[center][h3]Kirsty Ramaswamy[/h3][/center]

The comfortable, elegant tranquility of the scene came to an abrupt end as a dark figure dropped from the sky. It hit the ground on shaky legs, swaying as it worked to regain its balance. Such a fall should have been impossible to bear, but after getting attacked by monster dogs Kirsty's definition of 'impossible' remained in flux. Instead of wasting time with such considerations she fixed the newcomer with a frightened look, even as her counterpart's flawless lip curled into a scowl.

This intruder, with an intimidating mask, shoddy clothes, and a cagey manner, commanded the quintessential manner of a young goon or homeless wreck compelled by the foreign substances pushing through their withered veins to do something drastic. Just when Kirsty was starting to feel at ease again too, in this beautiful avenue that she'd accepted as a sanctuary against the nightmarish unknown. “Vagabond,” she heard the lady growl at the newcomer. In the corner of her eyes she saw movement, but when she turned to look, alarmed by the possibility of being surrounded, she spotted servants in white tuxedos and vests putting aside their dishes of refreshments to form up on her table on both sides. She identified them immediately as the lady's attendants, and seemingly on her side.

In response, the intruder pulled out a pistol and a knife, although calling it a stubby machete would have been more accurate. Kirsty froze, terrified. With possession of guns outlawed in the UK, and widely feared, seeing one could only mean one thing: violence was in order. The servants also flinched, stepping back. Liam, who'd arrived but remained out of sight, questioned the intruder but got no time for a response. As Kirsty shrank away, the lady rose, her indignant face fixed on the Raven. “How dare you barge in on us like this, you vile creature! You should be on your knees in worship! That you would level your crude weapons at me, the selfless saint, the fountain kindness and charity...where's your [i]reverence[/i]!?”

Her features marred by scorn, the lady extended her arm in a gesture of dismissal. A dark wave billowed outward to strike the Raven and send her flying. Then, the lady turned to a horrified Kirsty. “Don't be afraid, love,” she told her, taking her hand in her own. “If we want to live, we must work together to banish this evildoer. If she strikes me down, this oasis will be overrun with darkness. I need your help. Understood?”

Kirsty nodded emphatically, thinking of the hounds, thinking of the vicious weapons of the Raven, and most of all thinking of her obligation. Some of the things the lady had said didn't quite sit right with her, but this was different. If someone was in need, she couldn't turn away. “Yes, ma'am. What can I do?”

“Behold our supremacy,” the lady told her, straightening up and pointing out at the Raven. “Peons. Take her!”

As one the eleven servants moved forward. They sprinted toward the Raven, melting as they did. Kirsty could only watch, confused, as they took on new forms. Some were marble-white and smooth, others pitch black and furious, but all bore oversized hearts visible on both sides of their bodies, crescent-shaped heads, and tridents. They attacked the Raven together, the dark ones with pure aggression and the light ones with strategy to surround and trap her.

Kirsty looked back at the lady. “What are they doing? Are you making them kill her?”

The lady smirked. “Of course, darling. She threatened to kill us. [i]Us.[/i] Veritable saints whose lives are labors of love for our fellow man. Only a devil would strike down an angel. She deserves to suffer.”

Something twisted in Kirsty's gut. She looked again at the features of this woman, their uncanny familiarity. “That's not right,” she said. “Nobody should suffer. That's what kindness is. I'm not fit to judge whether others deserve it.”

A look of annoyance crossed the lady's face. “Of course you are. [i]We[/i] are. The hardship we've endured for others, caring for them above ourselves...that's what makes us better than the rest of them. Our station is above them, showering them with our love and benevolence, and all they have to do is worship and reward us. We've earned it!”

Kirsty backed away from the table, and the lady turned to face her head-on. Over in the distance, the one-sided battle raged on. “Who...who are you?”

“You.” The shadow smiled, her yellow eyes flashing. “I'm the real you. The one beneath the mask. Selfless, kind, considerate, wanting the best for others, the perfect little do-gooder...that's the mask you wear so that society accepts you. We both know the real reason.”

Kirsty's knees were wobbling. Her breath had quickened, and she felt closed to fainting. Her eyes drifted to the desperate struggle, then back to the shadow's gleeful face. “No...”

“Ohhhh, yes,” she laughed, putting her hands on her hips. “That's the route we're using to get ahead! To get people to like us, so we can reap the rewards! Who the hell needs personality or talent? If we're there when people need us, when people need support and help and friendship, their gratitude is ours to manipulate! They'll have to grace us in return! Their favor, their connections. We'll ride their coattails to Heaven's door!”

“NO!” Kirsty screamed. Her world was spinning, her mind reverberating like a glass reaching its resonant frequency and about to shatter. She squeezed her head in her hands, trying to hold her pieces together but quickly falling apart. “That's not true! I'm not some p-pathetic, simpering p-parasite! You hear me, you b-bi...you jerk!” She pulled herself up using the chair and skittered backward, her hand held outward toward the shadow. “Get away! We're not the same!”

“So, we can't get along after all, hm?” The shadow crossed her arms and climbed atop the table. “Disappointing. And here I thought you cared so little for yourself you'd accept anything. Well, if that's the case, then one of us is going to have to eat the other. And if my choices are eat or be eaten, well...I choose to eat.”

Yellow light flooded from her eyes, and her form shimmered and melted. When Kirsty found herself able to see again, she looked out with dread at a new monstrosity. Above the street floated the golden figure of a copious woman clad in flowing white silk vestments, twice as tall as Kirsty herself. From her ample waist extended two great wings, but rather than pinfeathers they sported numerous legs of cattle, and her own legs split into three-pronged cow hooves at the knee. From her head of snow-white hair with pronounced twintails rose thick, curled horns. She stared down at Kirsty with a look of pity, a golden idol of unabashed exorbitance.

“Consider this mercy. You need not pride yourself on suffering any longer.”