Monday's chest stings as they let their knees collide with the floor. The shrine huma with silence and even the sounds of their own erratic movements are sucked into the void's endless vacuum and cast to nothing; like ashes tumbling through the sky after a forest fire.
Who do those voices belong to? Monday recalls scenes, instants - once, the soles of their feet against scattered paving stones and a hologram's voice asking, and then second standing under a starry blanket, the smell of blood rising from their clothes and a flickering, ghostly blue form before them.
We're not people. Their hands had been shaking, and sounds of desperation still echoed in their ears.
Flash, then back. Knees on cold stone, hands clawing at a barrier that couldn't be seen. The void calls to them. It's singing; Monday strangles a cry and continues trying to ground themselves on the invisible force blocking them from the crystal floating ominously in the centre of the shrine.
You're a bad person!
Red; fear; accusatory tone. Monday stood proud and rigid before their scrabbling prey and Evil seemed to be saying something but they didn't care for it. They tried to straighten out the smirk that was being forced up into their cheeks but it didn't work.
Darling, I'm not a person.
It's so fucking cold in this shrine. Monday can barely feel their skin, this fragile mortal flesh draped on their fragile mortal bones and still the cold stings like a thousand angry wasps. There's nobody here, not that they can see, but Monday wouldn't be surprised if there was someone above them laughing at how hard and fast and far this monster has fallen, down from their high heavenly horse and down onto their grazed knees.
Short, loud bangs. Flashing lights. The distant smell of gunpowder on the wind.
And of course, Monday can be a wise one, and of course, Monday sees it coming and though they grit their teeth so hard their head fills with the sound of rumbling thunder and though they try to brace themselves it still hits hard; the relived sensation of metal cleaving through fresh. It knocks them breathless, and the Lost angel cries into the unforgiving ground of the shrine.
"I'm sorry," they choke. Whatever is held in their chest in place of lungs burns as though they've been trying to breathe water. "I'm sorry, I'm a person." It hurts. They feel so fucking weak and it hurts.
"I'm a person and I'm bad."
