Red Death Reformed

First is disassembly, taking extra caution for the well-honed bayonet.

After disassembly comes cleaning. She gathers the swabs, the oils, the corrosive agents.

Red Death clings to the grime of its past battles. She scrapes it with spinmetal wool for hours before the last signs of the skulls stenciled into the body finally vanish.

The team had taken the butcher down before he'd added a mark for Ceto, Light of her Light. The weapon's tally is one short.

Even reduced to pieces, the Red Death is a malevolent presence. It knows its purpose. It wants to continue its work.

After cleaning comes purification.

She reassembles the weapon and cradles it as though to fire. Her Light boils up, turning radiant.

The flare of Solar Light is the advent of warmth after a cold night, the healing power of life itself. Wings spread high on her back and paint scorch marks along the ceiling. In her arms Red Death glows red, then yellow, then white.

It fights the change. She does not let go. Its shadows burn away, one by one, until none are left.

After purification comes dedication.

Slowly, she lets go of her Light. Her wings flicker, then fade. And when Red Death is cold metal in her hands once more, a kernel of Solar Light lingers within. Its purpose made new.

She will find those who would strip Guardians of their final life. She will bring them into the light.

Not for revenge, but for justice.

For Ceto.