Little thing. Precious lark. I'd shield you from the world if I could.
Send “Little thing” and my character will tell you something as a child.
The lightning bolt on the young adult’s chest attracts Lia. It’s the only color around her body, save for the hair. But the symbol’s rapid and yellow—like Lia’s own self. The little one starts to shine to match it, a hand going to her mouth to chew a bit on her thumb.
"Lark? Wha’s that?"
The word and accompanied question are mumbled, almost too low for anyone to hear.
The spectrum around this one makes her frown, almost extremely so. Too chaotic, too ugly, too jumbled to even determine what exact color — she expected to see yellow like the lightning insignia, not something out of a old silent film that can’t decide on what color to use for itself!
In an act of defiance, Lia pushes at Mary’s chest, patting it. She’s oblivious to the black outfit, black boots. She only cares about one thing.
"You’re suppos’ to be yellow! Like me! Tell your spectrum to jus’ stay still!"