“Why did you become a Guardian?”

The question, while innocuous, startles Irene. It’s a question she’s heard dozens of times before and the answer is always rather bland amongst all of the Guardians. There is the typical answers of wanting to protect the citizens or serve justice to the wrongs of the world. There is the thinly-veiled excuse of craving fame and fortune, or even craving the taste of being a good person.

Irene, however, is acutely aware that Rose isn’t asking for the socially acceptable answers that Guardian’s give the reporters or newscasters for their story. It’s etched into the grooves of her face- the insatiable hunger for knowledge and truth. Rose is, above all else, still a reporter. Her chocolate eyes glimmer, partially with hope for a proper answer and partially with genuine curiosity that isn’t for her job but rather her character.

“Are you asking me off the record or is this going for an exclusive?” Irene asks wryly, instinctively reaching up to twirl a strand of her pale blonde hair. It smooths the steady thrum of anxiety that blisters like a live wire beneath her skin. “You don’t favor Guardian’s in a good light, and that is the last thing I need right now.”

“Contrary to my previous articles,” Rose defends quietly, ivory cheeks dusted pink at the reminder of her previous writings, “I don’t dislike Guardians. They are the protectors of Skytop City.”

“Right,” Irene replies, faintly bemused. Her golden wings flutter anxiously behind her, aching to be stretched and feel the wind between her feathers. “You just hate the system that the Guardian’s rely on. That popularity is a large part of the job to ensuring that we get a lovely check cashed in and our faces plastered on the billboards.”

Rose’s lips curl downwards, her small pink wings puffed in slight agitation before they curl tighter around her back. “Guardian’s shouldn’t be considered celebrities. They are meant to be the protectors- not our shiny superheroes clad in ridiculous outfits and helping elderly women crossing the street.”

It isn’t that Rose is wrong. Guardian’s, while stronger fighters and protesters against people whoa re equally as strong within their winged world, they are also master actors and actresses. How can they not be? Their paycheck relies on the public’s favor. The more popular you are, the bigger the paycheck and the more you’re pushed into the public’s eye to be treated as if you’re some superhero from the old TV shows from before Wings.

“So, are you saying that you agree with Carrion?” Irene asks, her tone disturbingly neutral despite the ice in her veins. Rose blinks, her round chocolate eyes widening a fraction. Regret shimmers behind her countenance. “In case you forgot, Carrion has threatened you for your closeness to me and whatever piece of evidence you uncovered and remains uncertain.”

“I haven’t forgotten that, Irene,” Rose snaps, then hastily calms herself. In a much quieter tone, she tacks on, “I haven’t forgotten that I’m currently a target. I’m perfectly aware that Carrion has murdered 12 Guardian’s and stripped them of their wings- how could I not be aware of that? It’s the only reason I am here in the Guardian Headquarters is so that I’m not the next one.”

Soothing her lightly puffed feathers, Irene sighs and rubs a hand over her face. “You never answered if this is off record or not, you know.”

With a flick of her baby pink wings, Rose deflates from her defensive position with an apologetic frown. Carefully, she reaches over to place her hand gently over Irene’s thigh, her smile delicate and sweet. She smells faintly of honey and petrichor. “Off record, of course. I know you’re under a lot of stress right now with the public and the lack of clues to Carrion and their plans.”

At Rose’s touch, Irene can’t help the way she slumps into her. She leans closer so that their shoulders are practically melded together, ivory skin clashing with bronze. She resists the urge to spread out her wings and tuck them around the both in a feeble shield from the world around them. All she wants is to just allow herself to be whisked away by pink feathers and dark chocolate eyes, but she can’t.

“I’m afraid the reason I became a Guardian isn’t that exciting,” Irene says with a snort of bittersweet laughter. Rose watches her, gesturing for her to continue quickly, eyes sparkling. Bemused, Irene does as asked. “I became a Guardian because everyone around me expected it from me. All my life I heard things like “oh, she’s got golden wings- she’s destined for greatness” or “she’ll never be like the rest of us. Her wings are of gold”. I never really had the chance to be anything else. My parents groomed me, practically, to be the perfect Guardian- a champion of the people. A symbol of victory with my shimmering golden wings over the feathered city.”

Gritting her teeth, Irene cranes her head away from Rose. She doesn’t want to see the disappointment. “My younger brother got to attend public school and take whatever classes he wanted in high school and university, but me? I attended private school for gifted students. I took charisma classes, etiquette classes, and did modeling and film. I was taught how to speak, fight, walk, eat, dress. I attended the school for Guardian’s at 16 and graduated by 20. My parents never asked what I wanted or who I was. They gushed about my wing color to anyone, praise them, but the praises weren’t for me.”

“I thought that… I thought that wing profiling wasn’t a thing anymore,” Rose whispers, but Irene can’t read the tone of her voice. She’s always been good at that. A master of hiding away her feelings.

“Legally, sure,” Irene agrees readily. She shrugs. “Otherwise, it’s still a thing amongst the people. The whole idea that black wings are evil and white are good. It’s twisted, but people still believe it.”

Rose’s fluffy pink wings press tighter against her back. Pink wings that means love and kindness. A fitting color for the woman named Rose. “And so… you became a Guardian?”

“And so I became a Guardian.” Irene cranes her head back around. Her lips are curled into a plastic smile. “Is it what you were expecting? Is it what you wanted to hear? That lie in the interview by saying I’ve dreamed of being a Guardian since I was a child?”

“It isn’t what I was expecting, but I prefer this version than the great “Irene Golden Wing” one.” Rose huffs, stretching out her wings and letting them flutter for a second before folding neatly against her back. “Golden Wing has always been rather… hmm, bland for my taste.”

Guffawing out a laugh, Irene playfully smacks her with her own wing. It isn’t hard or painful, normally a sign of trust and respect within their culture for wings to brush or touch, and Rose giggles as her own wing stretches out to playfully tangle with Irene’s. Hers are much smaller- the wingspan is twice as small as Irene’s, but they are strong.

Their moment of laughter is broken by the sound of Irene’s work phone blaring. With a whispered word of apology, she breaks away from the sofa in her office where Rose is perched as she hurries to her desk. She barely even glances at the ID on her phone. Very few people know this number, which means it’s something serious.

“What is it?”

The line is staticky. Distantly, Irene can hear the shrill sound of screams and shouts. Sirens of officers and other Guardian’s crying out. Some of their voices are familiar, if only partially, but there is also the crackling of fire. An explosion? It wouldn’t be the cruelest thing Carrion has done, but certainly one of the messiest.

“Irene!”

Relief crashes into Irene like a tidal wave. It’s Max. Another Guardian that she has known since their time at the school for Guardian’s. A good man and an even better Guardian. He’s rather popular amongst the people, especially young girls with his pretty curled hair and sapphire-like eyes. His wings are eye-catching silver and burly in their length and weight.

“Max! Oh, thank the Feathered Heavens.” Irene clutches tighter to her phone, as if grappling to keep Max with her even as the line crackles and breaks. “What’s going on? Where are you?”

“No time… explain,” Max grits out, his voice breaking in and out to the point that Irene has to strain to hear him. It sets her body on edge- like a spring coiled and ready to be bounce. “There… been a… you have to… careful!”

“What? Max! You’re breaking up!” Irene isn’t proud of the note of hysteria edged in her words like a sharpened blade of a razor. Her hand trembles minutely as she presses the phone harder against her ear. “Max, what is happening?”

“… trap! Can… hear…? It’s a…!”

“Trap?” Irene’s thin brow knits together, straining to catch every word that tumbles over the static. “What is a trap?”

“Irene! It was… have to… with pink… you need to…”

Fear blooms in the pit of Irene’s belly. Her hand tightens around the plastic of her phone, a chill racing down her spine. Something is so very wrong. “Max? Max! What- I can’t hear you!”

“-Rene! The… pink wings… Rrion!”

The line clicks.

Startled, Irene yanks the phone away. The call dropped and her screen is flashing that she’s lost all cell service. She checks the corner and sure enough, there are no bars. Nausea curdles in her gut like soured milk. She hasn’t left the Guardian’s Headquarters since the threat on Rose and the last Guardian was found dead. HQ has it’s own network that it runs on- it has to.

Which means that someone disconnected the network from //inside the agency//.

Discordant is a frenzy within her veins. There is no way that any of the Guardian’s would have shut down their service, right? It’s their only connection to their case files, their resources, and the only contact to the outside world. Would a Guardian side with Carrion? Or is there a breech?

Neither are great outcomes. A bead of sweat trickles between Irene’s shoulder blades and her feathers bristled and puffed.

Max was attempting to warn her. What was it it that he said? A trap? And something about pink. Pink wings? That doesn’t make any sense. The only person that they know of with pink wings is Rose, who is under protective custody and has been for almost a month. She’s been living with the Guardian’s at HQ. Is the traitor or breech coming for her? No, that can’t be. Not even Carrion would break into a heavily guarded place like this.

Rose isn’t the endgame.

Unless… unless Max isn’t warning her of someone coming for Rose. He’s warning her //about Rose//.

“Irene.”

Irene whirls around. Her phone clatters to the floor. It’s loud against the abrupt silence.

Rose is standing from her place at the sofa. Her expression is marred with worry, small hands clasped in front of her and searching Irene’s expression. She even reaches out her hand but Irene scrambles backwards to create distance between them. It can’t be Rose, right? It can’t be. Rose, who is as sweet as she is fiery. Rose who loves the truth and has pink wings.

“What’s going on?” Rose asks faintly, chocolate doe eyes round. “Is Max okay? Did something happen with Carrion?”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Irene asks. Her voice is disturbingly steady despite the thundering of her heart in her ears. The cracking of her heart. “You’re Carrion.”

“What?” Rose’s expression wilts into something akin to hurt and anger. Her wings flair behind her with indignation. “What the hell? Irene, come on, I may not disagree entirely with Carrion’s ideals, but that doesn’t make me Carrion!”

And, God, Irene wants to believe her. She can feel her heart threatening to leave the confines of her chest to return with Rose and apologize for even considering it, but she can’t. Rose is the only person that Irene can admit she’s fond of. She never had a friend growing up when all she knew was competition to be the best- always striving to win, win, win. The idea that her only friend she has made, the only one who isn’t a Guardian and she befriended on her own, could also be the serial killer she’s been chasing for months.

Too much of the puzzle fits. The stripping of the wings. The reporter who always knew a little too much that it got her in trouble. Carrion’s threat to her life that has placed her in the heart of Guardian Headquarters. The friendly questions and sweet words. The way Irene always got the sense that Rose isn’t always truthful- a nagging feeling of little white lies and hurts.

When Irene makes no move to say anything or apologize, Rose’s worried expression melts off entirely and leaves something barren and cold in it’s place. There is no emotion in her dark eyes other than contempt that twists her pretty features into something monstrous. She watches Irene the way a wolf stalks a deer.

And for once in her life, Irene feels like a deer.

Pursing her lips, Rose cants her head to the side. “I’ll admit. I hadn’t considered the possibility that Max would be my undoing. He always seemed to foolish and stupid. I didn’t want to waste my time killing him.”

“Oh god.” Bile lodges in Irene’s throat and she gags. She forcefully swallows it down, stumbling backwards until her thighs hit her desk with enough force the desk moves and an ache lingers on her legs. “Oh god, no.”

“Oh, come now,” Rose says sweetly, smiling like she always does. “I expected you to figure it out a long time ago- I mean, come on? The Symbol of Victory, the woman with Golden Wings? The stories of your valor and determination aren’t unfounded. Where was it all? You were entirely too easy to trust me.”

And Irene hates the truth hidden away in the words. She wanted to trust Rose. Rose with her pretty fluffy wings and shy smiles but words sharpened to a fine point if it meant the truth would be uncovered. Rose who smiled and laughed, never once fawning over her golden wings and reputation of being the best. She wanted Rose to be her friend.

Wilting at the words, Irene isn’t sure what to do anymore. A slew of emotions is threatening to drown her. Anger, sadness, heartbreak. Betrayal. Crashing into her so quickly that she can’t tell where one ends and the next begins. She doesn’t know how to react or what to say, because what can she say?

Carrion has been in front of her this whole time.

“Despite being discovered earlier than planned, everything else went far better than expected,” Rose says with a heavy sigh, flickering her fingers through her strawberry blonde fringe. Her dark eyes are nearly black. “You truly are predictable, Irene. Everything I laid out, you followed like an obedient dog on a leash. I have to thank you for that.”

Irene grapples at her desk, floundering to keep herself upright. Her wings feel like lead on her back, far too heavy to lift, and her legs tremble weakly beneath her. She’s drowning, drowning, drowning. “Why? God, Rose, //why//? I thought that- we were…”

“What? Friends?” Rose clicks her tongue against her teeth. She strides over to Irene with all the grace of hunting cat and her pink wings fluttering behind her on full display. “As for why, you know why. You shouldn’t ask stupid questions that you already know the answer to. You’re smarter than that.”

“Because you hate Guardians,” Irene says methodically, forcing herself to swallow past her dry throat. “You hate that we aren’t underground but instead treated like celebrities. Like we’re gods amongst men.”

Rose huffs. “No, I hate that Guardian’s are taking on the role of protectors and yet they fail to do the job that they swore an oath to do. Instead, they do magazine interviews, festivals, and sell merchandise for their franchise. They do commercials and play in movies, as if they are more than what they are supposed to be,” she argues with an irate scowl to her lips. “Guardians are meant to save the people. Be //heroes//, not some sideshow commodity!”

“So, you ripped off their wings and murdered them? And for what? To prove a point?” Irene hisses snidely, hands bawling into fists at her sides as she narrows her gaze on the other woman. Her golden wings puff up to twice their size. “Some of them were great Guardians! True heroines and heroes that lived for the people, not the fame! And their dead with their wings missing! And for what, Rose? What is the point in all of this!”

“So I can kill you myself.”

The words may as well have been a punch to the throat. Irene sputters, the words dying on her tongue to create a graveyard of things left unsaid. Her mouth gapes, opening and closing in desperation to find some words because out of all the things Rose could have said, that wasn’t one of them.

Yes, Carrion had made it abundantly clear that the agenda was taking out Guardian’s who don’t conform to the ideals presented, and has constantly put Irene, the leader and highest ranking Guardian, under severe pressure. Putting her in the spotlight time and time again- calling her out or leaving her coded messages.

Not once did she consider that it was her life that was the endgame.

“Kill… you want to kill me?” Irene whispers breathlessly. Rose bares her teeth, but doesn’t respond verbally. “I don’t… why? What have I…”

“It isn’t what you’ve done,” Rose interjects tersely. “It’s what you haven’t done.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand.”

For a moment, Irene fears that Rose won’t respond. She watches with her bristled pink wings and dark eyes searching her expression. There is no warmth hidden with the grooves of her face or malice. If anything, there is deep resignation. A grieving for a loss of something that Irene can’t quite place.

Finally, Rose asks, “Do you remember how my sister died?”

Confused, Irene nods once. “You told me she died in a tragedy and the news lied about it. It’s why you became a reporter.”

“A partial truth,” Rose hedges darkly, grinding her jaw together. “She did die in a tragedy. I just wasn’t honest about what kind.”

“Then, what happened to her?”

“My sister was murdered by father,” Rose states blankly. Irene recoils sharply, inhaling deeply and staring wide-eyed at Rose. “I know what you’re thinking. Oh, poor Rose. I’m sorry for your loss, but you can save it. And before you jump into the spiel about how my tragedy shouldn’t lead to more tragedy, let me explain further and how you tie into this.”

“Rose…”

“My sister was four years older, but the age gap didn’t really matter all that much,” Rose says, ignoring Irene entirely. “I wasn’t lying when I said that my father was a good man. He was, but he wasn’t to us. An important distinction, you see. None of that mattered because it was just Dahlia and I, and Dahlia loved Guardians. She practically worshipped them. You see, she wanted to be a Guardian and protect people. Save them from bad situations and fight off all those who abuse their wings. That is just who she was. She knew every Guardian, their wing type, and watched their interviews and bought merchandise.”

Rose pauses in her story, breath hitching in her chest as her wings quiver behind her.

“She was like that, and one night there was a festival for a Guardian. She was so excited. She wanted to go and take me. Her speckled white wings looks so lovely since she had done them up with the colors of the Guardian. Our father, however, wasn’t happy and he had come home drunk and fired from his job. Dahlia hid me in a cabinet and told me to not come out until she says so, but father wasn’t… he wasn’t calming down this time. He beat her. He beat her and beat her and beat until I couldn’t even recognize her aside from her wings.”

Irene’s stomach rolls dangerously, clenching and tightening with foreboding. She knows where this is heading and she wishes she could stop it and change the outcome.

“And in his drunken rage, my father ripped apart my sister’s right wing. Feather to bone.”

With barely a moment to spare, Irene pivots around and retches into her trash can beside her desk. Acidic bile lines her tongue, chalking the inside of her mouth, and Rose watches almost distantly. As if she isn’t really here, but off somewhere else.

“Dahlia screamed. She screamed so loud that it rattled my skull and shook my bones. I can still hear it. Feel it. It practically wasn’t human. She begged and pleaded for a guardian to save her, and I didn’t know what to do. I flew out of the cabinet and ran down the street towards the festival. A Guardian would save my sister. I just had to find one.”

The golden-winged Guardian could picture it in her head. A much younger Rose running down the street, barefoot and scared, and crying out for her sister. It shattered her already fragile heart to picture. To even consider.

“No one… no one even glanced at her. No one did anything. I screamed and called and shouted for help, but I never had anyone help me or try to assist me and my sister. I rushed through the festival of people celebrating Guardian’s but no one bothered to ask if I was okay,” Rose continues, her voice steady and monotonous. “Finally, an elderly gentlemen stopped me and I led him home. My father was gone, probably off to buy another drink, and my sister… she had crawled to her room with her nubs of wings bleeding. She was clutching her Guardian plushie and died there. She was sixteen years old.”

Trembling, Irene sank to her knees. Her legs couldn’t withstand her weight anymore. The floor is hot against her cold skin.

“Do you want to know her favorite Guardian? Newly debuted that year. Fresh out of school and making a huge splash in the headlines.” Rose’s penetrating gaze never wavers. “A girl with golden wings and sweet smile. The same Guardian’s whose doll she was cradling. Hoping to be saved. You.”

Somehow, Irene finds her voice. “So, you want to kill me because I couldn’t save your sister.”

“I don’t just want to kill you,” Rose says quietly. “I wanted to break you. I wanted you to be on your knees in front of me, knowing that you failed. That the perfect golden-winged Guardian has fallen off her pedestal and is in the dirt with the rest of us. I wanted you to feel as helpless as I felt that day and know that no one is coming to save you. Like no one came to save me. To save Dahlia. Only then, I wanted to kill you.”

And it hurts because Irene knows that Rose has already won. She’s taken everything from her. She has bared her weary soul, her tattered heart, and helped hold together her stitched remnants of herself. Rose knows she is scared of failure, the ugly truth of why she is a Guardian, and even the exhaustion of the lie her wings represent.

There is nothing left for her anymore, and for once, Irene never lied about who she is to Rose. Rose knows nothing but her battered self that she has fought to remain hidden from the media.

Tipping back her head, Irene doesn’t get up. She remains on the floor, wings drooping against the ground, and stares up at Rose’s pinched expression and teary eyes.

Slowly, Rose kneels in front of Irene. She reaches out her hand to touch the curve of her cheek, ivory fingers stark against bronze, and Irene doesn’t flinch away. She doesn’t move or run or scream. She doesn’t fight. She only watches Rose silently as the pink-winged woman cups her cheek and memorizes her face.

“You’re so much different than I thought you’d be, Irene,” Rose whispers, as if divulging a secret she isn’t sure she should share. “You made it so hard to hate you, you know? I thought… I thought I was a good actress. That anything you said or did would mean //nothing// in the face of my plan, but then… you were so fucking kind even amongst your turmoil. You were supposed to be this… cocky, arrogant Guardian and you’re… you’re //not//. You touched me like I was your water to your desert.”

Irene doesn’t respond. She closes her eyes, remembering the secretive smiles they shared as they stole food from the cafeteria late at night, or the boisterous laughter from Rose when Irene tells a corny joke. It’s better that way.

“Irene. I don’t want to kill you., but I have to.” Regret is thick in Rose’s voice. It leaves imprints from her fingertips. “Our fate is sealed and nothing can change it.”

“I’ll let you.”