A pocket watch flies through the air: the metal simple, shining silver, the edges dinged slightly, the chain trailing like a comet’s tail. It hits the wall with little fuss, nothing breaks, maybe a new dent.
She wants to scream.
Except no one is around to hear–this city is an empty shell, concrete, metal, glass and weeds through the cracks–so she follows through.
“Haven’t you taken enough from me?” Leanne screams, the answering silence roaring in her ears.
“I’ve seen too much, I’ve lost too much!”
She walks over to her fallen watch, kneels in front of it, desperate and gone mad.
“Please, please,” she says.
Just leave me alone, she doesn’t.
Odell… she’s heard the name before. But not in this context. Not as Brian Odell, real name of vigilante Griever, but somewhere else.
“Yasmine,” she breathes, the connection finally made, lightning running through the wires of her brain.
Yasmine Odell, one of the members of the short lived Team Spectra. The doctor. Or, alternatively, the assassin.
Leanne has a scar on her shoulder from one of Yasmine’s scalpels–she’s lucky she got away with only that, though mostly that’s because it was an accident. They had surprised each other.
Yasmine had been equally understanding about the broken nose.
By Yasmine’s first birthday, she had been an orphan.
Faye remembers her sister uncannily well, considering they only had a little over a decade together and Faye lived to see fourteen of them.
Guilt and rage and hope do that to a person’s memory.
So when Leanne appears, looking all of twenty five, Faye can confidently say, “You’ve gotten old.”
Her sister disappeared at nineteen; had shorter hair and far less scars. Didn’t nearly cry so easily, either.
“So have you,” the brat chokes out, taking the seat by Faye’s bedside without permission.
“That’s what over a century of living does to you,” Faye retorts, before generously acquiescing, “You can hold my hand if you like.”
For a moment, she’s afraid Leanne won’t take it. She doesn’t know why–Leanne’s never been intentionally cruel.
Leanne’s hand is so careful to curl around her own, for once Faye the softer and frailer one.
“I’m sorry it’s been so long,” Leanne says, around ugly tears, nose stuffed up.
“Shut up and tell me what you’ve been doing,” Faye says instead of indulging a pity-party.
It’s as if she’s a teenager again; Faye falls asleep to the sound of her older sister’s voice.
She doesn’t wake up.
A/N: Because when I have writer’s block for DoS fic, I bring out Counterclockwise and see what I can do this time to make things worse.