He can see Sunday—flailing, scrabbling for purchase, fingers clawing at nothing as the thing drags him toward the darkened mirror. This can't be happening. This can’t— Federico lunges, every muscle coiled, straining forward—but it’s like wading through sludge, his body just a fraction too slow, just too slow. Sunday reaches for him. Their fingertips brush.
A cruel laugh. A sharp yank.
Sunday is ripped away, and all Federico is left with is a glove.
The empty weight of it in his palm is nauseating. His stomach twists, his chest seizing with something hot and ugly. His fingers clench around the fabric, shoving it into his pocket. His gun is up in a blink, his grip like iron. The reflection grins, using Sunday as a shield, taunting him, daring him to take the shot. Federico doesn’t hesitate. He fires—
Not at the thing. At the mirror.
A dull thud.
Nothing.
His arts strike dead center—and dissipate. The mirror swallows it whole, smooth and unbroken. Not even a scratch. Bad call. His pulse kicks up faster, faster. Too many bad calls. He’s running out of time— He surges forward again, heart hammering, breath sharp and ragged—but Sunday is already being pressed into the mirror. The surface bends inward, warping like liquid, like a yawning mouth about to swallow him whole—
No.
No, no, no, no—
"No! Your request is unreasonable—denied!" His voice is raw, teeth bared as he throws himself forward—
Hands clamp around his arms. Not just one. Many. Cold. Unforgiving. Reaching from other mirrored surfaces. Fingers like iron vices dig into his arms, his shoulders, his wings—clamping down hard and yanking him back, ripping his momentum away. Static bursts in his vision for a moment as his halo gets pulled against.
His breath jolts out of him as he twists, fighting, heels digging into the floor, his body straining with everything it has. His wings snap wide, straining away from him, as he aims the sharp, pointed edges at the ones holding him back. Pain lances through him, hot and sharp—his wings aren’t fully healed, the wounds barely mended—but he doesn’t care.
Sunday is slipping.
"You're a part of everyone, I can't. I will not leave you!"
Another laugh. Low. Cold. Amused. Then—
A hand. Too cold. Too strong.
It clamps around his throat. He coughs in shock as air fails to enter his lungs.
The hand shoves.
Federico is airborne for half a second before slamming into the ground, the impact cracking through his ribs. The air is ripped from his lungs in a strangled gasp. His gun skids from his grasp, clattering uselessly across the floor.
no subject
A cruel laugh. A sharp yank.
Sunday is ripped away, and all Federico is left with is a glove.
The empty weight of it in his palm is nauseating. His stomach twists, his chest seizing with something hot and ugly. His fingers clench around the fabric, shoving it into his pocket. His gun is up in a blink, his grip like iron. The reflection grins, using Sunday as a shield, taunting him, daring him to take the shot. Federico doesn’t hesitate. He fires—
Not at the thing. At the mirror.
A dull thud.
Nothing.
His arts strike dead center—and dissipate. The mirror swallows it whole, smooth and unbroken. Not even a scratch. Bad call. His pulse kicks up faster, faster. Too many bad calls. He’s running out of time—
He surges forward again, heart hammering, breath sharp and ragged—but Sunday is already being pressed into the mirror. The surface bends inward, warping like liquid, like a yawning mouth about to swallow him whole—
No.
No, no, no, no—
"No! Your request is unreasonable—denied!" His voice is raw, teeth bared as he throws himself forward—
Hands clamp around his arms. Not just one. Many.
Cold. Unforgiving. Reaching from other mirrored surfaces. Fingers like iron vices dig into his arms, his shoulders, his wings—clamping down hard and yanking him back, ripping his momentum away. Static bursts in his vision for a moment as his halo gets pulled against.
His breath jolts out of him as he twists, fighting, heels digging into the floor, his body straining with everything it has. His wings snap wide, straining away from him, as he aims the sharp, pointed edges at the ones holding him back.
Pain lances through him, hot and sharp—his wings aren’t fully healed, the wounds barely mended—but he doesn’t care.
Sunday is slipping.
"You're a part of everyone, I can't. I will not leave you!"
Another laugh. Low. Cold. Amused. Then—
A hand. Too cold. Too strong.
It clamps around his throat. He coughs in shock as air fails to enter his lungs.
The hand shoves.
Federico is airborne for half a second before slamming into the ground, the impact cracking through his ribs. The air is ripped from his lungs in a strangled gasp. His gun skids from his grasp, clattering uselessly across the floor.
No.
"NO!"