An Exercise in Futility

Panacea had a few tried and true methods for getting things she wanted. Actually, maybe they couldn’t be considered separate strategies, but rather interconnected steps in a larger scheme. First, she could always use her strongest asset: her strength. She knew for a fact that she could defeat most enemies who might face her. And even if she did end up struggling, her victory would be that much sweeter if she knew she’d fought and bled until she could finally grasp it within her hands. Some people didn’t even need that, though. Just the threat was enough: just the reputation she’d created for herself in the mansion by leaving behind a constant trail of shattered vases, bent candlesticks, and dented walls in her wake. But honestly, she would rather take the fights over the wrecked furniture. Seeing someone’s twisted expression as they lay on the floor, their blood seeping into the carpet, was infinitely more satisfying than seeing any other ordinary thing that she’d broken. 

What else? Well, she was endlessly patient. Not in the typical sense, where she could sit and meditate for hours or wait quietly for a fish to latch onto her rod. Those things were horrific wastes of time. But as long as she was always working on something that would help her reach her end goal, she didn’t care how long it took to get there. Whatever that goal might be… whoever might be at the end of that road. 

She didn’t normally take a liking to other people. Why should she? In the same way that she was always searching for her next move, everyone was planning out their own lives and looking out for their own interests. None of them gave a damn about her, and the same was true for her. 

Most of the time. Ezekiel, as it turned out, was an exception in more ways than one. 

Not only was he one of the few people around here who she respected (who she cared about, who she would do anything for), he was also the most resistant to her constant efforts. She had tried everything. She's exhausted all her possible avenues of attack (no, you haven’t. Don’t say that, there’s always another way), but it just seemed as though the more she tried, the more he slipped away from her. If she saw him in the halls and tried to strike up a conversation, he would always give her dry, concise answers, shifty-eyed and looking for a chance to leave the area. Leave her. Trying to do him favors and giving him gifts didn’t work either: most of the time his expression was some mixture of disgust and horror, hidden behind a weak smile. 

What could she do to change that? She kept telling herself that all of this was just part of the journey: that it would feel all that more triumphant when he finally acknowledged her, when he finally opted to spend time with her, but…

This wasn’t like the fights she enjoyed, where she would lash out and put her opponent on the defensive, or encourage them to strike back at her. She had no opponent here. She was just making herself look like a bloody idiot, clawing at thin air and tripping over her own feet in her desperation. 

And yet she couldn’t give up. She wouldn’t give up on them. Because that would mean sitting around and watching them walk further and further away from her. If there was one thing Panacea would never do, it was that. 

…She really needed to figure out a better way of going about this. But she kept on coming up blank. 

With a scowl, she balled her hand into a fist and slammed it into the nearby wall. It did nothing but screw up the wallpaper, tearing into the pretty pattern of flowers. But the jolt of pain that shot up her arm did help assure her a little. She hadn’t given up yet. 

She never would.