Vengeance

02

Seraphim rolls onto her back, stretching out her arm. The limb is stiff and numb from serving as her pillow all night. She winces, at the phantom pains, the lingering remnants of unforgiving nightmares. She blinks a few times, trying to chase away the sleepiness that nips at the back of her eyelids. Seraphim yawns, dragging a hand through her hair.

She glances out the window. The sun blasts through the glass washing her in a blend of gold and red. Faintly, she can hear the excited utterances of children on their way to school and cars driving by.

This is what she missed the most while she was away, the noise, the hum of a thousand lives. The reassurance that she was never alone. Seraphim shuts her eyes, savoring the cocktail of sounds.

She sits up and throws her legs over the side of the mattress, cringing as the rigid carpet scrapes against her bare feet. She pushes herself to her feet and makes her way to the duffel bag pushed up against the wall where a folded set of fresh clothes awaits her.

With the clothes tucked under one arm, Seraphim flips the light switch up. They buzz and flicker before settling. She dumps the clothes on the toilet lid and presses her front against the yellowed sink. The faucet is ancient and covered in copious amounts of grime. She twists the knob, a weak stream trickles out. She tests the temperature before gathering a handful and splashing her face.

Seraphim turns the water off and grabs the bottom of her tank top, drawing it up over her head. It's dumped on the floor, followed shortly by a pair of exercise shorts and her undergarments. She stares at her reflection through the years of accumulated dirt and grime. Her gaze locks on the scar on her face. The permanent mark begins at the curve beside her nose and ends where her jawline begins. Seraphim lowers her attention to the other scars she gained that faithful night. There's the penny shaped scar just above her heart from one of Striker's bullets, the diagonal scar that wraps around her side, courtesy of Deathwave's katana, and the uneven slash on her hand, the result of a clumsy attempt to fend off Deathwave.

Tidal Wave and Solaris's attacks didn't leave scars, but she can still feel the pain. The knife they put in her back hurts worse the physical wounds ever did.

Seraphim runs a hand over her stomach. The lapse in her training has softened the layers of muscle she once had. Just another thing they took from her.

She turns away from the mirror to yank back the flimsy shower curtain. She spins the knob and watches as the water trickles down, trying not to give in to the memories.

Seraphim emerges from the bathroom in a plume of steam, dressed in a pair of pale jeans and a loose ruby t-shirt with a long faded band logo plastered across the front. She plops down on the edge of the mattress and slips on a pair of ankle socks and her black leather boots. She grabs her jacket and heads for the door.

The early morning sunshine has given way to rumbling storm clouds. Large droplet splat against her head and the exposed flesh of her arms. Seraphim slides her arms into her leather jacket, turning the collar up to protect her neck. An SUV speeds by, running over a puddle. The water splashes up onto her boots and jeans. She glares at the vehicle now almost to the end of the street.

Seraphim weaves her way through a group of people outside a corner store and crosses the street. A teenager in a navy hoodie, shouldering a matching backpack rushes past her, towards the subway station, her own destination.

She skips down the stairs, a hand sliding down the freezing aluminum rail. She fights against the rush of emerging travelers, pressing herself against the rail to keep from getting swept up in the madness.

Seraphim forks over the fee to a woman in her late twenties that looks ready to stab the next person that irks her.

She glides through the tunnels as people whirl around her. She studies them, but after a while the individuals dissolve into an indecipherable blur. Her eyes dart about. Where she once used to see life, now all she sees are threats. There are no innocents, no bystanders, only potential attackers.