It's fun to see children like her squirm.
Take her most noble truths, and listen to them and nod along when she needs confirmation. Celebrate the beauty of her independent thought, drink in the gratifying wine of her delirious happiness when she chatters on about how different she is, how unique and better.
Take your knives and pierce her mind, one by one. Trap her underneath your gaze, ask her leading questions and send her off on a chase that will only move in circles. Watch her grow uncomfortable, watch her retreat a little into her shell as she wonders where the flaw in her logic is.
Her exterior is shining, brilliant and pure. Underneath that white skin are closely packed guts, fully ripened and close to bursting, ready to spill at the right stimulus. What you need to do is slide that keen, cold edge across her, just barely enough to tear her apart and reveal her true form, grotesque and natural.
Maybe if she trusts you enough, touch her trembling face and whisper to her a lie. Grip her wrists, desecrate every part of her body with your presence, dye the edges of her existence with purple and blue and black.
That's how you kill a vigilante like her.
Smash her to bits, tear her apart, burn the remains. When she begins to convulse and bubbles of blood form at her mouth, she'll begin to cry. Don't want to die, the silent pleading goes. But she won't say a word, won't make a single noise besides the occasional gasp for air, accompanied by the death rattle of her throat.
She wants to go home.
You won't let her.
A/N: It's 6 in the morning the sun is up and I am tired as heck