The memories that Cinder has are vague, but they twist and shatter in her mind, one untouchable dream after the other. Her mundane life unravels, turns to embers and flame at its edges—
Cinder (the real Cinder—she assures herself) turns brittle at the impressions of a self that could’ve been—a self that was weak, she insists, weak and without control. (Of course, it is only because she will not—and cannot—admit that the other Cinder was happy despite her early life, that the agency she so desperately desires was held perfectly in the other Cinder’s grasp.) The words of the mysterious voice mail echoes in her thoughts, the risk of death (always a palpable threat) looming larger over her head—an invisible omen of a halo.
If she dies, so will I. If she dies, so will I. If she dies, so will I. In an instant, Cinder slams her fist against the wall, rattling the miscellany in her room, and shouts sharply in frustration. Silence follows, but within it, her loneliness almost begins to speak. Instinct crushes the voice under its heel—her subconscious aware that this was no time to confront her own definitions of agency, of power.
Her rage simmers. She seethes, breathing shakily. She turns her head to stare at the blank screen of her phone. So that they may live a happy life... so that you may preserve whatever happiness you have acquired yourself... What happiness might she have here, knowing now that Ozpin and Pyrrha still live, that in some bastardized form of this world, she cares for them?
How revolting it is, she thinks, for my own life to hinge upon the life of someone I would kill. She moves her hand away from the wall, lets her arm drop to her side. Her hand threatens to shake, so she tightens her fist, bunching the fabric of her dress with her fingers. The headache, which still lingers, reminds her of its presence—and she winces, sucks in air with her teeth. Where would she hide? comes the first thought, and then, comes the answer—as clear as day, as bright as a wildfire, I bet she wouldn’t. She would fight against this instead, like I would.
She feels ill, feverish, running with nowhere in mind, but running madly nonetheless. The alien memory of murdering Pyrrha and delighting in it has pierced her like a violent arrow, the wound of it swelling with obsession. The sound of her friend, wheezing and gasping for life, rings in her ear again and again—endless, like some sick loop of a movie clip.
Her entire body feels wrong, hot—echoing the sensation of power, wielding all that fire and fear. This Cinder, who she once thought she was, is a monster—she can’t remember much of the self-stranger clearly, but there is no doubt in her mind that Cinder is beyond bitterness, beyond justice-seeking.
The woman with whom she shares her face is horrific—A murderer, she thinks, and not of people who deserve it, but of innocents, all for power... Her foot catches against something in the ground and she feels herself sent forward, floating almost in the air, until she crashes into the rough dirt. It scrapes against her face, her knees, her hand. She does not make a sound, and simply lies there— Pyrrha’s frightened, pained eyes. Do you believe in destiny?
She pulls her knees inward, close to her chest, and pushes herself up slowly, anguished. There’s blood, but not a lot of it—A sudden moment of clarity washes over her delirious mind: Why am I running? I need to keep Pyrrha safe.
