Disclaimer: Tales of Xillia does not belong to me.
Author's Note: I just had to go and take the fairly light-hearted scenes and make something more out of them. Oh well. Leave a review? :)
when you look at me like that, my darling
o
This girl, the Lord of Spirits? you have time to briefly ponder before she orders you to run, her voice just daring you to argue, and you bolt with only split second hesitation. Her unnaturally bright hair (in the gloom of this laboratory, that must be it, genetics do not account for this shade of yellow) swings like a beacon in front of you. Your lungs and legs begin to burn with the strain as you dodge around corners and bluntly edged walls, the girl's body unfaltering and always just out of reach; her smooth skin shines under the green glow of the laboratory halls, untouched by sweat while you can feel moisture beginning to pool at the base of your spine and neck.
You drive your fist into the helmed face of a guard, ignoring the horror bubbling up in your breast at your actions (you aim to kill, now) and the sudden vortex of heat and fire from the blonde's direction. She spares you a glance over her shoulder – red eyes meeting yours, gleaming in the darkness, before dashing away. You don't bother wiping the blood off your knuckles as you chase after.
(and you most certainly ignore the memory of the Professor's decaying body burned into your retinas, methodically shutting down the parts of you that want to retch and scream, because you're a doctor, damnit—)
.
.
"Jude," Milla says your name. You glance up to meet her tired gaze, noting the way her pale skin looks even sicklier under the waning light of the Aladhi Seahaven Inn. Her lips are a bright contrast of pink as they smile at you, and you let your eyes linger at her mouth for a brief second. Your adrenaline is beginning to leave you and your body wants to waver with exhaustion – instead you are still standing, staring at her mouth, caught up in the sudden duality (of the colors painting Milla before you, of your life). You take that smile and file it away in your memory, like you did with patient files not even twenty-four hours ago.
You meet her eyes – those brilliant red eyes, empty and lifeless. They bare holes into your soul, not quite alive.
The eyes and the smile, you think, so put together: mechanical.
.
.
She tells you surprisingly relevant advice and then she smiles – against the backdrop of the Kijara Seafalls she looks radiant, inhuman in her beauty. You can feel the pull around her that draws you to her, as if she is a burning star and you are the planet gravitating towards her being. Outside in the sun, after a day's worth of walking, her cheeks and chest are flushed pink. They are coloured with life - with humanity.
You stay back and watch as she heads on ahead, and Alvin lingers back with you, throwing one arm over your shoulder as he chats but all you can think of: when Leia had those dolls, before her staves and the inn and the clinic. Those bodies, perfect and lifeless, a child pulling at all the strings.
The sharp sting of pity burrows into your heart. What a feeling it must be, you think, to have control over a body that has been reliant on someone else for the past twenty years.
Milla glances over her shoulder at you two, mouth tugged into a frown – a warm tint to her cheeks, an instinctual curl to her lips, her eyes only a reflection of you.
You shake Alvin off.
.
.
She says your name, and thank you, and in her lingering gaze you spot something new. It takes you a moment to place it.
You duck your head, cheeks flushed red.
Gratitude: the quality or feeling of being grateful or thankful.
(Human.)
.
.
"You're going to get yourself killed someday," Leia tells you, fingers brushing through her doll's cheap hair. Her mouth slips into a pout, the sunshine casting shadows over her skin. "Because you're too stupid, Jude."
Optimistic, you want to correct her, naïve. Instead, you narrow your eyes and reach for the toy in her lap. Its lifeless eyes stare into you, painted pink lips curled into a large grin.
"My dad says I'm a genius," you state, and wrench its head off.