Fatality ━━ Matt vs Chris Sturniolo²

𝖝𝖝. Hell of a Rescue

[ tw: death, violence ]

𝖝𝖝. Hell of a Rescue

Maeve

DARKNESS WALKS WITH MAEVE.

Every light sizzles and blinks out as she passes. Glass shatters, electricity spits. The air buzzes like a live wire. It caresses her open palms, and she shivers at the feel of such power. She thought she had forgotten what this was like. But that's impossible. She can forget almost everything else in this world, but not her lightning. Not who and what she is.

The manacles made it exhausting to walk. Without them weighing her down, she practically flies. Toward the smoke, the danger, to what could finally be her salvation or her ending. She doesn't care which, so long as she's not stuck in this hellish prison one second longer. Her dress flutters in ruby tatters, ripped enough to let her run as fast as she can. The sleeves smolder, burning with every new burst of sparks. She doesn't hold herself back now. The lightning goes where it wants. It explodes through her with every heartbeat. The purple-white bolts and sparks dance along her fingers, blazing in and out of her palms. She keeps looking at the electricity, enamored with every vein. Never has she ever felt so wonderful. It's been so long. It's been so long.

This must be what hunters feel like. Every corner she turns, she hopes to find some kind of prey. She runs the shortest route she knows, tearing through the council chamber, its empty seats haunting her as she sprints over the Nortan seal. If she had time, she would obliterate the symbol beneath her feet. Tear up every inch of the Burning Crown. But she has a real crown to kill. Because that's what she's going to do. If Chris is still here, if the wretched boy hasn't gotten away. She's going to do what she couldn't bring herself to do yesterday. She's going to watch his last breath and know he can never hold her leash again.

The Security officers retreat in Maeve's direction, their backs to her. Still doing as Valencia commanded. All three have their long guns tucked into the crooks of their shoulders, fingers on triggers as they cover the passageway. Maeve doesn't know their names, just their colors. House Ralken, strongarms all. They don't need bullets to kill her. One of them could break her back, crush her rib cage, pop her skull like a grape. It's her or them.

The first hears her footsteps. He turns his chin, looking over his shoulder. Maeve's lightning shrieks up his spine and and into his brain. She feels his branching nerves for a split second, and then it fades to darkness. To nothing. The other two react, swinging around to face her. The lightning is quicker than they are, splitting them both.

Maeve never breaks pace, vaulting over their smoking bodies.

The next hall runs alongside the square, its once-gleaming windows streaked with ash. A few chandlers lie smashed against the floor in twisted heaps of gold and glass. There are bodies, too. Security officers in their black uniforms, Scarlet Guard with their red scarves. The aftermath of a skirmish, one of many raging within the larger battle. Maeve checks the closest Guardsmen to her, reaching down to feel the woman's neck. No pulse. Her eyes are closed. The Deuveux is glad she doesn't recognize her.