Chapter Text
"Execute her," Jack snarls. "Your loyalty is to us now."
As if your loyalty is so easily won. As if they have any right to it. As if this impudent, lowblooded filth- No. Lisa may not be entirely lowblood anymore, but to use the term as an insult would be to say that she was less than perfect.
Lisa was always perfect.
Lisa is perfect, despite the cold metal grafted to her limbs. You stalk through the darkened, deserted hub like the predator you are - but you're not hunting, not for Lisa. Never for Lisa. You're just so ANGRY- wait. Brown blood on the floor, a stark contrast to the dark purple and rust you're trying not to think about. There's no choice now, because you're the only one who knows why this can't be happening.
For the first time ever, you wish you really were a brownblood, because then it could be yours.
But it's not.
You've never hated the rich purple flowing through your veins as much as you do in this moment. Not when you had to smother your rage again and again (you never wanted to hurt anyone); not when you had to hide it, to infiltrate Torchwood Three (you didn't want to deceive them); not even when you knew you would outlive Lisa by centuries (your heart never listened to reason).
But there's brown on the floor, and that means someone else is down here.
Bursting through the door, the first thing (the only thing) you see is the blood.
Blood everywhere.
And there, on the ground, Lisa's bloody, broken body.
You fall to your knees. If the floor is cold, you don't feel it. You don't feel anything. Are you screaming? You're crying; you can see the tears. You can't bring yourself to care.
Someone's saying your name. Looking up automatically, you see the pizza delivery girl - with an ugly wound across her forehead. She says she's Lisa. Is she? You look again at the body in your arms. Was she?
The Lisa you knew would never have become a murderer.
Then again, the Lisa you knew wasn't a purpleblood.
You did this to her.
Each transfusion, every drop of your blood in her veins, pushed her a little closer to insanity. You can deal with your darker urges and the madness that plagues your caste, but Lisa... Sweet, harmless Lisa was born for the dark burgandy that she had (that she needed to be).
You have to fix this. She deserves better.
Your team crashes through the door, only to stop short at the sight that greets them. Two bodies side by side; one brown, one purple-rust, both cradled in your embrace. You think you're bleeding too, but you can't bring yourself to care. Not now, when you've finished killing your (former) matesprit. Not now, when you know you condemned her to something worse than death before you realised what you were doing (or maybe you just didn't care, if it meant you still had her). Not now, as your lilac tears stream down your face, washing away the chemicals you use to turn your irises to mud.