Starlight

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

STARLIGHT
marvel, gamora
hoteldenouement
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To be fair, Santiago probably should have expected this.

His past was bound to catch up with him at some point. Such was the nature of the game, he supposed. He'd spent his life as the hunter; a shadow, the monster children feared would find them in the dark. His past was dripping with blood and horror, the sea of his memories so red that he knew he'd never be able to get the crimson stains from his hands.

People knew his name. They spoke it in whispers. Santiago Addams, the blood soaked reaper. It struck fear in the hearts of people that had never feared anything. There was good, there was evil, and there was Santiago. Somehow both. Somehow neither. Somehow something else. He was a killer, a hunter, a predator in the grass.

         It only made sense that one day, he'd find himself becoming the prey.

He should have known this would end badly. Men like him didn't get a quiet life. He could pretend all he wanted; he could open a small garage in some barely travelled corner of the galaxy, burn the clothes he'd once worn, repent his sins and spend his days helping rather than killing — but it wasn't true. It wasn't real. It was just a momentary pause in the universe's ongoing chess game; a break before it dragged him back into the chaos.

         Chaos. The word didn't seem strong enough. It didn't carry the weight Santiago did, pressing heavy upon his shoulders and dragging against his heels each time he tried to life his foot. Each time he tried to take just one small step forwards.

It was one of those steps forwards that had sent him spiralling back here, after all. Help the orphan, Santiago. It's a good thing to do, Santiago. It'll help you make up for your past, Santiago.

Bloody conscience. It was his bloody conscience's fault he was here. If he hadn't helped that goddamn child — well, there was no point thinking about that, was there? Because there wasn't a world where he didn't help the kid. She was a kid. Despite his bitterness and his fear and his fury, he was hardly not going to help a kid.

          There had been good parts, he supposed. His journey hadn't been all horror. He'd found a family, spoken to a talking raccoon and a tree, heard music he could never have even dreamed up. Love, too — there had been love. Romantic, and platonic, and familial, and true. He hadn't expected that.

          But now he was here — and here, it has to be said, was not one of those good parts. It was likely to be the last part, too. A part of him, perhaps, found himself ashamed — after everything he'd done, everything he'd been through, this was how it ended? Not in a blaze of glory, or a bloody battle, but alone in the Mad Titan's dungeon, cast aside and forgotten by those he would have died to save. The blood, this time, is his blood, and it stains the floorboards rather than his soul. It pours from his chest, instead of dripping from his hands. It was never supposed to end this way.

The blood is flowing quicker. His breathing is getting shallower. Some say, before you die, your whole life flashes before your very eyes. Santiago had never thought much of that — what life did he have to leave behind? A life of regrets? He'd hardly have grieved for those memories, should they be the last he saw. Now though... now he had those good parts playing on repeat. He had those memory of dancing beneath the stars with an enemy turned lover, the Godslayer placed neatly at the side besides his own gun. The memory of flying around the spaceship he'd been hitching a ride on, laughing freely with a goddamn raccoon while the 'captain' tried to bring them back inside. The memory of a young girl stealing his cloak and hiding beneath it, using him to shelter herself from the busyness of the outside world. Happy memories. Good memories. Memories of a life loved.