pink—

They’d been her loyal customers for a long while now, since she was thirteen maybe, but she hasn’t been to the site to see her paintings or sculptures displayed. It’s her first time here, in the presence of riches and wealthy people. Atmospheric is what she could call this place, but the ambience is something she’s used to. With a cloak of disguise over everybody’s faces — only being ‘kind’ to hide their true selves. But she doesn’t really mind. They respect her, and that’s all she really wants.

Her stature is perched by the window. The glass is coloured in certain places with certain shades, staining the ground and herself with the sunlight that turns colourful. It’s something she’d like to paint, too, if she isn’t spacing out at the view before her. The outside is somewhere she’d like to go to. There’s trees, a lot, and a long flowing river that glisters beneath the shine of the sun. Summer is catching on and she already feels cold within the indoors of the Chateau.

And when she stares outside, at the perfect weather, she sees a flash of lightning, which is odd and shouldn’t be happening. But there’s a swarm of flying creatures, bugs, that seem to chase after something (or someone). For a moment she’s concerned (over nothing, it seems) and so she escapes the glances of clients new and old. She feels guilty, as if she’s trying to slide out of the gazes of her paintings as she slips past them.

The door creaks almost intentionally, with her weight pushing it when she leans on the mahogany. By now the swarm seems to be coming her way at full force as she steps on the dirt road. She’s caught, like a Deerling in the headlights.

A decision is what it is: an individual choice that Lina succumbs to once she is offered a chance of freedom beyond the walls of her so-called ‘home’. Of course she accepts the offer; she is a sucker for the unknown and her curiosities constantly burden her with a load of thirst dabbed somewhere in the middle. Unova welcomes her with probable wide arms — yet she is already regretting the basking of the sun, especially with skin beneath her thick jersey.

She’s cold, most of the time, but summer is crawling from under the covers and the sun makes her sweat even the slightest — soaking her brow and causing her discomfort. The heat makes her gulp and swallow her pride, even after her parents’ warnings. Illness cannot be fooled, Lina, not ever; do not forget, not ever. Artists are naturally drawn to exhibits and she is intrigued by an invitation.

With a “yes” and struggle with her luggage, she stumbles with a suitcase lodged over and under her shoulder. Thoughts are present in her mind: perhaps she should have sent her pieces beforehand — as she carries two large paintings: both thoroughly wrapped in bubblewrap for safekeeping — between her fingers and ready to topple over at any moment. She holds the thought, and is unfortunate just as it rolls out of her control and towards a stranger.

A heart condition, a bad one, where the heart is too big and has arteries that want more of her lifeblood. It beats irregularly, at a pace of a blues song with syncopation constantly thrown in inter-verse. Only the sound isn't sweet; the rhythm is sad like in the swing songs of golden ages. If it bore lyrics it would have been those asking of freedom; to be set free is a privilege — even to the rich and wealthy. It always comes at a price, something most expensive. But she doesn't have that kind of privilege. She can count on one hand the things she waits for: a new heart (one), freedom (two). Death (three).

She hopes that her fingers can touch her palm before more spring up. Often times she is strung to machinery to live, and even if she isn’t — she has to accept that she might die at any given time. So it’s something she tries ( / pretends) to forget. It isn’t easy to forget, not with the coldness that bites her skin and the blood that gnaws on her organs. Something that chews on her abnormally large heart. Which she can actually make up for by being kind maybe, polite and pleasant; friendly and charismatic.

                                 You are taught to have a big heart,                                    and when you do, it can kill you.

And so she does just that — wobbling her way to the closest counter with a human (and not machine) behind it. But the closest person is beyond the barricade of machinery that longs to scan tickets. Which is absent in Lina's possession. It really shouldn't be, but distractions drew her away from remembering to bring along her bag, and with it: her ID and artwork. Thankfully she left her companions at home. Though she lacks her mobile phone and Holo Caster too, disallowing her from contacting anyone.

She cusses in her head, multiple times, not able to say a single thing with all the air that she chokes on. Maybe she can make sounds or any noise that might draw attention to her. She is smart, she's resourceful and she can get around. Though there's nothing in reach and she thinks that the world really isn't on her side today. Wincing, she gasps for air. The painter isn't gasping for the sake of breathing, just to distract herself from the pain, and she falls to the ground. Her limbs go weak and she feels as light as a Swanna's dainty feather.

You know what?

Maybe she'll just die. Right here, right now.

The blond leads her to a room with firearms pinned and hooked to walls, sitting in shelves even. Lina has always admired guns, with the tenacity of a Tyranitar and precision of Magical Leaf. It ultimately depends on the user how it's used, but she sees that there are some PokéBalls stored there too, if ever they find the use of guns unnecessary. He leaves her be for a moment (thankfully) to select her own gun. Blue eyes hover over the gun labels, absorbing any and all information she can to choose a trusted partner. 

Immediately she is drawn to a 1976 revolver. She's a sucker for the old. The gun itself is a piece of art — carvings of flowers and the vintage authenticity leaking from its cartridge. It may not be a convenient magazine, but she figures the recoil should be good for someone rather frail like her. She also spots an alluring 8 mm caliber poking at the corner of her eye, just asking for her to pick it right up. It's more modern than the revolver, and its technology is more developed too. 

And she really is a sucker for the old when she decides to pick up the slightly-rusted weapon. 

“Lady,” she whispers. 

She knows of tales of powerful people and great warriors. No sword of a warrior bears no name, so she names hers Lady in regards to the beauty and grandeur of her sidearm. It's a befitting name for a bringer of danger, yet still somehow elegant in the way it clicks after a shot or the engravings in its steel. Having no idea of whatever the older policeman is doing, she remains occupied — engrossed in the beauty of Lady. 

“Get your kit and let's go, kid, we got a hothead on our hands!” he exclaims, which almost starts off as an annoyed grumble. 

She figures it's a bit quick (and unexpected) to suddenly be lunged a case already. Sure, she's good — but she thought it'd have been a lot longer than within an hour for the police to even trust her with something so important. Perhaps she could impress the man if she really wanted to, but she's modest and would rather keep quiet about things that don't need to be said. Though there are some things she wants to know; partially because she's worried, and partially because she wants to know just how much shit goes down. 

The young woman (not Lina) is dressed nicely, with clothes that would be considered fashionable, practical and expensive. She hops onto the train and mutters something beneath the hum of the train and her breath when the train lunges. Whatever she mutters isn’t something the artist heard, though she doesn’t think it’d be important as she kept it to herself. Lina observes and begins to avert her gaze when the stranger stumbles about in conjunction with the recoil.

Gryhart definitely knows now that this redhead isn’t just annoyed. She’s pissed off. Not at Lina, nor the much-too-fast train, but just the world itself. It seems she hasn’t realised or felt the slightest bit of Celina’s presence, which isn’t really rare. She’s easy to miss and would be missable if she didn’t have wide eyes. The prodigy tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, pulling her paint-stained sleeves over her fingers. It’s beginning to grow cold again.

She can feel the pain coming.

Her hues fly across the cabin in search of something that could distract her from the surge within her. It’s a familiar twinge that numbs and stings. By now she’s convinced her vision is completely red. She needs to leave at the closest station. Her conscience can feel the shifting of everything, from the dangling of the handles to the fidgeting of the stranger who sits on the other end of the capsule.

The silence is something she tries to distract herself with until she can no longer feel the stab in her lower abdomen. Her face scrunches in a wince and she hopes for dear Arceus that the other woman doesn’t notice this. “Approaching: Lumiose City.” speaks the voice over the speakers. Her feet ready her to leave as fast as she can when the doors slide open, so she wriggles her way out of the narrow opening as nimbly and quick as she can without falling face first.