[ 17 ]
DEATH WAS A FORM of creation, too. Creation of ruin, of darkened skies and withered flowers. But unlike creation, it was no longer as beautiful as it had once been foretold, as the poets sang its praises. No -- death was ugly and brutal and violent, and Sasha would make sure that everyone knew. Those who glorified it could go on, but no would cry when death stole them away. They opened it with open arms, so why should they? But people like Sasha, the people who saw death as it truly was, who looked it in the eye and told it to let go, those were the people who escaped.
It was a wonder that she wasn't dead yet, but she took it.
She would never be like her family, so afraid of death that they didn't fight it, so afraid that they didn't even try to live their lives.
Sasha felt Narcissa's freshly manicured nails dig into her wrist, her pulse pounding in her ears as a round of polite applause concluded Director Singh's speech. The Scarlet Serpent was terrified, it was painstakingly clear -- and Sasha didn't blame her. It was no surprise that half the people out there, UN members, senators and exclusive reporters, hated her guts and probably wouldn't mind splashing a small fortune to have a bullet in her head. Had Sash been in her place, she would've probably been sobbing by now, but Narcissa kept a poker face on, jaw set and eyes dull and cold.
Heaving a breath, Sasha resisted the urge to close her eyes as an encouraging quirk of Neleesha's lips invited her to the podium, the speech she'd prepared clutched in her sweaty palm, pale pink nails clawing at the paper as she walked to the front, a thousand sets of eyes following her movement. As she cleared her throat, Sasha kept her eyes trained on the microphone, trying her best to keep her voice even despite the nerves making it quiver hopelessly.
"It is an honour to be here today," she began, tracing the edge of the podium with her finger. "In front of so many world-changing people, all of us with the common goal of helping Semper City's potential shine through. As you know, my name is Alexandra Sperova, and I am not a native, as many of you here are -- but that doesn't change my love for this city. I have a speech prepared, but after seeing so many faces in this room, with all of your stories, I've decided to not read from a sheet of paper. So hear these words, and know that they come from my heart, because that is the most important place that words that really mean something can come from."
Sasha didn't miss the tantalised glare that Director Singh shot her, dark eyes flashing.
"I have been in Semper for four years, and in those years I have seen people from every corner of the world, creating a mix of cultures that is nothing short of beautiful, and I'm sure many of you will agree. While others see Semper City as something needing to be saved, I see a brighter future, for all of us. For everyone in this city, regardless of which part they live in, regardless of who they are or what they will become. Mayhem breeds monsters, but today, we can change that and make Semper the greatest city in the world, if we all work towards the things that our communities have proposed. These include the reinstallation of youth programs, which give underprivileged teenagers a chance to make themselves into something better than what they will be forced to be.
The police service--"
A sudden bang cut her off, and Sasha found her chest heaving, air barely entering her lungs as she registered the sound as a gunshot. Ducking down behind the podium, her knuckles turned white, bone pressing against her freckle-beaten skin as she clutched the marble, holding on as if the floor was about to swallow her whole.
She was not afraid of death, but something told her that she should be.
More gunshots sounded, ringing in her ears like sirens, and Sasha forced herself to stand up, willing herself to be the hero that she knew she was destined to be. Legs shaking, she walked in front of the podium, facing the shellshocked crowd that was still unable to move for fear of being shot. Sasha made herself turn her head to meet her friends' eyes, unfazed by the two guns that Narcissa pulled out from under her dress. Wildfire rubbed his hands together frantically, golden eyes wide as he took in the scene before them.
Sasha counted four shooters, unless some were hidden behind the pillars -- given their width and height, it would've been largely possible. She swore under her breath, opening her arms, a target, as she realised that a few people were already on the floor, pools of blood around them. The masked attackers turned to face her, guns pressed against civilians' heads threateningly. The message was clear; if she misbehaved, those people would get their brains blown out.
A deafening shot rang out, masking the whiz of a bullet as it grazed against Sasha's bicep. The sound had stolen her attention away. Letting out a string of curses that normally would've never touched her lips, Sasha tore off a length of material from her dress, silently praising the floor-length gown she'd been forced into. Luckily, the shooter, thinking that she was no longer much of a threat, had now focused their attention on Narcissa, giving Sasha time to slip behind the heavy curtains on either side of the podium.
Heart pounding, she let herself fall to her knees, panicked fingers scrabbling to find a hold along the jagged length of silk until, at last, she was able to tie it around her arm to staunch the bleeding. It wasn't a bad injury, but she couldn't risk letting more people die because she'd neglected to take her of herself. With shaking legs and a dizzy head, Sasha gripped the top of the lighting box, blood-smeared fingers sliding along the colourful buttons as she pulled herself up.
Her insides felt tangled up, loops of string wound all around each other in a knotted mess, but she forced herself to walk -- one step, two steps -- until she reached the side of a familiar suit-clad figure, slumping against Finn with a long exhale.
"First time getting shot, Sash?"
His fingers were pulsing with golden light, and Sasha tore herself away immediately, giving him a half-smile.
"Yes. I don't intend on being turned to gold while I'm at it."
"Smart." He turned away as one of the shooters surged towards him, but before they could cock their gun, a cumbersome grey-black thing that seemingly made their arms sag under its weight, he'd rolled underneath the weapon, seizing the shooter's wrist. The slit in the gunman's mask where their mouth was opened into a gasp as golden veins raced through the small amounts of skin showing, their muscles tensing before turning a dull yellow colour. Within a few seconds, they'd turned to gold, gun and all.
Sasha made her way to a crowd of terrified-looking civilians, watching Narcissa tackle one of the remaining three shooters to the ground in the corner of her eye.
"Don't go through the front door. There's a fire exit behind the podium - the door in the right wing of the stage will lead you to the stairs. Go down, and it's there. Go, go!" she urged them, a flurry of stampeding feet making her cringe as they followed her instructions, albeit not as discreetly as she would've liked.
The hall was still crammed with people, with maybe around half of the guests still there, some crouched behind chairs, others screaming desperately for help. Fieldmarshals from Crux were attempting to shepherd people out. Black cars pulled up outside the city hall, senators rushing inside before speeding away, leaving a trail of dust in their wake.
Assessing the scene, Sash counted six shooters, including the one that Finn had turned to gold -- meaning that two new ones had arrived and seemingly made their mark, she thought, tiptoeing around a reporter that lay motionless on the ground, her white shirt covered in blood. Heaving an uneasy breath, Sasha focused her attention on a shooter that was busy reloading the semi-automatic in their gloved hands. But before she could draw her own gun, which Narcissa had slipped her before they'd taken their seats "in case of an emergency", the gunman had cocked his weapon, aiming it at her head.
She wasn't sure whether she would be able to make him put the gun down -- the encounter a few days before, when she'd controlled a hundred minds at once, had left her shaky and sickly, unable to sing without throwing up what little there was in her empty stomach. Nonetheless, Sasha cleared her throat and began, voice quavering as she did, but still audible. It grew louder, a bile rising in her throat, but she persisted, a small smile tugging at her lips as she watched the shooter raise their hands, the gun falling to the floor with a clatter.
For a moment, she contemplated whether to pick it up and send a bullet into their skull, but a shred of humanity within her made her instead walk forward and peel the mask off from the gunman's sweat-soaked face, managing to do so with a grunt of effort as the material clung to the sharp angles of the man's features. Sasha froze as a jolt of what felt like recognition plumelled through her, despite not being able to put a name or location to the face.
"Miss Sperova," he croaked, yellowed teeth baring into a grin. "It has been so long."
"Who are you?" Sasha muttered, reaching for the gun at the same time he did.
Her shaking fingers were too slow, and her stomach jolted as the gunman cocked his firearm. Momentarily, she expected him to fire at her, but as he turned it around, the barrel entering his mouth, Sasha realised what he was about to do a second too late. Blood and bone splattered her as he squeezed the trigger, effectively blowing a hole through his own head. He staggered backwards, still standing for a few seconds, before crumpling to the floor, his blood staining the marble floors as he lay, limp as a ragdoll.
It was only then that she realised he'd spoken Usnayan.
As much as she wanted to investigate every inch of him, there and then, Sasha knew that now was not the time. Instead, she reverted her attention to the now near-empty hall, Crux agents littered around every corner, attending to the wounded and escorting ashen visitors outside, where SCPD police cars could be seen. The police were useless -- it was common knowledge around Semper that going to them was a waste of time and effort, but the Senate had refused to sign over the law enforcement to Crux, resulting in a state of what could only be known as anarchy -- nothing less, nothing more.
And Sasha was decidedly not an anarchist.
Making her way through the swarming officers, she found Narcissa sitting in one of the chairs nearest to the door, a wet rag pressed against her head, soaking her dark hair and tricking down to the necklace pressed against her collarbone. The jewellery was a shimmering gold, though Sasha could've sworn it had been silver before. Narcissa had tied her hair back with a small elastic band, revealing a faint trickle of blood on her cheeks, though it was not hers -- no, it was golden.
"Finn."
"He's-he's okay," the Scarlet Serpent's voice trembled slightly, and she shook her hair out, burying her head in her hands. Sasha could tell that she was crying, but she didn't say anything to attempt to comfort her, knowing that only seeing Finn, safe and unharmed, could calm Narcissa down. She felt the same way, the dull pain in her arm returning as she searched the crowd for Wildfire. A billow of smoke made the task easy enough, and following it, she soon found him, a hoarde of reporters pressing microphones into his face as he managed to get in a few words sideways in response to their bombardment of questions.
"Who were the shooters?"
"How many casualties were there?"
"What was Sasha Sperova suggesting?"
"How many hostages were taken?"
"Whoa, whoa. One at a time-" he seemed to fumble with his words, exhaling as Sasha took him by the arm, firmly pulling him away from the impromptu press conference behind them.
"You were going to mess up, I can tell," she murmured, scrubbing at a patch of dirt on her dress with her thumb, not meeting his eyes.
"Are you ok, Sash? I mean, you did technically get shot, didn't you?" His eyebrows furrowed in concern, feet tracing circles on the concrete ground. Cold, delicious air filled her lungs, wind whipping her ponytail as she sat down on the steps leading to the entrance and rain sliding down her skin, causing a shiver to run down her spine. She kept finding herself looking over her shoulder, half-expecting to see a masked shooter behind her, pressing their gun into her back.
"How many people, Jasper?"
It felt strange using his name, but she knew that it was what he wanted.
He said nothing, rain flattening his messy black hair.
"How many?"
"Four," Jasper paused, his eyes glassy. "There were always four."
[ end ]