The platinum-haired person in the wheelchair caught me off-guard far more than the guy with the knife.
Not just because of their aggressive, spitfire behavior - which was somehow even louder than my own.
What got me was their face.
I found myself breathless for a moment. I had to watch them move to realize they weren't a painting.
Those eyes. That mouth.
Skin kissed with dew, and smooth like wet soap.
Surely, a model. I could imagine them nowhere else but posing nude for art students. For famous painters. For illustrators drawing cosmetic and corset advertisements.
Though, the coldness in the cloaked center of this model's eyes told me this was superficial beauty.
You know those people. Who realize they're beautiful, and that no one can touch them. They know everyone else is beneath them, because no matter the hierarchy of politicians and monarchs, beauty rules the world.
The blond model was seated, and glaring way up at me seated on Valkyrie's back. Even so, they were looking down on me, with their glacial stare. Sky blue lasers casting divine judgement on me like the eyes of God. Because, groom my hair and paint my face as I may, I would never be as immaculately, heartstoppingly stunning as they.
I guess that's why I was so rude to them at first. That living marble sculpture, that masterpiece. They probably got whatever the fuck they wanted. They likely had no personality, other than entitlement and superiority.
Wax. Marble. Silicone. Plastic.
Finished with real gold. But only a thin lining of it.
"You know the two most common ways to die?" I dropped my voice on the ground, and only held eye contact with the porcelain doll for as long as I gave them the scarcity of my respect. "First is malaria. Second is getting trampled to death by a horse. Want to swap them?"
As soon as I tore my eyes away from Michelangelo's finest, I steered Valkyrie around them, and forced myself not to take another look.