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Agony. A lament of blood and decay and corruption: scorching, demolishing, blistering in a red-hot furnace of fury as it cleaves tendon from brittle ivory bone, claws thick, dark blood in splattering scarlet mosaics that are an infernal replica of the churning colors of the galaxy sprawling in endless waves above the trembling woman, her body pinned down by heavy chains of this same suffering that has power enough to shred supernovae in two and annihilate the stratums of neighboring worlds.
But Zoya Vitaan is no stranger to pain—it's an old ally.
She's embraced it as a dear friend, held it close as a harsh reminder of the wicked penchants of the world, cultivated her strength against it, this constant companion against the thumping beat of her heart.
And now—she is made from it. It bubbles upon her skin, viscous and salted, beading at her lips and at the hollow of her throat. It writhes through her veins, alive and monstrous, ripping through muscle and flesh, furious and reckless in its destruction. It roars in her ear, the screech of a beast in horrifying agony, strikes of lightning ricocheting through her body like a tidal wave of flame, betraying her though she's trusted and accompanied it so closely for so long. The realization of this, how it's a mirror image of his lies, strikes a chord within her heart, and its atriums contract viciously, a new wave of pain slamming into her chest. (Though this pain isn't physical, it burns all the same.)
Zoya grips the edges of the hard metal table, biting back a scream as Carasynthia Dune pours pure alcohol into the wound that's gashed through her left thigh. Though it had never truly clotted and stopped hemorrhaging, the new rush of blood that spills out of her leg comes as a jarring shock, the crimson stark and angry against the cool silver of the table, demanding to be seen, to be feared.
Carefully, Cara spreads apart the two sides of the wound, searching for dirt and debris. Despite her gentle fingers, Zoya's head cracks back so quickly she nearly gives herself whiplash, snapping against the table. Her coiled fist slams into the metal like a bullet, and a choked cry wrenches its way out of her mouth, the distorted echo of a name she hasn't let herself breathe since the day she'd been wounded.
"It's clean," Cara says finally, her features tensed in the fashion of someone who's holding back both a grimace and an apology.
A single tear escapes the corner of Zoya's eye, carving a trail through the dust and sweat collected at her temple. She pushes the damp strands of her bangs off her forehead, closing her eyes against the harsh glare of the galvanized lights above. "Now what?" she manages to say, though she knows what comes next.
Cara spares her a familiar pitying look, one that Zoya despises. Every time Cara or Greef look upon her with those soft, sympathetic eyes, features caught between an unsaid apology and a cool blue ripple of concern, she wants to slam her knuckles into the wall.
