some days we are sinew and bone,

plucked from carcass like afterthoughts and wrapped in rotting linen,

sun-bleached and silent until the marrow is dry,

prettier at the precipice of being nothing at all.

in another room a man with cruel hands is talking about wishes,

wondering aloud if the sound of breaking bones is baptism enough,

knowing it won’t make him feel whole again

but at least he wouldn’t be the only broken one.

There is a gun pressed against the girl’s skull. She’s growing accustomed to the feeling. Metal bites into her scalp, impressing a perfect circle upon the soft skin. If she closes her eyes she can smell gunpowder and the musty tang of dried blood.

It’s too early for this shit.

“Third time this week. Well, at least you’re persistent,” she snarls, clenching her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. Not in fear, of course, but at the rage pulsing behind each eyelid, threatening to take over if she gives it control. “You know that doesn’t work, right? The whole shooty-shooty thing?” She grins, twisting and snatching the gun from the man’s still fingers in a fluid motion, stepping back to admire the pistol in her hands.

“Sorry, pretty girl. Didn’t mean to scare you,” the man whispers, greasy red tongue flicking over yellowing teeth. He turns away with a cackle, bumping fists with the men gathered around the bar. She takes a rattling breath, wrinkling her nose at the smell of alcohol cloaking these men. They were supposed to be on patrol, not drinking themselves numb. She tightens her fists, letting her fingernails sink into her palms. Control. She must keep control.

“Where’s our beer, b***ch?” One of them jeers. The others join in, predatory eyes raking over her body. That’s it. She pivots, arms taught, and curls her fingers into a practiced fist. She freezes as a gentle finger brushes the inside of her elbow. Luca. Shame blossoms in her gut. She promised she would try harder yet here she is, about to throw fists with the people she is supposed to be leading. She looks up at him, but he doesn’t meet her eyes.

“The girl has a name, you know,” Luca murmurs, addressing the men at the bar.

It’s not a bar, not really. Just a front, the crumbling facade of a gang that was once the most respected in Frey. They weren’t a gang then. Locals called them “The Gentlemen.” They were feared, but their dominance was rarely contested. It was convenient for the other gangs to step away from the messy business, back to their turf wars and big talk and let someone with more weapons handle the government Myriad had created.

It had worked. In a world where rebellion had been crushed, ground into dust by Myriad’s heel, the Gentlemen had made a pocket of Frey impenetrable. For three years they were immortal -unstoppable- all thanks to The Baron, a leader with more blood on his hands than skin. When he died they were reduced to this. A gang of nobodies led by a teenager with anger management issues.

Luca tenses beside the girl, glaring at the men around them.

“She has a name. You will use it.”

“Oh, that’s right, sweetie! I almost forgot. Aster- after the flower. Because that’s all you are, isn’t it? Some petals stuck together with daddy’s love? Careful, flower. You may not bleed, but one of these days somebody is going to find your weakness, and you will crumble. Crumble until there is nothing left- ashes to the wind- Just. Like. Your. Daddy.”

The bar goes silent.

The man’s friends look on in mute horror. It may be open season for insults on Aster, but nobody-NOBODY- insults The Baron. Resignedly, Luca releases her arm.

She swings. A snap echoes across the bar. It’s a nice hook, even for Aster’s standards, and blood gushes from the broken nose. He grunts, and steps back from the bar. Suddenly, his skin ripples, forearms growing as the muscle thickens. Soon the portly man looms a foot over Aster, seething as blood trickles down his chest. A Builder. With enough calories in their system they can build muscle at will. He grins, yellow teeth glinting in the dim lights, and tightens a rippling fist.

Aster laughs- a bitter, spiteful thing.

“Go on. Hit me.” She snarls. The man hesitates, eyes going wide when he realizes his mistake. He looks behind him, seeking affirmation from his cronies, but they are fascinated with the floor, refusing to make eye contact. He growls and his muscles return to their original size, blood pulsing out of his nose faster than before. He gently touches it with a filthy finger, flinching when it comes away covered in crimson.

“Oh, does that hurt?” Aster croons. “I wouldn’t know. I can’t bleed, remember? It would do you well to remember that.”

Turning away she stalks into the back room of the bar, doing her best to ignore the snickering that follows her. These days, it never seems to end. She walks confidently, looking in disgust at the blood covering her fist from the man’s nose. Above the bar there is a little room, scarcely more than a closet, with a bed reeking of mildew stuffed inside. Aster stalks to the bed, sitting with a resigned sigh as she picks her father’s pocket knife off of the nightstand, running the dull blade under her fingernails.

Luca sits beside her, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. Aster hadn’t noticed him following her from the bar, and jumps suddenly at the contact.

“Out. Get out,” she growls, glaring at her friend.

“No. That doesn’t work with me, remember? The whole ‘angry girl’ thing,” Luca whispers, pulling her into a hug. It’s too much. A hiccup sounds from Aster’s throat, and suddenly she is sobbing in Luca’s arms, shaking, hoping he will be able to piece her back together after she falls apart. They sit in silence, Luca gently stroking her back.

“Damn Enthopath,” Aster whispers when the tears stop streaming down her face. Luca lets out a low laugh. She sighs. It isn’t fair that he can read her emotions, break through the walls she has so carefully built around herself.

“C’mon, Ace- lets get you cleaned up,” he whispers, coaxing her to the bathroom, wiping the blood off her trembling knuckles with a damp rag.

“Do you want to know the worst part?” Aster whispers. “I didn’t even know his name.”

“What?”

“The man I punched. I don’t even know his name. The Baron knew everyone who worked for him, and here I am, trying to take his place, with nothing. Not even a stupid name.”

“Y’know, some kids call their dad pops or daddy, not ‘The Baron’,” Luca chuckles.

“Yeah? Well some kids don’t have gangsters for parents. Some kids have parents who aren’t dead. Some kids aren’t trying to run a gang,” Aster snaps, pivoting towards him with tears brimming in her eyes. She looks towards the ceiling, blinking hard, cursing under her breath at her moment of weakness. Luca takes her shoulder, concern written across his face.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to come off like that. I know you’re under a lot of pressure right now,” he mutters.

“It’s not you. It’s just… everything is falling apart, and I only have myself to blame.” Aster whispers. Luca is silent, biting his lower lip. She turns back towards him, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“It’s just… I came to tell you- Never mind. Now isn’t a good time,” Luca mutters, looking away.

“What is it? I’ve known you long enough to tell when you’re keeping something from me.”

“It’s really not that important… I just…”

“Luca. Talk. Now.”

“Fallon is going to challenge you for the title tonight,” Luca says, stumbling over himself in an effort to get the words out.

Aster sits on the counter, numb. She isn’t surprised. Fallon had been moving against her since The Gentlemen began to fall apart. He was her father’s second in command, built like a tank with more bloodlust than could possibly be healthy. When The Baron passed his title onto his teenage daughter instead of a hardened warrior Fallon was furious. Honestly, it was a miracle it had taken this long for him to make a move. Six months. Had it really been that long since the murder?

Luca swipes at Aster’s knuckles with the rag, snapping her out of her thoughts. She flinches in pain as fresh blood wells up from the cuts in her knuckles.

“Ace,” Luca whispers disapprovingly, glancing at the bathroom door to make sure it is locked. “You have to try harder than this. You know we’re screwed if someone sees you bleed. With all the fear you were giving off today when that man pulled the gun on you it’s a wonder someone hasn’t seen through your lies already.”

“What can I say? I’m a good actor,” Aster smiles, trying to sell the joke, but it falls flat. She was lucky none of the other men in the bar were Enthopaths or they would have seen right through her act. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re lucky it’s still winter. You can get away with wearing gloves to hide the cuts… but when summer comes you’ve gotta take more care, alright?” He lectures, wrapping her knuckles and helping her slide a glove onto each hand.

“I will… If I’m still alive after tonight,” Aster whispers.

“Don’t say that. You are going to be fine,” Luca growls, a bit too forcefully. He takes his hand away from the bandage, but not fast enough to keep Aster from feeling it tremble.

He tries to put on a brave face, but he is just as scared as she is. Aster finds it odd that someone in this world still cares if she makes it through the night. Luca is more of a father figure than The Baron ever was, despite only being a year older than her. They had grown up together, playing hopscotch around broken glass in the alleys, seeing if Luca could guess her emotions from opposite sides of the street when he turned 15 and gained his Instinct.

Everyone gained their Instinct after 15 when they were “snapped”. For the Instinct to take effect your adrenaline has to peak. The rich kids get it medically done, a shot of adrenaline to the wrist and they wake up the next morning with some incredible new ability. Nobody in Frey has that kind of money. Instead kids steal candy off the drugstore shelves and get their adrenaline high from running through the streets followed by the Enforcers. It doesn’t always work out. Stumble once and you won’t know your power before they cart you off to the Keep. That’s how Myriad gets his servants.

Aster grimances at the thought of his wretched name. A silver blade slashing through The Baron’s windpipe while she watched, helpless, flashes through her mind. Myriad murdered her father. He… She blinks the thought away.

Her father was by no means a good man. He was old fashioned, believed in snapping his children the ‘right’ way. Three years after the fact her back still throbs as she imagines that whip crashing down, always down, upon her back, until she couldn’t feel the pain any more. Her Instinct was supposed to be magnificent, the daughter of a god… but she was nothing. In a society where your Instinct is the only thing keeping you alive Aster was powerless. A defect in her father’s flawless plan.

The Baron started the rumor about her being incapable of bleeding, more for the sake of his own pride than his daughter’s protection. It wasn’t difficult to believe. He was bulletproof, after all. Feared my many, worshipped by still more… until Myriad found his weakness. Blades are not bullets. A single slit to the throat and the first uprising in Myriad’s 50 year reign was gone, bleeding out in the night without so much as a murmur of pain.

He never saw the assassin coming.

Aster thinks it’s odd how you can mourn someone in death you loathed in life, but life is funny like that.

A gentle knock sounds at the bathroom door.

“Are you guys in there?” A quiet voice asks. Luca’s eyes go wide, looking at the blood splattered across the sink basin, an open package of bandages on the counter.

Luca was the only person who knew Aster’s Instinct was a lie. As an Enthopath, he could see past the facade of confidence she tried to plaster around herself right to the consuming fear pounding in her ears each time a gun was pressed against her skull. One shot. That’s all it would take.

Aster presses a finger to her lips, easing off of the counter, and motions for Luca to take her place. She opens the door in a fluid motion, grinning at the mousey boy on the other side.

“Hey, Oscar! I totally forgot you were coming over this morning! This dumbass can be pretty distracting,” she rolls her eyes, hooking a thumb over her shoulder at Luca. Oscar takes in the blood on the counter and all but leaps into the room, fear in his eyes.

“Luca! Are you alright? Why didn’t you call me? You know my Instinct is Healing, right? I can help,” Oscar squeaks, running a panicked hand through his messy hair. “Where are you hurt?” Luca looks up, his face a mask of mute horror.

For someone so good at seeing through lies, he had never been particularly talented at telling them.

“Nah, don’t worry about it, Ozzie,” Aster chuckles. She wraps a bandage around Luca’s unharmed knuckles before Oscar can see them. “Some of The Gentlemen were giving me a hard time and Luca threw a punch. He’s barely hurt, but you should see the other guy! This blood is mostly his,” she chuckles, rolling her eyes. Luca nods, looking relieved.

“Yeah, sorry for the scare, Oz,” he laughs, tousling the smaller boy’s hair.

“Oh, don’t… don’t worry about it, I just… gotta, I just gotta- Nevermind,” Oscar stutters, awkwardly patting his hair back into place. Luca grins, watching him squirm.

“So, are ya jealous that I got one on one time with my girlfriend?” Luca jokes, making obnoxious kissing noises in Aster’s ear.

“Jerk,” Aster rolls her eyes, delivering a light punch to his gut.

“Ow! Jeez, Ace. I’m hurt, remember?” Luca whimpers, covering his bandaged knuckles protectively, giving Aster a knowing look. She rolls her eyes.

“Oh please. We all know Ace is my girlfriend,” Oscar grins, his previous awkwardness fading.

“You two are awful,” Aster whines, chuckling as she shoves Oscar away from her. This was the boys favorite running joke, and as stupid as it was, their antics always made her smile.

That was better than wasting away, trying to hold a gang together when each action brought them further apart. It wouldn’t matter for much longer, though. Tonight, in one way or another, everything would change. Fallon would challenge her for the title, which would inevitably give him control of The Gentlemen when they crowned him Baron. It is nearly impossible to win a fight against a Smith.

With his instinct Fallon could control metal. One graze of her arm and everyone would know Aster could bleed. Even if she won the fight and kept the title nobody would follow her. The few Gentlemen who still followed Aster only did so because they thought she was immortal. They feared her Instinct, as fake as that instinct may be. Without fear, she had nothing.

“Earth to Ace,” Oscar falters, waving a timid hand in front of her face.

“Mmm? Oh. Sorry.”

“You have that look again.

“What look?”

“The one that seems like you have the world on your shoulders.”

“Oh. Sorry Oz,” Aster mumbles, wrapping her arms around herself. Luca rests a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Ace. I’ll be in the crowd tonight- near the front. If it gets too heated I’ll be there, ok?” He squeezes her shoulder, and checks his watch. “I’m running security detail on the north perimeter in twenty minutes, I have to get over there.”

“Wasn’t your security shift last hour?” Aster asks, concerned.

“Yeah, but people keep ditching their shifts. I figured those on duty could use some extra help. See ya!” Luca bounds out of the door, a dopey smile on his face. How could he afford to be so optimistic? The only life they had ever known was crumbling around them, and yet he seemed to think working harder would solve everything, as if this mess was somehow his fault. How could he still stand by her side knowing Aster was the only one to blame?

Oscar crosses to the window, watching as Luca bounds onto the street below, his ever-confident gait carrying him across the square. He turns once, gives a mocking salute towards the window, and is out of sight in the next moment.

Oscar’s eyes linger just a little too long on Luca’s retreating figure before he turns to help clean blood from the sink.

Your hands grasp my neck. Hard. Too hard. I struggle to take in a breath, but remain silent. It's not worth watching your face fall, dissapointed once again at my inability to play your games. You whisper sweet nothings about my body, touching it in a way that makes my skin crawl.

I wish that just once you could ask me about my day or well being before entering our typical song and dance, your hands exploring my body while I use all of my willpower to avoid flinching.

If you were to ask me about my day you would learn that I am falling apart. Losing my grip on reality inch by precious inch. I've stopped glancing at the clock in my office, wishing your lips could find mine sooner. I avert my eyes from it now, hoping the action will somehow stretch out the moments before I must next sucumb to your embrace. Every second is a battle, my mind screaming at me to leave, my heart begging me to stay. The bruisies I pull sweaters over in the morning are just accidents. You never mean to hurt me... but why are you tearing me apart? Every day is harder than the one before. I need to leave. To escape.

...but I love you.

The granite walls are a flawless white, cool to the touch save for the warm ribbons of blood trickling down their surface. Once this palace of stone was a paradise. Now it was a prison. The girl shook violently, wishing she could run, but footsteps were already drawing near. Black combat boots paused inches from her bloodied hands.

"Get up." The girl crawled to her feet, silent tears snaking their way over her cheeks. There was blood. Blood everywhere... but it was not her own.

"Finish what you started," the voice whispered, pressing a cool blade into the girls hands.

All this for a lousy piece of metal. Akara scoffed, looking at the flimsy pin in her hand. It wasn’t even silver. Just a crappy piece of tin Carna found in the junkyard. It was beautiful in its own way, she supposed, turning it over and over in the light coming from a flickering fluorescent rod overhead. Each feather was intricate, the wings curled in on one another, the very picture of innocence.

The effect was somewhat dulled by the brown flakes on the edge of the pin and Akara took to scrubbing them off with the hem of her tattered shirt. She gave up after a few moments, realizing that her shirt was even more filthy, still crimson in the places that had yet to dry. Blood. Blood everywhere. Akara squeezed her eyes closed against the onslaught of images flashing through her mind, but it did little to calm her racing mind.

A knife, glinting through pools of darkness, coming away slick with blood. The metal slipping in her hand as she struggled to bring it down again and again, skin giving away to soft muscle and smooth bone long after the man was dead. His eyes, those damn eyes, the ones that had watched as Akara's mother died in his arms, unmoving as he raised the pistol to her temple. His eyes now watched Akara, standing emotionless over his bloody corpse. She let him watch. You were supposed to close the eyes of the dead, but Akara couldn't be bothered. As if closed eyes can convince someone that the dead aren't gone but rather asleep. He had closed her mother's eyes before walking away, the touch tender on her paper-thin eyelids, as if he was putting her to sleep instead of condemning her to death. He was not worthy of such foolish customs.

Akara thought revenge would bring her peace. It didn't. Perhaps it brought her something even more valuable, though. A purpose. Everyone in the slums knew about Seraph, the gang of self-proclaimed "Angels" who hunted in the slums, killing indiscriminately. Few realized that their targets were far from random. Abusers, murderers... the list goes on. Men and women like Akara's father. The police were easily bribed to avert their eyes from such cases, but the Seraph would not be dissuaded as easily. Three years after her mothers murder and Akara had earned her wings. She grinned, curling her fingers protectively around the pin in her hand. She slipped her knife into the sheath around her thigh, turning to the door. Blood had been spilled tonight, but it would not be the last.

After all, what are wings without the chance to fly?

My mouth is open, a desperate breath hissing between bloody lips. It might be a scream, but I can't hear it. My fingers brush an earlobe and come away wet. The blood dotting my fingers is beautiful in its own way, a crimson red against the ice below.

Flashes of memory streak through my throbbing head and I double over, writhing in pain. Dad's belt coming down between my shoulders when I was a toddler, mom's hands slapping my ears when I hadn't yet learned to read. And just hours ago... maybe minutes...the grenade. Spiraling into my room through air heavy with the smell of liquor.

My dazed mind wonders where dad even got the grenade. Possibly from his military days before he was kicked out for stealing weaponry. I was by the window, judging whether or not the fall would kill me when it happened. I had hoped the fall would, but I should have known better. I'm not that lucky. I'm alive. After everything, I am still alive. It dawns on me that the world has gone quiet. Too quiet. The ringing in my ears has faded, replaced with a bitter silence. I wonder if I have gone deaf, but the thought flits only breifly through my mind, like one of those sunbeams that used to shine on the kitchen floor before dad boarded up the windows. I wonder if my parents are still alive. If their madness continues on the other side of the riverbank that separates us. I watch as the stars continue to glow faintly overhead, despite the column of smoke spiraling towards the sky. For the first time in a long time I don't think of tomorrows survival, but rather the beauty of the night. Life is too fleeting to ignore the present.

The eyes staring back at me are not my own. They can't be my own. They are sparkling, shining with a happiness I haven't felt in years. I look away from the mirror, letting my mask of happiness fall for a moment, but within seconds I pull my lips into their typical half-smile, forcing a sparkle into eyes that are clouded and bleak. This is the person I let the world see. The person who doesn't exist. My cheeks ache from the false smile and my heart breaks a little more deep inside my chest, but I don't let the mask fall. Truth is, behind it, I have no idea who I have become.