Question is, what’re we gonna do about it, Tasha? 

Advice from assassins, and reasons Angel probably should not take it. 

Smile, little mortal girl. The food is good. 

Agent Romanov wants to know how a seventeen year old got her number. 

Angel isn’t telling (but it was definitely Tony.)

At the very start of it, at the tip of the iceberg, she is nothing. She does not know herself and she doesn’t know who she used to be, Jericho or otherwise. She talks to no one, speaks of nothing. She holes herself up in a corner for a week, considers herself a danger to the society and knows she’s being considered the same by others. 

It’s hard to do this when you haven’t done it already, when you haven’t watched someone go through it before. It’s hard to do this when your whole world was already on a slippery base, a foundation that was already cracked. It’s hard when the weight bearing walls of your soul have a hammer taken to them. 

And after that? After she’s nothing, she becomes like a child. Small and wrapped up in a shroud of lies, but a child nontheless, flinching and jumping and unaware of what she’s supposed to be or who she is. She doesn’t know how to talk - not to Sabriel, at the very least, because how do you talk to someone who knows you when you don’t even know yourself? For days she becomes a shadow to whoever will have her, learning from people who don’t know her. Somehow, it’s easier that way. 

“I have a bagel. What do you have?’ 

“Why are you wearing my molted feathers?” 

“Do I look like you, птичка?” 

(20 Years - Sabriel’s Song to Fade) 

There’s a note underneath your front door that I wrote twenty years ago
Yellow paper and a faded picture
And a secret in an envelope

There’s no reasons
No excuses
There’s no secondhand alibis
Just some black ink on some blue lines and a shadow you won’t recognize

Oooh
Oooh
Oooh
Oooh

In the meantime I’ll be waiting for twenty years and twenty more
I’ll be praying for redemption and your note underneath my door
And your note underneath my door 

So much anger. So, so much anger. You’re filled with it, little angel. How long has it been waiting to come out? I’ll bet it was all your life. Jericho. Jeanne. Griffin. Your darling Griffin. Tell me, Fade, Miranda, Angel. How does it feel to finally let it go? 

Are you crazy now, my Angel?