, naked and freezing, out of reach of any of their stuff. An instant of vulnerability from which they could not recover.

Radio waved, they waved back.

Okay, maybe not. Maybe it was judging them for their break. Silent judgement. The best kind because they didn't have to listen to any whining. True sank back into the basin, wondered how it handled the heat in what looked like seventy layers of black clothes.

Closing their eyes, they resumed their moment of relaxation in the midst of the second end of the world. Except now they were hyperaware of the person on the bank. They rubbed their breastbone, passing off the ache there as a consequence of falling off a cliff and pressed all the air from their lungs to sink lower. The water lapped treacherously close to their cleft. They tilted their head back, knew from experience that water up the nose burned like an acid shot to the brain.

A plip of water struck their ear, breaking them out of the spiral. They turned to scowl at Radio only to be met with a squirt of water in the face. A sharp gasp escaped them. They smacked water at it, drenching it. Instead of backing off, it gave them a sly grin and launched a wave at them. Ice cold, acid burning, straight to the face.

They jerked away, the stones shifted and betrayed their foot, and suddenly they were plunging underwater.

Son of a bitch!

Fire scorched the inside of their face.

"You—you—!" their own coughing kept interrupting them. They settled for shooting it the dirtiest glare they could muster, only for the glare to fade at the sight of Radio mid-silent-cackle. Head thrown back, eyes scrunched shut.

"You're evil," they sputtered out finally, and stalked back to the shallow ledge. Radio slinked through the basin like a crocodile, just eyes and a nose gliding around in circles, at first, then towards True. They prodded it away with their toe. It poked a finger out of the water and traced a tear down its face. True rolled their eyes and went back to getting lost in the web of branches that swayed overhead.

Once-smothering heat now warmed the chill out of their sore muscles. They almost didn't notice when Radio sloshed out of the water and wandered off. Definitely didn't notice it had come back until it beaned them in the back of the head with a pinecone.

"I'm beginning to think you pulled me off that cliff just to—" they lurched out of the way of a pink and brown streak in the nick of time. Water exploded from the basin, dousing them. Radio stayed under. Stayed so long that True leaned over to get a better look at its dark shape in the water in case it had done something incredibly stupid like crack its skull on the rocks.

Radio sprang from the bottom of the basin and soaked them all over again.

And laughed.

Caught off-guard, True slipped and went crashing face-first into the ice acid water. Radio caught them. Well, it caught their forehead and half gave them whiplash. But it was better than drowning, and Radio laughed more. Scratchy from unuse and bubbling like the waterfall over the stub of its tongue.

"I didn't know you could do that," they said.

Radio shrugged.

It made sense though, its tongue was gone, not its vocal cords. They'd just never heard it before. Not much laughing to be done these days. Not much laughing to be done around True in general. Maybe that was something they should change. Then again, what would be the point if they were marching to their death in a few days anyways.

But it was nice to hear now, from the stalker. A small, private smile spread on their broken lips. Sloshing out of the water, they trudged to their pack and set about re-packing it.

Radio climbed out of the basin. Late afternoon sun glittered off the droplets clinging to its hair and ropes of thick pink burn scars binding its skin. Chest, back, arms, some spread down its buttocks to the backs of its knees. All bulging and puckered. It looked like it hurt. True turned away.

Their fingers brushed a rumpled old chip bag and they drew it out, debating.

Ah, what the hell. They had a bad feeling about what was waiting for them in Vancouver, and they'd be pissed if they died without getting to eat their candy.

"Licorice?" they offered, plunking down at the water's edge. Radio gave them a questioning look. "Trade it for a question," they clarified, holding out the open end of the bag.

Radio fished a length of sticky soft candy out.

"Cheers." They clinked each other's licorice, though it wasn't a clink so much as a squelch. Mouth-watering sugar dissolved on their tongue with a burst of cherry flavour. They held the licorice in their mouth, letting it melt slowly. Giving their mouth time to adjust to the shock.

Out of all the things they missed from before the end of the world, sugar topped the list.

"What happened?" they asked, motioning to a patch of scar.

All the calm leeched out of Radio, it drew its knees up to its chest as if it could hide the marks. True bit the inside of their cheek. Way to kill the mood.

"You don't have to answer." They'd traded a question, not an answer, technically.

It got to its feet and abandoned the water's edge. There went that conversation. They were good at making conversations dead. Usually a lot quicker than this. Faintly they registered the soft thump of its footsteps approaching. A poke to their shoulder as Radio sat next to them and held out a scrap of fabric. A patch, the edges frayed and the silver embroidery faded. They didn't recognize the design, but the text read Canada, National Defence, Fire Services, in English and French.

"That yours?" True asked.

Radio nodded. Setting the little piece of its past on its lap, it reached down to the sand.

Couldn't shout. It wrote. Left behind.

True bit back a wince, their brain seizing the opportunity to remind them of Galya's final moments.

"That's fucked," they said.

Radio blew out a long exhale and shrugged, which could have meant anything. It picked at a loose thread on the patch, tension bundled up in its shoulders. Its black eyes held a distant glaze.

"Did you talk when you were a firefighter or just grunt?"

Radio punched them.

"Ow! Yeah, keep rolling your eyes." They flicked water at it. "You just told me your whole tragic backstory and I don't even know your name. I bet you never zipped your lip before."

The calm seeped back into it as it wrote the next word in the sand.

Name.

True watched it move its hands, fingers curled into a new shape. They motioned for it to repeat the sign, tilting their head to get a better look.

"That's gonna take me a minute to learn." They offered another licorice stick as an apology. Radio didn't seem to mind.

Later, clothes clean, pack re-ordered, and salve applied to the tract of torn-up skin that stretched from armpit to hip, they were on their way. Radio had spent the rest of its time gathering fistfuls of tiny purple flowers on long stalks and fastening them upside down to the back of its poncho with grass blades. True chose not to question it. Though they couldn't tell if the flowers were useful or decorative. They suspected it was useful.

By the time the sun had set, the tiny purple flowers were wilted, and the forest gave way to ancient asphalt. On the horizon, lit by the half moon and the dying flow of an expired sunset, were the frames of buildings. A village, the last stop between where'd they'd come from and where they were going. It looked like they were closer to Vancouver than they thought.