The first time Eliot met Illyria, he'd been reminded of Parker. Wrong, somehow; not bad, just seriously out of sync with the rest of humanity.
"Direction," he murmured, remembering times long gone. "Hope. You?"
She had the iciest eyes he'd ever seen, matching blue-streaked hair, and a thin, delicate frame: not exactly his type. But she could manhandle him like no one else alive. That would've been a serious turn on-- if her sharp gaze had felt more like appreciation and less like the stare of a cornered predator.
"Worlds that I shall never walk," she replied, solemnly.
She'd dead-lifted him easily with an iron-hard hand to the throat; she'd mistaken him for some lawyer or other, then frowned and asked a question about people's identities being defined by their faces. Ever since, she'd kept turning up at random, apparently just to ask more weird-ass questions. Again, like Parker. Only deadlier. And even more broken.
"Girl, you have got to learn the meaning of optimism," he sighed.
"I shall add it to the list," she said stiffly, though her expression softened a little.
Eliot shook his head, then looked back up, wondering what Parker thought when she watched the stars.