[ Before she claps her hand in his, Skye stares down at her palm. The rocky (pun infuriating) exit from her Matrix is fresh in her mind. She curls her fingers, flexing them, then clasps her hand with his and shakes it decisively.
In this world, she isn't dangerous.
But the answer to his question is another story, one told by the distant darkness in her eyes. When she was born, they called her Daisy. She knows that now, but she doesn't want it. Doesn't want the stain of her father's hand on her. Once, she'd discarded her orphanage's naming choice—Mary Sue Poots—and taken up another, Skye. Something hopeful. Dreaming. An identity she'd chosen for herself, entirely.
It doesn't feel wholly right now. She feels like the spectre of death: gunning down Ward, leading Trip into that temple, bringing it and a good portion of San Juan down. It's always been that way, the ghost of her father haunting behind her, ready to tear out the throats of entire towns.
Except now, she doesn't need the monster to follow in her wake. The monster is her. But she's not the person she always believed she was. That life was a lie, buried under the rubble of San Juan. She could rise out of it, or she could let it crush her.
Bitterly, she answers, ] Well, I'm a natural disaster, but that doesn't come off the tongue quite as easy. [ What do you call something like that? ]
no subject
In this world, she isn't dangerous.
But the answer to his question is another story, one told by the distant darkness in her eyes. When she was born, they called her Daisy. She knows that now, but she doesn't want it. Doesn't want the stain of her father's hand on her. Once, she'd discarded her orphanage's naming choice—Mary Sue Poots—and taken up another, Skye. Something hopeful. Dreaming. An identity she'd chosen for herself, entirely.
It doesn't feel wholly right now. She feels like the spectre of death: gunning down Ward, leading Trip into that temple, bringing it and a good portion of San Juan down. It's always been that way, the ghost of her father haunting behind her, ready to tear out the throats of entire towns.
Except now, she doesn't need the monster to follow in her wake. The monster is her. But she's not the person she always believed she was. That life was a lie, buried under the rubble of San Juan. She could rise out of it, or she could let it crush her.
Bitterly, she answers, ] Well, I'm a natural disaster, but that doesn't come off the tongue quite as easy. [ What do you call something like that? ]