Work Text:
The folder smashes down on the desk like a hammer driving a nail into a coffin. Wraith knows what’s inside. Hundreds of pages of documents of her past that paint a horrific picture. Words like dangerous and sociopathic jump out from each page. There’s complaints to ARES HR about her short temper, psychological evaluations describe a woman lacking empathy, and even her own cold and calculating words betray a person devoid of compassion. Yet Wraith has to read through it all. Contained in this folder may be answers to her past. Who was she? How does she never become her again? How does she even begin to fix the damage Doctor Blasey left behind? No matter how painful she has to press on. The stack of documents on the block today are courtesy of IMC intelligence on its own employees. They are far from kind.
Doctor R. Blasey continues to demonstrate a high degree of competence overshadowed by an increasingly erratic temper. Science Pilot training cadre continue to report violent responses to both her own and the shortcomings of her fellow recruits. The majority of the cadets refuse to follow her command and she is frequently reprimanded by peer leaders for her confrontational behavior. This had led to further escalation up to and including physical violence. We continue to monitor her behavior.
Wraith’s hands shake. The papers rattle like the tail of a snake. That rage still exists inside of her. She knows it does. In the Apex Games when she’s backed into a corner she can feel the red hot aggression boil in her veins. When Mirage pushes her just a little too far with a joke and she imagines her hands around his throat, it’s there. The other day when she snapped at Wattson for not doing the dishes and made her cry… An arctic knot twists in Wraith’s gut. For all Wattson’s assurances that it was fine, Wraith carries that awful feeling. Deep down, she can’t escape the ghost of Renee. That ghost haunts her head in every waking moment.
She doesn’t want to be like her, but does she have a choice? Wraith is the ghost of Renee, her shadow left in the ruin she created. The moniker feels too real now. She’s cold and empty, lifeless with no heart to beat in her chest. All Wraith has become is a hollow echo of a life. She forced herself to read another page.
I am again writing to the IMC Military Personnel Administration requesting the immediate removal of cadet Blasey from the Science Pilot program. She is a danger to herself, her fellow cadets, and to the IMC as a whole. She is cruel and vindictive, evidently incapable of sympathy, and above all else: cold. I understand we want soldiers. Blasey is not a soldier. She is a liability.
Wraith’s throat closes. The words are nothing new, a rearrangement and rephrase of what she’s read dozens of times. But they’re another set of nails in her coffin. Her phone pings with a text from Wattson looking to get coffee but she can’t bring herself to answer. That resentment builds inside of her but it’s only aimed inwards. The same feelings churned in her when she snapped at Wattson. She can’t answer, not now. Even as another message comes in she has to ignore her because she knows that some part of Renee will come through and lash out again.
Wraith looks at the pages she’s read so far and how pitiful they stack up to what is still there. So many documents, each one as damming as the last. Unwanted tears welled in her eyes. They streamed down her cheeks, undeserved and unhelpful. They fell to the pages and muddied the ink.
She wants it to stop. She doesn’t deserve to cry, not over what she did. The guilt draws more tears and then the voices chime in. Some feign sympathy and comfort, others sense weakness and attack. The folder slams shut. Her coffin is closed. Wraith curls herself into a ball and weeps. She wishes she could stop being weak.
In the afternoon Wattson is worried. Her texts and calls are unanswered after long hours, very unlike Wraith. And when even knocking on her door yields no answer, she does what any friend would do: breaking and entering. It’s a skill she picked up from Loba. Mentally she giggles at the pun while slipping the pick into the lock. As usual the lights are off but finding Wraith is easy. She’s passed out on the couch fully dressed and positioned in a way that will leave her back aching tomorrow. As Wattson tiptoes through the apartment, the sleeping skirmisher doesn’t stir. She pulls a blanket over Wraith so she can at least be cozy. Her black eyeliner is streaked down her ghostly pale cheeks. Wraith has never cried in front of her but she’s bad at hiding the signs. They haven’t talked a lot since that incident the other day. Wraith has been ghosting her too, or maybe just giving her space? Wattson has never been good at knowing which.
At least Wraith is okay and that’s good enough for Wattson. She turns to sneak away and leave her friend none the wiser to her visit but finds a hefty and battered folder on her desk. Curiosity is too strong an impulse for the engineer and she opens the water damaged pages. They’re old IMC files like her Papa used to have. Again curiosity beats out rationality and she begins to read.
It’s a report on a test, a test on a person. Wraith’s elegant handwriting is easy to recognize but nothing else about what’s on that pages feels like the woman Wattson knows. She dispassionately talks about the death of a test subject, her words more cold and detached than those Wattson uses for her screwdriver. None of it could be Wraith. The person Wattson knows spent hours apologizing to her for raising her voice over not doing the dishes, something Wattson had promised she’d do and then just didn’t. Whoever wrote these words had none of Wraith’s warmth, none of her thoughtfulness or compassion. Wattson can’t help herself from reading more.
The cruel words she wrote and the scorn from her peers explain the tears. Poor Wraith. No one is harsher on her than herself, Wattson has seen that first hand. These documents must weigh heavy on her mind, confirming all those horrible things that Wraith has said about herself. And no matter how often Wattson tells her that she’s wonderful, the skirmisher still finds it hard to believe. If there were a way for Wattson to get Wraith to see herself the way her friends did, she’d do anything to make it happen. But she knows best sometimes all it takes is a spark.
She flips through the pages to a personnel file with an old picture of Renee. She looks different, younger but harsher; yet still the same pretty woman that Wattson knows so well. The important details of her file are smudged and lost, another blockade to Wraith’s efforts to know her past. Wattson looks over her shoulder. On the couch, Wraith doesn’t even stir. Wattson wants to hug her and hold her, just as Wraith does for her when there’s a storm. But ever the ghost, Wraith always seems to phase through affections. An idea comes to her as she looks back at the folder.
There’s a sticky note and pen on Wraith’s desk. She scribbles a quick note and checks her pocket, glad to find what she was hoping for. With her task complete, she returns the folder to the way she found it. Before she leaves, Wattson blows Wraith a kiss goodnight. When the skirmisher finally answers her text she resolves to come over with Nikola and make dinner. The company of the engineer and her silly cat are a guaranteed way to make her feel better.
Wraith still feels horrible. The visit from Wattson went a long way but it doesn’t change who she was and who she is. Sometimes being in the engineer's life feels like a haunting, like she’s an uninvited visitor in her life. Even Nikola failed to fully brighten her sullen mood. It all feels like an act. Being Wraith feels fake, pretending to be Renee feels worse. What’s left is the shell she possesses, a sad imitation of a life that she goes through the motions of each day. Though Wattson acted natural, Wraith knows it was a ploy to avoid further wrath, like appeasing an angry animal. She puts the last of her dishes away and sighs. There’s more of the folder she needs to get through tonight. The longer she puts it off the worse the burden seems to be.
The insurmountable stack of files is right where she left it on the table. Wraith sulks down into her chair and traces her thumb up the worn pages. There’s something off. The pages feel different, like something’s been moved. As her palm rubs over the folder’s face she feels a lump. A horrible thought sinks like a stone in her gut: Wattson read the files. A peek alone would reveal her damning past. Perhaps that was why she left Wraith so early in the night. Her thumb slides up the stack to the disturbance. What she finds freezes her in place.
My favorite Ghost XOXO
-W
The sticky note is unambiguously Wattson’s haphazard handwriting and is adorned with little hearts. Underneath is a picture that melts Wraith’s heart. It’s from Wattson’s polaroid and a trip they took after the prowler attack. That was a day neither would forget, just spent together and healing the wounds. In the picture both women are smiling, embracing, close. It feels so far away. But the old memory wraps around Wraith like one of Wattson’s loving hugs.
Wraith pulls the folder close to her chest, feeling the warmth that comes from Wattson’s thoughtfulness. Her past is still in those pages, none of it is changed. But with the simple note the engineer reminds her that she is loved. She saw the things in there, she’s learned the horrible truths, and yet she’s left nothing but kindness behind. That’s how Wattson is. That’s how Wraith wants to be. Something clatters to the floor. Wraith picks up a peppermint hard candy from the ground, her favorite kind. This time the tears running down her cheeks are those of overwhelming joy. How Wattson can continue to be so kind and so loving to her is a mystery, but Wraith will have to learn to accept it. If she is to be a ghost, being Wattson’s favorite is surely the best kind to be.