Vengeance

10

The steel glints in the moonlight, like the chrome valve covers in her car. The barrel no larger than a quarter stares at her, ready to strike.

Striker's finger covers the trigger. He pulls. The gun jerks, a burst of light breaks the night accompanied by a resounding bang.

The bullet spirals through the air. The small hunk of shaped metal pierces her skin, setting the flesh on fire and ripping through the layers of muscle and bone beneath.

Her body falls backwards. Without her permission it collides with the ground like a toppled domino. Her vision bleary and spotted shifts from the soldier shaded in shadow to the woman beside him.

Solaris.

The name hovers on the tip of her tongue, desiring to be spoken, but she has no strength.

Please...

Why?

***

Seraphim shoots up gasping. She claws at her chest. Her heart beats violently against its cage. A layer of sweat clings to her skin. She feels hot all over, as if she fell asleep in a heated room. Seraphim kicks the covers off, welcoming the rush of cool air. She wipes the back of her head across her forehead.

It wasn't a memory of the Attack. No, Striker's shot happened differently, but it felt like a memory. She felt the floor. The bullet.

It was only a nightmare. It was only a nightmare.

Seraphim crawls back until her back meets the wall. The cool drywall is a welcome relief to her slick skin. Her eyes dart over the shadows produced by stray streetlight as if expecting someone to leap out of them. She's alone. It was only a nightmare.

She needs to end this. Yes, if Seraphim kills the last of the Guardians, she'll be free, whole. There will be nothing left to fear.

***
Angel dips the bag into the steaming water and tugs it up. He repeats the action, again and again, watching as the clear liquid turns the color of polished wood. He hurls the teabag in the trash and grabs the sugar. After dumping in a decent amount, he stirs it around and lays the spoon in the sink.

Angel presses the rim of the teacup to his lips and blows gently, causing the liquid to ripple away from him. He tilts the cup toward his lips, but a close brush reveals the tea to be boiling still. Angel sets the cup back down and stares out the windows that lie beyond the kitchen's doorway.

He runs a hand through his hair, noticing the gold band around his wrist. His father's watch, he'd forgotten to take it off last night.

Angel's lips twitch as he remembers. He'd gone out hunting for a dress after he asked her and she'd refused. He spotted the dress in the window of a boutique. It was not complex in design or flashy. It was simple, elegant. It was perfect. Sending it to her with a note was a risk, one that ultimately paid off.

She looked like an angel standing on the filthy street, a gentle breeze lapping at the dress. She wasn't wearing any makeup or jewelry and her hair hadn't been styled, and yet, she looked perfect.

It pained him to see her so unsure. At one time she would have ruled the room, met compliment and insult alike with a cool confidence. Last night, she was a lamb in a den of hungry wolves.

They had danced and Angel dared to confess the truth to her. She'd tried to pull away, shocked, but unlike before, he didn't let go. She hadn't refused his feelings or denied her own, she just remained in his arms.

Angel had driven her home, in the '70 'Cuda. He got out to escort her to the door of her apartment and he couldn't resist. She looked so beautiful, her platinum hair and pale skin awash in silver moonlight. He meant only to kiss her cheek, but his lips found hers instead. It was as he remembered. Seraphim hadn't rebuked him, instead she melted into his embrace. The kiss lasted only seconds, but it felt like an eternity.