How does it feel when a person with no emotions—a human that is barely that anymore—falls in love? Does it hurt, like your center is breaking, like that thing in your chest that passes for a heart is starting to dissolve? Does it feel like a great weight is being taken out of you? Does it feel like you are suddenly missing that rock inside you, like you just gave away the thing that makes you strong?
Because that's what she is feeling, as she stares at the man across the wide smooth table from her. He is talking smoothly, outlining the procedures, like the plan they were piecing together was a budget for a coffee shop. She is listening raptly, of course. But she is also wondering whether if he touched her, she would shatter all over the floor, in a million little glass pieces, like some delicate, useless piece of art.
It was all going according to plan. The people were all in place. Everything was set up. Everything was accounted for. Everything except her falling for him.
They had gotten off to a rocky start—her stay in a hard, cold space prison had not suited her well, and he—well, he had his own demons to haunt him. But eventually, they had realized that they shared the same interests, and here they were.
It had surprised her at first, like a loose tooth. She thought something was wrong with her, when she found her mouth dry at the thought of him, or when it almost hurt to look at him. But since when had pain meant anything to her, the proud queen of a now distant memory? Maybe it was just a headache. Or something like that. She started checking for poisons in her food.
Finally, she resolved on a compromise with herself. No matter what her emotions screamed at her, she would stay strong. Her mind would still be quick and sharp, and so would her body. No way would she give up her dignity. No way would she be dissolved into a lovesick child over this man.
But that wouldn't stop her from feeling a small clinch in her chest whenever she heard his cool, collected voice. That wouldn't stop her from wondering how he seemed to get by on no sleep and barely any food. That wouldn't stop her from noticing the sweat on his uniform, when their sparring sessions went for hours because both were too proud to admit they were exhausted.
She is so wrapped up in plans and thoughts and things not said that she hardly notices when things go silent. She is studying the map on the wall, the small lights that mean "all is well," when the communicator on the table crackles.
It is time.
"Slade," the voice says calmly, "The knights are on the board."
He raises his head to look at her, and she knows he is smirking. "Madame, would you give the order?"
She smiles, a smirk of her own flashing across her face, and, quelling the flutter in her chest, picks up the communicator. "Rouge to Blood," she says, a dangerous glint in her eye, "commence Operation Omega."