("The First War—the largest, bloodiest one of the three Great Wars, that stretched across nations—was caused by Team Rocket, the Second by Team Aqua and Team Magma, and the Third by Team Galactic. On the horizon, across seas, the Fourth War bubbled, rising under Team Plasma and Lord N—all of the Heroes had disappeared, and Cyrus's Ideals had to be stopped." —History of the World.)

sleeping beauty
wait—they don't love you like i love you.

She dances with skeletons. The air is opaque, and he has to squint to see her face, pretty features surrounded by a halo of blonde hair. It's almost funny, how her bare hands are bloodstained, crimson against porcelain white palms. "Cynthia," he breathes, and she turns to look at him.

"Yes, Steven?" she asks, mouth curved into a candy sweet smile, lips the color of roses. Steven has to remember to breathe—she is beautiful, and he's nothing, just a hollow shell of a man, an echo of a name in an empty cave. He has to remember that this woman, she isn't real. Not really.

Cynthia is stronger than him—she has the strength to crush him with a dainty fist, and she has him trapped between her long, thin fingers—but somehow, he is not afraid.

The world has deteriorated into a mess of human bodies. Steven can barely make his way through the streets anymore, because they are choking with flesh and bones. He cannot remember a time when there was not War.

When he was a child, The First War stole his parents away and so he dove into it, fighting against whoever was the enemy. Now, he straightens his suit and sits in his mansion, carved into the rock, and waits. Waits for her, sometimes—when she is out killing, tearing people apart. He cannot remember what he is waiting for—but he thinks it might be the end. (So he waits, and waits, and waits, and waits because the end is not coming.)

Cynthia comes back to him on sunny days, when she cannot hide in the fog, and they wait together. It reminds him of their times on the battlefield, of all the clothes that he cannot wash the red out of. He tells her, on these days, that she needs to come home. "Come home to me," he says, "and stay."

She always refuses, laughing. The pretty blonde is a killing machine, and even Steven can't stop her.

Cynthia leaves behind her a trail of destruction—people she murdered in the blink of an eye, people who dared challenge her, villages filled with enemy soldiers. She was kind, once, but Experiments do things to people. Now she can only search through the regions, asking the same question. "Where is Cyrus?"

He is scared for her. She is blinded by hatred and the chemicals coursing through her veins and—she is going to die, someday soon, and he is not going to be with her. That thought, perhaps, is really what scares him. Steven wants to hold her hand, and keep her safe.

Because she is never safe.

She slips through his fingers, again and again, like a wisp of a fairytale—she is an enigma (wrapped in a conundrum), and he cannot understand her. He will never understand her, but maybe, he thinks, that's why I love her.

Love is a strong word when it comes to War, though, so he keeps it to himself and feels his heart break, over and over and over, every time she leaves the warmth of their bed. "Stay with me," Steven begs her, every time, and she replies with a sad smile, slipping on her boots.

"Sorry."

It's a simple word, but it keeps him on the edge, waiting for her to reply with something else, like okay or yes or i love you or the War's all over.

It's raining, the next time Cynthia comes back to him (because she always comes back to him) and she whispers in his ear, "It's over."

Her smile is the most radiant thing he has ever seen. And this smile—this time, it's real.

a/n: HI GUYS. so this is for air lock, who actually inspired this piece, though it's for her placing first in my contest. hope you like it~ i enjoyed writing it so.