Seraphim turns to leave when Angel's voice rings out
"What are you going to do after this?"
Seraphim freezes. Her gaze trained on the bookcase peeking out from the doorway. Her eyes shut. She reopens them and schools her expression. She mustn't show weakness. She turns around and shrugs as if asked what she would like for dinner.
"I don't know. Maybe die again."
The casual tone she applies to the heavy words sends a shiver through Angel. He goes rigid and swears his heart has ceased to beat. None of the nightmares she inflicted on him could compare to the image of that. He can't lose her, not like that, not forever. The phantom she is, no matter how gut-wrenching, is alive. Even when she requested he abandon her Alan passed along updates to him. He had something to hold onto. He can't imagine his life without her presence in one form or another. They've been friends, partners, lovers - something for almost two decades. It's always been the two of them. What's a coin without one of its faces?"
Seraphim's eyes flicker over his face. First there is shock, but it morphs into fear and finally, hurt. She digs her nails into the flesh of her palm, savoring the pinpricks of pain. She deserves it. She has done this to him, given him false hope, made him turn against all he believes. He should loathe her. She deserves it, but its too late. What has been set in motion can't be stopped and she wouldn't end it if she could. Seraphim deserves vengeance and she won't give it up. Not for Angel. Not for anyone.
Seraphim leaves and vanishes into the night.
***
Seraphim drops down on the sloped roof. Her suit keeps the rain from touching her bare skin, but her hair is drenched. The cropped strands are plastered to the side of her face. She peels them away from her cheek and tucks them behind her ear. Around her the relentless rain hurls itself against the shingles of the roof.
She crouches down, gasping one of the roof's vertexes. The storm clouds have muted the moon's visibility. Instead of producing a radiant glow as bright as any flashlight, it resembles the beam of a halogen floodlight.
It's enough and with it she can see the winding deserted streets of the cul-de-sac. If it weren't for the roar of the wind and rain it would be almost dead silent. In the background she can hear a dog bark and a car door slam. All around Striker's house is quiet though. There is a sole light on in the house across the street.
Seraphim climbs over the vertex and slides to the roof's edge. Gripping the protruding ledge with her gloved hand, she drops down, landing on the stone patio with a muted thump. She glances around once more before reaching for the handle of the glass door. Seraphim gives it an experimental tug and, to her shock, it parts. Her gaze darts from the gap to the dark inside, visible through the unobstructed glass.
It seems a rather foolish thing for a man such as Striker. Too foolish. She traces the doorway with her eyes, searching for triggers or hints of a trap. There's nothing.
He's heard of Tidal Wave's death. He must know she is the culprit. Why would he overlook such a basic defense?
She has come to far to turn back. She slides the door open further and slips inside, scanning the dark interior for signs of danger. She shuts the door and the house is plunged into an uneasy silence.
The only light in the kitchen is the illuminated digital numbers on the stove and microwave. They announce the time to be 10:44. The fragments of light are enough to grant her a sense of the room.
She makes her way across the linoleum, thankful for her boots which mute her footfalls. The hall is illuminated by streetlight streaming in through the half-bath window. Seraphim glances both ways. To her right is a hall with three open doors and to the left the hall blooms outwards into the foyer.
Something tugs her in the direction of the entryway and what lies around the corner. She takes a step forward and hesitates. Subconsciously, her fingers run over her lip, over the long healed bruise. The scar above her heart burns.
She tears her hand away and shuts her eyes chasing the flashes of memories away. Seraphim takes a deep breath and marches forth. Her eyes find him almost instantly, as if they knew where he was before she did. The living room, like the rest of the house, is dark. A flash of lightning illuminates the room for a split second. Long enough for Seraphim to glimpse the gun in Striker's hand.
Seraphim creeps around, until she is able to gain a better look at him. He looks older, older than he should, as if he's been fighting a war for a hundred years, and can no longer bear it. It's all in his eyes, the mountainous guilt. The green eyes are as striking as the lightning against the canvas of his dark skin
He shifts in the armchair, Seraphim tenses, her hand curling into a fist.
"You going to shoot me, Striker?" she taunts, eyeing him like a caged animals. "If you even still go by that name."
"This isn't for you," he says, waving the gun around. His voice cracks.
Seraphim's gaze narrows. He wouldn't dare. He avoids her eyes, staring instead at the dark TV screen. In the low hum of light he can see his own pitiful reflection staring back at him. He deserves this. They deserve her vengeance. He's been playing Russian roulette for the past two years hoping for a sign, and it came in the form of Tidal Wave's fiery death. The guilt's been weighing on his shoulders for two years, slowly devouring him like a cancer, until it reached a fever pitch.
He dares to look at her and notices the deep scar on her cheek. He doesn't doubt that behind that red and black shield are countless more. They pale in comparison to the ones they left on her mind.
They should have known better. They should have never believed that fucker's words. The water fills his eyes, manifestations of guilt and rage.
"We thought it was you. We didn't know. We didn't know. We believed him." He scrubs a hand over his face. It comes away wet with his own tears. "By the time I found out the truth the damage had already been done. Please, forgive me."
Faster than Seraphim can comprehend, Striker places the gun under his chin and pulls the trigger. The shot echoes through the house, followed by a cry from the heavens.
Every muscle in Seraphim's body locks and she ceases to breathe.
Gunshot.
Blood.
Screaming.
Crying.
Darkness.
Breathe. She can't breathe. She keels forwarded, tearing at her chest, as if she can rip away whatever is suppressing the air. Striker's blood is splattered across her flesh, the droplets scorch her even through the fabric of her suit. The flashes come at once. A rush of blood, of anger, of crying, of - of the darkness. Her eyes flutter shut of their own accord and her lungs open allowing her to suck in a swell of air.
Seraphim permits the darkness to overtake her mind. Empty, peaceful darkness. There's nothing in the darkness but the calm. Slowly, the tightness in her chest eases and her breathing evens out.
She conjures what little will she has left and opens her eyes. She forces herself to look at Striker. His head hangs limply. His hand dropped in his lap at an awkward angle. The cause of his demise tumbled off his lap and now lies on the floor at his feet. The armchair, the ceiling, and much of the wall and window surrounding is sprayed with his blood and brain matter.
He's gone.
He's dead.
How dare he? How dare he take his own life? How dare he steal her revenge? It was not enough he once tried to take her life, he had to take her retribution as well. Her fists shake at her sides. She whirls around, plunging one through the wall, with a furious scream. The anger flees from her body at once.
Seraphim yanks her hand out of the wall. In place of the rage is nothing, just coldness, and bottomless numbness.
Sirens ring out in the distance, approaching. She remembers the lit window across the street. Someone called the police. She takes one last look at Striker's corpse and flees the way she came, vanishing into the stormy night.
***
Seraphim lies on the mattress in her apartment. The dampened moonlight shines down on her pale skin. She's on her back with one arm tucked under her head and the other lying across her stomach. In the streets outside she can hear loud laughter and shouting followed by a victorious roar. In the far distance, she thinks she can hear the wail of police sirens, but Seraphim is unsure if they are real or a trick of her mind.
Seraphim turns her head away from the window, forcing out the images of Striker putting the gun to his chin.
This was never meant to be her life. She was happy once. How did it all get so fucked up? She stares up at the chipped ceiling. The scars flare to life and it happens all over again. The blade slashes across her skin, the bullet pierces the flesh right above her heart, narrowly missing the vital organ. Seraphim has spent almost her entire life playing with fire, but she never felt the heat, not until that night.
She can remember their expressions: vacant, guilty, determined. When she first awoken she tried to convince herself that someone forced their hand, that someone was controlling them, but that was the sick hope of a desperately foolish girl.
The tears prickle at her eyes. Seraphim shuts them, desperate to keep the water at bay. She can't stand to cry anymore.
***
She spends the next several hours tossing and turning, listening to the sound of the wind and rain, and the distant rumbles of thunder. Aggravated, she throws the covers back and gets up. She snatches up her jacket, slips on her boots, and leaves, unable to stand the confines of the apartment any longer.
Seraphim wanders aimlessly through the deserted streets. The rain beats down on her, soaking her hair and clothing. Still, she continues weaving her way through the night with no destination in mind.
One of Metro City's infamous nights surrounds her. It's the only time the darkness that haunts the city is discernible. No one knows where it originated from. Many blame the Changed. They're wrong. The city was corrupt long before Changed came to be. They only brought it into the light. Metro City, according to historians, has been corrupt since its birth, something about a founding family dabbling in organized crime. Seraphim can't see why the origins matters. The darkness is here to stay and no amount of light will chase it away.
Seraphim crosses the recently repainted blocks as the red hand counts down. The origins of heroes and villains remains a subject of great debate. Does a villain create a hero or does a hero birth a villain? Some claim, Supreme was the first "supercriminal" in Metro City, a racist intent on "cleansing" the city. Others say the Brown Knight, Metro City's first "superhero" was the start of it and the villains rose in response to him.
Seraphim studied the records as a teen and they clearly reveal Supreme proceeded Brown Knight by a solid two months. He sprung out of necessity. Supreme was tearing Metro City apart at the seams. Brown Knight defeated him and he was locked away, but the damage had already been done.
That was the beginning of Metro City's downfall. Twisted and sadistic criminals rose in Supreme's wake, all clamoring to claim his crown. Several have over the years, some have gone even further. For a while Brown Knight was alone in his fight and they rose faster than he could meet them. Eventually, crime gripped Metro City's heart. It was to much for the police and in their desperation they turned to Brown Knight who they once hunted. Brown Knight was an inspiration and as more villains came to be so did more heroes. The battle has been going on for over thirty years with no end in sight.
The players change, but the game remains the same.