M E L I T A
Melita should’ve known; the bubble destruction was the mission, the end goal, the light at the end of the tunnel. But she’d heard the discontent, the hatred, the seething masses as she watched the battle wage on – inhaled, uncertain of where she stood or tread on the matter. She was too ignorant to make a blunt statement of where she aligned herself: all she craved was the fight, the melee, the rush of movement, of motion, to a singular purpose. “No. There were many unhappy Naturals gathered while you fought.” Her smile faded a little, remembering the contempt placed upon Outlanders – every single one of them – simply for their existence, because others pursued devastation and annihilation, and they craved the status quo. Were there things to fear then, in every single avenue? Was she supposed to be scared? Was she supposed to be apprehensive?
The restlessness tangled and sizzled down her bones.
Her eyes followed Roana’s movements, caught the edges of scars, the marks of battle. The honeybee girl had never given much credence to such emblems except that they were blemishes of survivors. They told an outline, a story, a mere sketch of the truth, but that the beholder remained, and perhaps that was enough. The youth had some of her own, but the largest zigzagged down her back, born from lightning barbs and sparked thorns, from betrayal and upheaval, from ghosts meant to stay in their graves.
Fangorn didn’t know quite what to do when he was addressed except glare – Melita answered for him with a muffled chuckle. “This is Fangorn.” She waited for the inevitable press, the endless queries, of how and why she’d taken in a vampire gourd, especially since they had worked to annihilate a vast majority of them in the great pumpkin uprising. It didn’t come. Roana had sensed her motives, leaned the conversation that way, and the child swallowed, heart suddenly roaring, howling, with anticipation. “If you’d be willing, I’d be very grateful.”
