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it wasn't that she hadn't considered casting aside the devil, the ambition, the hatred that fueled her. it wasn't that she hadn't thought of the quiet life that awaited her, with a job that she may not have loved but nonetheless funded her tiny haven within hoenn. it wasn't that she hadn't wondered what the inside of a church might look like at the end of an aisle, a bouquet in her hand and hope in her heart.[break][break]

the day her husband died, the world didn't end. the universe hadn't even blinked. life went on as normal, and so did she, she thought. the job continued, the bills piled up, friends and family came for condolences, the neighbor's dog continued to bark at her when she came home at night. no cosmic force reached down to shake her shoulders and ask her why she was still alive while her husband was not.[break][break]

it was as though she had been abandoned in hell and expected to live her life normally. as though her mind did not slowly decay with every hour she lived and remembered she was breathing and cole was not.[break][break]

it had not been her choice, to leave that life behind. it had been thrust upon her when cole's body was lowered into the ground, when all the evidence in the world could not convince anyone he had been murdered, when cole's family told her she was selfish for questioning the government, when the only solace she got was from a bottle of vodka a night.[break][break]

the devil had been a choice, yes. one she did not have the strength to make. the real choice had been the one taken from her, and she did not know how to live without it.[break][break]

she wants evelyn to understand that she would cast away the devil, she would cast away all of hell, if only she had a choice. but her existence feels like chains wrapped around aching limbs, and the devil is only a new set of manacles.[break][break]

"i don't want to leave you," she admits, her voice weak. "it's just that—i feel like i can't make any other choice than this one. it feels like i've gone too far."[break][break]

but this is a lie. because she feels like she can't choose otherwise, when there may be no going back, she still feels trapped, like she will never choose light even as the darkness consumes her. she doesn't know what will happen in the end. she only knows how much pain she feels at the thought of evelyn's heart aching.[break][break]

and she doesn't know how to face it.

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for perhaps the first time, a sense of doubt begins to eke its way into absinthe's mind.[break][break]

"i don't know," she answers finally, as she runs a thumb over her mask. "but what choice do i have?"[break][break]

that devil had seen something in her. she could have been as craven as her colleagues at her old job, she could have been a stranger on the street who crosses the road when they see a rocket grunt coming, but she is neither of those things. she had been chosen because she is broken, because she is hellfire, because she is ambitious, because she is chaotic.[break][break]

"i have to see it through," she murmurs, meeting evelyn's gaze with something like helplessness. she is an animal snared by the prospect of revenge, of success, of scientific breakthrough, no matter the cost to her spirit, her body, her mind. "but i—"[break][break]

she hesitates, and when she speaks again her voice cracks. "since i began, there was no other ending to this story. i will always die at the end of this. why can't i go out on my own accord?"[break][break]

for a moment, absinthe considers that the devil is not an echo, but a final test. the world is the judge, and her body is the stage on which the play is conducted.[break][break]

the answer?[break][break]

to throw it all away. to choose evelyn, the life she's always wanted. to choose happiness, light, life. to cast away the devil, to reject her own evil.[break][break]

but she can't. it's too late for her. it's too late now that the devil's claw has sunk its way into her heart. it will take all of her, and there will be nothing left for evelyn but a shell of a woman who once loved her and will never be the same.

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as absinthe's laughter subsides she inhales sharply, taking in a long gulp of bourbon-tainted air. there's a pang in her chest. a feeling she doesn't know what to do with. as she straightens up she coughs, glancing over at howard only when he speaks. her cheeks are wet. she can't tell if it's from the bourbon or hysterical tears.[break][break]

there's a pause as she contemplates telling him no, that the second flask—this one full of scotch—is for herself, but she can't bring herself to deny him in the face of such camaraderie. slowly, she trudges through the grass and muck, extending the half-full flask to him.[break][break]

her voice is hoarse and rasping. "not much left."[break][break]

then, a smirk plays at the corners of her mouth. it's small, minuscule, and barely there, but it's the first real expression that's crossed her face in years, not forced or pasted on. "but the night is young. we can get more."

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absinthe has not just seen one of the loyal three, now. she has been blessed by it, like a dove might anoint an infant.[break][break]

but absinthe is not an infant. she is a woman, and the echo of the devil at her side is not a dove. it is an omen of things to come. and absinthe is not friends with it.[break][break]

she could be. if she tries, she could be. some deep, twisted part of her wants to. for some unknowable reason, there is a kinship between her and the devil. every passing hour between the night in fallarbor and the present is another hour absinthe realizes that she is broken beyond repair. to find kinship with the progenitor of hatred is to invite ruin upon herself.[break][break]

but how could she have denied the opportunity she was given? how could she have turned her cheek from the face of god?[break][break]

surely evelyn will understand. they are both brilliant minds. surely, the only person absinthe can bother to care about will see things from absinthe's point of view.[break][break]

"it's not one of the loyal three," she answers finally as she comes close to her old friend and new flame. "it is an echo."[break][break]

indeed, the fezandipiti holds no menace in its eyes—only emptiness. that is another trait they share.[break][break]

"i have been blessed," absinthe continues, this time with a tone tinged by genuine brightness. "my research into the toxic chain will bear fruit."[break][break]

but what will she lose in the process?

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absinthe's gloved hands trace over the parchment in consideration. she fancies she can still smell the chemicals in the ink even though it has long since dried. her eyes flutter as she calculates the possible effects, considering the man's words with a slow nod. "i can stabilize the mixture and dilute it. regulating the amounts will help the consistency."[break][break]

she mulls over the side effect, and the fact that it's wanted, only at high doses, makes absinthe's lips pull into a smirk. she pictures the excess of greenery sprouting from cuts and scrapes like little accidents, an ode to the force and the power of nature.[break][break]

"i like it," she says. "it's poetic."[break][break]

she leans forward, once more locking eyes with the man. "what do i get from this?"[break][break]

a snake on a staff is still a snake, after all, and it must be sated.

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with shirley's teeth sunk deep into the rubber hose, the stream of lit bourbon stopped and died, the machine going silent for the first time since they'd met it. with a spark, the flame flickers and dies in absinthe's hand, and she's left staring into the dark hose. her first instinct is to feel the heat at the end of the rubber in her hand. she can't believe what's happening. a ghost in a washing machine. a haunted house. she'd been fooled by some supernatural force into throwing a perfectly good flask of bourbon into its metallic belly.[break][break]

then, the hose is ripped away from her grip by shirley. there's an inter-species battle between shirley and the washing machine, something absinthe would never even attempt to understand or get in between, and she takes a step back. then, slowly, she looks around her.[break][break]

in what feels like the blink of an eye, the quaint little backyard has transformed into a warzone. the house is on fire, the lawnmower is nothing more than a charred corpse, and bourbon is soaking every square inch of the grass. her coat is soggy and ruined, bourbon seeping onto her pants, and she can hardly smell anything but the pungent scent of alcohol. in one moment, she feels like her whole world has been turned upside down.[break][break]

she laughs a single laugh, short and sharp and desperate. she's not sure if she's losing it or regaining it. this world has no logic or reason. she is surrounded by chaos, and nothing makes sense anymore. she can't process how she feels.[break][break]

howard is leaning against the fence, moaning. the world is on fire.[break][break]

so, absinthe does what any reasonable person would do in this moment, she thinks.[break][break]

she laughs. she laughs hysterically. she feels the most alive she's felt in months. she's horrified, she's anxious, but she's alive. "haha-" she gasps for breath, then braces herself on her knees, feeling the bourbon-soaked dirt sticking to her hands. "hahaha! this is so fucking stupid!"

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there's a sudden pounding in absinthe's ears. it sounds like waves crashing on the beach—the tide coming in, sweeping away the sand she stands on. she feels the soft, sick feeling of vertigo, her head spinning as if the world is lurching beneath her feet. she can hear cole's voice, feel the press of his lips against the side of her head, urging her forward as the first time he ever took her out on his boat.[break][break]

'keep your eye on the horizon, abby,' he had said, so steady and sure, as if guiding her back to land even when her grip on the rigging was lax and lazy. 'i've got you.'[break][break]

absinthe, even now, feels the phantom sensation of his hand on the small of her back, keeping her steady as the waves pitched her from side to side. her heart flutters like a bird caught against the inside of a glass window.[break][break]

her gas mask ruffles as her breath quickens. with the fezandipiti's alluring gaze upon her, she can almost feel its eyes piercing into her skin, as if seeing all her darkest secrets and desires and fears. it spreads before her a cloud of pheromones, beckoning her closer, deeper into the mists and the chaos of battle. and without knowing why, she takes a step, her boots crunching through the ice and snow. her fingers outstretch for the shining shard of fezandipiti that breaks away from its body and drifts towards her, its feathers shimmering with color and mystery.[break][break]

yuina calls out from behind her, a voice cutting through the haze in her mind like a knife. but it sounds so very, very far away, as if underwater, drowned beneath the waves of the past. her voice sounds thick and drugged, as if every word she says is swimming upstream through honey. absinthe can barely make out that she's speaking at all, and even then, she can't seem to put together what she's trying to say.[break][break]

but then, it doesn't really matter what yuina has to say, does it? absinthe can hardly remember why she's even here, except for the warm fluttering sensation in her chest that draws her ever closer to the fezandipiti. her hand reaches up towards the feather, and her breath hitches, anticipation sharp as cut glass in her chest.[break][break]

her fingers brush against it, and it's as if something in her chest rips open. she can suddenly feel it all—her past, present, and maybe even her future—blending together into a hot, messy tangle of emotion and memory. the phantom of cole's hand against her back is replaced by a new hand, one she doesn't recognize, but one that she clings to as she's dragged deeper and deeper into the black waves of oblivion.[break][break]

then, the real bird is gone, and an imposter rises in its place, sunken-eyed and empty. its is hers, standing firm and tall, but with nothing more than power to offer.[break][break]

it is only now that absinthe tosses her head over her shoulder, towards yuina. her eyes are dark. she is different.[break][break]

"yes," she says finally. "the world is my enemy. i would have it no other way."[break][break]

absinthe turns to face the woman fully now. her body is tense and coiled, like a sword held back by a sheathe.[break][break]

"do you count among my enemies, yuina?"[break][break]

the question is quiet and low. the idea is clear, as she is flanked by her frozen moth, by her new omen. do you provoke me, and all the consequences that come with that?

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absinthe grips the talonflame's saddle with a grip bordering on the edge of terror, her knuckles white from the strength she's using to hold on. the wind whips her hair away from her face, making her burn scar pull with tight, uncomfortable pain. the sensation, however, hardly matters in comparison to her knee throbbing relentlessly. a scream of pain is buried deep within her chest, a wild caged beast clawing for release.[break][break]

they soar, turn a corner, and then another, a dizzying ride through narrow city streets. they are followed by the wail of sirens, the symphony of the hunt that sends shivers down her spine. though they gain in distance, it is a small victory, no matter how fast they fly. she's never been on a bird before, never been in the air in a means that is not under her own power. the feeling is not freeing, nor liberating, nor anything but yet another thing she has lost control of.[break][break]

and through the pain, the terror, the fear, she can hear june's question.[break][break]

"officer marcus weld," she replies, jaw clenched, "and i'm not writing a letter. nothing will change."[break][break]

but then, realization floods her like ice water, and she almost chokes on her next words. "and don't tell the councilwoman."[break][break]

after all, freya morningstar had been the one to shatter her kneecap on route 102. absinthe does not want to have that confrontation right now.

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there's a moment—a stretch of time where it seems like absinthe doesn't even breathe—as she waits to see how himiko will react to the sight of her marred face. some primal part of her is prepared to be met with revulsion, or even disgust—prepared, and perhaps a twisted sort of eager for it. maybe part of her wants to finally see her own pain reflected in someone else's face, wants to be reminded that her scars are not only real, but revolting, and that she's as undesirable as she's always felt.[break][break]

but there's none of that in himiko's face. or, rather, there is something like pity, but it's soft and careful, like the padding around a delicate crystal vase. it's almost worse, this careful consideration, like being handed a bomb with the pin already pulled.[break][break]

and himiko says something ridiculous then—something about absinthe being beautiful, her scars beautiful, as if they're the most wondrous thing she's ever seen. the idea is laughable. absinthe is a monster, a thing half-dead and grotesque, an unfortunate amalgamation of broken parts held together with rage and determination. there is no beauty in her. beauty is the delicate curve of a clean jawline, the way a person's eyes light up when they laugh. beauty is the world outside of the poisonous confines of her lab, all sunlight and clean air, a world that absinthe has given up any right to be part of.[break][break]

but himiko is saying this with a straight face, looking directly into absinthe's eyes and seeing something worth looking at, worth saving, worth giving a chance.[break][break]

and absinthe cannot help but see a glimpse of the potential her assistant sees.[break][break]

a long moment of silence, full of the consideration of things left unsaid and potentialities left unexplored, stretches between them. absinthe looks at her own hands, calloused and discolored from years of exposure to harsh chemicals, the fingernails jagged from biting. then she's meeting himiko's gaze again. there's something more vulnerable in her eyes than there was before, something undefinable but present and raw.[break][break]

"i will consider your offer," she says, and it's the closest absinthe has come to hope in years.[break][break]

she grimaces, and it looks almost like a smile.

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absinthe raises an eyebrow. "never would have guessed."[break][break]

howard, on the ground now after launching himself off the roof with a graceless oof, is now grappling with the murderous lawnmower. absinthe's eye twitches as it occurs to her how hopeless it is, how small their efforts seem, and she stifles any other comments she might have made. as she moves towards the lawnmower, there's a glint of metal from the washing machine–no, the ghost inside the washing machine–that catches her eye. she stops in her tracks and stares. the washing machine seems to take advantage of the moment and points its hose at her, spraying her with her own bourbon.[break][break]

absinthe doesn't know if she should be annoyed or grateful. she's soaked now, utterly drenched in dark, staining liquid, but her flask is bone-dry. after the shock subsides and the alcohol is squelching in her shoes, she glances down and takes in the sight of her sopping coat with a sigh.[break][break]

when the flame comes alive at the end of the hose, her brain does a flip. so the alcohol has caught fire, ignited by the spark of this propane machine.[break][break]

her mind then proceeds to do ten more flips as she, in a moment of uncharacteristic impulsiveness, launches forward and takes hold of the hose and grasps the burning end in her hand, feeling the heat and listening to the roar of a flame that she can hardly control, but god, she's going to try.[break][break]

she points it at the lawnmower now chasing her boss.

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absinthe's eyes flicker to himiko's outstretched hand, then back up to her face. there's a wariness there, a hesitation born out of years of isolation and mistrust. but there's something else too, something softer and more vulnerable. absinthe is tired. she's tired of carrying the weight of her past alone, tired of the endless nights spent wrestling with her demons.[break][break]

she takes a deep, shuddering breath, and then, slowly, she reaches out and takes himiko's hand. her grip is firm, almost desperate, as if she's afraid that himiko will disappear if she doesn't hold on tight enough.[break][break]

"my husband died," she says in a tone quiet enough to miss beneath the weight of implication. "four years ago, now. it was... sudden. i don't know how it happened. i don't remember. all i know is that one day he was there, and the next he wasn't. and everything fell apart after that."[break][break]

she is looking at himiko, but her gaze is distant, as if the poisoner is a glass pane offering scenic views into the worst moments of absinthe's life. absinthe's other hand, the one unoccupied by himiko's, snakes up her own body. it lingers on absinthe's shoulder, her collarbone, the curve of her neck and the muscles therein, then one corner of her jaw, just beneath her earlobe.[break][break]

click. the mask that absinthe's keeps over the lower half of her face shifts, no longer sealed against the bridge of her nose, and hisses, as puffs of purified air curl from beneath the mask in long, billowing tendrils. absinthe's hand is achingly slow as she pulls the covering away to reveal herself fully.[break][break]

the sight is grotesque, even in the dim light of the back room. the lower half of absinthe's face is a mess of burnt, warped flesh, the skin pulling and twisting in unnatural ways. the scarring is extensive, stretching from just below her nose all the way down to her chin and jawline, and her lips are the worst of it, mangled and misshapen, with a chunk missing from the bottom one, revealing a flash of teeth and gums.[break][break]

"i woke up one morning and my face was gone. my baby, too."[break][break]

she sets the empty mask aside, and shifts, the hand in himiko's trembling with the weight of her memories. she feels naked, exposed.[break][break]

"my job went next. within a month, i couldn't even leave my apartment. i felt like i was being skinned alive, again and again and again."[break][break]

now, she gestures vaguely to her work. the vials in shelves, the expensive technology, the dead rattata. "this is salvation. once it is done, i am nothing again."

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"you can't save me!"[break][break]

absinthe's voice is a raw, ripped-out scream, tearing through the quiet of the forest like a saw blade. her eyes are wild behind the lenses of her gas mask, animalistic, tears of rage and despair blurring her vision as she swings the scalpel in wide, reckless arcs. the very idea of strategy has left her mind, reason has fled her senses. she acts on nothing more than instinct and hatred.[break][break]

but just like any animal that scents blood in the water, her desperate ministrations render her reckless, her reason sloppy. she feels a sudden, sharp tug at her wrist, and she spares a glance downward just in time to see the scalpel wrenched from her grasp, floating in mid-air, and then flung away into the darkness by an unseen force.[break][break]

an unfortunate turn of events. but absinthe can be dangerous without a scalpel.[break][break]

"you want to help me?" she spits, grass shifting beneath her weight as she stalks closer. trypsin, coiled around her, hisses in warning, ready to strike again at absinthe's command. "you want to save me? you can't even save yourself."[break][break]

"we aren't the same."[break][break]

a spherical device appears in her gloved palms, fished from the depths of her pockets. it is a dark harbinger of doom, inscribed with grooves on the surface, complete with a button at the top.[break][break]

"you are weak and useless. i'm the woman who's going to make you suffer. i'm the woman who's going to make you pay for every sin committed by the people you fight for."[break][break]

to punish a group for the sins of the one is evil. to kill solely for revenge against parties she cannot touch directly is the malady of a blackened heart. absinthe had prayed as a child, but not anymore. she kneels at the altar of ritual sacrifice and begs whoever may listen that she is not the lamb led to the slaughter. that it may be somebody else.[break][break]

she is prolonging the inevitable. today, the man in front of her, wide-eyed and desperate, is the sacrificial lamb. tomorrow, it may be her.[break][break]

she doesn't want to kill him—she wants to make him think she will.[break][break]

a click of the button at the top of the spherical device releases the valves within the orb. a hiss slices through the silence, accompanied only by absinthe's heaving breaths, and begins to release billowy plumes of rich green smoke into the air. absinthe's eyes are manic and tinged red at the edges—the look of a woman who has lost everything, who knows she is safe with the gas mask permanently choking her mouth.[break][break]

absinthe's body, coiled like a viper, implies that the gas is truly as she will describe her. her mind knows otherwise—sleeping gas, made from the spores of her wretched little monster, to inflict the body with sleep so dark that one will mistake it for death until they awake, writhing in their own skin.[break][break]

"you want to talk? let's talk about how you're going to die." her voice is a low, deadly hiss, like the sound of a snake about to strike. "let's talk about how you're going to choke on your own blood, how your lungs are going to fill with fluid, how you're going to drown in your own body. let's talk about how you're going to beg for mercy, and how i won't give it to you. just like no one gave it to me."[break][break]

she draws closer. she's leaning over him now, so he can see the severe, bone-deep curl of her eyebrows, so severe they nearly eclipse her eyes. "but don't worry," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper. "it'll be quick. quicker than what i went through. quicker than what my husband went through. you'll be dead before you hit the ground. and then, maybe, just maybe, i'll find some peace."

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respectful disagreement. it is almost laughable—the kind of language used back in college, shared with careful tongues between english students all at once eager to disagree with one another and reticent to offend. in another time, absinthe would have laughed.[break][break]

but there is nothing laughable about how absinthe feels about her life. she is a zombie, moving from one project to another, filling her days in a haze of alcohol and chemicals, anything to avoid being alone with her thoughts. her mind is a terrifying place, and a monster she must live with and abide by. she has been ruined. she will never be whole again. the pieces of her that once formed her body are long lost, and they can never be retrieved again.[break][break]

once the toxin is complete, there is nothing left. it is the only thing that fills her hungry bones with purpose.[break][break]

absinthe shifts. her eyes squeeze shut when himiko's hand takes gentle hold of her chin, as much expecting a slap as she is a caress. but the slap never comes. absinthe is unsure why.[break][break]

so her eyes open, wet and searching, meeting himiko's gaze with all the caution of a wounded animal. the well-wrought curve of her eyebrows soften, albeit in miniscule increments. "geniuses are not golden calves," she argues, albeit in the soft, quiet tone of a woman who has given up on keeping her walls erected. "another will rise in my place. there is nothing i can do that someone else cannot."[break][break]

himiko argues against the fantasy that yet defines absinthe's addled future. she argues that life is precious. absinthe cannot find the strength in her to agree.[break][break]

if life were precious, cole would not be six feet under, rotting in the cheapest coffin she could find, dug into the dirt with little to no ceremony. he would have never been executed like a dog.[break][break]

absinthe's eyes close again. she seems suddenly far away, distant. "my life has been hard." the admission is quiet and tentative, as if this is the first time she has admitted such a thing to herself. "i am haunted by everything that has ever happened to me. it will continue to be hard, exponentially moreso when i finish the toxin."[break][break]

her eyes open again. they are wistful, almost longing. "there is only one way i can rest. i will die with my creation."

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