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Ragged breaths clawed out of her chest as she tore the clothes off her body and jumped into the cold shower. Her eyes ached; the pain searing through her skull like a hot knife. Raora pressed her palms against closed eyes and sobbed. It hurt, but it was nothing compared to the atrocities she saw whenever she opened her eyes.
Her ears pressed flat against her head as cold streams of water flowed down her body. She could never tell the girls about this—she already felt like a burden being the weakest in Justice. Yes, she was many things: strong, fast, calculating—but it was easily outshone by other members. Her eyes were the only thing keeping her on the same level as the others, and if they knew the consequences of using her God eyes…
Raora cursed, her voice breaking as it reverberated throughout the bathroom walls. Even with her eyes closed, she could still see shadows dancing in her vision; shadows of unknown faces, of hands begging for reprieve. They inched towards her—reaching, clawing, grabbing onto empty air—but she paid no mind. She took a bottle of shampoo and lathered it on her head, a dance she’s done thousands of times. Every time she got back from a mission, she would bolt through the lookout—straight to her bathroom. The other members don’t question it anymore; everyone had their own habits they’d do after a mission, whether it was successful or not.
Gigi and Elizabeth would both run to the training room to spar. “Helps get any extra steam out…and tire out Gigi a bit more,” Elizabeth once told her, though the last part was whispered. On the other hand, Cecilia would go straight to the kitchen and brew herself a hot cup of Jasmine tea before going to her room to repair herself if needed.
Raora blindly pawed at the shower faucet, taking a few attempts before she could grasp it fully and turn it off. She traced her hand up the wall to grab the loofah hanging from a hook, only to grip something heavier.
Confusion was a lure that shone in a sea of paranoia. Like the light of an anglerfish who preyed on the curious. After all, what else would kill the cat?
So she opened her eyes.
Lightning flashed in her vision, startling the panther as she processed the change of scenery. A field of tall grass surrounded her; the pouring rain roared in her ears as she looked down at herself. She was clad in blood-stained, silver armour—though the blood was being washed away with the rain. Her heart dropped, curiosity ignored the instinctual fear—the logic that screamed for her safety—her sanity. She needed to shut her eyes; she needed to look away–
But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Raora tore her gaze from the armour and gazed at the weight in her hand. Blank, scarlet eyes stared back at Raora. A head—Liz’s decapitated head hung from her hand, her red hair flowing with the howling wind. Raora let go of the head, the sickening thud making her open her mouth to gasp, only to choke on her saliva as she stumbled backwards.
Her back hit the glass wall of the shower as she coughed—the pathetic sound grating to her already-sensitive ears. Hands flew up to her face to press on closed eyes until her vision flashed white.
She wanted to scream. To claw at the god-forsaken eyes sitting in her skull. To slam her head into the wall until she passed out. Raora did none of those, of course. Instead, she sank to the shower floor and wept.
A particularly loud crash from the adjacent room startled the automaton, causing the screwdriver in her hand to slip from the screw and scrape against metal. Frustrated, she yanked the headphones from her head and placed them around her neck before looking closer at her current project.
“Shit.” Cecilia mumbled, thumbing at the scratch and noting to herself to buff that out sometime later. She placed the metal bird back onto her workbench then stood up, moving closer to the wall between her and Raora’s room.
Porcelain knuckles rapped against wood as she enhanced her auditory module to hear any other noises she could miss. “Raora, you okay?”
The panther was usually extra jumpy after a mission, which in turn made her clumsier and more irritable. The sound of things being thrown or a table being flipped was a common noise from her room—especially after a failed mission. But the lookout was specially made for the Justice members. Magic made sure any damage to the floors, the walls, and certain furniture would be reversed by the next day. So most of Justice, especially Gigi, used this to their advantage, destroying basically everything in their room whenever emotions were running high.
Her question was answered with a frustrated scream, accompanied by something large slamming into the barrier separating the two rooms.
Cecilia stepped back from the wall and sighed. ‘Big cat, big tantrum.’ She hoped it was just something small, like artblock or a messed-up drawing, but muffled sobs had her rethinking. Cecilia ran out of her room—cursing when the sleeve of her hoodie caught on her door handle—and skidded to a stop before Raora’s door. She knocked, then pounded on the door when she was ignored.
“Raora, if you don’t say anything, I’m coming in.”
Her statement was answered with sudden silence, which was enough for Cecilia to enter. Or try to.
Locked. Cecilia didn’t even know she had a lock on her door, given how often Raora just let the other members walk into her room—even while she was changing and whatnot. The automaton reared a fist back and punched a hole above the handle before letting herself into the panther’s room.
Shock made itself known to Cecilia. The joints in her fingers locked up as she looked around the room, stunned. The room was trashed, deep scratches littered the walls, and blood trailed from the bathroom to the panther’s bed. She glanced into the bathroom and noticed shattered glass—dyed in crimson—in the sink and strewn across the floor. Cecilia took a breath and walked towards the bed. There lay a trembling mess under a bundle of blankets. Raora’s hands were pressed against her eyes—her nails practically digging into her scalp. Blood seeped from one hand, dripping down her elbow, and Cecilia realized that the panther was hyperventilating.
“GET BACK!”
Raora’s cry froze Cecilia in place. She’s never heard her that scared, not even during any missions that Cecilia herself deemed horrific.
“Raora,” Cecilia took a step closer to the panther, “You’re clearly not okay. I’m not leaving you by yourself.”
The automaton replayed the words Elizabeth once mentioned, that whenever Raora was feeling frustrated or distressed, hugging her tightly or putting weight on the panther would help. But then again, Cecilia wasn’t Liz. Reinforced ceramic plates made her colder and much heavier than the scarlet queen. The problem is, she was on a mission with Gigi, leaving only Cecilia to try to help the panther.
Instead, Cecilia knelt and put a hand on the bed. “What do you need? Comfort? Distraction?”
Her question was met with a whimper, and the automaton noticed Raora’s palms pressing harder into her eyes. They must be the reason for the panther’s frustration.
“Can you move your hands? We need to bandage you up so your hand won’t hurt as much later,” Cecilia whispered, her hand moved towards the bloodied arm. She spotted shards of glass embedded in the lacerations on her knuckles; she must’ve punched the mirror multiple times considering the amount of blood on the floor.
Raora flinched when porcelain fingers brushed against her forearm, but the panther visibly relaxed as they wrapped around her arm and squeezed. Both hands moved away from her face and pulled Cecilia’s hand close to her chest. Surprise morphed into worry as Cecilia looked up at the panther and saw irises rapidly flickering from gold to blue to gold again. Her eyes frantically shot from side to side, as if desperately searching for something that wasn’t there.
“Cece?”
Her voice echoed throughout the empty void, pathetically desperate, yet heard by no one.
She could smell the faint scent of pine and chamomile… but Cecilia was nowhere to be seen; the only indication she was there was the arm Raora held close, which was quickly let go of once she realized it wasn’t connected to a body.
Panic grew in her chest, spreading through her lungs like thorned vines that seemed to tighten with every beat of her racing heart. Each breath burned, forcing her to heave and continue with short puffs.
“Cece?!”
Her eyelids were sore from crying, but new tears threatened to spill as she looked up and saw thousands of porcelain bodies—all lifeless—in multiple piles as far as she could see. Silence rang in her ears as she whipped her head around, a pit of dread growing at the bottom of her stomach as she realized–
They were closer.
Hundreds of mannequins, some broken, others limbless, were frozen under her gaze. She clamped her eyes shut, whispering to herself over and over:
This isn’t real. This isn’t real—it isn’t.
And yet when she opened her eyes, they were still here. They were closer too; just barely two steps away from Raora. The arms of those who had them were reaching for her. Others stared with empty eyes. She jolted back with a gasp, her back hitting something hard before she felt a pinch on her thigh.
She looked up, her stomach leaping when two black orbs stared back. Cecilia—no. Something like Cecilia stood over her. Thick, black liquid oozed out from multiple cracks adorning her skin. Raora wouldn’t move. She couldn’t.
Not until the automaton opened its mouth. Black, viscous fluid dripped onto her hair, snapping Raora out of her paralyzed state. She swung, growling as she swiped at the figure. Porcelain plates cracked under her claws, giving way to the gears underneath. A violent image of Cecilia—injured and crying—flashed in her mind. Her Cece. Not this one. Her Cece wasn’t this fragile—this breakable. She pounced onto the body, tearing an arm from her torso with her jaws.
Tears ran down her cheeks as each swing—each bite left the panther feeling more and more overwhelmed. Her tongue felt numb, her mouth was thick with a coppery fluid she couldn’t choke down, and her hands… her hands felt worse than raw. As if its flesh sloughed off her fingers and left the nerves to feel the importance of its presence.
Yet it was still here. The pained faces of another dimension, the hands desperately reaching for salvation. What she was doing wasn’t enough to drive them away. It will never be.
Raora’s strikes slowed to a stop as she slumped over the disfigured doll. Her senses were frazzled—leaving her alone with the scent of bronze and burnt pine. It was all too much. Her arms grew numb with the loss of sensation. The sound of silence rang in her ears; her nose stung with another scent she couldn’t place—the type of smell that would come whenever something was terribly wrong.
The curious cat opened her eyes.
She was no longer in the field filled with broken bodies, nor was she in her room. Darkness surrounded her—nothing surrounded her, not even the shadows that always followed. But the brand-new feeling of utter desolation—of loneliness was equally horrifying.
Raora needed someone.
So she wailed, screaming herself hoarse, calling—begging for her friends.
And the scent of bronze continued to spread.