She picks up a nice ring, probably from a wedding, single diamond framed in two rubies, twirls it between deft, manicured fingertips. “It’s nice,” she says noncommittally, sparing an offhand glance at the watch the boy has brought to her. “Would be nicer if these things didn’t all have blood on them;” inspects a hair clip dripping with viscous red. It can probably be washed, she thinks, imagines it in the burning girl’s hair, imagines the cuff links sewn into the flying child’s chest. Maybe for him she’d leave the blood.
It is a waste, for dead men to hold onto their silver niceties, their earthly jewels of precious sentiment. It might be more of a waste, however, for them to have it, the way they hoard and pick over other people’s memories, no real consequences, no real care. Grow a life out of other people’s bones left behind, it’s easy to decorate using broken wedding bands.
“I’ll probably sell what I can,” she replies, considering a pleasant leather and silver wallet he’s brought her. “Others will be for costumes, because what better facade than that which has been taken by our own claws?” She looks past him at the room, all the beautiful chaos in red and gold and shattered glass. A nice painting, if that was still a thing she allowed herself. She pushes away thoughts of oils and paintbrushes and points languidly at a woman laying contorted on the ground. Her fingers are gilded in a few sparkling rings, emeralds and sapphires clear in a pool of blood. “Get those, will you?” she asks, rubs a spot of blood off her fingernail, waits.
He blinks at her, expression blank, eyes flat—not uncomprehending, just uncaring. What does it matter if leather and silk are stained? Dyed a shade of red with far too natural sources? After all, is that not what their adoring audiences come to them for: an alternate kind of entertainment for a night, a facade of civility painted with undertones of something darker.
“Hmm, suppose it has a poetic edge to it,” he agrees easily enough, attention already turning elsewhere. The matter of costumes and glittering exoskeletons to be worn under the light does not concern him, given the nature of his Act. No point in dressing up, when he sheds his skin so often.
His gaze follows where her finger directs, landing on a still-writhing figure in black not two steps away from their position. ( Curious little creature. what do you suppose she’s trying to accomplish, imitating a dying worm at your feet? ) No matter, he’ll still gladly strip her of all she has.
The rings require some tugging to remove from her clenching fingers, but he manages without ripping anything else with them. For now that’s all he needs of her. Sapphires and diamonds cascade onto the counter, a small fortune left in a haphazard pile, only slightly tainted by the red of his hands.
The emerald, he holds onto.
“Hope you don’t mind,” nothing in his tone indicates he would Care if she did express anything of the contrary. “But I’m keeping this one. He likes green.”
