Foolish
Dr. Aaron Carter, PhD, The Apothecary’s Guide to Remnant History
Several more entries pass by, each capable of taking out Fyre.
If Mara had any of these Remnants as enemies, there’s no way we’ll be able to stop them.
Titan and Gargantuan are big hitters–often working alongside Darkrend.
Azazel is a known associate of Fyre, but they’re outside our jurisdiction, living somewhere in the Western Alliance.
Update: This Remnant has recently died, information may be updated as allowed.
NCPD Note: Mara Anders
NCPD Instructions: Kill on sight, Updated October 20th, 1030 A.D.
I lean back in my chair, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes.
The latter two entries after Fyre are Revenant, a known serial killer still on the loose in the Steel Empire, and Marek who I’ve never heard of until now. A click on their entry shows the barest bones of detail, which probably means they’ve just now made their way onto RISE’s radar.
“Anything?” Percy asks, leaning against the door frame of her office.
“Mara was number eight before she died,” I say, gesturing lamely at the computer. “Numbers one through three are out of our pay grade unless we ask the Guild for help. Numbers four through seven are either on Darkrend’s payroll or former allies.”
“So, we’ll bark up the second tree,” she says with a small, mischievous smile. I try to return it, but it feels forced. Hollow.
“Which is?”
“We’ll go to DAEMON and ask why their exec got tossed like a meat rocket.”
“That’s a pleasant mental image,” I say, thankful my voice sounds more normal now.
Percy tilts her head a little, eyes studying me like she wants to unlock the secrets I’d rather die with.
“Do you want to go get some dinner?” she asks the question like it’s no big deal. Like we’d done it before.
But except for the semi-regular trips to Frank’s—we’d never gone to dinner before. I blink back at her for a few seconds too long and her lips tug up a little.
“You had a rough night, let me at least make sure you get some food. I doubt you’ve eaten all day.”
I glance down at the clock on the computer. She’s right, I haven’t eaten all day. I even forgot a meal bar this morning when I left my apartment.
My heart thunders in my throat. Part of me wants to ask if it’s more than just colleagues, or friends, going for dinner. In all these years, I’d never gone beyond asking if she was seeing someone. She’d hinted at dating but never specified who.
“Sure,” I say softly, giving her a smile that does feel genuine this time. “Where?”
I give myself another once over in the mirror. My eyes are still depressed from the lack of sleep, worsened by the sunken look in my cheeks. The platinum-blonde of my hair looks dull in the harsh lighting of my apartment.
The blouse I found was the only one that gave “could be a date, but probably just friends,” and stares back at me from the countertop in my room.
It’s hard to admit, but the belladonna tattoo that wraps itself around the right side of my ribs ending at the base of my neck is the only feature of myself that I truly love.
I’d discovered the plant in an old horticulture textbook from before the war, and the beauty in the simplicity of the flower had taken me.
I trace the lines with my finger, shivering at my own touch.
The simple black bra I procured fits snuggly as I strap it behind my back. With the blouse tucked into my jeans, I ensure my braid hasn’t lost its structural integrity.
I find my peacoat slung over my couch and tuck it across my lap as I flop down into it.
Then I make the mistake of looking into the darkened corner of my living room—the one place I’d managed to miss when I’d gotten home.
Their cries grow louder every day. Each time I reach across the planes and brush my fingertips along the lost souls, they grow in intensity.
Each wayward glance into darkness reflects their faces.
Even now I can see Mara’s unholy scream as her body is siphoned.
I see Blackwood, distorted and wrong, but still very clearly him.
Each victim of violence layered on one another, their voices screaming for justice and vengeance in tandem.
I swallow thickly, trying to blink away the vision, but it just won’t leave.
They just won’t leave.
As though they know I’m thinking about them, the shadowy corner expands. It grows and grows and shifts, blotting out the room.
Their voiceless screams turn into shuddering whispers. I pull myself further back onto the couch, tucking my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs.
But they just grow louder. Their whispers eat at my ears, like bugs crawling through the canal.
I let out a scream, but it’s muffled by the shadows taking advantage of my already-depressive thoughts.
The decision made, I’m at the kitchen sink; the steak knife pressed against my neck. It could be so simple. So easy. So quick.
No one would miss me. Maybe Percy, but she’ll get over it.
The shadows fight back. The stupid, fucking shadows. Their damnable strength overmatching my own flesh. The knife is ripped from my hands by a tendril of darkness. It clatters uselessly on the floor, sliding to the leg of the small dining table.
“Fuck,” I spit out, stumbling forward.
I catch myself on the sink, head lowering over the basin. Nausea rises in my throat until I let out a rasping choke. Yesterday’s coffee and today’s water splatter against the stainless steel.
“—I gotta go,” Percy’s voice trills through the thin door of my apartment. “Yes, baby, I gotta go. I’m picking up my friend for dinner.”
Baby?
“No, I haven’t told her about you. We’ve had a busy couple weeks and she’s stressed. I’ll tell her tonight.”
Bile rises in my chest again.
“That’s my man,” her voice is softer than it ever is with me. “I love you.”
I expel more of what little I had left and wonder if maybe I can get to the knife in time.
But she knocks. And my time has run out.
Foolish idiot. That’s what my name should be. Not The Dark One, no “Fucking Moron” fits so much better.
“One second,” I rasp, running my face under the water. Fuck the makeup. Fuck the breath.
Honestly, fuck this.
My head thunders for a few moments as I regain my breath. The shadows are still there. Their whispers louder with each passing second I spend in the darkness.
“Fuck you, too,” I whisper and move to the door, righting my face so it looks less like I’d just puked up my guts.
“God,” Percy’s eyes widen as she takes me in. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I say, giving her a smile that is forced and fake. My heart hurts and my stomach coils at the sight of the dPhone in her hand. The man on the other end being given a prize I could never have anyways.
Probably for the best, if the lurking shadowy figure in the corner of my vision is anything to go by. Percy doesn't deserve a haunted lover.
Lover. Absolutely ridiculous.
“Where are we going?” I ask as I lock my door behind me and throw my peacoat around my thin figure.
“Thought we’d go to one of my favorite Italian places. The recipes survived the war, after all,” she grins at me, apparently deciding I look the normal level of fucked up now.
“Great,” I smile back, more hollow than ever before. “Lead the way.”