Desdemona did not remember how exactly she spent the New Year’s last year. She knew the basic gist of the story - she’d been at a ball, a masquerade, and she’d powered up into Amphitrite and been taken hostage by the Negaverse. But like so many other things, it was a summary, not a complete and whole story. It shouldn’t have really bothered her, but it did. There was a blank space where her last memories as whoever she’d been before should have been, and - she wouldn’t say she felt robbed or anything, no - but the hollowness those memories left behind rankled and irritated, much a sore on the inside of one’s cheek. The evening that marked the beginning of the shards of misery that still plagued her nightmares, haunting her more than she ever wanted to admit -
One year ago, Amphitrite was tied to a chair. She spent the next five weeks tortured, brutalized, and starved until her corruption at the hands of Laurelite.
So many times she spat those words venomously at the white moon as though they were weapons. Tools at her disposal. Why couldn’t they just be that?
She was stronger now. Better. More confident, powerful, and beautiful than she’d ever been before. Which was why Desdemona went out for New Year’s Eve instead of sitting at home feeling sorry for herself. Have some fun. Maybe go back to someone’s place for the night. Maybe catch some easy hits for energy or starseeds. The ideal night for a good time.
At least that’s what she’d thought. But when she’d slipped into the club, she felt no familiar surge of satisfaction. When she danced, the eyes on her didn’t make her happy - again, she felt nothing, like the hollowness of her memories had swallowed her up completely.
So when someone got her a drink, unlike her usual way of nursing the thing to better maintain her control and charm her chosen target of the night, Desdemona swallowed it in three deft gulps. It burned on the way down in a way she didn’t really enjoy. It didn’t stop her from doing it again. Or a third time, sharing laughter that was louder than it needed to be with a man whose name she wouldn’t remember.
It took until they’d slipped into the bathroom, his mouth on her’s and his hand on her leg, pushing her against the wall of the stall, that Desdemona realized this wasn’t doing much of anything for her - it wasn’t what she wanted. With a grunt of disgust, she pushed him back, although he didn’t go far. She was a girl now, not Amphitrite, and for as much as the line was blurred she sometimes forgot that she did not always wield that kind of strength. He tried again, so she shoved again, harder this time, and made for the stall door. Her steps were slightly clumsier than they should have been, but when she felt a hand close around her wrist painfully tight to jerk her back to him, a surge of something welled up in her that was more ice than any flames of passion.
Closer to dread. To fear.
For just a second she was that scared girl in the chair again, crying and sobbing and begging for mercy.
Pure, unfiltered anger welled up in her, as invigorating as it was blinding.
Desdemona swung around and punched him hard across the face, and drunk or not, she was not made of nothing. The blow connected and the rush of crimson she saw seeping from his nose was satisfying, but not enough, not nearly enough to account for what he’d just done. With him distracting, howling and cursing in pain, it was enough to give her the time she needed for the useless mask that was Desdemona to fall away and reveal Amphitrite, a twisted smile on her face as she lunged and shoved again, pushing him effortlessly against the wall. Within moments she has his starseed sitting in the palm of her hand, and he’s collapsed in a heap on the floor, broken and forgotten.
Those were words for you.
Were.
Are you so sure?
She crushed the starseed effortlessly in the palm of her hand.
It did not give her the satisfaction she so desperately longs for. Instead, she idly rubbed at her wrist, her eyes distant and half-lidded before she teleported away into a alleyway nearby. Powering down, Desdemona leaned against the brick wall beside her. Going back to a club held no allure for her now. But neither did pending the night alone, or worse, at home. She does not want Poppy involved in this, to see her as anything but the warm, composed, confident sister that she tried to be. So instead, she reaches for her phone.
The contacts list in her phone was painfully short, really. Ax. Emory. Fritz. Poppy. And then handfuls of one night stands, some of them names she can’t even put to a face anymore. Could any really be counted as ‘friends’?
There would be more people to call on if she were Amphitrite instead, she knew this. But she also knew they were not the types of people she could call on tonight. It seemed weak. It may even seem disloyal. She’d bought a spotlight on herself with her thoughts of a team, more than even other corrupts, under scrutiny from the start, and -
Disgust surges through her as heat warms her cheeks and eyes, and how goddamn pathetic was it, she was ******** lonely. Here she was with every available resource, with the organization like the Negaverse to rely on and serve and be a part of, and here she was isolated and lonely and it wasn’t supposed to be like that anymore.
The alcohol. It’s the alcohol.
Is it?
She bit down on her lower lip hard enough to draw the taste of blood. Without thinking, or maybe thinking with the flawed logic of someone whose inhibitions have been robbed blind, Desdemona typed out a rapid fire text, intended for anyone on her contacts list that was not Poppy:
Quote:
Hey guys! Super bored! Anyone want to ring in the New Year with me? Just drop me a line, thanks! xoxoxo
To be honest, she didn’t expect a response. With nowhere to go and no one to see, she sank down, the brick catching on the back of the dress as she settled onto the ground to wait for nothing but the clock to hit twelve and start again. Because it would always start again, and come tomorrow, so would she.
