The Heart Of A Broken Woman [Part Two]

❝Maybe it was for the better, she thinks, and it aches. It burns worse than the acid rain in her dreams. Hurts worse than the initial grief, more than the times she'd been shot, more than a knife into her heart.❞

The air is warm, thick, suffocating.

A woman stands in front of her lover— dead lover, still and calculating. There is calm, but the fear beneath betrays.

“We need to go,” a man next to her says.

The woman does not move, does not twitch, does not react.

“Jesus, we need to go.”

“Please,” the woman says at last, voice utterly wrecked. “Don’t call the police.”

“You kidnapped me,” another woman says, fearful. She’s gripping her phone, hands shaking.

The former’s expression goes aloof. She clears her throat, composing herself, “I apologize, I merely thought of you as someone else.”

“Someone you were going to kidnap.”

“It’s a running joke,” the man interrupts smoothly, fixing the lapels of his shirt. “We do apologize… Amari, you said your name was?”

Amari pauses, eyes narrow and defensive. 

“Yes, fine,” she agrees finally, “But can you seriously let me go?”

“Of course,” the woman says. “We’re sorry for the trouble, Miss.” She smiles politely. “Jules— let’s go.”

As Amari leaves, high on alert, the woman closes her eyes and tries not to think.

Tries not to think of the teasing and jokes.

Tries not to think of the warm nights by the fireplace.

Tries not to— 

No. 

Delphine Schuyler does not think.

-

“What the hell do we do?” Jules asks hours later, taking a swing of beer. 

They’re sitting over an empty bridge, feet dangling in the air and over the river below. 

“We let her go.”

Jules falters. “That’s it?”

Delphine takes a sip of her own liquor. It’s crappy— the 7/11 type— but it’s familiar. Comforting. 

“Yeah. What the hell else do we do?” She shakes her head bitterly. “We have Reign to run, there’s no time for this. Mourn, grieve, whatever shit others do when someone dies.”

“How do you mourn someone who’s alive?” Jules contemplates, snorting. He takes another chug of his disgustingly cheap drink.

When Delphine finally turns to him— he sees it. The pain, the despair, the hint of madness through the light of the moon. She laughs, dull and brittle.

“I’m afraid my Avianna is already dead. There’s no use in trying.”

“We almost got her today,” he argues. “She was close to regaining her memories.”

“She won’t.”

“What— so you’re giving up? Just like that?”

Delphine stares out at the water beneath them. “Jules, I don’t want to talk about Morelia.”

Morelia. Jules makes a wounded noise, falling silent. He sniffs once, watery, a moment later, but Delphine cannot bring herself to cry. Morelia, she thinks. My Avianna.

“We mourn,” she whispers against the dark. “We must.”

The air around them is suddenly cold. 

-

Only instead, Delphine does not mourn, rather discovers she can’t bring herself to.

Days pass. She throws herself into her work— into creating death and havoc.

She used to use a pistol— preferred guns, but she finds herself using knives more often than not, now. 

Jules watches— notices it too.

There is a case in her apartment in their societies’ building with many top-notched weapons. It reads A.M., holds sacred knives, but she can’t bring herself to use them. 

She utilizes the general use ones instead— the ones everyone can borrow if their own weapon breaks. 

It’s a deviation. Someone as high in ranking as Delphine would never touch a basic knife or gun like the ones there, but she can’t bring herself to care.

They work (only barely), but that’s enough. They get the job done.

Her Gauge Buckshot shotgun and Colt Python pistol lay forgotten against her desk area, replaced slowly with silver blades. 

(Delphine also discovers she likes the feeling of wiping the blood off when the job is done, likes sharpening the edged silver, likes to see the crimson against the napkin. She wonders if it’s why Avianna used to like using knives too.)

Using a knife hurts, but not in the way of a blade cutting skin. It’s mental, emotional, a reminder of her lost— dead lover. It hurts, but Delphine likes it.

-

“Please,” a woman begs, sobbing. “Please, please let me go, I haven’t done anything.”

Delphine laughs, cold and mocking. “You work for the government, that’s enough.”

“This isn’t right— Please, this is—”

“Shut up, woman,” she snarls, ramming a knife in front of her face. 

The woman whimpers pathetically, shaking. “This isn’t right,” she tries again, this time lower.

“Do you ever think about our jobs?”

“Huh?” Delphine looks down at Avianna, whose head is splayed across her lap. 

“We don’t—” She clears her throat, “—exactly have a moral job description. Don’t you ever wonder that we aren’t being right?”

“I stopped thinking about doing the right thing the day I lost my sister in the system. They should have done better, should have helped, but they sat back on their lazy asses and watched.”

“Yeah,” Avianna responds quietly, contemplating, “It doesn’t matter, they deserve it.”

The woman is staring up at her, eyes wide and fearful, water leaking from them.

She sniffles pitiably, holding Delphine’s gaze. 

“Ugh, fine. But you’re coming with us.”

“W— What?”

“Come on, up.”

She drags the woman out of the bar, then brings her to their van. A fist is raised, the woman slumps inwards. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Jules demands a second later, joining her as she hauls the knocked-out woman to the back of the vehicle. “News flash, you’re supposed to kill her.”

“Yeah, and news flash, I felt like showing some mercy today.” 

Jules stares for a minute, then walks the hell away, shaking his head.

“Bastards,” Delphine tells the unconscious woman, vaguely amused. “I work with bastards.”

-

The woman’s name is Jacqueline, they learn. 

Jacqueline sits in a cell. 

“Last name,” Delphine demands, holding a knife in front of her. She doesn’t normally do interrogating, but something about the woman… something about the woman is— 

“Maximoff,” the woman answers, and yeah. It’s a blatant lie. 

Delphine raises an eyebrow. “Maximoff— like that stupid Marvel superhero witch?”

Jacqueline falters. “Yes, and she’s not stupid.”

“Huh,” Delphine wonders, gazing down at her. She lets the lie go, pretends she can’t read the microexpressions, plays along. “Well, Jacqueline Maximoff does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Welcome to Reign, Jacqueline. Make this little room home, because I’m afraid you’ll be here for a while.”

She chuckles at Jacqueline’s outraged expression, breezing out of the cell, hair swishing gracefully behind her. 

-

She goes back to the apartment and lets her defense down, lets her head fall into her hands, lets herself slump forwards. 

Delphine never shows mercy; it had been her Avianna, her stunning, bright, elegant Avianna, who had spared the few she had wanted to.

She doesn’t know why she’d took Jacqueline, doesn’t know the answer, doesn’t think about it.

She could hold information, her brain convinces her, but it’s semantics. It’s an excuse, an explanation; Delphine doesn’t know, doesn’t want to figure it out.

She gets up, sighs, straightens and puts up her mask. 

Delphine Schuyler doesn’t know why she didn’t kill Jacqueline, but a part of her is glad she hadn’t.

-

Delphine finds herself on a beach, wearing a simple white dress. 

It’s gloomy, dark, the opposite of what a family would wish for on a vacation, and she twitches faintly at the feeling of fathoming rain. 

Another meets her, halfway, feet tucked into the sand and long, black hair flowing against the wind. 

The face looks up, smiles. Taunting, teasing, mean.

The face looks up, and Delphine’s heart stops. 

The sky turns red— red for blood, red for love, red for anger. Red for longing, red for death and destruction and love and strength and passion and— 

“Avianna,” she asks, trembling, “Avianna, please.”

The face morphs, grinning madly. “I’m not your precious Avianna,” it coos. “I’m afraid she’s gone.”

Avianna— no, not Avianna— raises an arm: bloody and beaten, a small white bird flies out of the palm of it. It flaps its weak wings; takes flight, higher, higher, higher— 

It falls. 

Blood seeps from the little birdie’s chest, and it twitches miserably on the ground at her feet, wings torn.

The face hums. “This is what you do,” she says. “You’re a monster. Avianna’s happy now, happy without you, without killing and chasing and being chased.” She looks up, eyelashes fluttering. “Do you really want to be selfish enough to bring her back to that?”

And when she opens her eyes again, the face is not Avianna, no. It’s Jacqueline, standing there, in front of her, wearing her Avi’s favorite purple dress. 

“That’s her dress,” Delphine murmurs finally, eyes fixated on the little birdie on the ground. The crimson flows out of it, touching her feet. She has an urge to shudder but thinks against it. 

The face raises an eyebrow, questioning. “That was her dress, Delphine. Avianna is gone.”

The sky turns light again, a beautiful mix of orange and pink.

The face floats away, into the oblivious.

The fathom rain is hard, acidic, and it burns. 

-

Days later, Jules comes out of the cell, pale. 

“She had a younger sister,” he says distractedly. 

Delphine thinks nothing of it— until she does.

-

“You have three chances to tell me the truth.”

Jacqueline snorts, laying back and relaxing against the wall. She’s been gaining confidence during her time here, less of the scared woman she once was at the bar. “Jacqueline Maximoff.”

A knife digs into her cheek, and she cries out, thrashing slightly. 

“Real name,” Delphine seethes, holding the now bloodied knife against her chin. “Or I’ll rip out your eyes. And don’t doubt me, I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again.”

“Jacqueline Maximoff,” she repeats confidently, though the fear beneath shakes her voice.

A cut to her chest, a cry, more crimson on the ground.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time,” she snarls, digging the knife further, cutting deeper, ignoring Jacqueline— or whatever her name was—’s tremor and shout. She trembles, quivering, tears running down her cheeks. The determination has gone, leaving behind the agitation. 

Jacqueline smiles weakly, huffing a laugh. “You guys are stupid, you know? You can fake; I can fake. You think you’re playing a game?” The panic is gone from her face, and Delphine meets a haughty expression, mocking. It’s the same face as the one she’s haunted by in her dreams. “We're playing a game too, darling.”

The knife in Delphine Schuyler’s hand does not waver, but her expression does.

“Julianna Morelia,” The woman Cheshire cat smiles. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

-

“Did you know I actually have a sister too?”

Delphine looks up from the magazine she’s reading, “Huh?”

“Mylo and I are foster siblings, but I actually have a biological sister named Julianna— though I’d hardly call her one. She ran away when I was thirteen, leaving me with the home. Didn’t even try to care about my safety, about the consequences to her actions, and who paid for them.”

“I see,” Delphine hums. She gestures, “Come here, love.”

Avianna settles against her, exhaling. They sit there, holding each other against the soft jazz tune playing on the radio. 

“I honestly don’t think I’ll ever see her again. Don’t know if I want to.”

Delphine squeezes her, “It’s up to you, darling. Maybe someday?”

Avianna leans in, pressing a kiss to her cheek, smiling adoringly. “Yeah, maybe someday.”

-

The air is cold, the sky is dark.

Wind bites, cold and harsh, but it’s paid no mind. 

Delphine finds herself at her favorite spot, her beloved place, the small lake where she had met Avianna. 

Her feet are dipped into the frigid water, moonlight mirrored across the water. Her reflection stares back up at her, and she barely recognizes it. Dried tears contrast her ever-present confidence, exhaustion splayed across her features. 

There’s a rustling of leaves, then a figure joins her. “Oh,” they say rather dumbly, voice familiar. “I didn’t know someone was here, I’ll go.”

Her heart halts, and she has to stop herself from crying again. She’s better than that.

“No,” Delphine closes her eyes for a few moments, bringing her guard up. “I was just leaving, it’s fine.” 

With a hesitated turn of the head, she meets Amari May’s face. 

Amari doesn’t seem to recognize her in the dark. “Any reason for coming here?”

Delphine doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Yeah.” She doesn’t elaborate.

“Hm,” Amari whispers, voice soft. Soft as she remembers, soft like the songs they used to sing, soft against her body during— “I don’t even know why I’m here, my brain just… brought me here. Anyway, I’ll leave, I don’t really like lakes, just wanted to check it out for some reason.”

Wrong, she wants to say. You love lakes, you loved swimming in them, you loved it when we used to come down here together.

She doesn't.

“Bye,” Amari says, more relaxed than Delphine’s ever seen her. The stress, the constant lines of alertness are gone, leaving a young woman untouched by her life’s previous grief. 

Maybe it was for the better, she thinks, and it hurts. It hurts worse than the glass rain in her dreams. Hurts worse than the initial grief, more than the times she'd been shot, more than a knife into her heart.

Delphine Schuyler watches her go, buries her head in her hands, and weeps. 

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