Back where dead Katie lay dreaming, above Riverton Island.
Little did she know, as internally she reminisced, externally, she enacted. The only way for justice to truly be served: roaring like an endless thunderstorm engulfing everything in its path. Her victims, stripped of their material bones... could not muster but the most miniature movement. On this Island, where the Source slashed its scythe to collect Death's victims, there existed no hopeful light. For not even the sun's might, with all its gleaming brightness, could pierce the bottomless darkness that loomed overhead.
Eventually, Katie would awaken, surrounded by friendly faces. On her forehead, displacing the usual lukewarm, there was now 'ice.' With eyes rapidly searching, a familiar face came into the frame; one she longed for. His beard, his eyes, his hair.
"You... look like me," She muttered to her father.
Wiping away the prohibiting strands strewn over her temples, he chuckled, azure orbs hidden by ivory eyelids. His voice, though deep, though booming like a bass through a club at night, was oddly comforting. She felt at peace in this world, where everyone tended to her, and only her. She could feel eyes on her, but their intention was much different than the demons that clawed at her heart so deeply; less of a feeling, more of a fact.
"Well, I'd hope so. If you didn't, I wouldn't be here, would I?" The Detective and his daughter identically laughed at his gentle retort.
The eyes fleeted away with footsteps furthering with each passing second. No breeze touched her face, no door creaked open. She thought, 'They must be upstairs,' but it was only fleeting.
After all, how could she take her eyes off the man destined to be her father? But, while the concern for the party's other attendants had vanished, another feeling persisted. Reigning over her like a virus, darkness infecting a room from a lone corner--no matter how hard she tried, the light she shined on that corner would never dispel the darkness. Was that the fate she was resigned to, even in this familial fantasy?
"Dad..." Her voice called weakly to the man overlooking her.
Just one low call leading his eyes to open, a curious expression now painting his face, however, still branding a smile as he awaited what came next.
"When someone you love does a bad thing, what do you do? Do you tell that person what they did is wrong, and risk losing their love, their friendship? Or, do you ignore it, blissfully hoping that person is good when you know they're not?"
He laughed at her question, leading her to sit up immediately, watching as turned away with a hand covering his stubbled face.
"What's so funny?" She sternly asked her father.
"Ah, ah... it's nothing! Heh, you just sound so serious. I've never heard you speak that way."
Azazel's reminder caused her head to turn away, right hand holding her arm, she nodded and solemnly whispered a sorrowful,
"Right..." But, he wasn't blind.
After all, being a Detective had its perks, didn't it? The next sound was a fridge door opening some feet away, and revealed from the inside was one cartoon of double-chocolate chip ice cream with two spoons. Just that stance withdrew the awkward silence in the room, well, that, and the next words exiting his lips,
"Alright then, let's talk."
The outer night that held the unknown could be simply dispelled by this moment. Not averting your eyes from the open window peering into the external world, pondering about the possibilities about the blackness's secrets, but existing in the present, spending time with others worth your presence. Whether that was her father, her cousin, whoever else, it didn't matter. She was here, laughing with a spoonful of cream in her mouth, splatters of chocolate plastering spots on her face. Azazel pointing this out only led to more laughter filling the living room, pouring out their dirty mouths. Blaire, just barely hidden by the wall as she sat the steps, couldn't withhold her smile.
But, not everything is laughter and happiness. The world was filled with cruelty and unfair realities and unfortunately for Katie, she was faced with one she was forced to dispel. The loudness of their laughter gradually decreased, but as it did, the smiles on their faces started to fall, and yet again, there was silence. A spoon dug into the tub's bottom, but all it did was scrape against plastic, and following that, a disappointed groan.
"Ah, damn. Looks like one of us is gonna have to tell mom we're gonna need more ice cream. Not it, heh! Right, Dad... Dad?"
He was oddly silent, but turning her head to him, his hands on his stomach... it became clear the time had come. The question she asked, he hadn't yet answered it; better late than never. But what would he say? This question, the more she ran it through her head, the more possibilities fell to her hands, but she couldn't choose. How could she hold the guilty accountable with proper justice when she was guilty herself? But the most important question of all: Why was she thinking this hard about the other people that ignored her when she was being tortured like she were nothing less than a slave being worked to death on a field? Where had that sudden probability she questioned herself originate? None other than her father, of course:
"To be a good friend, you need the ability to acknowledge that person's wrongdoings, help them change their ways, and ensure they find help. If they've wronged someone else, it doesn't matter if they've apologized or not, it's none of your business. But, to you, if they've done something bad to you, you should acknowledge it, but you don't have to forgive. As long as you speak your truth and say it loudly without withholding anything, that would make you a true friend. But, that's how I see it."
Azazel's impartiality when it came to the law had vanished, but Katie nodded, she needed no further explanation--her white-haired uncle was proof enough. But, this man, he wasn't blind. She was so arrogant to forget this again. When she turned her head away and stared at her fists in her lap with revealed veins protruding out from white skin, his voice reached to her again, like an Angel beckoning a mortal,
"Katie."
She turned her head yet again, but their eyes didn't connect, all she was met with was the side of his face; the shape of his beard sliding up his cheek and connecting to his spiky hair.
"This isn't about a friend. Tell me, my daughter. What kind of person are you?"
Memories. The experiences that form a person's psyche, no matter how scattered, how traumatized, exist, and because of that, the self exists, the commercialized exterior persona exists. Had she known they'd be so harmful, she'd wished the ability to think, for it to have faded long ago. But, why? What was her nature? What kind of person was she? Had she been so blind as to not consider her whole self, outside the view of another person? No. She knew who she was.
"I... I'm not an inherently good person. But, I'm selfless. And because of that, I want to save others. I want to ensure they don't endure the same hurt I did. And if they do, I want to save them from it. That was the path I chose when I went to China, to train at Everest, to get stronger. I wanted to save others. Other people, sometimes, they're good. Sometimes, they're kind. I saved a kid earlier, and he was happy. He would get to live his life without anyone's torture ever again, and I was the source of that enlightenment. I realized then that there is no greater joy in the world than the gratitude of others when their lives depend on it. If I could save a life, but at the same time, bring myself happiness, that's what I'd want to do."
Katie's explanation finally warranted Azazel's eyes, a melancholy grin painting his lips. She turned her head curiously as her father swiped his eyes away from hers.
"You sound like a good person to me. So, what's wrong?" He asked with his head hung, eyes to the floor.
"There's someone I love. Someone who saved me, but didn't save others. Instead, he trampled on them. The angel that gifted me kindness was a devil in his own right, but not to me, so I didn't care. I was grateful to him, so I was ignorant. But, I don't want to be anymore. I want to be a capable individual, I want to be free of everyone, and be myself. That's why I returned here after I saw Alex die. I'm not weak. No one is a god, and no one is an angel. We're all ourselves, flawed and all. I was just too blind to see that. There's only one person to blame, and that's Riverton."
The world began to shatter around her, but she didn't open her eyes, instead, she was falling through this artificial sky. Full of blues, riddled with whites, the brushing air infiltrating every crook of her clothing, she could make out the sight of flying birds as she stared up at that fleeting sky. It was mere moments before she could return to her world, but it felt endless like she were an angel floating through Heaven. The sun was shining on her, enveloping her in its heat, but it wasn't burning, instead, it was soothing. It wasn't a dream. It was real.
"Goodnight, world. I'm done dreaming."
Not with a whimper, but with a bang, the sight of Riverton was clear. Though the bodies were plentiful and their blood dirtied the streets, the sky was clear. The storm had ended.
To Be Continued.