Shadow: The Origin Of A Legend

-Chapter 67

Days pass, then weeks and months. Our missions are always successful, my nights are always sleepless, and we never speak about what happened that day when the building collapsed. Our talks, when we do speak to each other, are shallow and meaningless, but at least she isn't ignoring me; for the first few days after it happened, she refused to even look at me. I think I died, and I also think she picked up on that.

Lately, guilt has been flashing from her whenever our eyes meet. It worries me, because I can't figure out why—whenever I try to find out what she's thinking, I find a jumbled mess, and I know any attempt to sort it would just distress her. I tiptoe about, careful not to hurt her further, careful not to misstep, and if she notices, she doesn't care to say anything on it. Something's broken between us, something changed, but I don't know what. Whenever I'm kind to her, it pains her; when I'm rude, she's relieved. I don't understand.

I don't understand at all...

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-Rouge's POV-

I take a shuddering breath, standing outside the door to the office of my boss, my captor, who waits ever-so-patiently each evening for my arrival. We've done this dance for almost half a year now, but this time it's different. This time, I feel, something is going to change. Can I really do this? I've been going behind my best friend—no, my only friend's back since we met, and it hurts, God it hurts, especially now, especially after what I've seen of him, but I don't have a choice. I never did. My twitching hand clasps the doorknob as I steel myself, fur on end, trying to keep from trembling as I open the door. "Hello, sir," I say in a voice I pray is more whole than my nerves.

"Rouge," he answers with that eternal, chilling happiness he holds. "Come in, come in. Do shut the door behind you, dear." Swallowing roughly, I do as he says, the door gliding into place silently. My footsteps sound loud as an elephant's in my ears as the President of G.U.N. slowly turns in his chair, now facing me, elbows resting on its arms, hands clasped in a Sherlock-esque steeple-style pose, brushing his lips which are twisted in a smirk. "You seem tense, darling." His honey-toned voice purrs. I don't answer, just keeping my terrified eyes locked to his cold, vacant ones. After a moment of silence, he sighs, dropping his hands onto the desk. "So, no small talk today." His normally amicable 'customer service' voice is now the cold, detached businessman's drawl I've always heard from him. "That's fine." He points to the chair, and I sit like a dog commanded by its threatening owner. "Give me your report, then get out."

I wring my hands together in my lap, heart thundering out of my chest. "So far," I reply softly, "he's still the same."

"Nothing new?" Acid creeps into his voice, and I shiver. He's been growing more impatient day by day—before, he never asked any questions after my progress report, but lately it feels like I'm being interrogated by a shrewd investigator, rather than just giving a speech to a bored old man.

"Nothing," I answer, "but since you haven't told me what I'm supposed to be looking for—"

"I've told you enough." He cuts in, slicing through my complaints with a verbal knife. "Know your place, bat," he hisses, and my heart stops as he pointedly locks eyes with me, a cold sneer twisting his face, "and keep your mouth shut."

"R-Right," I choke. Mouth shut, head down, do as you're told, I remark cynically to myself, all phrases I've heard far too often over the years.