Amalia
Her hackles raise - literally - at Sera’s innocent comment on the Ascended having a choice, but she’s learned better than to espouse the rhetoric that they are victims as well. At least, not on a day like this, surprisingly pleasant and full of potential for genuine friendship in a foreign space. Inhaling deeply, she wills the fur on the back of her neck to stand down, the claws that press against her palms to retract. She says nothing but offers a noncommittal hum that the Artificer may or may not hear, steeling herself before stepping out from behind the comforting isolation of the curtained room.
The mirror, the reaction, the woman hovering at her shoulder- it’s all a little overwhelming, and Amalia can already feel the leopard fur threatening to rise again. Oh, it’s pleasant - the shirt is beautiful and Sera is buoyant - but it reminds her too much of moments lost, of things she will never again have. It should have been Evie standing beside her, advising her on clothes. But Evie will never be allowed her, or Kia, or Adam, or Deimos, or any of the countless others that Amalia has come so keenly to love.
She looks at the woman in the mirror, dressed in green and white with flowers in her hair, and finds she cannot breathe.
She’s pulling off the shirt before she realizes, shaking hands trying not to tear the delicate fabric as she rips it, shameless, from her body. She doesn’t stop to find her own blouse, doesn’t stop for anything except to murmur, over and over, ”Sorry, I’m sorry, I, I can’t, I’m sorry.” Leopard fur sprouts beneath her breastband, with lilac scales interspersed around her spine; the Archangel’s head is crowned in horns as she pushes her way out of the small shop and into the night. It’s dark, and the impending storm means most people have gone inside. Wind whipping through Amalia’s hair, the not-Shield throws herself against a lamp post, inhaling great gulps of cold air while her vision shifts and spins.
The mirror, the reaction, the woman hovering at her shoulder- it’s all a little overwhelming, and Amalia can already feel the leopard fur threatening to rise again. Oh, it’s pleasant - the shirt is beautiful and Sera is buoyant - but it reminds her too much of moments lost, of things she will never again have. It should have been Evie standing beside her, advising her on clothes. But Evie will never be allowed her, or Kia, or Adam, or Deimos, or any of the countless others that Amalia has come so keenly to love.
She looks at the woman in the mirror, dressed in green and white with flowers in her hair, and finds she cannot breathe.
She’s pulling off the shirt before she realizes, shaking hands trying not to tear the delicate fabric as she rips it, shameless, from her body. She doesn’t stop to find her own blouse, doesn’t stop for anything except to murmur, over and over, ”Sorry, I’m sorry, I, I can’t, I’m sorry.” Leopard fur sprouts beneath her breastband, with lilac scales interspersed around her spine; the Archangel’s head is crowned in horns as she pushes her way out of the small shop and into the night. It’s dark, and the impending storm means most people have gone inside. Wind whipping through Amalia’s hair, the not-Shield throws herself against a lamp post, inhaling great gulps of cold air while her vision shifts and spins.
