Cronos Crusade
Her Innocence was a sham, a pretty fabrication she somehow summoned (and therein lied the great mystery) to cover blindspots and veil vulnerabilities, if only for a moment. She could heal them, friends, comrades, whatever, for a startled breath in time.
And then, they were reverted back to darkening bruises and breaking bones. And she could cry all she liked because it didn't alter the facts: that they were still lying, kissing death, while she could only look on.
And one day, they will wake up to their senses and call her a fake (what she really was). And then, oh then, she will be sorry.
Miranda Lotto was a woman cursed. She didn't deserve the comforts of normality or the sanctuary of acceptance. Should leave before misfortune infected everyone. Then, they can righteously blame her without rue.
--
Today in battle, she rewound time a bit too far, stretched her limitations a bit too much, and nearly collapsed herself.
Lenalee was so kind, told her that it was all right, that she did her best (that was what mattered), and she was an "invaluable" member of the team. Like the other girl meant it. Said it rote, parroted back prettily, enthused and convinced—
Miranda was not.
She knew the truth (knew herself) and saw through their deceits and worried smiles. One fine day, when she couldn't prolong time just a few seconds longer, they will all perish. And when that happened, there will only be her left to blame, the last survivor still hanging on with clipped wings of hope.
"Don't think about it too much. We're all alive, see?"
Miranda winced, not meeting Lenalee in the eye, not wanting to see the dirt-churned cuts covering her legs.
--
Most people were idiots. They that time was infinite, that she was some kind of witch (descended from Cronos the god himself) and could wave away the travails of age and disease with a flick of her wrist.
Miranda laughed bitterly. They knew nothing. Time had a beginning and an end; it had a tale to tell (like everything else). It was not a toy she could lord and master over (she feared it deep down, trembling as she tried to evade its fatal blows).
By chance, by pure, ingenuous luck, Miranda was dealt the cards in her hand. She could manipulate time, brief like it was supposed to be, and they thought of her as some miracle-worker.
She could heal the sick, even stop death. And she became famous in the Order, was sought after everywhere. But then, time stopped, had to be inverted. Always, she wanted to linger past the clamping-down effects of swirling reversal.
And then, they would hate her, eye her with mistrust. Because she promised a wonder she couldn't deliver. It was all her fault.
Gaunt and haunted with dead souls, Miranda sank to the floor. She failed, once again.
--
Between yesteryear and never-year, Miranda asked Hevlaska to make her stronger, infuse her Innocence completely—a one hundred percent (the most dreadfully coveted) synchrony. Then, maybe, she could truly control time, and really save others.
Hevlaska only shook her head sadly, not even pausing to answer.
Miranda felt like her heart was being ripped apart, just to be stuffed back with the extra parts of Akuma bodies.
--
Lenalee screamed when Miranda fell, heavy with molten leaden bones of the defeated.
Allen ran to catch her, collapsed onto the ground as her weight burdened him down.
Time stopped, but so did Miranda. Enshrouded by a curtain of black hair, Miranda smiled tentatively.
Then the world came crashing down.