before, between and while and after noon

by egelantier

Summary:

What happens after.

Notes:

• For thisisthemorning.

Dear thisisthemorning, thank you for your prompt and for your love of this fandom! I hope you'll find something you love in this treat, and it was my joy to write some kind of closure for the movie.

Straight after getting booted out of the car, West heads to the nearest police station, kicking stones and muttering angrily on the way, and preparing to tell everything and fuck their lives up as much as possible. Fucking jumped up chicks, not even a good enough lay to be worth it, what the fuck was that about?

But by the time he trudges his way up to the whatever small town’s nearest to where they left him, he starts to imagine the way this conversation will go, and when the first house is in sight, he decides that he wants to talk with German police about his “kidnapping” roughly as much as he wants to get a root canal done. After all, they’re already screwed, aren’t they? He isn’t going to get humiliated by some inwardly sniggering cop just to add to their inflated egos.

He’s got his passport, his credit card and some cash, and the vacation has turned boring, anyway, he might as well spice it up some. West spends several weeks backpacking around tiny towns with names ending in -burg and -dorf, drifting mostly from bar to bar and from party to party, and every time Bandits are in the newspapers or on TV or on radio, he flips them the bird and seethes once again. At least the police is now really getting it from all sides, and he can stop feeling like the only one royally shafted in the whole thing.

At some point, far enough miles and pints of beer away, he becomes chill enough that when in some place the radio spits out Luna’s angry voice - I would never go to work / or pay attention to some jerk - he kind of hums along (the tune is catchy, after all) and winks. Good times!

He’s in a bar in Luneburg, buzzed in the best way and pretty content with his life, thinking of all the wild European stories he can tell his guys back home - crazy German girls, can you imagine, bro? - when the flicker of the TV screen catches his attention. The sound is off, but the news is clearly urgent, going by the grainy quality of live coverage: he squints at the screen lazily, and then almost drops his mug as he recognizes Luna.

“Hey,” he says to the barman, “hey, can you turn the sound on, that’s...”

That’s when the camera swings over, some reporter clearly excited, and he sees, mesmerized, a neat black hole appear in the middle of Angel’s forehead, sees her excited smile freeze in place. Sees Luna fall awkwardly over Emma and Angel, sees Emma’s limp hand over the ladder’s edge. Sees the blood.

The cheap beer burns his throat, coming up; the barman doesn’t even notice. He staggers out without paying the bill, makes his blind way to the hostel he’s staying at, picks up his things. Buys a ticket on the first available flight from the nearest place, and does his best, his absolute best not to think.

He never tells anybody about them, in the end.

---

Ludwig leaves her badge and gun on the pier while the shots are still ringing in the air and walks away. She mails her resignation from the closest post office; it probably takes her less time to destroy her entire career than it takes the blood to dry out on the stones of the dock. The higher ups might’ve given her a chance somewhere else, but skipping out like this? She’ll never work anywhere government-related again in her life, and she knows it, and it should devastate her, but the mere idea of going in and speaking with any of them, answering questions, dealing is horrifying enough to outweigh everything.

She knows how the press operates, so she moves quickly, picking up necessities from her apartment and checking into a small no-stars hotel on the outskirts of Hamburg under a false name in less than two hours. Buys enough food to last her for a couple of days (but not booze, because she still is who she is), puts the ‘do not disturb’ sign up, closes the blinds and goes to sleep.

She sleeps for twelve hours straight, and wakes up to the stuffy suffocating dark of her tiny room. She’d like to have this moment of disorientation stretch out, hands picking at the rough fabric of cheap comforter, she’d love to wake up and have at least a minute of ignorance: to think where am I and I wonder if we’ll find them today and did we fuck after all, did I stay over. But she remembers, and remembers perfectly well.

She goes to the bathroom, splashes cold water into her face, brushes her teeth with mechanic but diligent attention. Her clothes are folded neatly on the chair near to her bed; she doesn’t remember doing this, but isn’t surprised.

She turns the TV on , and doesn’t turn it off again for next three days.

The media are having the time of their lives, of course. She learns that Schwarz was quietly demoted and transferred somewhere undisclosed. She hears her own name, her escape making her at once a convenient scapegoat and a suitable martyr to Schwarz’s failure. She watches newsreels, talk shows, hastily put together documentaries, an endless parade of talking heads sprouting their worthless opinions, kilometers of footage of grieving teenagers, beautifully composed shots of flowers piled up waist-high on the pier.

She rewatches video of the shooting at least a hundred times, each time seething inwardly at somebody being allowed to use it. She listens to experts and vultures digging up Nabiba’s anger, Moor’s tragedy, Irrgang’s insanity, Kleinschmidt’s bewildered cunning, sifting through it over and over again.

None of it tells her what she needs to know about herself.

On the third night she catches the rerun of the video that was taken in the very beginning of their runaway career, the interview on the rooftop. She looks at Moor (all you ever see is black), at Kleinschmidt (I’d like to be carried away like a queen), at Irrgang’s wandering smile (in this place or another). At Nabiba dancing on the edge. I wish I could fly.

At some point she risks going out, scarf hiding her face, buys a hasty set of bachelor food in the nearest bodega, cheap ramen and chocolate and other bits and ends. On her way out somebody stumbles into her. She blinks and can't believe her eyes: there's a gawky teenager in a t-shirt with Nabiba's face on it. Nabiba's old mugshot, her sullen and scowling face, and there's something so obscene and so fitting about it being here that her breath catches. The girl catches her staring, looks flatly back with same stifled rage, and Ludwig hastily averts her eyes.

She makes a decision then and there, even though it takes her another sleepless night on the hotel’s narrow bed to grow into it.

Next morning finds her on her way out of Hamburg, bewildered and unsure. When she turns on the radio, Nabiba's voice croons in the speakers (of course, of course) - hold on princess, don't you think that it's time - and while it isn't absolution, Ludwig nods anyway, and picks up speed.

---

Luna opens her eyes. Emma opens her eyes. Angel opens her eyes. Marie opens her eyes.

Luna says: “Scheiße, that was a shitty fucking plan. No offense, Emma. That hurt.”

“None taken.”

Angel says, “Don’t go away again, Marie, please.”

“I waited for you, didn’t I?”

“What now?”

They’re on a road twining through the summer forest, silent with the shimmering midday heat. The road is winding down and down and down; if Emma squints, she can see the glimmer of sunlight on the castle’s towers far ahead.

She says, “Luna, shall we?”

“Fuck yes we shall. Count us in.”

“Ein, zwei, drei, vier!”

Marie laughs and starts a whistling tune, Angel claps her hands and twirls in delight, and Luna picks up her guitar like a broadsword and leads them down into the light.

Notes:

Thanks to my darling betas manonon and somebraveapollo for making this story better. All the remaining mistakes and artistic license bits are mine.