𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐌𝐏𝐇 || ʜᴀᴡᴋꜱ

35 ➟ In which I have to be perfect.

Hakaru Makuda, Pro Hero Clover, had shot my friend between the eyes and all I did was watch helplessly, surrounded by her clothes, overwhelmed by the familiar scent of her as her body crumpled to the floor.

Coincidence had her wearing that long, silk red gown that fell around her, its strands soaking up the red that fell with it. Coincidence had me in the wardrobe, watching the whole thing happen.

Purpose had Makuda silence his pistol. Purpose had him use his quirk so that he wouldn't miss. Purpose had him switch on the gun's safety and place it back in his pocket.

Purpose had me silently pleading with coincidence to turn the gun's safety off and shot Clover in his leg so that he had to crawl to the door and bleed out as he tried to make his way back to his boss.

But Coincidence was on his side, just as purpose had been.

There's nothing imaginable in watching a friend die. Sure, you could picture it in your head if you really wanted to, but it's impossibly hard to watch it happen in real life. Real-time.

This was the woman that welcomed me with warm arms when Mr H first took me into the bar after work. She'd let me stay with her, above shop, when I couldn't make myself walk home on the nights I was paranoid about the HSPC finding me. She was the one who'd noticed me in that crowd outside and taken the time to find me and make me feel safe after months of being thrown into the deep end.

She was the one on the floor. Lifeless.

And for what? What reason did he have to shoot her? Was his ego that valuable? Did he really hold himself in such high regard that anyone that even questioned him, that wasn't his boss's family, should die? Who was that self-absorbed, bigoted, big-headed, egotistical and downright cowardly to take someone's life like that?

The coward had to rely on his quirk to make a close shot.

I watched that coward barely spare her a second glance at her before turning and opening the door to Grace's dressing room and walking out of the room.

He wasn't a hero.

Heroes helped people. They saved victims caught in the crossfire. They were meant to help people. Not kill. Clover is not a hero.

The clothes were suffocating where they were meant to be comforting. The wardrobe doors felt as if they were actively trying to stop me from getting out, no matter how hard I pushed against them. At some point, I'd begun to ram my shoulder against the part where the two doors of the wardrobe met, thinking that it would be the weakest spot. It was.

I scrambled out of the wardrobe.

Tripped over my feet as I stumbled toward that familiar long blonde hair.

Refused to acknowledge the way her hair was already matting with the think red that pooled beneath her head.

This was salvageable.

She was saveable.

She was Grace.

She couldn't die.

I couldn't bring myself to touch her. I don't know why. My hands were actively refusing every signal my brain sent to them. Move. But they refused. All they could do was shake. 

My feet moved on autopilot. Stopped before her and forced myself to look down at her. Her eyes were open. They hadn't closed like eyes always did in the films. But they weren't her eyes anymore. They were glassy and dull and lifeless, and I couldn't imagine her smiling anymore. The image had already gone from my memory, no matter how hard I wanted to picture it. I couldn't imagine her smiling. All I could see was her face now. Pale and glassy-eyed. Mouth -half-open. Half her face covered in red.