Work Text:
Once, twice, three times. The flames lick at her skin, orange fills her line of sight until the world is only made up of shades of red.
Once, twice, three times. The pain is numbing, she forgets where each strike hits. Black dots dance at the edges of her vision. She’s pretty sure her hand is broken.
Once, twice, three times. She has never understood the idea of redos, she continues not to understand them. Pink flares under her skin, racing through her veins.
One. The clock is a tick, tock, tick, tock pattern that quickly becomes something to rest in the back of her mind. Melding with the shift and creak of the bridge’s frame.
Two. Her hand reaches for her gun mechanically, slim fingers curling around the handle. Her index finger rests on the trigger as she straightens her arm. Bang, bang, bang.
Three. He ducks and weaves, under and around, a barrage of bullets. She has always been chaotic, an unpredictable force of nature.
One, two, three. She follows a familiar pattern—it’s a familiar place, after all. She wonders if he feels the same sense of deja vu she does.
One, two, three. It’s different this time, though. Her hip is empty of her usual bombs, the only weapon armed on her the small pistol she doesn’t even bother to aim.
One. He lifts the pipe. Tick, tick, tick.
Two. It swipes her off balance and she falls to her knees. The skin breaks, she can feel the puddle of blood forming under her legs. Tock, tock, tock.
Three. There’s a thrum in her veins telling her to fight. He straddles her hips and forces her onto her back, automatically her hands reach up to shield her face. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Once, twice, three times. She wonders if he knows how many times this has happened.
Once, twice, three times. Colorful lights scatter her brain, his lips are curled into a snarl. Shouting, yelling, begging. His or hers or somebody else's.
Symbols of piece and destruction. Her monkey graffiti drips new paint down the walls as firelights buzz around the alleyway. Their bodies glow a toxic green.
Boots slam into the pavement, droplets of water splashing with the force of the steps. The glowing bugs scatter, their voices only a distant hum.
Pink and blue mix together, a series of smoking guns.
Bang, bang, bang. It reminds her of a game she used to play, when she was younger and brighter and less inclined to self-destruct.
The timer starts like this:
Three. The chain of his watch clacks against each rung, snapping as it holds the weight of the watch. She stands, feet a shoulder width apart and her gun in her off hand.
Two. It swings like a pendulum, fluorescent lights glare off the metal cases. Tick, on one side. Tock, on the other. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick.
One. She straightens her arm as he tugs the chain, flinging it back into his hand. He smirks and she lets her hair fall over her eye the same way her old helmet used to.
Zero. Her arm lifts to a ninety degree angle as the first—and only—shot is fired. Black dances her vision and she hears the impact before she feels it.
Negative one. Her back slams into the concrete, cropped tank top doing little to protect her skin. Pink spills from open wounds and the cold of the metal cools her burning skin.
Tick, tock, tick, tock. The clock has long since stopped ticking. Boom.
The world is an explosion of light, of familiar colors that meant something once. Now it’s a reminder.
Paint drips down the walls in fading letters.