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I… where am I?
Oh, right. I'm still here. Stuck in this.
She's there, my brave girl, holding on, in more meanings than one. Betrayed and homeless, by people with too little compassion, too much ambition, too little kindness and too much cruelty. Driven away by those for whom she cared and still cared, plummeted by those who had threatened and framed, unforgiven by those who protect and serve.
Funny bedfellows, her opponents.
It's not her fault. It never had. Doesn't change things. She's still a victim. A strong one, as odd as the statement may seem.
The light rain continues to fall on Capitol Hill. The view is breathtaking. The contents, not so much. Brockton Bay was a rotting town. Brockton Bay is a dying town. It shows; from the distance we see the unkept look of half the town's buildings and the abandoned collapse of an entire district. Too little of its pedestrians are moving with purpose, too little of its traffic is new or well-kept.
Seems nothing but bad fate has happened here, and on that good people did some pretty bad decisions; driven to anger, dragged by fear, they forgot about what they should treasure. And so they crippled its economy, killing its future in the process. Villains were lured in, outnumbering the heroes on the streets at least two to one. And those in true power hate both sides just the same.
Place's a mess. Only Endbringers can make it worse.
It's perfect. We'll fit right in.
I've heard of some good people trying to make it better, arrest the slide. I wish them luck, but I hold out no hope. After all, I've spent nearly all my life trying to make things better by everyone. Look where it brought me.
A cranky soul beside a broken bird.
I see her standing there. I know that look, the pose, those slumped shoulders, that lack of expression.
What little drops of tears she manages to shed from her eyes is lost before it can make any impact, washed away by the larger flow of rainfall on her face.
Appropriate really.
"Hey," I said, "Cheer up. Help's down there. All you have to do is to walk in, dodge the cops and find the Palanquin. Gregor's down there, he'll remember you. He'll think of something."
As usual, she does not reply. I've caught her humming from time to time, so I know her voice's still all right. But sometimes, I wonder. Wonder if on top of everything she lost her hearing, or worse. Sometimes I wonder if she simply refuses to hear my voice.
Then again, I know she chooses not to reply to anyone. She chooses not to talk at all.
I know why. I know she's afraid.
If she has her way, it'll stay that way forever.
Not on my watch.
She closes her eyes. The little moment of melancholy is over. I feel my spirits lift as it always does, watching her transform, once more the brave confident woman. Nobody will recognize her from the scared, broken girl just now.
The gloomy skies seem that bit brighter, just for that.
We walk into town, she and I.
Or rather, she walks, and I get carried in.
"Hey Paige," I quip as she slides my prison back between her back and her jacket, hiding the tinker sword from sight, "Ever heard of Fugly Bob's?"