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She had always been good at so many different things. Fighting, fucking, eating, sleeping…
She was good at them all.
Pyrrha stood silently in the room that contained her. It was pitch black, soundproofed and apparently inescapable unless someone let her out.
All of her senses taken away, she took a few deep breaths, centering herself as if before a battle, sitting in what she assumed was the middle of the floor.
Pressing her feet together in front of her, a point of contact with her own body, she closed her eyes despite the dark, and let her brain take over completely.
…young girl, running through the streets barefoot, the asphalt burning her feet in a way that gave her callouses for life…
…white-teeth of wide smiles from an earthen-coloured face and his darker skinned friend…
…proud moment of a teenager winning her first shooting medal, having it pinned to her jacket…
…gun in hand, training to warn or wound, not to kill…
…drinking with colleagues, laughter and very bad singing…
…two foreheads pressed together, a whispered promise to always be with each other, no matter what…
…a shared breath, native to their home…
…the world dying around them…
…a phone call, a warning given and taken, and running; running away from a life so promising, for something; for someone…
…watching God descend into madness…
…dead bodies of friends, of colleagues, of trainers and trainees, sprawled out on the field, like extraneous waste from an overzealous serial killer…
…feeling, hurt…
…loss…
…betrayal—she should be going with him. They had made a promise…
…chaos erupted, scared people everywhere, so much yelling…
…the impact of bullets to the chest, a sharp, instant pain, yelling at God to run…
…the weight of a death…
…waking up…
…watch God ascend out of madness…
…a new life, so promising, full of glory; creating a house, an army…
…the world living, there and with them, misunderstood and feared…
…a shared promise, an uttered Word and a breath shared from their native home…
…being given a cloak, iridescent, drinking and laughing at the saints they would become…
…a gun in hand, trained to kill, not to warn or wound…
…white teeth, wide smiles from the darker skinned friend to the earthen-coloured face, both older now…
…The Saint of Duty running barefoot through a carnage, battling like no other, his body remembering, surrounded by hollow shells of old friends…
She didn't know at what point she had started crying. It was silent, no sobbing, but the pain speared deeply.
She had been left behind. She had been forsaken by the ones she loved so deeply, collateral damage. Forgotten in any way that mattered.
Tears ran down Pyrrha's face where no one—not even she herself could see them.
Pressing her feet back together, she closed her eyes again, and let her brain take over completely.
She had always been good at so many different things. Fighting, fucking, eating, sleeping…
She was good at them all.
…waiting, wishing, loving…
She was so good at them all.