اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
AUTUMN ALITA BELIEVES IN GHOSTS. At this point, she has to; she has to believe in the spectres that haunt people, the fractured images of something that was once alive and vibrant, somebody that lived and loved. She's been haunted by her own ghosts her entire life, the shadows following her wherever she goes, but there have been a handful that are more persistent than most.
Hal Jordan and Arisia Rrab will never not play a role in her mind. Her mentor, the man that would've burned the universe down for her, and her ex-girlfriend, the woman that stole her heart frighteningly quickly. Her ghosts are cruel and calloused, reminders of her worst mistakes, and every one is like a dagger to her heart, a scar she can't help collecting.
There's no escape from them. Even here, back at the safe house she's staying in, where the only sound is her own heartbeat, she can't outrun them. She could travel to different planets, different dimensions, but they would keep their hold on her.
She's a bruised and battered little thing, and she locks the front door, she wishes she could have a break, a single reprieve from it all. A moment where she isn't hurting, where she doesn't feel like a star on the verge of going supernova.
She wishes for a moment without her ghosts.
Autumn wants a chance to breathe. A single moment where her past doesn't weigh her down, where the jagged white lines on her skin fade away, just a second where she's not Autumn Alita, the disgraced hero, the pitiful moment. She wants to be Autumn Alita, the girl, the person.
She knows better than to think she deserves that, though.
Different scars etch themselves onto her skin, each telling a different story. Some are jagged from a blade, others the soft round circle of a bullet wound. Some are burnt tissue, the sign of energy being blasted and burning through whatever protection she once held.
But all of them pale in comparison to the emotional ones. The lines that run along her soul, the damages that will never be fixed, they haunt her. They tear her apart, ripping open whole new wounds in her darkest nights. They leave no piece of her unharmed, the guilt and the regret and the self-hatred all bubbling together to form her own destruction, a blaze of glory that threatens to burn everything around her.
And there he stands. The man that started the fire, the man that lit the first match, the man that sparked the inferno that would go on to swallow her whole.
He smiles at her, and she wishes she was immune to the wave of fear that washes over her.
She doesn't move. She doesn't know if she can, if that paralyzing fear will allow her to. It grips onto her heart and it doesn't let go because this ━━
