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Amelia wouldn’t consider herself religious.
Whatever is in this world to worship feels smaller than what she can actually believe it. Is it belief? As a time traveler, no. She holds the world in the palm of her hand. She can play that god in any way that she wants. She can sink her fingers into the ocean, dig each digit down into the mucky thick of this planet. She can mold it how she wants, with some effort, she can design anything.
As a doctor, hell no. It’s laughable. She’ll laugh whenever confronted with the question. Do you believe in a higher power?
“I believe in medicine.” She replies dryly. She believes in mothers too, in that gratifying way of they work hard and working hard is kinda sexy. There’s no other belief with latex gloves sticking to her fingers because they're wet with blood. Her mask fogs up her glasses. Her stethoscope is cold in her hand.
As a detective… maybe.
It depends entirely on the day. Normal days in the office have her scoffing and rolly her eyes. Belief isn’t gonna get this paperwork done faster! Something like that. Something that’s funny to laugh at. Clients will try to offer her a rosary instead of payment sometimes. It’s a joke to her on days like these.
On other days, it’s a human plea.
There’s gunsmoke in the air. There’s four walls and a roof around her, but some people call it a church. She wishes it was a cult. She wishes it was something cool and paranormal to actually have this situation with. It’s a bunch of thugs, but she only has a handgun and all six of them have automatics.
Bitches. She presses her back firmly against a fallen pew. Her mind is running through the scenarios in her head. She can could flee and risk the bullets in her back. She could fight back and risk a bullet in her forehead. She could- well, she could do a lot. The chandelier. The windows. The carpet. They’re all options buzzing in her head.
Her watch hums warmly in her hand. Her other hand is wet, pressed against her side to staunch the blood underneath. She’s in a bad ordeal. She can’t timetravel while wounded. She can hear their footsteps as they walk through the church pews. They’ll find her eventually, she’s not even hidden.
I could really use some help right now.
Help isn’t a word for what blesses her. She’s not blessed by a god. Arms wrap around her shoulders from behind but there’s no one there. There’s a smile against her neck, laughter hidden behind the encroaching footsteps. Her blessing isn’t help. Some call it luck.
She wraps her watch around her gun and clicks the knob. The result is instantaneous. Across the room, her watch materializes. It should just fall to the floor. Nothing is controlling it. Her watch isn’t even set to time travel more than once. One of the gunmen fires at it with an instinctive trigger finger. The gun bounces from the impact.
And fires back. If Amelia were watching this on a TV screen, she’d be laughing so hard she’d drop her popcorn. The gun time travels, a spiraling mess of chaos as it fires in every which way and any direction. Amelia ducks her head behind the pew as bullets whiz over her head. The gunmen are running. They’ll get away, she knows that, but she needs some time to recover.
Her gun comes to a stop a few feet away, clattering to the floor.
I only had two bullets left. She looks at her weapon with amusement. She can feel teeth against her neck, poorly hidden mirth that makes her smile despite the pain in her abdomen. Really?
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It’s not luck.
They call her lucky. She’s the luckiest detective. She gets away from impossible situations with sometimes ludicrous ideas. She smiles. What do you know about luck? There’s no such thing, not in her head. It’s not what she believes in.
She believes in if it’s funny enough or this might as well happen and let’s fuck it up. It doesn’t work in her favor all the time. She picks up a case she’s always wanted to do (tracking down a hitman) but when she goes to the address she finds out it was the case on her desk she didn’t want to do (looking for a lost cutlery set).
She gambles. Her cards are on the table. The match is set. The man to her left is her target. He’s not someone she has to kill, just get information out of. She makes idle chitchat to lead him along, to get him talking. They’re all in their drinks. She gets them comfortable with talking with a stranger.
“I’ll tell you what,” He laughs, “If you win this round, blondie, I’ll tell you what happened to Batrlow.”
Bingo. She holds a dice in her hand. The board is set before her, numbers that she has to make up for- I need 28 to win- and the numbers on the dice to remember- I can’t roll a one. The table is laughing and drinking. She’s by her own thoughts for a moment.
You’ll be nice to me, won’t you? Amelia presses her lips to the dice. It’s not for luck. The others can read it that way. She feels something wind around her leg, a thin tail that plays with the end of her stockings. What’s in it for me, it’s asking.
She smiles. She’s flirting with the men at the table, but she’s not.
“Maybe afterward,” She drawls, “I’ll treat you to something nice.”
The tail around her leg tightens.
“You don’t look like you can afford something nice.” One of the men jeers. She doesn’t lose her cool even if she can feel the laughter against her neck. “You’re all talk and no bite.”
“I can show you what else my mouth can do,” Amelia says.
She feels a breath against her ear. She lets the dice go, it’s up to you, and a mischievous laugh, well how can I say no to that. The dice lands on a 28. It’s a two.
“Well well.” She drawls, leaning her cheek against her palm. The men are losing their minds over her luck. “C’mon, fess up. What happened at that warehouse?”
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Belief is stupid. It’s painful and lonely, the kind of thing to rely on when there’s no one else to look to. It’s her, alone in her office. She’s laying on her back. The ceiling is her entertainment. She feels like broken glass. A storm rages against her windows, the rumble of thunder and flash of lightning echoing alongside her heartbeat.
She is a time traveler. She’s a doctor. She’s a detective. She has a playground of many things to do, but sometimes it’s too much. She becomes too much. She feels listless. I have so much to do. It’s an overwhelming feeling.
She wants someone to talk to. It aches in her tummy. She doesn’t think anyone could understand every root in her body. Her doctorate is a small string of roots, wrapped into her ribs to protect her but rotten with failures, with blood she thinks about on rainy days like these. Her detective work is a mold in her nerves. It’s heavy down her back, a cold chill, the guilt of cold cases. The roots of time traveling fill her up so much that she feels like she’s going to pop. It’s a crushing feeling.
Fur tickles her cheek. She glances over in surprise. A red ear lays flat beside her, next to the girl who’s decided to join her on the floor. She’s a mix match of colors and brightness that mars this room like a firework at a funeral. Her eyes are closed. She’s smiling like she’s listening to her favorite song.
“Just help yourself,” Amelia says dryly.
“Why thank you.” The girl chimes. She’s turning her head, her cheek against the floor. Her eyes open, reds and blues clashing brightly before her. “You wouldn’t have left a little ol’ rat out in the rain, wouldn’t ya?”
“Hm,” Amelia says.
“Cold. Harsh.” The god on her floor sniffs. “No respect.”
Amelia doesn’t say anything. The playful banter is there, but it doesn’t worm its way up her throat. She lays quietly, awash with feelings that drown her out and leave her less of a person.
“I think,” Chaos whispers in her ear, “You should pick up the phone.”
Amelia glances at her, but the god is gone, nothing left of her. Not a sign. Amelia sits up, her body aching from the movement. She cracks her back as she rises to stand. When she gets to her office phone, she picks it up without much enthusiasm.
“That’s good.” The voice on the other end says, “You know what’s next?”
“I can only guess,” Amelia says flatly, but she’s starting to smile.
“I’m gonna give you a number. You dial it.”
“Alright.”
She enters each number as she’s told. It rings twice.
“Hi, thank you for calling Little Bip’s Pizza, how can I help you?”
Amelia can’t help but laugh. She feels arms around her waist, fingers that tug at the waistband of her skirt in playful ways. A chin on her shoulder. The smugness of a cat that caught the canary.
“I’ll have two medium pizzas for delivery please,” Amelia says. “Make them both cheese.”
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Who does she believe in?
Her friends. She believes in the kindness of humanity. She holds her faith in herself, in what she can do, in ways she breaks down walls and presses past them. She believes in one god, one person, one smile that tucks itself against her shoulder. She sleeps with the faint feeling of someone touching her bangs. There are empty pizza boxes in her living room when she wakes up. Inside one, she finds a dice resting on a two.
She’s not lucky.
But, She smiles when she presses a kiss to the dice, a little chaos goes a long way.
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