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“Quite the view, isn’t it?” Grian asked, refusing to look over his shoulder.
The voice behind him responded. “Do you mean the stars? They’re kind of blurry against all the smog.”
“Nah, I see them pretty clearly from here. If only you had an imagination; there’s all sorts of constellations.”
“I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”
”Like there, the broken square; above your HQ, you see it?”
”… There’s nothing there.”
Grian snorted. ”Surely you’re aware of the concept of clarity. I mean, even if all you lackeys don’t have an ounce of clear sight.”
That soft, contemptuous laugh. ”Had to ruin a pretty moment, didn’t you, Cuteguy?”
Grian heard the crunch of feathertips, the stretch of a bowstring pulled taut. He let out a breath, vicious anticipation zinging through his pink bracers, bouncing on the toes of his coral-laced boots. There he went again, souring the conversation. “What can I say? I have a talent for destruction.”
A pause, behind him. Too soft, Grian mocked. All he needed was that hesitation, the smallest second as he reached inward. His Blessing. He uncurled his fingers from his indented palm, baring his hand to the sky as invisible strings pulled on his knuckles. A second, that’s all he needed, to pull the blanket of shadow over his opponent’s eyes, lurch forward and push the small dagger into his shoulder.
But the archer caught his wrist, reflexes acting in place of sight. Grian was pulled forward, barely managing to duck a blow as he fought to pry fingers off his arm. No. He couldn’t be trapped, not like this. He slid another knife from his leg brace, lashing wildly, panicked when the knife followed through unopposed. Just one second, he begged. He only needed a second to create another illusion. He undid the shadows, the makeshift blindfold falling from his enemy’s face, and in the same second another filled the gap where Grian stood.
Concrete roof and railing— even his shadow disappeared under the gray, gray, gray, before his figure was obscured entirely. He clenched the knife and slashed the arm holding him, head light with relief when he was free. He stood for a moment, catching his breath as the lackey turned wildly. Normally, he would slip away in the confusion, let the memory of his barbed words and pink visor fade.
But Grian wanted this to stick. He didn’t want to slink past, leave this too-soft man forgetting him. The wound on his arm would leave a scar, but everybody had those. He thought back to the statement he made before— a talent for destruction. A dropaway thing, no real meaning behind it. But if emotional guilt had worked the first time, surely it would work again. So he shuffled to the railing, cradling his wrist, and glimpsed the fire escape below. He let his illusion drop.
”You really are blind, you know,” Grian called out. He caught the bewilderment in the other’s face before twisting, rose ribbons fluttering behind, over the railing.
”Don’t think us villains aren’t always watching, Hotguy.”