S: Don't ask. I came up with this while I was mucking a stall. But don't worry… the environment for the thought process does in no way reflect the quality of the material. (If you don't get that, it's a joke, think hard.)
Onyx: (smirks) One of the best jokes you've come up with in a while.
S: (glares)
Disclaimer: I don't own Justice League. Never have. Never will. I now own 'Starcrossed' on DVD, though, a fact for which I am immensely grateful… Nice birthday present. Which is also helpful, as this is a post-Starcrossed fic. However, I came up with the fic some time after seeing Starcrossed for the first time, so any mistakes are my fault and that of my faulty memory.
Author's Note: Okay, this is NOT a death/suicide fic. Do not be concerned.
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'I watch myself die yet feel no sorrow,
for of myself that part was long dead.'
She's everywhere I look. All around the room. Press cutting are stacked high on the desk, falling onto the floor below. Pictures and articles are pinned to every inch of the wall, and some have even migrated to the ceiling.
Standing amidst them, I am alone. Even with her face surrounding me, I have no company. The name, Hawkgirl, is screamed at me from a thousand headlines.
Hawkgirl is dead.
She died the instant Hro Talek landed on Earth. Lieutenant Hol took her place when that happened, but she died, too. She died the instant I chose to go to Batman's cave, to give the Justice League the information they needed to defeat the Thanagarian invasion force.
Kicking the papers away, I walk to the mirror on the wall. Her face hangs there, too, taped up on the glass. Her face, it will eternally be remembered as that mask. That wide, winged mask with its brown and black feathers, disguising my features, hiding my face.
Reaching one hand up, I tear her face away, crumpling the papers in my hand. Another face stares back at me from the mirror. Shayera Hol's face. Shayera Hol belonged with John Stewart. At least, she did following the incident in Vegas. But I turned my back on John Stewart, and that means Shayera Hol is dead too.
So where does that leave me? More importantly, who does that leave me?
Outside the museum, I hear someone shout "Sherri!' A glance out the window shows a dark-haired girl, running to join her friends on the sidewalk.
Sherri. I think I like that.
There's an old trench coat hanging on the back of the door. It's cut wide across the shoulders, and through the black. I fold my wings against my back, as flat as they will go, and slip into the coat.
Sherri Hall. Yes, I think I like that.
