APP
THIRD PERSON: Immediately post Vol. 2 #19, re: Gert's death
In the wake of everything, Nico didn't know how to feel anything but curiously numb. This wasn't new, exactly, but it wasn't planned; she knew she should be overflowing with emotion, bursting at each joint and flesh stitching with the clawing hugeness of life without Gert, but all she felt was tired and cold and small. She fumbled with the top button of her jeans, chipping her nail polish as she picked at it, but she barely even felt that. The side of her thumbnail frayed when it caught on the hem, and she sucked on the bleeding cuticle disinterestedly. The Staff pressed against her ribcage experimentally at the sight of blood, but she was tired and drained. The Staff didn't want to be summoned any more than she wanted to give up that piece of herself, so she pressed her hands to her chest and waited for the pressure to subside.
Gert is gone, something small and frantic screamed in the back of her head, hysterical despite the steady drum of her heart beneath her palms. Gert, Gert, Gert!
Cold rationality reminded her that it was bound to happen; they risked their lives every day, didn't they? Didn't they ever anticipate losing one of their numbers? Didn't they run into battle with that on their minds, tumbling off their lips as they prayed they didn't die? They hadn't been a lucky bunch of bandits from the beginning, so why did she think they'd go on forever whole and unbroken?
It was stupid. She'd known that eventually their luck would curl up into a little black puff of foul smoke and Fate would eat the heart out of another of their crew, but it'd never really hit.
Now it had hit all at once, dull and thick as a bat to the side of the head, and Nico pretty much felt like her brain had been bashed out. Gert's body had been buried under rocks and tears behind the Hollywood sign, Chase had screamed at her for being callous and left with Old Lace in tow, Molly had been coaxed into bed by her own exhaustion and gentle reassurances that she needed sleep, Karolina and Xavin had retreated to their bed to rest, and Nico was finally winding down to sleep, if her mind would permit it.
She looked at herself in the mirror above the sink, peering at her reflection in the warped gray glass as if it were a stranger. Tears had smeared her eyeshadow and mascara into rivulets of ink and dusky rose down her cheeks, and her lipstick had faded into the creases of her lips, leaving her looking bloodless and gray. Nico wasn't at her best, to say the goddamn least. She didn't wait for the water to turn warm before she started washing her face; they were always trying to conserve everything, and the cold water felt good on her stinging-hot face, besides.
Washing off her makeup didn't make her look any less drawn and pale. If nothing else, she looked even more defeated than before. Nico sighed, tugging off her tie and trudging back down the dim hallway to her room. She could hear the soft, uneven rumble of Xavin and Karolina talking---of aliens and men, probably, of the death of their worlds and the death of their friend---and Molly sawing logs. She peeked into the younger girl's room on the way to her own, taking a few moments to walk in and tuck her in properly. Molly had fallen asleep with her shoes still on, clutching her pillow feverishly tight. Easing her out of her shoes and coat didn't make Nico feel like a housewife, exactly, but it did make her feel a little more stable. More normal. Gert had been more motherly, anyway, and it wasn't because she had more estrogen or curves than Nico did.
Mostly, it was because she had fewer angles. She wasn't bony on the inside, difficult or distanced. She was opinionated and didn't take shit from everyone. She would have been a good leader, no matter what she said about the future-not-self of her that'd died in the Hostel.
Molly mumbled something sleepy and content, and Nico left her for the quiet stillness of her own room before the hot itching of her eyes translated into tears.