As you must know by now, this is mostly an introspective fic because it's easier to show Raven's development this way. Sometimes, I can get carried away and mess up the balance between introspective vs. action, leading to tedium.

Scene breaks are used for the first time.

Time moved strangely now. Perception was nothing, her own mind unwilling to be trusted. She not willing to trust it. What was perspective in the scheme of things? What was this useless, demeaning effort she put into fighting?

She was tired.

So utterly tired.

But life continued mockingly, as always, a never ending stream of flow, of time, that went smoothly on, wrapping her in its coying curls.

It was an inescapable truth that she could not move on. Not like the world did after everything was said and done. Nothing at all like what life was supposed to be but was now. Despair and such things, abstinence and deviance of all joy and future sights...

The feeling she felt now was different from that of Azarath. Wholly different and all consuming—she could not escape.

Time, memories, sights, and perceptions...what did any of these matter in the face of her despair? Or was it despair she felt and not just a cold numbness that forced her to smile and laugh and look up into that ironic sky with a cracked smile—

What was joy? Why were these people happy and where had hers gone?

Little children, happy children. Like the smiling spawns of that happy and fat man from a beach so long ago—when was it? when was it?—but she no longer felt any urge to save others. Save the world? She was wholly selfish and this truth was good enough for her.

She was a selfish, selfish being. Who cared about her half baked plan now? Run away? Protect others? Redeem herself?

Not anymore.

She wanted to grasp happiness for herself. And when it was taken away she was devoid, unable to savor the memories. Regret, regret, regret...fear. A child pouting at unhappy things, a child desperately lost at the absence of its newest plaything.

A child.

Was she ever a child? Not Azarath—never there.

However, sometimes...when she was with him...

But the world went on. Children were happy, and fat men smiled.

Life was struck unawares that its pillar had begun to crumble.

She felt...?

What had she felt when he lived?

Why did she want to become a child again?

With him, when she was with him, what was that sensation? That terrible, frothing greed that wanted to consume him? Preserve feelings and lock them all entirely in her heart? The pain of remembering. Or was it the pain of forgetting?

Companionship, human joy. Conversations in the long morning hours. The sipping of tea and absent minded glances and gestures that showed for all the world that they were friends.

Emotions. Flickers, ghosts and wisps of them, but they were there. They had been there! Where were they now?

She couldn't even remember a day begotten of fear. Not anymore.

And so she questioned what was this new cloak her body was shrouded in, this new persona that had settled over her soul? What was this deep, gaping blankness that frightened her more than the way her thoughts swirled and fogged, unknowing, unheeding—! Where, where, were the answers?

In her books, humans, these characters...what did they think was the most vulnerable, pitiful state? To be a babe? A weakling newborn, or a empty headed, insipid child? The shame of youth! Of being stupid and young!

Her mother had been human enough, so why did her daughter never had that same privilege? The same mentality, acknowledgment, that to be a child was stupid and foolish, a thought not even worth considering?

She never had a childhood.

When she was with him...

Was that what she had felt? Like a child?

"...grab for the gold ring, you have to let them do it. . . . If they fall off, they fall off. . . ."

Like a carousel going round and round, it never went around anymore. There was never any change. The children delighted in its twirling mechanics, in its everlasting euphoric effects of happiness and blissful ignorance and innocence. An innocence they were never aware they had. Around and around the horses go...but it was stuck in a perpetual motion. A dead end. A failsafe method of tying children down, keeping them from the horrors of the world, keeping them in happy ignorance...

But all children want to desperately grasp for that gold ring high up on the revolving ceiling, that acrylic and brightly painted carousel. Hands reaching far up, to grab the golden ring hanging just beyond reach of each rotation...to risk their own identities and selves for a risk that could bear them harm! But with each try they mature, grow...grow up...?

The time from before, that happy and blissful time of dreams and faded troubles...

It existed no longer.

"...Can't you hear me, man? Can't you understand? Will you never learn? Don't you know that I am sane and earnest now; that I am no lunatic in a mad fit, but a sane man fighting for his soul?" She sighed. "'Oh, hear me! hear me! Let me go! let me go! let me go!'..."

Silence. And then she frowned. "What does this man have to fear from suffering in an asylum? He talks of being free, but it won't do him any good in the end. So desperately fighting—pathetic." She closed the book shut with a snap, and stood. "What idiocy is this..."

"Sit down, girl. You're hardly finished." The old man huffed a breath, shaking his head. "You've been very agitated as of late. You're attitude is very...how should I put it?"

"Don't bother."

"Hm. Contractions, eh? Colloquial from you is a strange thing. It relieves me, which is a disturbing thing in of itself."

She looked away. "Don't bother. I've been speaking like this long before today."

His gaze was shrewd, but there was no jest in his voice. "That boy of yours in the back. Is he the one that changed you?"

Barely withholding a scoff, she said, "Of course not. No one changed me but myself."

He suddenly switched track. "I suppose you think yourself above books now. All high and mighty, I have to wonder what happened to bring about this extraordinary progression."

The barest of hesitations, but he latched onto her moment of weakness. His appearing grin was jovial. "Ah. Acting the sulky teenager has not affected your common sense, I see. You do your work poorly and you won't even read to an old man like me, and yet you expect me to still provide you books? You can still pay, I guess, but who controls your wages?"

"You don't need me to read to you," she said, biting her tongue. "You're not senile and you've decided to act on your good grace and help me with my substantial loss in books."

"You still haven't told me what happened to all of them."

"And I won't be telling anytime soon."

"Such vigor. I really am curious to know what happened to you."

Incredulity broke through her brooding, and surprise made her blurt out her next words. "You're not curious about the boy I brought here with me?"

"Of course not. Do I look like I care? He's only here because of you."

The statement was so blunt she couldn't argue. There was no offense to be had anyway—not when faced with such brutal honesty.

She appreciated it.

"He's someone who's hurt because of me. Someone I admire, someone I like..."

The old man leaned back, contemplative now at her change of mood. "And you feel strongly about this young man?"

"Do I?"

"You certainly look it."

"You're right," she said. "He's the first friend I've had. I...can't lose him, understand?"

The old man cocked his head, frowning. "There's something else," he said, "but I can't put my finger on it. When you first brought your young man in, he was a tad—ah—alarming."

"But you were not alarmed."

"No. I was not."

Her voice fell quieter. "Why do you help me?"

His smile was wry. "Can't deny you anything, girl. If that entails taking in hulking giants, then so be it."

"I was under the impression that civilians feared the unknown."

The old man shrugged, deceptively nonchalant. "I suppose what you're trying to tell me is that he isn't normal and neither are my actions towards his person. I should fear him, yes? Condemn him to the streets with you carting him on your back, I suppose."

"I did not ask for sarcasm."

"No, you did not." Something softened in that hawk countenance of his. "My dear girl, if I were concerned with reputation, appearance, and this ghastly society as a whole, I would've kicked you out ages ago. And yet here we are, talking while I try and convince you of my sincerity."

She stumbled to her feet, face stricken. "I have never doubted you!"

He sighed. Hands on his knees, he heaved himself up off the chair. "Calm down. Let's take a moment to reflect on the idiocy of your words. Did I ever say I was offended? I am old, girl. Your suspicions and distrust, however mild they are, are smart."

"I do trust you." Eyes gleaming, she tugged at his sleeve. "Please do not think otherwise."

They were of the same height, but her head was bowed. With another sigh, he lifted and rested a hand on her. The warmth of his hand seeped through her hair, and she felt comforted. She didn't care if she looked a child or that this intimate exchange should have been an awkward rarity.

After the events of the storm, everything had changed.

"I wonder, sometimes," he said, mussing her bangs a bit, letting his hand fall back to his side, "I wonder if I did right by you." Regret clung to his words.

"What...do you mean?"

He only smiled and said nothing.

A sliver of unease rose in her. She pulled away, voice firm. "Please tell me what you mean."

"I am getting old. I'll not live forever."

She stilled.

But he continued, shaking his head. "The world is cruel. I don't think you understand that. I may die today, I may die tomorrow, but the fact is you're not independent yet."

"I have been learning," she said, expression turning earnest.

"Just knowing the culture isn't good enough, girl. You tasted only a glimpse of what is to come. That boy in the back, the past you won't tell me...these are painful things, are they not? What will you do when it's time to let me go? How will you react?

"How will you live?"

--

What version of a lie was the truth? Was this the Jump City where people were happy, where every day brought new delights, all under the overwhelmed but mesmerized eyes of an unseen child? Where security had finally been provided, softly and gently as any comfortably worn coat...

Or was the real Jump City the one where people could die right before your eyes, where they were snatched from you at the moment of reunion? Where no one would help you because you were a freak and they let it be known?

She wanted to give into despair.

Jump was no longer the bright and happy place she'd pretended it to be. It was...dark. Gray. Irrevocable shades of gray. With unforgivable turbulent forces that knew she was there, forces that wanted her out. Surely, surely that was the only reason her friend was targeted. Dead. Or nearly.

This was illogical. How could this planet be so cruel? To take her friend away only after she'd found him?

Reason was not supposed to walk hand in hand with murder.

And it was murder, a death by her own hands. Inadvertently. If she hadn't been there, if she hadn't gone back to wait back at their shelter in the hopes that he would return—but by the time this thought had already formed, it was dispelled.

It wasn't her fault. It wasn't his, either. They had parted ways violently. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

It wasn't her fault. Not when she thought it right to wait for him. She would never blame herself for waiting for him. But it was her fault for trying. She drove him away, and then she waited for him to return with open arms? What was she expecting?

She shouldn't have ever come here, to Earth. Fleeing her fate, desperately shielding away from the truth—she'd been in denial. She'd willingly hid her eyes, let herself drown in oblivion, in friendship. It shouldn't hurt as much as this.

It hurt.

But to willing forget these short months, to forget him? Impossible. Ludicrous. It was a luxury she could never afford. Her life was changed. She never wanted it to—unnecessary complications—but she never wanted to go back. Not to before.

To forget him was to willingly tear off her own limb. It was to cut out a part of herself. It was to wrench an organ from her belly and crush it underfoot. Her heart hurt, which was stupid to think once her body was considered. After only a few months on this planet was she able to adjust her breathing accordingly. She was, to all extents, a perfectly healthy human female. Like any other sentient being, she adapted to her surroundings and survived.

Tea helped soothe her raw pains in the beginning, but it was now habit to have a cup first thing upon awakening. She no longer had episodic flashbacks of when her throat burned with every word, so why did she still drink tea? Sentimentality of the action, she supposed. Would any wounded mammal turn away from an old comfort?

Reasons demanded that she drink tea because of its beneficial properties. But that would be lying; she knew full well why she kept intaking the curious substance.

She liked tea. It was as simple as that. Her heart was warmed and soothed from familiar old sensations, and she indulged in them with an enjoyment that was never obligation.

She liked tea. If she found out she could no longer drink that precious brew, she would actually feel something about it. Disappointment, most likely. Maybe even irritation for when her cravings would starve for more. She'd feel all this and more. Much more.

To her mortification, she realized that she'd actually feel sad about it.

The heart was an organ. It did not indulge in insensible, flippant things. Flighty emotions had no bearings on it.

She did not believe in the most ridiculous obsession with love, that emotion novels so frequently dabbled in. She also didn't believe that she could feel sad about a permanent lack of tea. It was...it was foolish. Illogical. Feel so strongly about tea? It didn't make any sense.

She'd gained an attachment.

The heart was a heart. It had no emotions. It wasn't a vague thing like courage or freedom. It was concrete, something out of the pages of a textbook. There was nothing extraordinary about it beyond its capability of keeping her alive.

Hurt wasn't something special at all. It was as familiar to her as her own two hands. Nothing at all extraordinary about an old, lingering emotion. Nothing at all.

She didn't feel so wretched she wanted to hurl. She didn't have any urgings to cry. Of course not.

It was all in her head.

Just like her now sullied home, she supposed, chest tight. If she opened her mouth, she feared something would come out—a mewl, a cry, something. The visual destruction before her could not only be taken in by her eyes; every part of her being wanted to protest, scream. This was her home and it was destroyed.

She could not find the silver lining.

She smelled the acrid scent of metal and garbage and gasoline, heard the dull groans of toppling, teetering cars. She tasted the bitter twang in the back of her throat as she raked her surroundings with despairing eyes. An oppressive sense of sure feeling settled over her, and a thought rooted in terrible clarity—that she could never return. That the fond junkyard of her memories was forever gone.

To the citizens of Jump City, people like her were subhuman. Homeless and poor. They did not consider her equal to them and never would, not when she mourned the loss of garbage. Not when it had been the home she'd wholeheartedly accepted, a shelter she was invited to by...

He'd felt so ashamed. Of the meager dwelling he offered her, his pathetic home. But it was not his place to feel shame. They should have turned to each other, smiled and laughed and...and...

They should have been happy just to live with each other. He'd offered, she'd accepted—what more was there to it than that? The days would have been hard, she knew, but they had each other. Didn't they?

I thought what I'd do was, I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes.

The sodden paperback at her feet dredged up a memory. The girl slumped and clutched shaking arms around her waist. Defeated and not at all willing to fight against her mind, she let it come.

In her mind's eye she saw his stiff back, his haunched shoulders. She remembered his face—right before it turned away from her.

She remembered his words.

He had not smiled.

The most terrifying conversation she'd ever had was the day he'd left, when he hadn't smiled. When she'd driven him away.

"That way I wouldn't have to have any goddam stupid useless conversations with anybody."

Lifting her face to the skies, she breathed. In that moment, she imagined the scene as it should have been. See, the broken pick-up truck he'd turned on its side to act as a wall? The ragged blankets they'd scavenged in the city, and the cleverly hidden bottles of fresh water...?

Which probably had long been swept away by the flood.

Abruptly, her fantasy cracked. Her eyes opened.

She remembered.

The dream had to end. And right before her eyes a destroyed landscape of junk and metal and all things good appeared, materializing from the mists of her memory, crawling forth with its spindly claws that shocked her into wakefulness.

Because the world was cruel and Victor may as well be dead.

And...she was going to let it happen?

--

Her feet trudged through the sand and she didn't care as grit made its way into her shoes.

A breeze careened past her, kicking up her hair, but she was melancholy.

I've been here before, she thought absently. Despite murky waters and the darkening sky, she dipped a tentative foot into the water. The boot hardly did anything to insulate her. The lapping sensation was almost pleasant...until a particularly high roll of water choked up into the air and splashed at her. She jerked back as if stunned.

Cold, cold. Too cold! Almost stumbling in her haste, she backed away when she stopped. Surreptitious glances and suspicious squints, but no one was in her vicinity. She was safe, her privacy preserved. No one would be out on a muggy and potentially stormy night.

Despite herself, she flinched. Hold yourself together, she chided. Even though she said that, she could already feel herself beginning to succumb to distress...

All right, all right, this wasn't working. She inhaled deeply. Brine and salt assaulted her nose but not in a bad way. Still, she wrinkled it, wondering when she would get used to the smell of the sea.

But anything away from...from mechanical things, gasoline, the stinging fume of oil...this was good. The beach could not hurt her. This was a pleasant escape.

Could the weather be any more sullen?

Sarcasm. An uneasy tool, used more to cover up disquieting silence than a personality trait.

Why wasn't she focused? Her thoughts were all over the place. Think! What to do about...?

Falling back, she plopped herself onto scratchy ground. Occasional shimmers of water brushed her outstretched legs, but she wasn't worried about catching sickness. She was drawn to this place, she knew. She just didn't know why.

Gritting her teeth, she dug clawed fingers into the sand.

There was nothing she could do, after all!

Mind distant, she peered out across the sea, a depressing landscape detached from the port and harbor. No ships were in sight because she traveled far enough for them to be at her back. She acknowledged she'd found a spot unscathed by city sights, unclaimed by Jump.

Of course she hadn't been here before. Beaches looked similar to each other. It must be all this sand...

Remember. That beach from awhile ago?

She only remembered a distressed embarrassment, painful confusion, that had sent her skittering away from the crowds and crowds of people wanting to thank her, thank her for saving that little girl...

Healing. Absorbing. Taking on another person's pain, consuming it, drawing it away from her body...his body...

His body.

He must be in so much pain right now. But how could she know? He was...offline or some other ridiculous notion that kept blinking on his monitor screen. How ridiculous earthen technology was! She thought she'd go mad from the constant blinking, frantic beeping that had sent her heart pulsing with panic...that arm of his took a day to settle down! She didn't know what it meant when his strange alert system calmed, but she remembered panicking when his arm finally did become terribly quiet...

His arm?

Yes, his arm! The mechanical thing monitoring his heartbeat, such quiet thuds flickering in her ear, keeping her sane...

She checked it hourly. Her time on the beach was almost up.

No, not yet. Think. Think, what was it about his arm that...?

Her hands clenched into fists. She bit down hard on a cheek.

The answer, so teasing out of reach!

Victor, she thought, despairingly. Victor must be in so much pain right now...

Inconsequential. She was...it was masochistic to keep coming back to this line of thought! It wasn't as if she could play medic for him. He was half robotic, the alien half of his body in—incomprehensible to her! She couldn't do anything, could she? So stupid, so powerless...why did that man cruelly encase her friend in metal? How could that man, so prevalent and strong in her friend's thoughts, think to do this horrible thing in exchange for conserving a life? Victor's life? Her friend, hurt and angry, filled with terrible, awesome grief and hatred, was better off dead!

She retched suddenly, body physically heaving over with the motion. No. No, no, Victor! Victor...!

I'm sorry, I'm sorry! she thought, unable to tamp down on the bubbling hysteria in her. Don't die. Don't let my careless words condemn you!

She had to see him. Now. She had to see if he was okay.

"No," she whimpered, stricken. "He's not okay...he was never okay. From the day we met he was never okay..."

Her curse. Her birthright. Her demonic fate that corrupted every loved one beside her.

Not true...not true...!

--

She tripped past a column of books and shoved it away. Running forth on tatty, dirty boots, she slid into the enclave that held him. The floor was matted with dust and the sand that clung to her shoes, but she didn't care.

She collapsed before him, to her knees, to his prone form, and gasped, hard, but her eyes were aglow, feverish. There was a terrible, unholy fervor alight in her expression that would had sent any passerby into heart palpitations. Luckily, the night was dark—as dark as her thoughts were, mad as she was with grief. Crazed, even.

Already, she was thinking he was dead. Her only friend.

What had she been doing all this time? Pining! Despairing! Weak, useless, unworthy. She was the daughter of the Terrible One, was she not? Why was she weak? Nothing could be done? Useless spawn! Weakling girl! Deserving of the fate pressed onto her, she couldn't even save a loved one...!

And with these overwhelming feelings in her heart, these spiteful thoughts, she laid a hand upon the gaping cavity of his chest. And the other?

She rested upon his mind.

...on't...don...'t..do...ra...vEN!

--

They worked well together, she thought proudly. They kept each other accountable, looked out for one another's backs. When she left for supplies, with the money she'd earned from that quaint, little shop, she was able to bring back food. And when he scavenged in the city, she stayed home to keep watch.

Their junkyard, which she now wholly considered theirs, was their home. It didn't matter if she lived in a perpetual state of filth and trash—his home was her home. Wherever he was was her home. He...was home. She felt just like that.

When she looked up into that smiling countenance, she felt whole.

They enjoyed their companionable silences. With no electricity for the appliances and technology that were already broken from the start, they only had each other. Words weren't needed to convey what they thought, what they felt. They just knew.

They only had each other.

"Will this last?" she said at last, hopeful. And the silence was broken.

He paused. Half smiling, really only just a lilt to the corner of his mouth, he laid a hand upon her head and mussed her bangs. But his eyes were shuttered, although he did not let her see.

"Sure, kid. This'll last."

Her answering smile was brilliant.

Two plot points I gotta point out. One, the depth/kind of Raven's feelings for Victor, inspired a lot by J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye. Dracula is also briefly quoted. Obviously, books are doing a good job in shaping her, influencing her to think in a certain way.

The second is her development from passive aggressive to action. This is important because Raven is extremely passive, preferring to drift off in despairing musings than blatantly face reality, but here she acts. Quite forcefully. In the series, she's a calm, levelheaded person, a thinker, but does not hesitate for a moment to help her friends. Even when there's 'no hope' she takes action to save them. I tried to show the beginnings of this trait while keeping the impetus somewhat impure.

Of course, there are exceptions. In the 4th season finale, Raven reverts back to her passive, submissive role in the doom and gloom of Armageddon. I really like this dueled nature of hers. Trigon brings the most interesting things out of her.