Triumph

She runs into the lobby and depresses the pedal with one secure punch of her foot. She's nothing but a jumble of limbs and heart, none of the other stuff in between really mattering at the moment. To the outside eye, it might even seem near impossible that her foot connects at all. That she's too rushed, eyes to bright, to ever be a part of the small angular machine at her feet. Just a little girl trying to connect with an even littler thing, and in a room that big? Well, what are the odds after all.

But the thing is? It's been a part of her path all along. It's almost inevitable in a way. That's saying a lot for a girl who prefers her rules less firm. Something to be molded and shaped and turned at every possible angle until there's nothing left to learn.

The blade spins through the air, end over end over end until the motion itself is bigger than the object, overtaking it the same way the idea got to her. So big and bright you've got to move with it. Back to the hotel. Back to before. Back to them and well? If it's not back to herself, then its back to the possibility. Which when she didn't have either just an hour before? It's close enough to the real thing so that it's tart in her mouth.

It lands into the beast's head with a solid crack, splitting it like a watermelon and her whole body tightens with pride and infant insects pour onto the floor. A crisis has been averted. The blade found its home.

And she's found hers.