Work Text:
“You…”
“Me.”
“This whole time? How could you!” Sharp betrayal highlights March’s words. Her bright eyes narrow, and her face shutters. The grip on her bow becomes more secure, more ready. She reaches for the icy flower on her garter with twitchy fingers. The flower begins to shine, and the smell of frost fills Stelle’s nose.
It cuts through her like a scalpel. Stelle can’t help but look down and off to the side, burying her hands deep into the pockets of her trenchcoat. It feels unfamiliar, almost too big on her now, it’s been so long. She clenches her hand around the soft mini-Pom-Pom plushie March made for her all those months ago.
March’s voice cracks as she asks, “Why? Why do this? Why go through all this trouble?” Her bow sweeps to the side with a gesture then comes back to rest between them, a frozen impenetrable barrier.
Stelle remembers helping March care for that bow. The feel of the waxes string between her fingers, the smell of the polish March carefully rubbed into the leather grip to keep it soft, and the gentle twang it makes when strung properly. Sometimes Dan Heng would join them, sharpening Cloud Piercer in the corner, and they would wile away the hours just talking and laughing and checking their equipment together until Pom-Pom came looking for them.
She rolls her shoulders back and forces any emotion from her face and voice. Like Kafka, she tells herself, confident and aloof. She looks March straight in the eyes. “The Script said to,” she says. “So you could be here, at the right place, at the right time.”
Behind her, the machine turns on. It thrums through the room in time with the pulsing floor lights, resonating with the Stellaron in her chest. It’s an intoxicating rush of power, but the whispering buzz of the collective raises the hairs on the back of her neck. The weight of their attention fully on her shoulders. She raises a hand to her temple and sways where she stands.
“And the amnesia? Was that a lie too?” March’s voice grounds her amidst the storm.
“I’ve never lied to you, March.” I’m your friend. That was real, please understand, I have to do this. The Script binds her lips against the assurances and apologies Stelle wants to fall from her lips in an endless tidal wave until March and the others understand.
A red flush rises in March’s cheeks as her glare hardens. “You’ve been working with them behind our backs this whole time! How is that not a lie?” Her bow raises higher, no longer a barrier, instead a weapon held against a threat.
Stelle swallows. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I’m always right, s-” March cuts herself off. The bright and familiar words die in the echo of the darkened hallway, lit only by those pulsing white floor lights.
Guess I’m no longer ‘silly’, Stelle thinks. The lump in her throat builds, and tears burn in the corners of her eyes.
Drawing a hand from her pocket, Stelle squeezes the Pom-Pom plush even tighter with the other. A knife drops into her hand with a gesture, and March’s eyes dim at the sight of it. “For what it’s worth…” Stelle watches March close her eyes against her words and waits until she opens them again. “I am sorry.”
Ice slices through the air. Stelle leaps to the side and pushes off the wall, up and over March to land behind her. I’m so sorry, Stelle thinks as she slams the pommel of her knife into the back of March’s head, sending her crumbling to the floor. She drags her unconscious body to the machine and binds her to it.
The Script said to.