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It comes in stages, she learns.
It’s a series—a conjoined series of short bursts of colors. An explosion of hues that builds over lifetimes until everything is a bright collection of blended shades.
She learns about this phenomenon through her sister. Through Vi, whose hair is a light grey that seems to glow in the minimal sunlight, whose eyes seem a more speckled shade of that same exact grey (she’ll wonder why she could never see those colors when she was younger, she’ll learn when she’s older holding a smoking flare that could be every color or nothing at all).
She’s never experienced the joy of seeing color herself, but Zaun is big enough—crowded enough—that she becomes familiar with the sounds people make when they meet their soulmates. The little gasps of surprise, the way their breath stutters, the way their words halt or freeze of break. Sometimes their voices crack with an indecipherable emotion. A feeling of euphoria, maybe, an emotion she’s never—will never—become familiar.
She hears it then, on the bridge that’s smoking a gradient of natural greys. On the bridge that’s flickering with flames as ashes tremble through the air. She hears it as she clutches tightly to her older sister’s chest, she can feel the way her chest seems to freeze mid-breath as large hands tuck the two of them to their chest.
She’ll wake up in a bed softer than she’s ever remembered to the slouched form of her sister over a seemingly innocuous weighted ball. Vi will describe to her the feeling, the wonder of watching particular areas filter into various different browns. Her sister will ask her if she sees it too and Powder—
Powder will see the wonder in her eyes, see the awe, see the joy. She’ll see the expectant tilt of her lips and she’ll lie (when she’s older, she’ll hate liars. Will hate how easily the words slip past their lips, how easily they can choose words that hurt and not even bat an eye). She’ll smile and nod and reach out, tapping the seams of the ball and say “this one’s my favorite.”
It happens again when they meet Mylo and Claggor. Vander will bring the two boys down and Powder will stay tucked behind Vi’s legs, peeking suspiciously around her sister’s larger form as her tinier hands clutch at her pant legs.
It will be simultaneous, they’ll look at each other with wide eyes and turn in slow circles as they try to take in this new world. Powder will mimic them, she’ll look around and stop at all the right places and Vander will ruffle all of their heads. He’ll say he’s proud and that he knew they would get along well.
She’ll hide the pounding in her ears behind a bashful grin and will know—will understand with a deep-rooted knowledge—why exactly Mylo seems to have so much trouble accepting her into the fold. Why harsh glares and snappish words are all that’s every directed at her. And she’ll look at all the places she’s supposed to see color and see nothing but greys.
She’ll wonder why—when she’s Jinx, not Powder—Silco seems to be able to see more than she can.
When they first meet, when she runs into his arms away from a burning building, away from a traitorous sister, there isn’t an explosion of color. Not for either of them.
But later, later when he first hands her the needle and guides her hand over his eye and holds her shaky limbs steady, she’ll press the trigger and he’ll gasp. It’s not of pain, in fact, he doesn’t even seem to register the fact that she had pressed down on the needle. Not like how he usually reacts, surging forwards as he tries to rid himself of the mounting sensation. No, he’ll reach out and brush away her hair. He’ll whisper softly about shades of blue, of the sky, of the ocean, of the river where he lost.
She doesn’t understand and she’ll tell him such. Lies have become synonymous with leaving and she think—she thinks that if he’s going to leave anyway, at least she’ll have a reason. But he doesn’t, she tells him and he stays. He hugs her to his chest and brushes back her hair and quiets her worries. She thinks this is the part where she’s supposed to see color, where teh greys dot into reds or oranges or blues. They don’t and it takes her a few more years to find out why.
Vi’s first color hadn’t been blue. Hadn’t been the color Silco had told Jinx her color was. In fact, her first color was brown. Was the color of Vander and Mylo and Claggor’s hair, had been the color of the ball Mylo had been so fond of throwing, had been the color of the dirt that streaked down their faces as they ran down the streets.
In fact, blue was one of her last colors. Was the color of Caitlyn’s hair, the color of the Enforcer’s eyes. Was the color of the flare she had given Jinx when she told her she’d find her.
She lights it up on the highest building she can find and she thinks—she thinks that she understands why now. She’ll understand why that when Vi had found her after years apart she’ll be surprised. Why when Vi hugs her close the first thing she’ll do is trace her hair, is look into her eyes.
She’ll understand why Vi doesn’t make her see color. It’s because they were never meant to be. Vi will look at her, will look at her then at the Enforcer and she’ll—
She’ll choose the Enforcer.
Jinx doesn’t see color with her because forgiveness and apologies has never been in their cards. Because soulmates are endless connections and when Vi—when Vi looks at her all she sees is Powder. And Powder hasn’t existed for a long time. That connection has long since been cut, and even before then, maybe it never really had time to form at all.
She learns why she doesn’t see color with Silco when he does.
She learns in the same place she lost her first family, carry epitaphs of people she learned to love even if the universe didn’t want her to. The monsters in her head get loud. Too, too loud and everything comes into focus.
There are two guns, two families, two choices.
She’ll make hers.
It will be spur of the moment, it will be sudden and purely instinct and she can’t—she can’t even tell if she regrets it. On her knees in front of him begging for forgiveness—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—and she can’t even tell if she regrets it. Not when she looks up at her sister and down at the gun, her gun, the gun that might have shot her. That might have ended her life.
She looks at her father—because that’s what he is, isn’t it? Caring and forgiving and everything that Vander could never be—and his blank, glossy eyes and wonders if it was ever really a choice in the first place. And wonders if that’s why she could never see the red and browns that make up his soul. Because if it came down to it, she couldn’t choose him. Not consciously, not subconsciously.
Her world is a series of greys. An endless gradient of a single color and she wonders if it’s all she’ll ever see.