𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗥𝗘𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗡 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗞𝗘𝗥 | the boys 2

𝘹𝘷) 𝐖𝐄'𝐑𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐑 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍, 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

She could see so much. Just... so... fucking much. The sky was dull and grey - a groggy heat hung over the streets, over the suited crowd she sat among. The formal shirt and suit constricted her shoulders and chest - why was she wearing such a thing? The black tie slowly tightened around her throat with each shallow breath, prompting her to reach for her neck with furrowed eyebrows. Further confusion settling into her head, Rowan caught a shade of deep carmine smeared across her palms. 

She sat with at least 100 other dressed-up citizens beneath Manhattan's most intimidating skyscrapers, all facing a high stage at the front. Puzzled lines creasing into her face, she reluctantly stood and made her way onto the aisle, the blisters on her (once again) bare feet rubbed against the grand, red carpet. A dark coffin sat beyond the steep steps, with intricate carves and engravings chipped across every inch of the detailed thing - and beside it, sat an eight year old boy with eyes like the depths of an arctic iceberg and hair like a golden field of fruitful crops. And beside him, sat his mother.

"Becca," A sigh of relief was let into the heavy air as her pace picked up past the silent crowd and onto the podium. Her feet froze to the ground - the beautiful eyes of a long-lost love were brimming with devastation. Her gaze wandered further right,"Billy? What's going on?" She murmured.

Rowan gingerly shifted around to face the suits staring directly at her, just like how Mallory mentioned. With every second she squinted harder, the nonchalant faces became more familiar. First, she caught sight of the man she smothered in return for a box which helped her get into Vought, one with a bullet in the centre of his forehead... she took all these lives. As her eyes fell to the front, the organ in her chest thumped with more intensity than ever, sending a series of aching pounds through her bloodstream. Who she was staring at was outright, without a doubt, as equally terrifying as staring Homelander directly in the face. Knitwear stained with blood, horrific wounds to the throat and frosted, blue lips. They were the first people she ever killed.

Out of the corner of her eye, three people sat on the left - resting in the back of her mind. Rowan refused to look at those three people, two taller than the other. She couldn't look them in the eyes after seven years. No matter how much she longed for and sobbed over never being able to see them again, she couldn't bare to let her eyes wander upon an inch of those three humans.

"What are you doing here?" Rowan called out shakily, watching the ground in hopes of pushing everyone away. Not one of those rough 100 spoke a singular word, all just purely gawping in a painful silence. "ANSWER ME! PLEASE!" She demanded, quivering through each breath as she stared down the grand carpet. Furious strides thundered to the front of the audience - stomps which froze as she finally looked up and her eyes landed upon the seats at the back. M.M. Frenchie. Kimiko. Hughie. All just... staring at her, like everyone else. Like everyone else she killed.

A sudden wave of queasiness crashed through her stomach as she turned back around in horror to Butcher and his unblinking wife,"Who the fuck is in there?" She pointed at the casket, taking awfully rigid steps towards it. Her eyes scanned over the married couple for a few more seconds before wandering to the open box and reluctantly peering inside.

A difficult weight pulled her eyelids down - the lights looming above her head spread a soft sparkle over her bare face, neck and collar bones; a reddish ebony river took a stream down the course of her pillow. A choked gasp was released into the quiet room, bouncing from the fresh walls and battling the beeps beyond the glass in the hall. Just obliviously facing the ceiling, Rowan tensed up to the point of aches all over - especially in her side. Butcher wouldn't let Vought take her away again, would he? 

She gave a small moan of confusion as her heart thudded against the inside of her chest, shuffling to sit up and running a hand over the bandages where a pain so evil it made it hard to breathe had once been. She also noted the wire in her wrist, but decided to leave it be, all because of watching a random movie with Butcher, late at night. He made a massive deal about a character ripping out hospital wires since they could have been life support and consequently insisted on switching it off so's not to 'inflict such fucking idiocy on the kid'.