𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒌 & 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒚

hey. the words make her attention drift, cause her breathing to hitch hard in her chest. she’s eight years old again, the sight of her mother spilled wide, that eviscerated trail of sticky red. it’s fine, she’s used to it being fine, but something tickles hard at her brain. the nonchalance claws at her — she cares too much. and all she can see is that death, again and again and again.

“you fucking idiot,” she trips over her words, cinching her throat closed how they do, “you fucking idiot you fucking idiot.

—i hate you, god, i hate you, you fucking idiot, this is the fucking opposite of funny, you fucking, fucking idiot.”

She should have told her earlier; but it's a shame Amelia hates to talk about.

❝ Selina, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Selina, I'm FINE ⸻ ❞ Her voice is louder now, to echo over the rushed, trembling words. She abandons the thief's cheeks to wrap her arms tightly around the cat, bringing her in painfully close; close enough, that Selina can feel the steady, powerful thrum of Amelia's heart. Proof of life. The pressure helps hold the flesh closed, and it burns and itches at the same time while it seals.

They are right; he is in no position to turn the table and take the role of the investigator, it’s theirs. They are not stable, or that what their reaction gives off, and so he shall not be defying their demands unless utterly necessary. The emotion MONSTER in front of him is in no need of further aggravation and poking. Part of him figures he might be needed, or so they think, or else he might have ended up the same as everyone else around, hell even like one of the broken objects if they so wished, they seem capable of it.

Her momentum now has nowhere to go, and it's like she's hit with the recoil of all her tension, stumbling backward from him. ❝ What ? ❞ Her voice now sounds shockingly small, all authority lost, as she struggles to put together a puzzle that has no pieces. She had misread the situation and now there are more questions, than answers ⸻ but there is only one question she really cares about.

Where is her father ?

❝ Shit. Shit. Fuck ! ❞ Turning quickly, she kicks whatever is closest, and it sails across the room, hitting the wall. Hands run anxiously through her hair as she turns starts looking wildly around the room, as if she'll somehow find him.

... But it's just her and Felix. And the corpses, of course.

Amelia bites on her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. What is she going to do ? She is no closer to her goal, and this man is the last person to have anything to do with her father... but she'd finished his men before they could get what they needed. Her foot taps, thoughtful for a moment, before throwing a glance to him over her shoulder.

Her father probably isn't done with him; so she can't be either. She sighs, and turns to face him. ❝ My name is Amelia, ❞ she finally says, sounding calmer now, and she hopes the introduction offers him some comfort. The assassin also hopes he doesn't realize that now she's given her name, she can't just let him go.

And Morgan makes a sound like a particularly sad deflating balloon.

"You literally said I know how to get there let's go this way." He does not do her the disservice of imitating her voice, but the temptation is right there. Ultimately, Morgan knows he would have followed a pretty woman if she'd told him to anyway, and with the way she's pouting right now, Amelia gets her wish and he doesn't get mad.

All his ears can perceive are the breaking of glass, instruments thrown into the floor, tables pushed away or down, metal clanking, their curses and tantrums in ANGER and so much FRUSTRATION; they were supposed to find someone here, weren’t they? Obviously, that someone is not him, their loud disappointment evidence for it. They must have brought everything around him to an aftermath of chaos, and there he sits on a chair, tied, waiting for his fate at their hands. His resilience doesn’t break, one would think him trained. He is not.

I’m not going to hurt you.

Even if the words are promising, he doesn’t let them in; he will not be fooled, he will never let his guard down, his desire to break free and fight for his life. It is human nature, isn’t it? They reinforce their words with more reassurance, gentleness that one would swear couldn’t be possible for a possible killer. Yet, he does not allow it into his mind, it will not determine his actions. The blindfold falls down, slides off his skin onto his lap. It takes him a few blinks to be able to form a clear, full image of their visage. Bloody.

Who is he? Really? He? He doesn’t mock them, he doesn’t change a muscle in his face, almost expressionless. Rules are simple, the prey answers, the predator asks the questions. He does not play by the rules this time, not fully. ❝ Who are you? ❞ If he is going to get another punch for this, he is ready, at least he tried.

Maybe he's a drug dealer, maybe he's into human trafficking; both good enough reasons to eliminate him from existence, and she's almost cranky enough to go off assumption. She thrusts a hand out, barely suppresses the violence, and instead just jabs her finger angrily in his direction, as if it was a knife she was driving into his chest. ❝ I FUCKING ASKED YOU FIRST ! ❞ In the back of her head, Amelia vaguely recognizes that this will get her nowhere, but her rage burns too bright to see reason.

She has to remind herself it has nothing to do with the man in this chair, and he is the only link she currently has to what she truly wants. Amelia sucks in a breath, tries to find some calm in the storm. Whens he speaks again, her voice is tense.

she is in fact not mad, she is UPSET. she is TERRIFIED. she is BAD AT BEING FACED WITH THIS LEVEL OF MORTALITY. nausea rises in her throat — she goes through more than one feeling, and they ebb and flow, one to the other, one to the other. they move in waves and the first, second, third. fear, panic, and that grin on her face makes for anger, now she’s getting there. oscillating, actually, between rage and a nebulous, fatalistic concept of death. she has never really lost someone she loves. and fuck her, she doesn’t have the capacity to start.

her teeth click together hard and she goes from very red to phenomenally pale, alabaster in truth. her eyes flinch shut. she sways around like a soldier on a single boot.

“fuck —“

biiiiiiiiiiiig inhale. her nose harshly sucks a breath through, hand pressed tightly to her mouth.

She has seen the thief go through a myriad of emotions, but never once has the cat ever lost her cool; always prepared, never taken off guard, with a solution to every problem, and witty response to any quip that could possibly appear in the next hour.

Right now, she doesn't seem to know the answer to anything but panic, and something squeezes painfully inside Amelia's chest. She's not sure if it's guilt, or her insides slowly melting back together.

❝ Well... if I had the chance to warn you that I was gonna get stabbed like that, I probably would have just dodged it altogether to save us the trouble. ❞