LIGHTS OUT.

          ❝ Reckon one o’ us was a payin’ attention to that briefing? ❞

cause he can tell you right that he had absolutely not paid attention, much rather accidentally pass out in the back after a bad night’s rest.

                       ❛          angela,     it’s  good  to  see  you  again.    you’re  looking  well.          ❜           the  greeting’s  measured  but  not  without  fondness.       the  careful  touch  is  foreign,      years  spent  as  a  spirit  lurking  over  hillsides  with  as  little  contact  as  necessary  still  weighing  heavily  on  shoulders.      survival     &     task  after  task  completed,     the  memory  of  masked  appearance  scattered  across  bulletin  boards,     WANTED  crudely  written  in  a  glinting  red.  

                      mercy’s  words  leave  the  hunter  caught  off  guard,      the  warmth  ever  present     (    although  she’d  expect  nothing  else,     the  doctor  was  always  too  kind.     )       despite  the  guilt  eating  away  at  her  insides,        a  smile  plays  upon  lips  as  arms  move  to  reciprocate  the  hug,       fingertips  steadying  against  back.     blossoming  like  flowers  throughout  her  rib  cage,        familiar  affection  that  never  quite  faded,      a  mother’s  love  never  could.          ❛           i’m  sorry,       it’s  been  too  long.           ❜           

   Ana Amari was a woman of legend, and once, her life of excitement ( of danger, of peril, of valiance ) had been the object of Amélie’s desire. The blue-blooded ballet dancer could scarcely dream of a life that did not see her as an ornament ( Pretty girl, graceful, had caught herself a husband who could provide when her beauty and skill talent had faded ) or as a passive element, doing nothing important, protecting no one, without children or responsibility. Ana was a celebrity of a far less frivolous discipline.

   While she could claim no children, no lives saved, no medals of honor, Amélie could say with certainty now that she had left a mark on the world far greater than one of pointe shoes and pretty skirts. It made no difference in her mangled mind: She craved accomplishment as always, and she craved death of others, and she sought for only the interests of her company, and so in some perhaps twisted way, she was fulfilled.

   Sick with the wants and desires of another, murdered within her own head, she could feel satisfied, though the sentiment was one of sated starvation and not of joy and fullness.

« Your daughter was so sweet. How will she feel when she finds the contents of your skull on her bedroom wall? »

                           ❛          your  business  is  with  me,       not  my  daughter.     ------leave  her  out  of  this.          ❜ sharpened  tongue,       a  legend  for  good  reason,       precise  eye    &    keen  mind,         crafted  in  raging  wars. the  ring  of  gunfire  like  a  lullaby,          the  screams  mocking,          drawing  out  emotions  long  buried  beneath  sharpshooter’s  exterior.       only  to  be  removed  in  quiet  moments,     the  youthful  laughter  of  her  daughter  a  reminder,        light  /   fleeting  /  untouched  by  the  battle  fought  on  their  doorsteps.     warm,        like  the  sun  after  a  winter’s  night  when  the  chill  has  seeped  into  creaking  bones. 

                          it’s  more  than  enough  motivation  for  her  to  have  some  bite  in  her  stance,             a  glare  leveled  with  impassive  features.      every  thought     &     movement  calculated,            a  mission  to  complete  humming  neath  her  skin.    a  constant  thrum,     to  protect,      to  heal,     to  save.      her  mark  on  the  world  would  not  be  one  of  destruction,          not  when  she  had  so  much,         so  many  to  fight  for.         names  engraved  on  her  heart,       those  she  could  save       &       those  she  could  not.       (        vaguely,      she’ll  recall  the  resemblance  of  a  wife,       someone  deeply  cherished   ,   a  comrade  whether  known  or  not.      )   

                       ❛         sit.        ❜          spoken  with  all  the  authority  of  a  commanding  officer,    teacup’s  placed  in  front  of  him  with  careful    &    practiced  movements.        good  intentions  underlying,        a  knowing  glance  leveled,        head  tilting  towards  in  unspoken  challenge,       onyx  tresses  brushing  against  shoulders.           ❛     ------this  will  help  you  sleep  better  than  any  bottle  of  jack.         ❜