Archive of Our Own

So, technically speaking, Neil isn’t doing anything illegal by living in this hotel.

He’s simply paying for it with money that he conveniently forgot to mention to the FBI when they asked him - for what may have been the hundredth time - if there was anything Neil had left out of his story the day he was released from witness protection.

So - he told a little white lie.

But, really. It was Neil’s mother who stole all that money from his father and hid it in random corners of the world, so if one thinks rationally here, Neil is pretty much innocent.

Or, like, innocent-adjacent.

What he means is - there’s nothing wrong with him hitching a ride to the middle of absolutely nowhere to pick up the last cache his mother stored away, and promptly spending half of it on a two week stay in the crappiest hotel he could find.

It’s fine, though.

He’ll only stay one more night, and tomorrow, he’ll rejoin society, find a permanent place to live, maybe even find a job, and ideally, get used to introducing himself as Neil Abram Josten.

Tomorrow, he tells himself, rolling over on the rock-hard hotel mattress, listening to the sound of the rooms down the hall filling up with rambunctious voices. Neil smushes a flimsy pillow over his head, wonders who the hell brought a party into the world’s worst hotel, and swears he’ll leave tomorrow.

-

See, the problem with tomorrow, is that Neil has been telling himself the same thing for two straight weeks now.

He was only supposed to stay here one night, promising to no one in particular that he would leave this hotel the next morning, and finally start a free life. Free from his father, who’s lying in an unmarked grave in Baltimore, free from everyone who’s ever chased him, free from Nathaniel Wesninski and everything that name means.

But then one night turned into two, turned into three, turned into a week, and suddenly, two weeks have gone by, and Neil is horrified to realize that, even after two years in WITSEC, he doesn’t know how to act free.

And he never was all that good at keeping promises anyway.

Although, Neil has never been one to learn his lesson the first thousand times, so maybe tomorrow will be the day this time.

Maybe.

We’ll see.

-

Neil wakes up at the crack-ass of dawn to the sound of what actually might be either a stampede of wild animals or his new neighbors starting their morning routine.

The sound alone is irritating enough to get him out of bed and dressed, but he stalls in the bathroom, unable to tear his eyes away from his reflection in the mirror.

Seriously, you cannot live in this hotel forever. You’ll run out of money eventually, and you did not survive nineteen years of literal torture just to get stuck in a hotel room because of some stupid, indescribable fear.

You’re leaving. Today. Right now.

Get. Out. Of. The. God. Damn. Bathroom. And leave this hotel, Neil.

Neil lets the sink fill up with freezing water, splashing handfuls onto his face, and storms out of that cramped bathroom without glancing back at his reflection.

He grabs his duffle, slips into his sneakers, and slams out of the hotel room like all of hell is on his heels.

He is leaving today.

He’s out the door and down the hall, head down the way his mother ingrained into his brain to do, clearly not paying enough attention, though, because out of nowhere he’s slamming face first into a literal tree of a man.

“Woah, dude, are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t even see you coming!”

Neil staggers a step back, clutching the strap of his duffle like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. His heart stops, lurches, slams back into motion.

The man is dressed in a frankly atrocious shade of orange, hair gelled up in spikes, the number 4 drawn in white on his jersey, and a look of entirely too much concern all directly at Neil’s face.

Absolutely not.

Neil’s brain skids, ricochets, careens straight into panic.

Nope. Not today. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is fine. Today is canceled.

He forces his head lower, fingers strangling the duffle strap. “Sorry,” he mutters, already pivoting on his heel, ready to retreat back down the hall, back to his room, back to safety -

Except the man’s huge hand lands on his shoulder, and Neil freezes.

“Hey, wait - man, are you sure you’re good? You kinda look like you’re gonna be sick.”

I am going to be sick, Neil thinks, but what comes out is, “I - it’s fine. I need to -”

“Found you!” A high voice screeches.

Neil curses his past self that agreed to leave that hotel room minutes ago. His soul leaves his body, hops into the ice machine down the hall, and dies.

A tall woman with poofy blonde hair struts up behind the man. She’s in the same shade of orange, the number 7 across her chest, and she thumps the man on the back hard enough to make him whip around in surprise.

“Matt! Dan said she specifically told you to put her hair straightener in your bag, because I need one and mine fried out last weekend. Except, now she’s saying her straightener is not in your bag, because you didn’t pack it. What am I supposed to do about my hair now?”

The man - Matt, apparently - winces, still holding onto Neil’s shoulder. “Shit, I left it on the bathroom counter. I’m sorry, really -”

The woman pinches the bridge of her nose between perfectly manicured fingernails. “You’re sorry? Matthew, we have a game in two hours and my hair is the size of Texas!” She wails, and Neil tries to take advantage of the distraction, make his escape, but the woman’s eyes catch on him like a cat with a laser pointer. “Who’s this?”

Matt looks back at Neil like he’d forgotten he was even here, let alone being held in place by his stupidly large hand. “This is…well, actually I don’t know. I almost made him eat the floor.” Then he looks back at Neil, squinting. “What’s your name, again?”

Neil doesn’t know his name, doesn’t know literally anything, because before he can even consider opening his mouth, the door a few feet down slams open, and a rush of orange comes flooding out.

In a hallway approximately the width of a coffin.

Someone peaks their head out from around the corner of the hall, yet another orange person, number 8, and screams at an incredible volume, “Elevator’s here! Everyone - move your asses!”

What happens next is not voluntary.

It’s a tidal wave.

A mix of orange and white, tall, tattooed, pierced, goth-pastel, college athlete tidal wave.

Someone’s elbow bumps Neil from the side, someone else’s shoulder nudges him from behind, Matt instinctively herds him forward like a lost puppy. The hall is too narrow, the group is too big, and Neil is too stunned to move under his own control.

He tries. God, he tries.

The elevator doors slide open.

It’s a dogpile of bodies spilling inside, Neil at the very center of it.

Neil tries to break away - sidestep, duck, disappear - but the force of the crowd sweeps him forward. Matt’s hand is still on his shoulder. Another hand lands between his shoulder blades. Someone is shouting. Someone else is complaining about another person’s hair touching them.

“Guys, I think there’s too many of us. The sign says maximum eight people!”

Neil looks around until he finds the source of the voice - a woman not much taller than he is with short black hair and wearing the number 1 - and thinks, yes, I’ll get off! No trouble at all, let me just scooch right past you and -

“Alright, Abby and I are going to wait for the next one. Seth - you’re coming with us,” A deep voice booms from the front of the elevator.

Neil watches as the only two people not dressed in jerseys step off the elevator - a man with a greying beard and thick tribal tattoos up his forearms and a petite woman with her hair tied neatly in a ponytail. Coaches?

Literally does not matter who they are, because you are not riding this elevator.

Neil tries to shove his way to the front, but his efforts are immediately erased by an angry guy with a buzzed head - number 6 - pushing him into the back left corner of the elevator, pinned by bodies on every side.

“Why the fuck am I getting out?” Number 6 complains, but steps out into the hall anyway.

“Because I don’t need anyone killing each other before we make it to the game, and after your spat with Kevin yesterday, I’m not sticking you two in a metal box together when I’m not around to intervene. Now, move it,” The man with the tattoos grumbles, hooking his fingers into Number 6’s jersey and tugging him all the way out of the elevator, just in time for the doors to slide shut, trapping Neil inside.

Wonderful. Looks like he’s leaving today after all.

-

Eight bodies jammed shoulder-to-shoulder, and Neil is wedged in the corner like luggage someone forgot to stow properly. Matt is a warm blur on his right, and everyone else is some chaotic combination of limbs and elbows and complaints.

He keeps his head down and counts jersey numbers because acknowledging that he’s actively on his way to leaving this building is not happening right now.

Number 1 (short hair, probably the captain) is lecturing someone.
Number 2 (cropped dark hair, tattoo of something on his cheekbone) is glaring at his watch.
Number 4 (Matt) is still apologizing to Number 7.
Number 5 (short, blonde) is scowling at everyone equally.
Number 8 (tall, Hispanic, the one who called when the elevator came) is excitedly talking to literally no one.
Number 9 (pastel colored hair, a look in her eyes that makes Neil’s skin crawl) is quietly talking to Number 3 against the opposite wall.

And, well, Number 3 is just plain staring at Neil, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded and razor-sharp. His face also matches Number 5 almost identically, the only difference being a silver bar through 3’s eyebrow.

Perfect, Neil thinks. Great. I’m in a small metal box with a group of athletes who totally seem like they have their shit together and a man who already has a problem with me. Fantastic first day of freedom.

The bickering starts instantly. As does Neil’s headache.

“It is literally a thousand degrees in here,” Number 7 announces, fanning herself theatrically.

“That’s because you’re wearing ten pounds of hair,” Number 5 mutters.

“And we all have Matt to thank for that,” she snaps back.

“Allison, I swear it was an accident, okay? Maybe we can stop and buy a straightener on our way to the game -”

“Would you guys shut up?” Number 2 hisses, jabbing the ‘Lobby’ button six more times as if the elevator might take the hint. “We are going to be late.”

“We’re always late,” Number 8 says, fully unbothered.

“We’ll get there on time, Kevin. It’s only a fifteen minute drive, and the game doesn’t start for an hour,” Number 9 chimes in serenely.

Neil presses himself flatter against the wall, trying to make his body ratio so small he phases through solid steel. Nobody seems to notice him. Except Number 3, but Neil doesn’t really know what the deal is there, so he averts his eyes to the red panel, watching as the floors tick downwards.

About a minute passes - long enough for an argument about deodorant etiquette to begin (8), peak (7, Allison?), and be shut down (9) - before the elevator gives a strange, heavy-sounding thunk.

Everything goes still.

Everyone freezes. Even Number 3 uncrosses his arms.

“…what was that?” Number 1 asks tightly.

Number 2 (Kevin?) hits the ‘Lobby’ button again. Nothing reacts.

Neil seems to be the only one who’s noticed that the panel depicting the floor numbers has gone blank, is also quite possibly the only one who feels the slight swaying of the elevator.

Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding.

Neil sinks down to the ground, placing his duffle under his head and folding his arms tightly over his face.

He hears Matt’s voice from above him, “Uh, dude. What are you doing?”

Neil sighs. “The elevator is about to drop. Get down low and protect your head.”

Number 5 snorts, “What the fuck is this guy talking ab-”

The lights flicker. The elevator shudders.

Then - without warning, or at least, only Neil caught the warning - the entire car drops.

A violent, stomach-in-throat, gravity-ripping plunge.

Someone screams. Someone else curses. Neil isn’t sure what sound he’s making. His arms are pushed harshly into his face as someone falls on him. Bodies slam into each other. He can hear cracks and gasps and the unmistakable sound of people being thrown around like dolls.

The fall lasts forever and no time at all - just long enough for Neil’s brain to fire off,

I survived Baltimore for this? Seriously?

The elevator jerks to a brutal halt, whipping everyone sideways.

Matt slams into the wall. 1 crashes into the button panel. Allison shrieks as she steps on someone’s foot. 5 swears viciously. Neil is pretty sure Kevin is gripping his ankle with superhuman strength. He loses sight of Number 3.

Neil ends up in relatively the same spot as he started, duffle safely under his head, arms and knees feeling bruised, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape through bone - but as far as he can tell, unharmed.

The silence after the stop is deafening.

Then, from the opposite corner, furious and with a slight tremor -

“This is why I hate elevators.”

Neil would be willing to bet $100 that the voice belongs to Number 3.

I should’ve stayed in that goddamn bathroom.

-

Neil waits all of three seconds - just long enough to confirm the car isn’t about to take a second plunge - before swinging himself upright in one smooth motion.

Everyone else…does not do that.

Chaos. That’s the only word for it.

Number 1 is curled around her right hand, hissing through her teeth. Allison is cursing a blue streak at the ceiling. Kevin is flat on his back, white as printer paper, gripping his knee like he can hold the joint in place by sheer willpower. Number 5 is sitting dazed with blood running in a slow, ugly line down the side of his face. 9 is the only one upright, one hand on 8’s shoulder and the other braced on the railing, calm but pale. Matt is on hands and knees, blinking around like a concussed Saint Bernard, nose already swelling and bleeding like a faucet.

Number 3 is sitting exactly where the elevator threw him, slumped against the wall, expression carved from marble with the faintest tightness around his eyes. Instead of staring a hole into Neil’s head, his gaze is steadily focused on Number 5, obviously his twin.

Neil stands, dusts off his jeans, and says, deadpan, “Everyone okay?”

Eight horrified faces whip toward him.

“WHAT THE -”

“HOW ARE YOU -”

“HE’S TOTALLY FINE?!”

“There is NO WAY -”

“Can someone call the front desk?”

"WHERE DID THIS GUY COME FROM?"

“My head, Jesus -”

Neil ignores all of them because Matt is closest, and is staring at the pooling blood dripping from his face like it’s coming from a grave bullet wound, and not a simple broken nose.

He crouches in front of him. “Can I fix your face?”

Matt blinks at him, dazed. “What the fuck?”

“Face. Fix. Yes or no?” Neil repeats.

Matt nods shakily, and Neil grips both sides of his nose before he can ask more questions.

“What the -”

Crack.

Matt makes a noise like a dying moose and slaps a hand over his face. “HOLY - Okay, okay, okay, ow. OW. What the hell!”

“Broken nose,” Neil says, already moving on. “It’s set now. Don’t touch it.”

There is stunned silence all around him.

Then a weak, incredulous, “Who the fuck is this guy?”

Neil moves to 1 next. She’s cradling her hand like it personally betrayed her.

“Fingers?” Neil asks.

She lifts them gingerly. Two are crooked in a way that says definitely broken.

“Yep,” she admits through clenched teeth.

Neil nods, grabbing his duffle and pulling out the first aid kit he hasn’t had to use in over two years, but knows he will never let go of. He digs out a chunk of gauze, a popsicle stick, and a roll of medical tape, tossing the bag over his shoulder again and holding up the supplies for 1 to see.

“Gimme your hand.”

Number 1 carefully sticks her hand out, staring at Neil like she’s seeing a ghost, and Neil ignores her completely, positioning her hand straight. He rips the gauze in half, tucks a piece between each broken finger and the neighboring ones, and snaps the popsicle stick, taping each half to the underneath of her fingers, creating an oven mitt of medical tape.

5 mutters “pre-med?” under his breath.

“That should heal straight,” Neil says, already pivoting.

Allison sputters, “WHAT. THE. HELL.”

Kevin tries to sit up and immediately freezes, gasping as his knee shifts wrong. Neil crouches beside him.

“It’s dislocated,” Neil says.

Kevin looks up at him like he’s been handed a death sentence. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

Neil sees Number 3 zero in on him out of the corner of his eye, hands reaching towards thick black armbands that he hadn’t noticed before, and Neil rolls his eyes. “The longer it stays out of the socket, the longer it will take to heal. If it doesn’t get popped back in soon, you’ll be looking at surgery.”

Kevin stares at him like Neil has personally threatened to amputate the leg, but nods slowly. Number 3’s fingers pause on the black armbands. His eyes don’t leave Neil.

Wonderful. Fantastic. A guard dog. No pressure at all.

Neil doesn’t look at him, planting one hand firmly above Kevin’s knee and the other bracing his ankle.

“This is going to hurt -”

“Wait, WAIT -”

Neil pops it back into place with a sickening crunch.

Kevin’s scream is loud enough to rattle the already-destroyed light panel. He slams his head back against the elevator wall and goes very, very still.

Neil pats his shin. “You’re fine.”

“No I’m not,” Kevin whispers hoarsely. “No I’m not, I’m dying, what did you do -”

“You’re welcome,” Neil says blandly, already standing up.

A new wave of noise follows him, half outrage, half awe.

“Once again,” Allison says at a volume that is just inappropriate for the small space they are confined to. “What. The. Hell.”

“Are you a doctor?” Number 8 asks from the floor.

“He’s, like, our age,” Matt counters, poking at his nose with a careful finger. “He can’t be.”

Neil doesn’t respond, moving automatically, eyes scanning the elevator for any other injuries he missed. He lands on 5, his temple still bleeding steadily.

Didn’t wipe the scowl off his face, though.

He crouches in front of Number 5, holding out a wad of gauze from his kit.

“Hold that,” Neil says.

“I know how to put pressure on a little head wound,” 5 growls, but he takes the gauze, glaring like Neil personally offended every Roth in existence.

Neil rolls his eyes, standing and stretching out his back, moving back to the control panel to try to figure out what made the elevator stop.

They started on the twenty-first floor, and were moving for a little over a minute, so they could have only reached the nineteenth floor, minimum. And they fell for something like ten seconds, which could land them anywhere between the fifth floor and the twelfth. Either way, definitely not the ground floor -

“Hey.”

It’s low, quiet, and it stops Neil cold.

Number 3 is still seated against the wall, legs sprawled, wrists draped over his knees. He hasn’t moved except to track Neil with his eyes, and Neil is now certain there are knives in those armbands.

He tilts his head, studying Neil like he’s a puzzle he intends to solve whether the pieces cooperate or not. He talks calmly, almost lazily, but there’s steel beneath it. “How did you know we were going to drop?”

Matt, still holding his newly straightened nose - even though Neil clearly told him not to touch - squints. “Wait, yeah! You told me to get low.”

“Why?” Kevin demands from the floor. “How did you know?”

“Seriously,” Number 8 adds. “Who even are you? Are you like - hotel police? Trauma surgeon? What is happening?”

“He literally looks homeless, Nicky. He probably just guessed,” Number 5 mutters, and Neil frowns at him.

“The elevator stopped. The panel showing the floor numbers went out, and so did all the lights on the buttons. The car was swaying slightly, which is an obvious sign that it is about to fall.” Neil looks around again, but directs his words towards Number 3. “If any of you were paying attention, instead of bickering, you’d have noticed too. And I tried to warn you all.”

Silence hits the elevator like a physical thing.

Not absolute silence - Nicky is still quietly wheezing, Kevin is muttering curses under his breath, and Aaron’s stack of gauze is slowly turning red - but the talking stops.

Eight heads swivel toward Neil like he’s just delivered a lecture on quantum mechanics instead of basic structural failure.

Neil turns back to the fried control panel before anyone can ask him anything else. He presses a few buttons - Door Open, Door Close, the alarm - but the only response is a pathetic click and a faint, dying buzz.

Useless.

He leans closer, scanning for signs of electrical blowout. Something definitely shorted. Possibly the motor. Possibly the power. Possibly his luck.

He can feel Number 3’s stare without even turning.

Number 1 breaks the tension first, voice uncertain. “I…didn’t feel anything sway.”

“Me neither,” Matt says. “I think I was talking about…something? What was I talking about?”

“The hair straightener,” Allison supplies.

Matt blinks. “Oh. Right.”

Nicky raises his hand like they’re all in elementary school, and not a broken elevator. “Okay but - how did he feel the sway when none of us did? I don’t get it.”

“It’s called situational awareness,” Neil mutters, prying open the plastic casing around the emergency call button.

Allison snorts. “No one is that aware.”

Neil doesn’t bother responding. The casing pops off under his nails.

Behind him, Kevin shifts painfully. “You noticed the lights go out during the fall?”

“No,” Neil says. “Before.”

Number 5 gives him a flat look. “You’re telling me you predicted an elevator malfunction because it…wiggled?”

Neil sighs. “Mmhm.”

“That’s insane,” Nicky says.

“That’s bull,” 5 shoots back.

Neil sets the emergency call wires back into place and straightens up, brushing dust off his palms. He jabs his finger into the button, and cringes when absolutely nothing happens.

Okay, definitely a power problem.

“Alright,” Neil says, shaking out his shoulders. Better to get this over with. “I’m not a doctor, I’m not hotel police. I got shoved into this elevator by mistake, and I’d very much like to get out of it, preferably today. So,” Neil finishes, clapping his hands together. “Who has a phone that works?”

Number 3 speaks before anyone else can reach for a pocket.

“No reception,” he says, still in that maddeningly bored tone. “Already tried.”

Neil closes his eyes for half a second. Of course.

“Same,” Nicky says, waving his cracked phone. “Nada. Zero bars. A tragic, depressing void.”

Allison lifts her own screen. “Nothing.”

Kevin checks his with a grimace. “Dead.”

Matt pats himself down, then looks up in horrified confusion. “Where’s my phone?”

“You dropped it,” Number 5 says tightly, holding his bloody head and looking pale. “It’s probably shattered.”

Matt does a small, devastated whimper. Neil just shakes his head, eyeing Number 5 warily.

Head wounds bleed a lot, but he’s sweating too much.

Goddammit, I really should have stayed in that bathroom.

Neil grabs more gauze from his kit and stalks over to Number 5, holding it out impatiently.

Number 5 blinks up at him, confused. “What -”

“What’s your name?” Neil asks, tone brooking exactly zero argument.

“Why? I’m a pre-med student, you don’t need to ask me the concussion questions.”

“Oh, for fucks sake -” Neil groans, shoving the gauze into 5’s hand. “I don’t need to ask you the concussion questions, because you obviously have one. I’m just tired of calling everyone by their jersey numbers in my head.”

Number 5 stares at him, offended and injured in equal measure. “Obviously…?!”

“Name,” Neil repeats, sounding uninterested, but still watching Aaron’s eyes carefully.

Extremely convenient that the only one here who actually has any real medical knowledge - not counting Neil’s more than unusual field training - is about to pass the fuck out.

“Aaron,” 5 grumbles.

Neil nods, moves on.

“Okay,” he says, turning to the group like he’s managing a kindergarten field trip in hell. “I don’t know your names, I don’t want to know all of your names, but if you want me to keep you from dying in this tiny death-box, someone needs to point and label.”

Matt brightens. “I can do that!”

Allison groans. “Please don’t.”

But Matt is already pointing. “That’s Allison, that’s Dan, that’s Kevin - don’t touch him, he bites - and that’s Renee, and that’s Andrew. He’s scary, but cool.”

Neil’s gaze lingers on Number 3 - Andrew - for a beat.

“What’s his deal,” Andrew asks Neil coldly, tipping his chin towards Aaron, but Neil can hear the undercurrent of worry in his voice.

“He for sure has a concussion, but I’m more concerned about the amount he’s bleeding and the fact that his pupils are two wildly different sizes. He’ll live, but he’s going to pass out soon if he doesn’t stop bleeding. Which means we need to get out of this elevator.”

Andrew - the scary, cool one, apparently - leans forward just slightly, tension wrapped through his shoulders like wire. “How big of a problem is that?” He asks, still calm, but his jaw ticks.

Neil shakes his head. “I told you, I’m not a doctor.” Then, a beat. “Look. I’ve had my fair share of concussions. He’ll probably be fine. But if he starts seizing, that’s a different story.”

Andrew’s jaw flexes again. “Probably,” he states, low and controlled.

Neil runs a hand down his face. He needs to think about how to get everyone out of here, ideally alive, but he can’t think when they’re all panicking. He looks directly at Andrew, tries to keep his expression as calm as possible.

“You look like you’ve been in a few fights,” Neil says, and waits for Andrew to tip his head before continuing. “I’ll assume you’ve had a concussion before, then?” Another nod. “Then you’ll know that this,” Neil flicks a hand towards Aaron, “is not an emergency. It’s standard to expect the worst from a concussion, especially if you don’t have access to a hospital, but it’s just a precaution. I’m pretty damn sure that he’ll be fine. Still not a doctor, though.”

Neil can’t understand why or how, but something about his blunt tone seems to have settled something in Andrew. He pushes himself upright, bracing one hand on the wall. He’s not injured, but there’s a deliberateness to how he stands, like he’s preparing for orders he has already accepted.

“So,” he starts, “what’s your plan?”

Neil exhales. Why don’t you come up with a fucking plan?

“I already tried fixing the wiring in the emergency call button, but no dice. Which means this is most likely a power issue and not mechanics. Which in turn means that there’s nothing I can fix to make this car move.”

Andrew tilts his head, watching him carefully. “So we’re stuck,” he says flatly.

Neil scrunches his nose. “I didn’t say that.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Alright. I need two people, preferably the strongest of the group.”

When no one jumps up, Neil groans, throwing his head back.

“Jesus, okay. Elevator doors can usually be pried open at least a couple inches - not enough for someone to slip through, but enough for me to see what floor we’re on. I’m guessing between the fifth and twelfth, judging by how long we fell for. If we only see blank concrete outside the doors, then I can get us out. If we’re stuck directly on an open floor, I’ll have to come up with a better plan.”

Allison lets out a thin, strained laugh. “Oh good. Possibly the vaguest plan ever. Love that for us.”

Kevin, who has been crouched over his knee like a terrified raccoon guarding a shiny object, hisses, “No one is prying anything open. What if we make it worse? What if we drop again?”

Dan shrugs, nodding toward Neil. “If we drop, we’re all going to die anyway. Might as well try something.”

Matt follows immediately, puffing up like he’s been waiting his whole life to be assigned to Heavy Lifting Duty. “Yeah! I’ve seen people do this in movies.”

“Cool,” Alison deadpans. “Then maybe your ‘movie logic’ can save us.”

Neil lifts a hand, desperately trying to get everyone back on track. “It’s not as difficult as it sounds. Two people, that’s it. Matt’s in - who else?”

Andrew makes a low sound - approval? Annoyance? - and steps forward. “I got it.”

Neil lifts a brow. “Okay, tough guy. You got it.”

Andrew scowls at him, but Neil thinks he might be seeing some hint of amusement underneath.

Renee clears her throat delicately, and Neil whips around. He’d almost forgotten she was here. “Is there anything the rest of us can do?”

Neil presses his fingertips to his temples. “Um, no, just stay low to the ground in case anything shifts too far. And someone keep Aaron awake.”

The group shuffles backward, a chorus of muttering and clumsy shuffling in the too-small space. Renee takes up post by Aaron’s side, and Neil steps between Andrew and Matt, gestures toward the seam in the elevator doors.

“You two pull outward on the edges. Not the middle. The metal’s sturdiest there. Slow, steady pressure. Don’t jerk it - if you slip, you’ll break a finger.”

Allison winces. “Could you…not say things like that? Out loud?”

Neil ignores her. “On three. One…two…” He braces a hand at the center, ready to see what gap they can get. “…three.”

Andrew and Matt pull. The metal groans, the elevator shuddering in protest.

Aaron yelps. “NOPE. Hate that. Terrible sound. Stop. Now.”

“Keep going,” Neil orders, leaning in to peer through the inch-wide sliver forming. Finally, some progress. “Good. Another inch.”

Andrew grits his teeth, arms flexing, jaw set in razor-line concentration. Matt mirrors him, huffing, the whole car vibrating with the effort.

Allison clutches Renee’s arm. “This feels like the opening scene of a horror movie.”

“We’ll be okay,” Renee says calmly.

Neil has got to find out what’s up with her.

The gap widens - just barely enough. Neil steps in immediately, peering into the darkness beyond the doors.

Concrete. Solid. No open floor. No empty shaft. Exactly the best-case scenario.

“I can work with this,” Neil says, exhaling. “This is good.”

Andrew releases the door but keeps one hand braced on the wall, breathing heavy, eyes still on Neil. “Define ‘good.’”

Neil swallows, isn’t sure why the sight makes him feel sweaty, decides it’s just the stress of being stuck in an elevator with people who seem to have never been in an elevator a day in their lives.

“It means,” he says, looking away from Andrew, “we can climb.”

-

Nicky gasps. “We’re climbing out of the elevator? Are you insane?!”

Neil doesn’t even glance at him. “I’m not insane. I’m practical. And right now, practicality means using the one exit we have.”

Matt raises a trembling hand. “Do you…do you do this a lot?”

Neil glances at him, expression deadpan. “Do what?”

“Fix…injuries…and escape elevators?”

Neil exhales sharply, shaking his head. He’s still trying to figure out how to answer that in a believable way, without actually saying that more than once, Mary and him had gotten trapped in elevators while on the run, except with more gun fire and less talking - when the elevator groans overhead.

Everyone freezes.

“Okay,” Matt says, voice high and hopeful, “that’s normal…right?”

“No,” Kevin says flatly.

“Nope,” Dan agrees.

“What is it?” Andrew demands, looking solely at Neil.

Does this guy think he’s an engineer or something? Christ.

“That’s the counterweight shifting,” Neil hears himself say before he can stop it. “We’re hanging unevenly.”

Every head swings toward him.

He closes his mouth.

Andrew’s eyes sharpen further - interest, certainty, and something Neil doesn’t understand, can’t tell if it’s good or bad.

“So no climbing?” Andrew asks sarcastically.

Neil rolls his eyes at him. “Oh, we’re climbing. We’ll just have to be extra careful now.”

Neil swears the elevator is going to drop again just from how loud everyone starts screaming all at once.

-

Neil ignores the screaming, shoving his duffle off to the side and motioning at Matt.

“You. Shoulders. Now.”

Matt blinks like he’s been caught stealing candy. “Uh…what?”

“Your shoulders,” Neil says, tone sharp enough to slice through the chaos. “I’m not tall enough to get through the ceiling myself, so I need to stand on your shoulders.” Then, on second thought, he adds, “And don’t drop me.”

Matt nods slowly, muttering something that might be a curse or a prayer. Neil steps up, feeling Matt shift and brace beneath him.

“But what if -” Allison starts, but Neil cuts her off without turning.

“Not your time to panic,” he mumbles, pushing at one of the ceiling tiles. He presses his fist against it, testing its resistance. The tile creaks.

Perfect.

From below he can hear a variety of different levels of panic, all of which are equally annoying and distracting.

Neil pauses, ignoring the chorus, and looks at his hands. He might be able to punch through the tiles - they’re not exactly modern design - but he’ll need his hands to pull himself out. If he breaks a knuckle or anything, he’ll be making this a lot harder.

“What’s taking so long up there?” Kevin calls at him and Neil turns his head harshly towards him.

“No more talking,” he snaps. “Andrew,” he calls, looking for the blonde, who’s stationed over Aaron, arms crossed. “Give me one of your knives.”

Andrew stills, looking up at Neil with a flicker of something sharp and startled, like Neil just cracked a secret he wasn’t supposed to.

Come on, it’s not like you’re subtle, Neil thinks.

“What knives?” Andrew asks, too casual, too controlled.

Neil snorts. “The ones you’ve got shoved up your armbands and considered pulling on me when I fixed Kevin’s knee.”

The whole elevator loses their shit at that, though Neil can’t fathom why.

Allison screeches, “Wait, knives? Like, plural? I thought you only had one, Minyard!”

“I thought you didn’t wear the knives to games, Andrew! You could get us disqualified with that!” Dan hisses through her teeth.

Nicky waves his arms in Andrew’s face, and Andrew slowly turns to him. “Am I understanding this right? Did you almost shank our one chance at getting out of here alive?”

Andrew doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge his teammates, but his eyes find Neil again and narrow like he’s recalculating everything from scratch.

Renee leans in toward him and murmurs something low, barely audible.

Whatever it is, Andrew’s ears go bright red.

Neil raises an eyebrow. “Do I want to know what she said?”

“No,” Andrew says, immediately and firmly. Renee just smiles.

“Okay,” Neil says breezily. “I’ll take that knife now, then.”

Andrew doesn’t budge. His stare is flat, but something unsettled flickers under the surface. “How did you -”

“I promise I will explain exactly how I saw your incredibly obvious sheathes once we are out of this elevator,” Neil shouts, and holds out a hand towards Andrew.

Everyone stares at Neil like he’s pulled a rabbit out of a hat and stabbed someone with it.

Nicky whispers, awestruck, “I love him. I don’t care how much he scares me. Can we keep him?”

Matt nods vigorously from below Neil. “Absolutely.”

Neil huffs, still holding a hand out, and Andrew very reluctantly pulls a small blade from his left armband, holding it like Neil might misuse it out of spite.

Neil rolls his eyes. “Relax. I’m not going to dent your blade.”

Andrew’s jaw ticks. “You’ll be replacing it if you do.”

“Andrew,” Neil deadpans, “I’m literally using the handle. If I damage the handle, that’s your problem, not mine.”

Renee coughs into her hand, suspiciously like she’s laughing.

Neil takes the knife, adjusts his stance on Matt’s trembling shoulders, and lifts the handle upward.

“Okay, everyone get low,” he warns. “Bags under your heads and arms over your faces. Just in case. Matt - don’t move.”

“Oh god,” Matt squeaks.

Neil drives the handle upward, jabbing it straight into the ceiling tile. The brittle material cracks under the impact, splintering loudly enough to make everyone below flinch. Another jab, harder, and the tile gives, snapping upward into the crawlspace above.

Dust rains down, and Kevin mutters, “We are all going to die.”

“No we’re not,” Neil says, peering up into the opening. “But if you keep talking, I might.”

He wedges his fingers into the broken seam, pushes, and the panel shifts up and away. The gap widens - too dark, too dusty, barely enough, but enough to fit through.

He hands the knife back down. Andrew takes it without a word, still staring up at him like Neil has become a math equation with too many variables.

“Thanks,” Neil says, “and see - no damage.”

For some godforsaken reason, Andrew’s ears go pink again.

Neil ignores the weird feeling in his chest and waits for everyone to get in position, before hauls himself upward into the ceiling, the groups’ horrified commentary rising like a tide beneath him.

Neil kicks himself fully onto the roof of the car, crouches, and looks down at them.

“Quiet down,” he calls, voice low and controlled. “Everyone alive? Good. Stay put. No sudden movements.”

Andrew leans back against the wall, doing the exact opposite of what Neil told him to do, still watching him with that unnerving intensity. “You’re reckless.”

Neil glances at him, one eyebrow raised. “You want to get out of here or not?”

“Reckless doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Andrew mutters.

Neil shrugs, knocking on the roof under his feet once. “Good. Then we’re on the same page.”

Below, Matt is curled into a tight ball. Nicky is holding the wall like it’s a lifeline, one arm thrown dramatically over his face. Kevin is protecting his knee, and Dan is leaning against Matt. Renee sits by Aaron, who looks like he may have stopped bleeding, though he still seems too unsteady for Neil’s taste.

Literally half of them are doing what Neil told them to do.

Why does he even bother?

Neil takes a deep breath. Grips the edge, braces his feet, and stands, walking carefully to where the ledge of the eighth floor sits perfectly within reach.

And we’re home free.

Or not home, Neil thinks. He doesn’t have one of those yet. Working progress.

-

The moment Neil disappears from view, the elevator erupts.

“HELLO?” Nicky screams upward like Neil’s fifty feet away instead of two. “WHAT’S HAPPENING UP THERE?”

“IS THE PLAN NOT WORKING?”

“Wait, guys. Do we even know his name?”

“We can’t see him,” Dan says urgently, waving her arms despite the fact that this helps no one. “Hello? Say something up there!”

Matt, still crouched like the world is ending, yells, “DID YOU FALL OFF?”

“There’s not really anything to fall off of,” Allison mutters.

Renee’s voice drifts up, calm but strained. “Andrew, can you see anything?”

Andrew, who has not moved and has been staring at the ceiling opening like he’ll will Neil back into existence, replies, “No. He didn’t stay near the hole.”

Nicky gasps. “HE’S GONE.”

Kevin’s head snaps toward him. “What do you mean gone?!”

“He went exploring!” Nicky wails. “On the roof of a death elevator! He’s gonna get Final Destination’d!”

Allison rubs her temples, looks ready to lie down and give up.

Neil wonders if they know he can see them from up here.

There is a beat of silence, just long enough for panic to really take root.

Then Neil drops his head down through the opening, grinning down at all of them, hanging upside down like some feral, dust-covered gargoyle.

Everyone screams.

Kevin clutches his damn knee. Nicky shrieks. Matt actually flails backward and hits the wall. Dan curses loud enough that it echoes.

Andrew doesn’t scream, but his hands jerk like he’s about to pull a knife.

“Good news,” Neil says cheerfully, “we’re on the eighth floor. Piece of cake getting out. Even for you lot.”

Nicky wheezes. “You can’t just - pop out of the ceiling like a demon! Warn us!”

“I didn’t know you were all going to react like a flock of pigeons,” Neil says dryly.

“We screamed because YOU screamed first!” Matt argues.

“I didn’t scream,” Neil says.

“Yes, you did. With your face,” Dan mutters.

Neil ignores them all. “Anyway. Injured go first. Matt will push everyone up, since he’s the tallest, and I’ll pull. Should be fast.”

-

The process is not fast. And excruciatingly loud.

First is Aaron. The group hoists him upward like he’s made of solid lead.

“All of you lifting at once is unnecessary,” Neil grunts, hauling him through. “And stop yelling.”

“Did you tell us your name?” Aaron mumbles as Neil pulls him up by his armpits.

“Nope.”

-

Next is Kevin. It goes infinitely worse.

“Watch my knee,” Kevin hisses.

“It was dislocated, not sawed off,” Neil mutters, yanking him up.

Kevin screeches, swats at his hands. Neil sighs.

-

Then Dan.

“Just don’t grab my hand,” she warns. “I need those fingers to play.”

“I’m not grabbing anything,” Neil replies, and promptly grabs her forearm. “Climb.”

She does, muttering something about a movie called ‘gremlins’.

-

Finally, with the injured parties safe on the eighth floor, save for Matt, who Neil tells to stay put and act as a ladder.

Neil isn’t sure yet how he’ll get Matt out after everyone is up, but he’ll figure that out when the time comes.

Nicky claps a hand over his heart as he steps all over Matt. “You’re so brave, Matthew.”

“I’m not,” Matt mutters, staring up at the hole and shoving Nicky towards Neil. “But if someone has to go last…it should be me. I’m sturdy. Like a tree. Or a…like a…like something sturdy.”

Andrew, still in the elevator with him, stares. “A ladder is literally the opposite of what you’re describing.”

Matt’s face crumples. “I panicked.”

Neil hoists Nicky up all the way, and leans over the opening again, dust cascading off his shirt.

“Okay,” he calls down, “Who’s next?”

Allison doesn’t wait for anyone to volunteer her. She points at herself. “Me. Get me out of this hellbox before Kevin starts narrating his own slow death again.”

“I’m not dying anymore,” Kevin snaps from above. “I’m conserving energy.”

Neil just waves Allison forward. “Climb.”

She steps onto Matt’s shoulders like she’s mounting a horse, and Matt makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a plea for mercy. Allison grabs Neil’s wrists, Neil hauls her up, and she’s gone in seconds - smooth and annoyed the whole time.

“Renee,” Neil calls.

Renee smooths her hands over her thighs. “Okay.”

Matt squares himself again. “I got you,” he tells her earnestly.

“You do,” she agrees, stepping up lightly.

Neil reaches down and Renee grabs his forearm with surprising strength. Neil lifts. Matt pushes. She rises like she weighs nothing, disappearing onto the eighth floor with a soft huff of effort.

Neil really should figure out what her deal is.

Then Andrew steps forward.

Matt immediately flinches a little, as if Andrew stepping near him might cause spontaneous stab wounds.

Andrew looks up through the opening, then at Neil, eyes cold and sharp.

“Don’t touch me,” he warns tone pointed.

Neil holds his hands up like he’s being held at gunpoint and steps back from the opening. “No problem.”

Andrew watches his face for a breath, and plants a foot on Matt’s shoulder and steps upward with more grace than Neil expected.

But there is a moment, just one, where Neil thinks Andrew is going to claw his way up the wall like an actual feral animal, but instead he catches the edge, biceps flexing, and pulls himself up in one clean, angry motion.

Neil stays out of his way. Andrew climbs out like it took exactly 10% effort, and stands fully on the eighth floor, breathing hard, hair mussed, glaring at Neil like he caused the elevator to fall.

“Show-off,” Neil mutters.

Andrew’s lip twitches.

-

Which leaves only Matt.

Neil huffs, making up a plan as he goes. “I’m going back down.”

Instant fucking uproar.

“NO - MATT’S STRONG, HE CAN SAVE HIMSELF. DON’T GO BACK IN -”

“He’s going back into the death-box, he’s insane, I told you -”

“DON’T JUMP DOWN, WHAT IF YOU MAKE THE WHOLE THING FALL?”

Neil already has one leg back through the opening. “Calm down.”

“I am calm,” Andrew lies with his entire body.

“Who said I was talking to you?” Neil asks Andrew with a cheeky smirk, dropping lightly back into the elevator, landing beside Matt, and causing the whole car to creak.

Matt winces. “You came back to die with me. I appreciate that.”

“No,” Neil says, grabbing Matt’s wrists and positioning him. “Not dying. Use my shoulders. You’re going next.”

Matt’s eyes go wide. “I’m gonna crush you.”

“You won’t.”

“You’re very small.”

“So is this elevator and look how well it’s doing,” Neil deadpans. “Come on.”

Matt climbs him carefully - as carefully as someone Matt’s size physically can - and Neil braces, gritting his teeth, shoulders screaming under the weight. But Matt gets high enough for Andrew to grab him by the forearms.

Andrew yanks.

Matt squeals. Actually squeals. And disappears upward in a flailing heap.

Then it’s just Neil.

He blows out a breath.

Looks up at the open ceiling.

Sighs.

Should have stayed in the goddamn bathroom.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself. “My turn.”

Neil crouches, jumps, grips the edge, and launches himself upward - planting a foot against the wall, pushing off like he’s running on vertical surface, hooking one hand on a piece of ceiling and swinging his body up with a practiced, fluid efficiency that makes Kevin choke on air.

Neil hauls himself fully out of the elevator, landing mostly on his feet, stumbling only a little.

Everyone stares.

Andrew stands off to the side, arms crossed, expression unreadable - except for the small, irritated twitch at the corner of his eye.

“That wasn’t climbing,” Andrew says flatly. “That was…whatever the hell that was.”

Neil shrugs, brushing dust off his arms. “Efficient.”

Andrew’s jaw ticks. “Reckless.”

“You keep saying that,” Neil says, breaths still quick from exertion, “and yet here we all are. Out of the elevator.”

Andrew stares at him, expression caught somewhere between impressed and furious.

Nicky flings himself at Neil immediately, howling into his shoulder. “You absolute psychopath,” Nicky cries. “I love you so much.”

Neil awkwardly nudges him off, only to be faced with Kevin, with a thoughtful look on his face.

“Have you ever played exy?”

The group collectively groans, and Neil throws his head back on his shoulders.

Totally not dealing with that story right now.

“Don’t you guys have a coach?” Neil asks. “The guy with the tattoos and the lady and the dude he dragged out of the elevator? Maybe you should focus on finding them, and then get yourselves to a hospital.” He looks around at all of them. “Some of you look like you need one.”

Aaron scowls, knowing Neil is referring to him, but his head lolls slightly, and his expression isn’t nearly as heated as Neil is sure he thinks it is.

“OH MY GOD, WYMACK! WHAT IF HE LEFT WITHOUT US?”

“Nicky, how the actual fuck would our coach drive to an exy game without eight out of his nine exy players, and not notice?”

“...I don’t know, actually.”

-

Neil uses the momentary panic over the group’s missing coach to try to escape - “try” being the most important word there, because Neil gets exactly halfway down the hall before he hears a knock on the wall next to him.

“I was promised an explanation. I take promises pretty seriously,” Andrew says, falsely light.

Neil spins on his heel to look at Andrew, a strange feeling in his gut now that they’re out of earshot of the rest of Andrew’s teammates.

Now is, like, really not the time to learn what attraction feels like, Neil. Get it together.

“Your brother needs a hospital. Kevin might kill anyone who prevents him from getting to a hospital. A promise might not be your biggest concern right now,” Neil says easily.

Andrew tilts his head. “I’m aware. Matt has Coach on the phone, he’s waiting with the bus outside. I will get Aaron to a hospital, and I will also get an explanation from you.”

Neil narrows his eyes, trying to figure out what Andrew’s implying, and he guesses he takes too long, because Andrew huffs, “You’re coming with us, idiot. Let’s move,” he bites out, already turning.

Neil blinks at him, caught between what the fuck and the inexplicable, hot-cheeked jolt that goes through him at the words.

“And why would I do that?” Neil sputters.

Andrew looks over his shoulder, expression unreadable but his gaze unwavering. “You just helped my people and did your weird not-doctor shit for my brother. Unfortunately for you, that makes you my problem for the night.”

Neil’s heart stutters. “That’s a terrible reason.”

“Probably,” Andrew agrees. “Still true.”

They stand there for a beat too long, hallway buzzing faintly. Then Andrew, clearly done negotiating, jerks his chin toward the exit.

“Let’s go. Dan’s wrangling the others, and I’d prefer to learn your name before I have to introduce you to Wymack, who’s definitely heard all about you from Nicky.”

Neil shakes his head, can’t believe he’s actually considering this. “Neil.”

Andrew stops. Not completely - just enough that Neil almost bumps into him. His head turns a fraction, eyes narrowing like he’s fitting the name into some private equation.

“Neil,” Andrew repeats, quiet, as if testing the weight of it.

It’s ridiculous that the sound of his own name, said in that flat, disinterested tone, makes something inside Neil seize. He blames adrenaline. He blames everything except the actual cause.

Andrew starts walking again. “Great. I won’t have to call you ‘hey you’ when Coach asks why Kevin is currently trying to recruit you onto the team.”

“I don’t like exy,” Neil lies instantly.

Andrew doesn’t bother looking back. “Didn’t say you had to join the team, Neil. Just that you’re coming with us.”

Neil huffs, incredulous. “And what if I had somewhere to be tonight?”

“Do you?” Andrew asks, not really a question, pushing open the stairwell doors and starting downwards.

Neil has apparently lost every ounce of self-preservation he’s ever had. “No. Not at all.”

Andrew hums, taking the stairs two at a time.

-

They reach the lobby, and Neil catches the distant sound of Nicky yelling something about “head trauma solidarity,” which only makes Andrew walk faster.

“Can’t believe I’m doing this,” Neil mutters under his breath.

“You’re doing this,” Andrew says without turning, “because the alternative was walking back into whatever disaster you came from. I’m offering you the better option.”

“That’s debatable.”

“No,” Andrew says, pushing open the door to the outside. “It isn’t.”

Cold air hits them. A bus that is even more orange and atrocious than the jerseys is idling at the curb, the man with the tattoos standing beside it with the look of someone who has processed every possible stressor life can offer.

Andrew pauses a few steps away, and glances back - really looks at Neil this time.

“Try not to look so homeless in front of Coach,” Andrew says. “He’ll try to adopt you.”

Neil rolls his eyes, stepping out after him. “I am homeless, technically speaking,” he says for literally no reason at all.

Andrew raises a brow. “Technically speaking,” he repeats slowly. “That’ll make for an interesting story.

And then he walks toward the bus, expecting Neil to follow.

That stupid, warm tug in Neil’s chest tightens.

Now is truly the worst possible time for this, Neil thinks grimly.

And still, he keeps following Andrew on to the bus.