Paradise lost
There cannot be peace before first a great suffering.
There cannot be love without first a great tragedy.
~*~
Opaline droplets of sweat form on his forehead. In his ears, a constant buzzing rings wretchedly as if an angry hornet is caged inside his skull. What was long buried abruptly awakens, stabbing at the back of his head. Red flashes sear through his eyes while images of Ingvild dissolving to ashes play in his mind, her blood-soaked feathers crumbling to the ground.
"Why did you go?" August mutters under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He crumples the little yellow note with sheer frustration before throwing it on the bed.
'I told her not to go, I commanded her!'
The air in the room grows thick like the pit of a stygian forest. Tentacle-like branches appear behind his eyes creeping closer, clutching his limbs. Even though lost and abandoned in the thicket of his mind, her angelic scent still lingers on his skin, impossible to wash off. Sniffing at his biceps, he inhales the mixture of their union on his flesh; what begins as euphoric mirth quickly meets the sharp edge of rage and hatred.
She's gone and it gnaws at the dark matter of his brain.
He hates it.
Hates her for being absent.
Frowning deeply, August reaches a rigid hand for his clothes, forcing himself to get dressed. The very first memory of her hinges on his mind: An icy woman with silver-moon eyes who refused his pursuit.
'Did you think the two of you are going to ride toward the sunset together? That's not you.'
Letting out heavy gasps, he shakes his head. "She'll be fine," he whispers dismissively, pulling on his trousers and hastily buckling his belt.
The new world order awaits, so close he can feel the fresh sun sitting on his open palm. It is his vision, his legacy: bigger than whatever it is Ingvild and him have together.
There was no her in his plan, to begin with.
The Devil never had a queen.
'You know what they'll do to her...'
Another ray of daytime terror cuts through his thoughts: her wings plucked from her back, threads of flesh tearing from her naked body. Her screams die in silence.
"She chose to leave, I asked her not to!" August yells into the empty room, frowning at no one but himself as he grabs the used shirt which hangs from the tall mirror. Turning to his reflection, he tenses at the sight of his body. Crimson valleys lead down his back, courtesy of her claws branding deep into soft tissue and toned muscles.
'Do you know what is the probability of finding someone like her? A woman who wants to see the world burn with you? Who believes in your cause of building a new one?'
August swallows hard and combs his fingers through his hair with haste, attempting to act normal through the intensifying drumming in his ears. Being completely methodical, he pulls his long trench coat over his shoulders and collects his belongings into his black duffle bag on the bed. With a heavy painful breath, he forces his thoughts away, zipping the bag with urgency and reciting in his mind everything necessary for his trip. Time is scarce, the end and the new beginning are nigh; the smart thing to do is to forget her, erase her existence from the chambers of his heart.
He doesn't have one anyway.
His hand secures the gun in its holster and harsh fingers lace around the black straps of his bag as he stretches himself straight, ready to leave this bedroom. That's when his eyes fall again to the crumpled yellow note.
'You'll never see her in Kashmir, you'll never see her again.'
~*~
'Amazing,' the silver-haired wolf muses while scratching his bristly jaw. For 13 years the evil spawn's eyes remained exactly as they were the day he picked her from the orphanage. Grey crystal orbs so naive, clueless, and oh so hungry for validation. A child desperate to prove herself worthy to someone, anyone.
It was her single flaw and his greatest advantage.
Even now in the bloom of adulthood, the pale, scrawny thing standing before him is nothing but a lost little girl who wants someone to hold her bony hand.
'How can someone be so smart yet at the same time so blind?'
The cheap motel room smells like mildew and rotten wood. Speckles of dust float between the handler and his prodigy, cascading over his glance that seems rather alien and naked as glass. It pierces through her muscles - this sudden sense of peculiarity and estrangement.
She chews the inside of her cheeks and sways slightly on her spot, arms hanging loose at her side. Ingvild lifts her chin to look at Liam, her eyes round with what can only be guilt. It makes her look like a child who broke an antique vase.
"Thank you for answering my call," she begins, wrapping her fist around a disposable phone before throwing it on the tidy bed.
Liam scoffs and shakes his head, ridicule spreading on his face. "You've gotten yourself into trouble over a boy, child?" He stares up and down the young woman, noticing the obvious change in her posture.
'So, she truly is a woman now; how did I not see this one coming with her constant chatter about how handsome he is when I handed her the dossier?'
"Please don't tell me you need money to get an abortion."
Ingvild frowns with disgust and shakes her head right away. "Never. No, it's not what I'm here for."
Displeased as always, Liam emits his usual grunt. He slowly shakes his head at his asset while running his fingers through his lanky grey hair. This is not how he imagined this mission to end. Her lack of emotions was a key element; Ingvild could have had a few good years running several missions for him, but what tipped the scale was for her to run into the wrong psychopath.
"Then tell me Ingvild, why should I listen to a failed assassin such as yourself? You've been weird about this mission since day one. Acting discreet, irresponsible, and reckless," the old man's Adam's apple bobs up and down in his throat as he speaks. Taking a small stride, he moves closer to get a better look at her diamond irises. So sharp and so strange, they've always irked him. As a child, she downright looked like something out of a horror movie.
"You've had 445 successful missions, not even 30 years old. Yet here you are a failure, and for what? For a boy?"
Shame traps her tongue and her glance drops to the floor. Failure stings like a rod of hot iron piercing her beating heart. Yet her mind races to the night at the pit where August finally claimed her, the memory of his lips sets glowing embers through her veins. On her skin remains the evidence of his embrace. Microscopic cells, tinted by his DNA.
She doesn't want this feeling to go away.
Liam clears his throat, tearing her away from memories that turn from tar to honey the longer she dwells on them.
"You know why your mother gave you away, Ingi?" Liam asks, giving her a ghastly sardonic smile while cocking one eyebrow.
'Liam never smiles.'
A small frown sets creases above her freckled nose. "I asked you many times before and you always said you don't know."
The Dane scoffs at her, his smile widening, exposing cigarette-and-coffee-stained teeth. The rot around his gums makes her curl her nose slightly and flinch as he leans closer.
"You were a rape baby."
The words send a pang through her muscles, like stepping on glass. She shakes her head with protest and steps back, yet Liam nods knowingly, standing in front of her.
"You're lying."
His small hazel eyes burn holes through her skull, his smile sinister and impish. "Your father was a savage, a rapist. He left your poor mother half-dead and impregnated in the forest you love so much. Who knows, maybe that's why you kept going there as a child, reconnecting with your true nature."
Refusing to listen, she shies from his piercing glare. Liam reaches a coarse hand to cup her jaw, forcing her face back to his. "Your mother hated you. Your very existence reminds her of the most terrible thing that ever happened to her."
For a child with such a limited emotional range, Liam finds that the muscles of her face are capable of stretching thoughtfully with spite. Pent up hatred creases her brow, her silver eyes turning to hot, molten gold. She bites on her tongue, keeping a vow of silence but he can read her face just the way an assassin would.
"Nothing but a mistake, disowned by your own mother. So why would this man, this... mass-murdering psychopath love you?" Liam shifts her head from side to side, inspecting the healing cuts and bruises that decorates her pale skin. "He saw an opportunity and seized it, used you..."
He pauses, moving away from a stare colder than icy lake water, "just like they will."
Ingvild parts her lips with wonder, glaring at the person she knew all her life with disbelief. In the glossy reflection of Liam's honey-brown eyes, she sees several black, long rifles pointed at her head.
Liam curls his thin lips with an utter lack of remorse and shrugs indifferently.
"She's yours."
*~*~
If colours had sound then the pale blinding white would be a continuous high-frequency hum. The tunes and shades of death. Like angry flies feasting on a corpse.
'Is this Valhalla?'
A small groan escapes her mouth, her eyes hurting from the sickly radiance of the narrow fluorescent lamps hanging from the ceiling. Her wrists feel numb as they're pulled behind her back in restraints.
"No," she opens her mouth to speak, her throat burning, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Definitely not Valhalla..."
'You need to be a hero to enter Valhalla, stupid girl.'
Stupid didn't even begin to describe it. August would never let her hear the end of it.
Loud, angry steps tap on the white marble floor, growing louder as the person approaching enters the room. Ingvild blinks, peering at the silhouette when a smile of comfort paints her drowsy face. Like a god, her lover strides toward her with his usual confidence. His ocean-blue eyes beam at her sight, his palm spread open to embrace his tiny Valkyrie. She chuckles at the mischievous, charming grin on his face as it reminds her the day they first met.
Oh, she wishes to nibble his stupid chin right now and brush her fingers along his thick moustache.
But as she blinks again, large brown almond-shaped eyes replace the ocean-blue. A panther of a woman stands before her: confident, strong, and impossibly beautiful. Her dark, succulent lips are pressed together and concern shines through as she observes the small woman who has her arms cuffed behind her back and her feet shackled to the metal legs of the chair.
With her head still heavy, the assassin turns her face from side to side. She quickly observes the armed guards at the entrance, the tall, greying agent standing nonchalantly against the wall awaiting orders, and lastly the sickly-looking, lean man who is positioned at the fore of a metal desk with his fingers laced together. Anticipation is written all over his line-riddled face.
"Erica Sloane," Ingvild calls knowingly, the ghost of a wicked smile dancing on her chapped lips as she turns her head to face the CIA director. Dressed in a black power suit and crimson pumps, the director is drenched with big dick energy.
"August told me so much about you, but he didn't mention how fuckable you are." Ingvild drawls, fluttering her lashes as she scans her from head to toe.
Tilting her head, Erica grabs a white plastic chair and places it in front of Ingvild. She then takes a seat, crossing her long smooth legs together. Kindness and motherly concern pours from her dark eyes, expressions Ingvild never received from anyone in her life.
"Poor child, I imagine August Walker filled your head with many stories."
"No..." Ingvild swallows, trying to dampen her sore throat. Noticing her struggle, Erica snaps her fingers and the greying agent rushes to bring her a plastic cup of water like a loyal dog. Focusing on the translucent beads around the cup, Ingvild flicks her tongue over her lips. "August was too busy filling other parts of me."
The intrepid woman begins to laugh at her own joke, her voice dragging groggily while Erica rolls her eyes and shakes her head.
"I imagine so." She answers and then carefully tilts the cup to Ingvild's lips, offering the drink to the girl who sips with desperation as if she walked the desert. "August was my best agent," she explains, watching the stream of water that rolls down Ingvild's chin as she gulps with an incredible thirst, "a really proficient assassin, ranked high in every mission I sent him to. My golden boy. Even though that shit-eating attitude of him was something else..."
Withdrawing the cup, she looks into Ingvild's cold silvery stare. "Those snarky, arrogant remarks and him going through the whole department like a fox in a hen coop I could overlook. But that fucker had us all fooled, Ingvild, as he fooled you."
Ingvild flutters her dark lashes and tips her chin up. Her defined cheekbones sharpen even more as a snake-like arrogance poisons her face. "August told me what you did," she utters sincerely, while Erica commands the agent to refill the plastic cup. Loathing melts her beautiful sullen glaciers as she focuses on Erica.
The CIA director narrows her eyes at her in return, and curls her lips downward as disdain fills her mouth. "I am not the one who made Walker murder Agent Hartmann, if that's what you're implying."
"You deceived him," Ingvild retorts calmly and sucks in her bottom lip, collecting the remaining droplets of water onto her tongue. "That's what you and your little agencies do to people like us. Set up traps for predators and pretend to act surprised as they eat the bait."
Holding the cup, Erica stares at the young woman thoughtfully, the burning hatred in her eyes reminding her so much of Agent Walker: An entitled spoiled brat, thinking he can wind the world to the direction only he sought to be right.
"You can't blame a predator for following its nature, and you can't expect him to behave otherwise."
"Is that how you see yourself?" Erica asks, moving the cup away, though she can see the thirst on Ingvild's gaping bottom lip. "August poisoned your mind but I assure you, you are not the monster he is. You never had the choice that he did."
Erica's voice suddenly becomes soft, and her big brown eyes become round with care that only a parent can express. But the only form of parent Ingvild ever had was Liam, and he was never much of a father, was he? It took less than a few hours for him to give her away.
She wonders how long it took for her real mother.
Her gaze drops, peering at Erica's shiny crimson shoes as they counter the lifelessness of the floor like blood in the snow. Memories whisk her away again, a man in pursuit of a woman deep in an icy forest. She should have died that night and yet here she is, shackled to a chair. The voice of the man who saved her echoes through her head with a fair warning: 'Liam never gave a flying fuck about you.'
Sharp as a needle, it pricks her heart.
"I know what Icarus did. Moulding you into the perfect assassin, depriving you of the childhood and the life you deserved." Erica's voice cuts into her trail of thoughts, making her raise her gaze back to the beautiful woman. "Now, I don't know what twisted fantasies August may have offered but I can assure you, they are empty just like him. You read his file, you know what he's capable of. Looking at your scars and bruises I assume he hurts you for his own sick pleasure, taking advantage of a woman who only wants to be loved."
'She doesn't know him like I do, the way he drank my lips and called me his angel, the way his fingertips beat the warm blood in my arteries.' Ingvild shuts her eyes, soaking in the remnants of his touch as it still ghosts across her body.
Erica's kind, tepid hand wraps around the young woman's jaw, lifting her pale face with the cautiousness of a human tending a wild creature. Grey and dark-brown collide at the seams as they share a silent stare.
"If you'll give us his location, we can arrange for your freedom and protection."
Ingvild breaks away from Erica's grip, pushing herself back in the chair as much as she can. The screech of metal against marble makes the guards cringe. Slow and cold, a sardonic chuckle begins to burst from Ingvild's lungs. The laughter echoes off the walls while she shakes her head with disbelief.
"Do I look like a dumb bitch to you? Even if this was true, do you think I'm willing to be a slave to another government? Kept ignorant and tabbed? I'd rather rot in this cell while my beautiful monster dismantles your old world order."
Drops of water splash at her face as Erica squashes the plastic cup in front of her, sulking with fury. Her eyebrows knit together and she purses her lips as if this young woman is something sour on her tongue.
Evidently, Liam was right; the girl is far too gone, living in the little fantasy world August built for her.
"If you think he ever cared about you for a split second, then you are a dumb bitch. No matter how this plays out, you and August are never going to end up happily ever after." Erica spits, holding her finger at Ingvild's childlike frown. "He's never going to come for you. You were nothing but a toy, a plaything for him to pass the time."
Ingvild scoffs and rolls her eyes, refusing to let these words cut into the beating muscle in her chest.
'Stick and stones may break my bones...'
Solid, slender fingers wrap around her jaw, squeezing around her cheeks like a big spider. She is met with Erica's long lashes, while those deep brown eyes slice into her soul.
"You might think you know him, but I've worked with August long enough to know that he never loved anything other than his precious ego. So I would consider this as your final chance little girl, because if you don't talk right now - this nice fellow here..." Erica pauses and gestures her head to the scrawny man who begins to hum a blissful tune while cracking his knuckles. Twisted excitement shines through his beady eyes as he glances at the set of sharp surgical tools lying on the desk.
"He's going to make you sing like the precious bird you are."
Fear shies from Ingvild's stoic, icy face. The well-lubricated gears in the labyrinth of her head begin to work, observing the possible escape options and scanning every cavity, crease, and man in Erica's lovely torture chamber.
The door suddenly bursts open. A man in his mid-thirties with bright red hair and a freckle-covered face rushes in, huffing heavily. His pink skin glistens with sweat, the strands of his fiery hair sticking on his large forehead while his hand holds onto his chest with distress.
"Sloane, there is something you need to see..." he opens his mouth breathlessly.
"Not now!" Sloane snaps at him, looking at Ingvild with contempt. There is nothing she wishes more than to avoid torturing a young woman, especially someone as misguided as this poor porcelain doll. All she needs is to make her see the truth, that August never cared for her, that she was just another pawn in his grand scheme.
"Director, I am sorry, but you really need to come and see this."
Agitated, Erica snaps in her chair to look at him. "What is it, Agent Louis?"
"It's John Lark's manifesto, ma'am..." he sighs, shoulders slumping, "it's... it's everywhere."
A shivering hiss escapes her mouth. The shiver that graces the rail of her spine is like a shower of icy water, making her slowly rise from her chair. August's harmful "poetry" is released into the air like toxic gas, contaminating every fragile little mind in an already unstable world.
"Do you like my little surprise?" Ingvild asks, making the baffled woman turn to gaze at her. There's a malicious little smile dancing across her eyes, her brows lifting with an arrogance that strongly resembles Agent Walker.
Swallowing hard, the CIA woman takes a step back, tugging her jacket straight and looking at the torturer who lifts a small hammer between his pliable fingers.
"Break her, until she talks."
The harsh tapping of her heels dies down and her silhouette becomes smaller until it disappears behind the shutting door.
"Pretty girl..." The man's voice is brittle and thin as he is, every word ending with a slight snake-like hiss. He moves to scrutinise her from head to toe, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip with a prying nature.
"You know August used to mock me..."
"I can see why," she spits out, looking back at him with both fearlessness and utter disrespect. She killed men bigger than him, hell, August's kneaded her to submission and his torture was nothing but sweet.
She can take him on, she can take all of them on.
The lean man beams at her, holding up the small shiny hammer and running his finger over the rim pervertedly. The dead skin around his nails arouses disgust in her gut, yet she rolls her eyes and fakes a yawn.
He chuckles at her theatrics and kneels in front of her with one unstable hand pressing onto her thigh. His revolting fingers scratch gently at her denim, making her shiver. If August knew another man was laying his finger on her...
But August is not here.
"Well... shall we begin, little bird?"
***
'When this world ends and the new one begins, what will be of your little Valkyrie? Merely bones and rotting flesh laid in an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere and mourned by no one. Won't you be jealous of the insects feasting on her narcotic tissue?'
Cold air seeps through his nose as sharp bullets of hail hit the ground with the fury of angry gods, shattering onto the ruins of an old bridge with a loud, clattering noise. Sheltered from the rage of the heavens, August stands beneath the wreckage, facing the men who came to make the final exchange.
Blue and green ferns have grown over the decaying surroundings, climbing over rusted metal. Nature reclaiming its place over man's occupied space. Justice and beauty in decadence and rot.
'Memento mori.'
"The plutonium," August demands, his thick brows shadowing his eyes in a battle to remain composed. Those same parasitic visions of sheer terror burden him like a daytime nightmare: pale as porcelain, she sinks to the bottom of a lake thick with blood. His hand reaches out for her, fingers trying to grasp whatever he can but she slips away.
'How far do you think Erica will go this time?'
A rogue droplet of sweat glides languidly down his temple, crossing over a bulging tendon. Unfortunately quite apparent to the three men who scrutinise him with wonder: two well-paid bodyguards and a slimy-looking slug, wearing a dark business suit that does nothing but emphasizes his fragile masculinity.
"The money first!" The businessman whines, attempting to make a tough face.
'A cock and two balls.' August jests and does his best to remain indifferent while anxiety threatens to claw its ugly talons in his throat. The seller's receding hairline is thick with dandruff, his dull green eyes attempt to mimic confidence, as a beta male would do when facing a pure alpha, trying to compensate for lost dignity.
'I don't have time for this,' August huffs, his chest puffing and the immense shoulders stretching even wider, exhuming his natural overpowering dominance. His patience runs brittle as a dry twig. A restless throb thunders between his ears like a scab latched inside his brain.
The slug pries his mouth open to speak, yet his voice becomes dull as if the world just went underwater.
'Do you think she'll go as far as to let her men touch her? You know, not just the usual torture they put interrogated suspects through, but the type of touch only you are allowed to.'
'She doesn't have the balls, she won't do that to another woman.'
'Won't she? It's personal this time. Erica knows what you are capable of. And your Ingvild, she's an apostle too now, an enemy of the world...'
Fever burns at his sweaty forehead and his lungs gradually collapse. Visions he can't even bring himself to imagine attempt force their way into his mind. The yapping of the man who stands in front of him goes on and on; while August can feel himself speak in response, the words spouting from his lips are on autopilot.
All he can think of is her, stripped naked, torn to shreds by dark shadows.
'She holds back a lot, but when she slips, aren't her screams so beautiful? Her pleasant little voice, stretching so melodically, like skin over bone, thin and light.'
"Shut up!"
All eyes lift to August in silent bewilderment. His fists tighten, nails digging into his coarse palms as the will to rip someone to shreds beats through his blood. These men will be no more than a casualty.
"Do you know who I am?" He asks in a deep, menacing tone, his hand but a second from reaching his holster. By measured calculation, he already anticipates how quickly he would shoot them one by one without so much of a scratch on his cheek.
"I'm John, fucking, Lark. My apostles are awaiting orders this very instance," he reaches for his phone, ignoring the flinch in their posture as he draws it from his pocket and shakes it in his hand on display, "and you want to stand here in this shit weather and measure dicks? Spoiler alert," he takes a stride in front of the little man, careless of his bodyguards who reach for their weapons, "mine is far bigger."
The seller peers at him silently, noticing the icy crust of rage in August's glare. His pale eyes cut like diamonds while the shadow of his brooding figure falls upon the small man's face.
"You will get your money once I get to see the plutonium and confirm it's authenticity," August calls out assertively, each word distinguished, each syllable emphasised and sharp as a blade. Death is no longer an enemy to August Walker but an old friend, and those trolls under the bridge are a mere joke to the inferno he's been basking at his entire life.
'Limb by limb, feather by feather, while you waste your time...'
'She wanted me here, she wanted me to secure the plutonium. If I don't do this, it will all be for nothing.'
'So now you are doing this for her?'
Not saying another word, the seller nods and snaps his fingers. Agitation is evident on his face yet the violence emanating from August forces him to bite down his pride. One of his henchmen approaches with a suitcase and opens it up to show August the orbs.
Thunder rips through the sky and the hail turns into a symphony of wrath. Icicles break across the construction site above, splashing water everywhere around them. Staring at the platinum spheres, August sees his own reflection dulled by the dirty silver curve.
A dormant thing. But when set into motion, ever so deadly.
He presses the beryllium rod to test the authenticity of the material and a sigh of relief pipes itself through his nose at the sound of the radioactive note on his testing device. Celebration blooms in his weary heart but the festivity is deemed achingly empty and dies out right away.
'Stop thinking about her, she's gone. Focus on the cause, you're almost there, just keep pushing through the doors.'
~*~
The blizzard melted into shy rain. The soft little drops dampen his hair, perming his large curls with the assistance of the cool winter breeze. Standing with the suitcase on the side of the rural road, August awaits his ride taking him to the helipad to proceed to Kashmir. It has been so long since he last met his true colleagues, since his departure from Lane in Norway. Avoiding any risks, contact was kept only necessary for the last stages of their tasks.
Doom's day.
Securing the plutonium should have brought him relief, yet his chest continues to sink into his spine as if it's being filled with coals. August Walker threaded through life alone, yet this sudden solitude is suddenly harrowing, making him feel like a gutted fish. Looking to his empty side he the ghost of her appears, giving him a bratty smirk.
"Go away," he chides, refusing to think of her. Of that stupid mouth talking back, tormenting him with sweet saccharine and cinnamon-like kisses. In his reminiscences, the softness of her lips still hinges. Tenderness meeting the bristle of his neck as she lay gentle wet markings up his coarse jaw.
His fingers press to his mouth trying to harness the memory.
A large car drives into the side of the road, speeding up and braking right next to his legs, missing August's foot by an inch. Frowning at the careless driver, he grunts and brushes his hair before opening the passenger door.
"Took you a while," he grunts as he slips into the seat and peers at the driver. A bulky man in his early 40s with dark short-cropped curls and thin lips. He shoots August a glance and turns back to the steering wheel.
"Not my bad, you made a fucking mess, Lark." The man answers and begins driving right away, careless of the fact that August didn't put his seatbelt on and that he is holding radioactive material.
Throwing the seatbelt over himself and fastening it, August growls and carefully secures the case on the side of the driver seat, his index finger remaining on the brim. He gently caresses the hard black leather. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
The driver peers at him oddly before looking down the road, driving fast and passing a large log truck. "Releasing the manifesto. MI6 and the CIA are all over the place," he says and turns the radio on, letting August hear the news on his own. "I get why you did it now, it's brilliant to cause another distraction but you've made shit a bit harder with those cunts running around. They tracked it back from London and have been surveying the entire area."
"I didn't release the... "
August stills, his muscles shrivelling up as realisation quickly hits him.
'Oh angel, what have you done?'
Drawing out his mobile phone, August immediately begins to search the newsite, his eyes an ocean of panic, fluttering back and forth. It's everywhere, news about an anarchist manifesto, spreading like a virus through every social media outlet, leaked by codename "Jane Lark".
"Fuck," he hisses, reading his own written word as he goes through an article posted on the BBC's newsite. But she changed the last verse, added a little piece of her own:
"Valkyries mounted onto beasts,
We will ride eternal to the sun.
The blazes will sear us but we will not back down,
United by our cause of just war,
Unflinching we will scour the earth,
Until humanity comes together in tranquil and harmony."
'She loves you, you see? The way she lets you bleed her, use her, spill all your pain inside her. The way she held onto you just a night ago, your name falling from her lips, her body pressing into yours to take all of you. She's the only one. The only woman who did and ever will.
And you left her to die.'
________________________________
Disclaimer: I don't own Mission Impossible and August Walker