xanthophyll
It starts harmless, you tell yourself, and so it is no big issue when you find yourself rationalizing and excusing the eating of a criminal or two.
Your Other is quiet in the back of your head, as if they are desperately trying to keep their thoughts low, avoiding speaking at all.
“They were robbing another civilian, and they would’ve killed them; the two shot at us too, after all.”
It sounds reasonable enough in your head. The eating of the rude, you remember an old friend referencing; and in this moment, you find yourself agreeing.
If they would’ve inflicted harm, haven’t we saved more people than would’ve died had we left them alive?
Could’ve immobilized them. Could’ve turned them in.
The outburst is sudden. Almost sharp. You feel a weird spike of … annoyance at your Other’s resistance; you expected them to engulf you with their bubbly warm, to not only fully support but also encourage your handling of the situation- it went so effortless in that moment, why are they hesitating now, after already lending their strength to the task?
You can feel their hurt at your thoughts, and you let out a slow sight. Investigation would make it more difficult. Instead of intruding into their reasoning, you let your head flood with green, memories of leaves swaying with the wind, your side flooding theirs with comforting caresses.
I’m sorry, that was harsh. I just think… of course, taking a life is a large step. But we have to think of the lives that these people would’ve destroyed. They would’ve hurt and possibly killed more innocents, and we would’ve been at fault for not stopping them when we had the chance – do you understand, Greensleeves?
You have been calling them by this nickname for a while now, endearing, and the green-golden hues that glimmer in their metallic form agree with you.
Now, you think their nickname with a quiet urgency, trying to make them understand. You are here to help, to save, to rescue and protect. Sometimes, sacrifices are necessary.
Hesitance, then warmth creeps through your body as they slowly relax. Something touches your fingers softly, sliding between them, holding your hand tightly but delicate. There is understanding in their thoughts, an embrace from within. It seems like the argument has settled before it could begin, and peace hums through your head again; all is as it should be.
You close your eyes and smile.
They call you Cadmium, sometimes whispered ‘verdure’, and in all honesty, you cannot find any argument against either.
(Well, maybe that the second one implies that you leave behind lots of pretty vegetation and sunshine. As a matter of fact, you try not to destroy too many things, but sometimes, it just … happens.)
You’re not entirely certain which is your favorite, but you know that your Other prefers the second; you like the metallic sound of the first more, and given that it is indeed more popular, you settle for it instead.
Cadmium, shape-shifting protector.
Your Other and you have taken to patrolling the streets more regularly now, eyes open for danger and, but you deny yourself to admit to it properly, rude people. You've just started this rainy night's shift, the city's lights reflected in the large puddles deep below, cars rushing through the water. The sounds are clear in your ears, yet easy to ignore.
It brings a certain pride and pleasure to know that you’ve saved lives, are saving lives; that you’re the reason someone continues to survive, protected by hands that could destroy so easily. Your vow to stay in the shadows and help – you’ve never been one much for the spotlight – proves easier at nighttime, not only because bad things tend to happen more often in the dark, but also because moving becomes easier.
You know that from previous experience of stalking the streets, back before you became who you are now; you used to wander the city, often aimless. Now, you have a goal.
You gingerly ignore the fact that the media has started referring to you as ‘monster’ a bit more often than they have been thanking you for saving civilians.
Becoming a hero is unexpected, but not unwelcome; actually, it finally gives this bleakness a sense, a direction, and you embraced the opportunity, you think to yourself as you launch off the side of your usual patrol-start-building.
Albeit lost in thought, it is easy to grab the wet ledge of the housefront on the other side, twenty foot down. Your Other’s oily-metallic glimmering form protects you from the rain, and you slip onto the rooftop silently, almost undetectable in this weather.
You chose this night not without reason. And regardless of all preparation, you feel nervousness crawl up your spine, into your system.
We don’t have to do this.
Almost a plea. It catches you off guard, and you even do a reflexive 180 turn as if you expect them to stand right there, their form as hunched as their voice implies. Small stones skip over the rooftop edge. They sound worried, and you understand as you dip a fingertip into the turmoil that is their thoughts, that they are afraid for you.
“Why are you- there’s no reason to be afraid,” you mumble softly into their form.
Something shifts within, turns, wraps itself tightly inside yourself, your Other trying to articulate. Something occurs to you. It steals your breath for a moment.
“You aren’t afraid of … of me, are you, Greensleeves?”
Shock mumbles through your thoughts, and their answer is a flicker of despair they helplessly tried to keep low. You growl, irritated and hurt, fists clenched.
There’s nothing to be afraid of! We just have to do this, get it over with, and once we get this guy, he won’t ever harm Clarice and her friend again. We can protect them from him. You try to explain, the emotion choking your voice. You’re too upset to be able to calm your voice, and you really don’t want to scream at them; they have a right to critique you, but right now is really not the time. You thought they’d agreed to this; they didn’t bring it up sooner, and you struggle to keep up with the speed they shoot their desperate thoughts at you.
Panic overcomes their side of the headspace, and before you can say anything more, there’s a click from the back of the rooftop, and the door to the side of the staircase opens.
Within a second, you’re on the man, ignoring the shrill ringing in your ears; you drown out your Other’s thoughts, focused completely on the bulky man that even in shock reacts fast enough to draw his pistol. Everything is a rush. Triumph fills you as the bullets are reverted back, your motion balanced out by your living, breathing suit; a yell of pain accompanies the symphony in your head, and without struggle you let the red, familiar haze overcome you.
Your mind becomes a grinning, wide-mouthed beast, stretching its teeth, and as your real maw opens and devours his head, feasting on his body, you feel the thrill of a successful hunt blaze through your blood.
Your Other’s screams are silenced.