❝ 𝘞𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴,
𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 ❞
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What if, in some other tragic
reality, Flare was the
Commission...
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EVERY COMMISSION AGENT AND TEMPORAL assassin wore a navy blue suit. Whether it be for grueling missions or slow days in the office, that was the standard dress. It was even what they donned for battle on November 23, 1963, shortly before being wiped out like a pathetic colony of ants.
Flare's suit no longer holds its distinctive azure color. It is drenched entirely in red when she steps out of the time vortex and into the city.
Black combat shoes, black knee socks, black gloves, black high-waisted shorts, a white dress shirt, and a black tie. Those are the clothes Flare changes into. She doesn't remember where or how she got them. She doesn't care. All that matters is finding him.
Her dual pistols are out on display, holstered at the hips, and glistening darkly under the sunlight. Just as clearly, the sheath for her dagger is strapped to her upper thigh. Each weapon is perfectly placed for easy access.
Flare likes to show them off. It lets everyone know she's dangerous. Besides, people tend to think twice about bothering someone who clearly means business. Wandering the streets covered in blood would draw too much unnecessary attention—the kind that would land her in a jail cell—whereas walking around all knives out simply keeps the creeps at bay!
Her hair flutters in the wind as she prances down the sidewalk, and when she catches a glimpse of her reflection in a passing window, she can't help but smile. She looks great.
Flare made sure to clean up nicely. She brushed her hair and scrubbed off the remnants of gore splattering her skin. She even put on her signature eyeliner—the one that made her gaze darker and more dangerous. Sharp like the eyes of a fox. Yes, it is quite a frivolous effort, and Flare isn't the type who dresses to kill, but she wants to look good for their reunion. It's the least she can do.
She knows exactly where to go. The estate of Reginald Hargreeves. Flare knew the address like the back of her hand, thanks to the infinite switchboard. She utilized that resource to the fullest extent, taking it upon herself to witness every waking moment of the boy's life prior to his departure.
She saw the day he was born. She saw the day he was bought by that cruel old man, whom he always spoke of so sparingly. She saw the day he time-traveled to the apocalypse and every long, tortuous hour he spent surviving there. And above all, she saw and replayed the exact day he deceived her.
Flare clenches her jaw. The memory serves as fuel for the flames of her vengeance, which she so desperately craves. It is drilled into her mind by an eternal screw. Unforgettable.
No, no. She mustn't think of that. It doesn't matter now. What's done is done! She can't change the past—she shouldn't.
What's meant to be, is meant to be.
What Flare can do, however, is direct the path of the unknowns: what lies in her future. Luckily, she's the type of girl who knows exactly what she wants, and what she wants is Five Hargreeves dead at her feet. Nothing else.
It is the only thing that plagues her mangled thoughts, because when your mind is destroyed, no space remains to think above the ruins of insanity.
The Commission made sure of that.
It is two o'clock when Flare spots him at a park behind the Hargreeves estate, sitting on one of the benches among his siblings.
She watches from behind a tree across the pond. Out of seven faces, her eyes stay locked on one. Those sharp features beneath a head of neatly combed black hair are unmistakable. It's a shame, she thinks, how pretty he is.
Flare smiles. She wonders if he would look prettier in red.
