So how long should we give this? Say, oh, I don't know, two weeks, couple months? I'm sensing an inevitable path away from altruism in either case. You might as well all just stop pretending your priorities are going to be make friends when we come down to it.

[It's impossible to tell if he's just poking the fire or not.]

But what do I know?

His phone is in his hand. Normally, it's tucked into his pocket to keep his hands free, but he spent the past hour digging it out every five minutes. So now he's just holding onto it for the sake of convenience. Every time he glances at the screen, it's empty or full of messages he doesn't give a single crap about.

He hates this. Look, he's 170. That's over a century and a half, in case you need to hear the same information a different way. Technically speaking, that's not a long time for a vampire, but it's not nothing, either. The point is, he's seen a lot. He's watched the world become a lot of things.

A planet gone dead is still not something he ever figured he'd see. So much for that.

Even better news is, he has no idea what happened to him. He felt it when he came to, something that he can only describe as a dulling. Of everything. It's like putting the world on mute which, seriously? Not cool. He's gotten used to it, but it doesn't make it any less annoying, not least because all of those little bonuses that come with being undead would've really come in handy. The only thing that hits him as strong as ever is blood. It's everywhere. It soaks the air and clings to the back of his throat when he breaths, thick and black and entirely dead. Really not appetizing except he's hungry. These days, he can't not be hungry and even dead blood is starting to make his teeth itch.

Not that he's ever tried to drink it. Obviously. There's desperate and then there's suicidal. Damon knows the difference.

Whatever. Right now, it's not on his mind. Nothing's on his mind except one thing, and it keeps him moving forward. He steps over rusted blood stained onto the pavement, slips between the cars that clog up the highway like a frozen traffic jam. Everything's abandoned; everything's covered in blood. Your typical end-of-the-world flick. It's quiet. He knows he should be taking it a pace slower, a step more cautious. He doesn't care.

Because Elena's not answering. He never should've even let her out of his sight, but it happened and all he got from her was a location before she went radio silent.

There are plenty of scenarios. None of them are promising. Driving himself crazy over it isn't going to help, though, so he doesn't. Think about it, that is. It's not important. He's going to find her. The rest doesn't matter.