They say that will-o-the-wisps will lead you to your fate, to your future. But all she sees when staring out her shitty Slateport apartment window is burnt-out lights and empty thoughts. Her heart feels heavy, her attention fleeting.

Shadows pass over her window but she breezes past them. With a cigarette between her teeth and ash in the bottom of her whiskey glass, she's lingering between states, holding on by a thread.

She's been seeing ghosts. Ghosts of her past, ghosts of her future, ghosts of her present. It's like Christmas has come early, but with a stocking full of coal and bad blood in her mouth.

Slowly, the woman draws her teeth across her bottom lip, feeling the grooves and the bruises where Calla's teeth had pierced her own. Where their fervent, impulsive, ravenous devouring had begun. It had been several days since, and no word from her, as usual.

So here she was, in the belly of a long-closed bar, drinking all by herself.

She misses the click of a lock being jimmied, knocks back another round.

calla mccoy

☉

[attr="class","calla"]

[attr="class","calla b"]

[attr="class","calla i"]"mon cherie."

the whisper echoes like a prayer. it slinks through shadows and cobwebs, her own body slowly following the path it carves. a wolf hunting lamb, a hunter stalking prey. falling into patterns is second nature for them. after all, this is merely foreplay for her.

white hair frames remi's features, a halo on a form far from holy.

and monsters don't pray but she'd whisper hymns in this woman's ear to reach that level of heaven.

shadows keep her close. their fingers wind around skin with the familiarity of a lover. they merely don't hold the same aggression as the drinking woman. a shame, really.

bloody hair and a golden stare will always give her away in the end.

and if remi glances up from her next drink, she'll find a pair of eyes staring at her from along the wall. unblinking, unwavering, and crawling with centipede circles.

Remi Cassel
mission