exnihilo: (identity)
Mira Hidalgo ([personal profile] exnihilo) wrote2013-11-18 01:20 pm

1 - spam

[She's not surprised when she wakes up. She knew the Gods wouldn't really let her die. She's not surprised that she isn't in the Malvir Tower Suite anymore, or that the deep cuts in her hands and feet and back have been mended and smoothed over as if they had never been.

She is surprised that she remembers this is a lie.

We love you, Mira. We love you for who you are.

For what they made her.

We are the only ones who ever will.

She's naked, still dripping slightly, tacky with blood and high-end alcohol, in some kind of old-fashioned billiards room. Did the Gods miscalculate? No. Impossible. They want her here. But she is off mission. So either she's simply supposed to wait for her next assignment, or they've abandoned her too - no, no, no, we love you, Mira - maybe it's some kind of punishment, some kind of test.

She still wants to scream, to thrash, to hurt. Darling is gone and she is forbidden from chasing him. She grits her teeth and clambers to her feet. If the Gods wanted her to do or not do anything in particular, they should have left instructions.

She examines the room. She chalks her hands rather than trying to get them clean, then breaks one of the pool cues over her thigh with a clean snap: it yields a rough but excellent length of sharp wood. She considers shoving it through her ribcage, but she resists. It wouldn't matter. And that's probably part of the test. She picks up the eight ball with her other hand, tosses and catches it once. The solidity of it is comforting. She refuses to think about the smooth lithic texture of Darling's skin.

Thus armed - nothing but a spear and a heavy rock, despite their respective varnishes - dressed in nothing but her own blood, she feels ancient, primal, nearly whole. She feels like a legendary amazon. She is short and curvy and shameless, dark-eyed and stormy with poorly contained temper, limned in bleakness, as she stalks out into the hall.]

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