#sorry to dump the og fiction on my bsd blog but like. if u like my fic.

[chuuyanakaahara]

not fic, sorry. just a bit from my original fiction project, since i'm trying to find the motivation to finish this chapter :p

The heroes of Iridium City are typically unable to find aliases that inspire confidence rather than fear, because it is fear they are meant to inflict. “Wraith,” Ren says conversationally, his tongue slipping over the syllables, trying to find a way to right themselves without him needing to sober up. 

You aren’t supposed to be this far out, Ren thinks. 

Wraith is a child. Wraith is actually named Lilith, and she is eleven years old. She is out in the cold and the dark in the costume that hasn’t been switched to its winter gear yet despite the chill out because she hasn’t earned it yet, but her wings are brushed out meticulously. 

Wraith is a child with the wings of an angel, but they’re pitch black. They were created for aesthetic rather than purpose, ascribing to the shape and form of what the average human thinks wings should look like if they spontaneously appear on one’s back, and the thick, fluffy feathers give her the title of avenging angel by the worshippers of the city’s dictators. 

“Blackout,” Wraith says quietly, privy only to the information the Initiative gave  to her. 

Blackout. Right. It feels like another world, another person, another soul and hero and villain. Blackout. That is the name permanently tied to Ren like a noose. 

“You’re here to warn me,” Ren replies slowly, putting the pieces together. Sure, he’s slower than normal, and he isn’t sober, but that doesn’t mean he’s dumb. 

He can’t afford to be, with the life he leads. 

“Why are you here to warn me?” Ren continues, intentionally not rising to his full height. Wraith is a child, and while everything childish has been trained out of her like a dog, she deserves the grace of equal footing. 

Ren is not her superior. Ren is not her enemy. 

(Ren is an enemy of the state. Ren wonders — how long until she understands that she is part of that state? That her creators are the one that create this entire fucking world they live in?) 

Wraith swallows hard, the collar of her costume low enough for Ren to watch the motion with bated breath. Keeping her neck exposed is a failing of the designer. Bulletproof material everywhere else, and yet  — kill one angel with one bullet. 

Create a martyr. 

At least, that’s what Ren would do. 

“You are a hero,” Wraith says, “so I’m here to warn you.” 

“Why?” Ren repeats. 

Wraith’s gaze turns to the ground like a scalded child. (Isn’t that just what she is? Or is she a soldier still — what’s the difference at this point?) “I can’t say.” 

“You can’t? Why?” Ren’s like a broken record, but it’s all he can think to ask. 

Wraith doesn’t turn, doesn’t move, but her eyes slide to the side, and Ren turns his gaze in turn. Fuck. More heroes. 

They’re on patrol together. Wraith has the benefit of speed with her wings, barely functional as they are. 

“Thank you,” Ren whispers.