Quill; Ghost; Mockingbird. It never seems to matter what he calls her. When he looks at her, it feels as if he barely sees her; barely knows a thing about her.
Out of three false names and a single truth, none matter to her anymore. Quill is nothing of importance; a small piece of woodchip in a machine, only delaying its progress rather than halting it altogether.
She knows it most when the vitians call out at their usual hour, a time that suggests the deepest night, when they scratch and thud at the doors and ceiling, begging, shrieking, wailing to be allowed entry.
She knows she is nothing. And so when a stranger spits in her face, Ghost spits right back, rolling the cardboard words on her tongue and coating them in merciless venom.
I am indeed nothing, and yet I will do as I please. Does that anger you? Frighten you, even? To know that I, a mere speck of nothing, stand in your way as if I am a mountain?
Words that burn heavily in her eyes, unforgiving, hostile and sharp. Her barriers are rigid, walls built with unmatched strength. They reveal nothing but her intentions, clearly understood.
She is a mouse in front of a lion. A mouse, with enough rage to send the king to the hills, unable to compete with the immovable force in front of it. Even if it takes her time, she is determined to keep her territory safe and protected.
When the stranger leaves, their words ringing out in the air, If Solace did not like you so much, you would be dead, so count yourself lucky, Mockingbird focuses on them with all her strength; focuses on her confusion, rather than a lingering echo of her lacking worth.
After all, if she is nothing, why would Solace care?
