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THROUGH EIR'S MICROSCOPE
Sometimes, you just want / something so hard you have to lie about it, / so you can hold it in your mouth for a minute, / how real hunger has a real taste.
Ada Limón 𓆏 Bright Dead Things.
Eir supposes that credence in boy-gods, and swearing to the dingy light in the sky as if it were a bat-shaped, misty sort of halo for God's strongest soldier to come forth and feed the people salvation, like Euchartist's drink wine, and Eir bites her tongue, would simper away the coldness that accompanied Bludhaven. She had thought maybe her fingers would no longer thaw in frostbite, that her nose would warm and stop reddening. But they do not. Instead, she had been left to resign to holding her holy vow in her mouth, where it would remain safe and untouched, bloating with the better parable. Feeling herself expand with only self indignation, and self trust.
It was the folly of Blüdhaven's crime record that left Eir choking on the vision of her overseer in blood, and the folly of her own that had left her unceremoniously in name for the missing research. She felt sick, walking into the laboratory and seeing nought but shrapnel of what those years work had been, seeing her mentor dead not a week later. It had been doom, five years in the making. The carved hollow space of a team of five had become a team of three, and her, cloying at where she met Adam's rib, like it should birth her something divine and unarguably true. Like repent came from bone the way Eve did.
The love of her parents, framed in anxious calls, and food deliveries, was what took Eir to ingest resurrection. The lab had become a haunted house, and what little research remained was put away. It was turned to other things— better things, fears that all other researchers a part of the team would next find themselves slaying the same albatross. But it sat with her, working under other projects, that they could show up at any point anyway— take her away, put an end to her little life for all the ways she refused to help them refine what Maelstrom and his team had worked on. She would not do it. Not if it was without them. Not if it was for the better of the people.
So came Moses, with claims to part the seas- and lead his people to safety. So came Eir, with claims to part what feast devouring things metahuman genes were, and death in tow with her.
There had been soft muttering about investigation, but Eir knew better that most folk did not engage in what terse, steadfast pose warriors took. Maelstrom had sooner been a drug-addled addict than a martyr. She had told herself that it was then her that would have to wield the sword and find truth; but the sanctimony in her skull sung- it knew that what she felt, in her gut and her throat and her chest, was the fear that came with awaiting the knife; not the vengeance, nor the self proof. It ached to think that they'd come back. Winged, evil, devilish beasts; to scavenge and feast on what rotting, mutilated carcass they would have left in their wake; filled to the brim with burgeoning ideas for gene mutation and blasphemous grabs for power.
