When she placed that wet hat on his head he felt more than a little embarrassed.
And maybe if they were both in Paris he would’ve grabbed her by the waist and kissed her. If she wasn’t Ivy and he wasn’t Ace and this place wasn’t what it was. But what else could it be? And who else could she? She was dirty and bruised and muddy and wounded and desperate and she looked at him with such reverence and gratitude.
Was staying around her stupid, sure. Was it hard to figure out why he did it? Not at all.
“Y’know, all things considered, your hair isn’t that bad,” he grinned, “Leave it to the Prom Queen to be able to pull off hat hair and mud, huh?”
And hat-headed as it was, muddied and cursed by the rain and island humidity--she did hold within her some sorta dignity. She managed to tug on his heart strings with her frail humanity, but ever so often she would also display that hard to hide confidence. Hate her or love her, she was Ivy Langley and she provoked a reaction.
Better to burn out than fade away--so they say.
He placed both bags down at the door and fished through his own to pull out one of his smoke bombs. He didn’t know what lied in the infirmary just that nearly twenty of his classmates lied dead. He very well may have been stupid, but he wasn’t suicidal.
“Stay behind me. Hold onto my shirt, if we gotta run, I’ll drop one of these and put you on my damn back if I gotta,” he nodded, “Be strong, we stick together.”
Bout that action, bout that action…
"Let's go."
He turned the knob and entered the infirmary.
and i know no one will save me
i'm just asking for a— [early evening, day 3, private]
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
The first thing she noticed was the smell.
Ivy had no real experience with death outside of the faraway vague knowledge given by the announcements, that the island was littered with corpses, that various people she'd known mostly as names and faces and perhaps voices no longer walked or smiled or spoke. The closest thing she had was biology classes, frogs to be cut open, and the smell she associated with those classes was the sick antiseptic sweetness of formaldehyde that turned her stomach badly enough that she mostly got out of those classes anyway. This wasn't that. This was the stale, dark stench of something thrown away and left to rot. Only instinct told her it was the stench of death, and she instinctively drew closer to Ace, eyes darting around searching for a source.
The second thing she noticed was that they were alone. Perhaps it was early to come to that realization, since this wasn't the only room in the place, but the building felt... still. Abandoned. Everything on the island was abandoned, of course, but this place had a stillness to it. She would eat those words in a moment if someone was hiding in wait, ready to ambush them in the next room. The instinct didn't do much to calm the knot in her stomach, anyhow.
The third thing she noticed was the blood.
"Look," she whispered, her voice unnaturally tight as she pointed. It was out of the way, tucked down a hallway that would lead to the next room. Dried blood. Unmistakable. The sort of puddle thick and deep enough that she couldn't imagine that whoever had lost it had survived the experience. That blood trailed in a thick line through the hall, through the open doorway, around the corner.
A scene straight out of a slasher movie. Horrible.
She glanced up at Ace. He looked... better, more like himself, with his hat back, even though she felt like she'd lost something indescribable. He saw the blood, he had to smell the air, she wondered if the fear she felt was reflected in her face. It wasn't in his, at least not the way she felt it. She still didn't know if he was stronger than she was, or just more foolish, or if that mattered. It made her stronger, either way.
She'd found the energy to stick her tongue out at him for the hat hair comment, anyway. She found herself anxiously playing with her hair, now. She'd feel better if she found time to brush it. A nervous habit.
"We should check," she murmured. She didn't want to, as far as she was concerned they could stay in the relative safety of this room forever, but, but. Logistically, if there was an ambush in waiting, they ought to learn that now and not later. Less logically, she wanted to see. She wanted to know.
She did know. But she had to confront it herself.
Ivy had no real experience with death outside of the faraway vague knowledge given by the announcements, that the island was littered with corpses, that various people she'd known mostly as names and faces and perhaps voices no longer walked or smiled or spoke. The closest thing she had was biology classes, frogs to be cut open, and the smell she associated with those classes was the sick antiseptic sweetness of formaldehyde that turned her stomach badly enough that she mostly got out of those classes anyway. This wasn't that. This was the stale, dark stench of something thrown away and left to rot. Only instinct told her it was the stench of death, and she instinctively drew closer to Ace, eyes darting around searching for a source.
The second thing she noticed was that they were alone. Perhaps it was early to come to that realization, since this wasn't the only room in the place, but the building felt... still. Abandoned. Everything on the island was abandoned, of course, but this place had a stillness to it. She would eat those words in a moment if someone was hiding in wait, ready to ambush them in the next room. The instinct didn't do much to calm the knot in her stomach, anyhow.
The third thing she noticed was the blood.
"Look," she whispered, her voice unnaturally tight as she pointed. It was out of the way, tucked down a hallway that would lead to the next room. Dried blood. Unmistakable. The sort of puddle thick and deep enough that she couldn't imagine that whoever had lost it had survived the experience. That blood trailed in a thick line through the hall, through the open doorway, around the corner.
A scene straight out of a slasher movie. Horrible.
She glanced up at Ace. He looked... better, more like himself, with his hat back, even though she felt like she'd lost something indescribable. He saw the blood, he had to smell the air, she wondered if the fear she felt was reflected in her face. It wasn't in his, at least not the way she felt it. She still didn't know if he was stronger than she was, or just more foolish, or if that mattered. It made her stronger, either way.
She'd found the energy to stick her tongue out at him for the hat hair comment, anyway. She found herself anxiously playing with her hair, now. She'd feel better if she found time to brush it. A nervous habit.
"We should check," she murmured. She didn't want to, as far as she was concerned they could stay in the relative safety of this room forever, but, but. Logistically, if there was an ambush in waiting, they ought to learn that now and not later. Less logically, she wanted to see. She wanted to know.
She did know. But she had to confront it herself.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Quickly he opened the door and quickly he dragged the two duffel bags through the threshold. His heart felt like it was going a mile a minute--but there was also a focus in his mind.
In football, if you were thinking, you were losing. Muscle memory, instinct, reflexes--they were all more important than strategy. Things you couldn’t extrapolate or be introspective about. The smell of death, the blood on the floor--they all spoke to a reality that before then had just been a concept. And the more he thought about it the clearer the hopelessness of his situation became.
There was death in this place.
There was death on this island.
And the ones who had died would be people he knew and the assassin’s themselves acquaintances. The terrorist picked out the island, it was the students who made it murder island. They were the murderers. Not like the terrorists put a gun to any of their heads.
What do you call the collar then?
Stumping yourself is never fun.
“Yeah,” he said to Ivy, “We should.”
The fear was present in his mind but not on his face--never let ‘em see you sweat, they’re just as scared of you as you are of them. His posturing was as much a part of his persona as the rap or the football obsession. He relied on all three to get through tough times.
They followed the blood trail to it’s destination: the bed area and what a horrific sight that was. Blood and vomit and brain and bone. Everything to be human scattered about like a Jackson Pollock. He felt his blood run cold, his face lose color and his eyes lose focus: he found himself almost out of his body, proceeding forward with a quiet and dignified curiosity.
There were destroyed beds and empty beds but most disconcerting, beds with bodies on them, covered by sheets and protected from sight and the elements.
He went to one, his fingers dancing on the edge of the medical blanket.
And then he pulled it off and was met face to face with the bloodied unrecognizable remains of Desiree Beck.
He didn’t know it was her though, he had only really interacted with her once innocuously at the record store, he may not have been able to put a name to face even if there was a face to be named. But there she was and everything she ever thought or felt or wanted was staining the goddamn room.
The sheet was over her again, quickly.
“I think we're good," he said finally, "Let's get the fuck out this room."
In football, if you were thinking, you were losing. Muscle memory, instinct, reflexes--they were all more important than strategy. Things you couldn’t extrapolate or be introspective about. The smell of death, the blood on the floor--they all spoke to a reality that before then had just been a concept. And the more he thought about it the clearer the hopelessness of his situation became.
There was death in this place.
There was death on this island.
And the ones who had died would be people he knew and the assassin’s themselves acquaintances. The terrorist picked out the island, it was the students who made it murder island. They were the murderers. Not like the terrorists put a gun to any of their heads.
What do you call the collar then?
Stumping yourself is never fun.
“Yeah,” he said to Ivy, “We should.”
The fear was present in his mind but not on his face--never let ‘em see you sweat, they’re just as scared of you as you are of them. His posturing was as much a part of his persona as the rap or the football obsession. He relied on all three to get through tough times.
They followed the blood trail to it’s destination: the bed area and what a horrific sight that was. Blood and vomit and brain and bone. Everything to be human scattered about like a Jackson Pollock. He felt his blood run cold, his face lose color and his eyes lose focus: he found himself almost out of his body, proceeding forward with a quiet and dignified curiosity.
There were destroyed beds and empty beds but most disconcerting, beds with bodies on them, covered by sheets and protected from sight and the elements.
He went to one, his fingers dancing on the edge of the medical blanket.
And then he pulled it off and was met face to face with the bloodied unrecognizable remains of Desiree Beck.
He didn’t know it was her though, he had only really interacted with her once innocuously at the record store, he may not have been able to put a name to face even if there was a face to be named. But there she was and everything she ever thought or felt or wanted was staining the goddamn room.
The sheet was over her again, quickly.
“I think we're good," he said finally, "Let's get the fuck out this room."
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
She held tight to Ace's arm as they made their way down the hall, grimacing as old blood stuck to the bottom of her shoes. They had to check, she reminded herself. An ambush, maybe. Other people. Other living people. But she couldn't imagine anyone living would willingly take up residence in the room they were about to enter. The smell came upon her in waves, worsening as she approached, tightening her stomach, not that there was much there to vomit if she needed to.
They crossed the threshold.
Ivy first noticed the destruction. There were six beds; two were smashed to pieces, and she couldn't help but wonder what force had destroyed them, and why. Certainly a more pleasant thing to focus on than the more obvious, her eyes dragged back to where the blood trail terminated and then following a second one, coming from the back room. Less old, less brown, still old enough she knew it would be sticky. Death, final moments, bleeding out, minor inconvenience. Like puddles after a storm. She couldn't think about it too much.
Two empty beds. Two occupied.
She didn't need to look under them. She didn't. She knew from their shape and their stillness and the blood that stained them. One smelled far worse than the other. Flies buzzing. Dark patches of wet on the sheet. She didn't know what that meant and didn't want to know. Bugs. She stopped looking. It was an abstraction of death, it was a shadow, it was a ghost. Maggots. Her stomach clenched and her eyes moved back to Ace, Ace who was—
"Wait—"
He pulled the second sheet.
It was—human except where it wasn't. Hands and legs and arms discolored but still there, still human, clothes normal, all the way up until a pile of meat. Blood and bone and broken things. Pink bits. Flesh. Meat. It was all meat. There were eyes in there, there was a face, once, she didn't know, she didn't want to know anything else, she wanted it to be a prop, a joke, something other than what it was, it was just meat. They were all just meat.
She stumbled backward, hands clapped over her mouth as she doubled over even as the sheet was already back over the body. Nothing in her stomach, she dry-heaved until it found something to expel. Bile coating her fingers. She'd tottered out the door before Ace had even turned around. Coughing, throat clogged with thin vomit, the taste made her heave again. She couldn't look like that. She couldn't. They would have to bury her, burn her, put her out to sea, anything at all, or else she just had to survive. She had to. She had to.
She heard Ace behind her, closing the door. She did not turn to look at him.
They crossed the threshold.
Ivy first noticed the destruction. There were six beds; two were smashed to pieces, and she couldn't help but wonder what force had destroyed them, and why. Certainly a more pleasant thing to focus on than the more obvious, her eyes dragged back to where the blood trail terminated and then following a second one, coming from the back room. Less old, less brown, still old enough she knew it would be sticky. Death, final moments, bleeding out, minor inconvenience. Like puddles after a storm. She couldn't think about it too much.
Two empty beds. Two occupied.
She didn't need to look under them. She didn't. She knew from their shape and their stillness and the blood that stained them. One smelled far worse than the other. Flies buzzing. Dark patches of wet on the sheet. She didn't know what that meant and didn't want to know. Bugs. She stopped looking. It was an abstraction of death, it was a shadow, it was a ghost. Maggots. Her stomach clenched and her eyes moved back to Ace, Ace who was—
"Wait—"
He pulled the second sheet.
It was—human except where it wasn't. Hands and legs and arms discolored but still there, still human, clothes normal, all the way up until a pile of meat. Blood and bone and broken things. Pink bits. Flesh. Meat. It was all meat. There were eyes in there, there was a face, once, she didn't know, she didn't want to know anything else, she wanted it to be a prop, a joke, something other than what it was, it was just meat. They were all just meat.
She stumbled backward, hands clapped over her mouth as she doubled over even as the sheet was already back over the body. Nothing in her stomach, she dry-heaved until it found something to expel. Bile coating her fingers. She'd tottered out the door before Ace had even turned around. Coughing, throat clogged with thin vomit, the taste made her heave again. She couldn't look like that. She couldn't. They would have to bury her, burn her, put her out to sea, anything at all, or else she just had to survive. She had to. She had to.
She heard Ace behind her, closing the door. She did not turn to look at him.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
“Now it’s clear I’m here for a real reason,” he whispered to himself when Ivy left him alone, “Cuz they got hit like I got hit but they ain’t fuckin’ breathin’.”
When did this happen? After the announcement this morning? Had the news of Dante and Toby shook him up so much? He recalled his reaction to the last announcement and then the first and finally now, presented with a corpse in front of him. He felt no shift in his stomach, no need to scream--he was face to face with death and all he felt was empty.
He would’ve liked to pretend and likely would that seeing this corpse shocked him and rocked him. That was the normal reaction, right? The mom with her body draped over the coffin, screaming ‘My baby!’. It wasn’t this solemn stare, this resigned acceptance--this absolute nothing.
Death begot dramatics. Ivy left, puking and running and scared. Ace remained in the room for a moment. Marinating in the vibes,burning his nostrils with the stench, letting the discontent and coldness dip into his consciousness until he felt colder than a penguin sipping a milkshake in a snowstorm.
I ain’t gonna die.
You know you will one day.
I ain’t gonna die here.
And what makes you different from these two? Or any one of your classmates? What makes you special?
Everything.
1 in 1000. Least you still believe that.
He exited the room slowly, he closed the door deliberately and his eyes found Ivy’s back instinctively. The coldness he felt in the room replaced by an eagerness and empathy he wore as well as anything. His hand found her shoulder as he approached her, his eyes couldn’t seek hers. He felt better with his hands on her, as if her energy and aura was absorbed into his. He had been angry at his apathy. It was pretty pathetic, right? Ivy's reaction to the body effected him more than the body itself.
What kinda psycho was he?
“You good?”
A silly question from a silly boy.
When did this happen? After the announcement this morning? Had the news of Dante and Toby shook him up so much? He recalled his reaction to the last announcement and then the first and finally now, presented with a corpse in front of him. He felt no shift in his stomach, no need to scream--he was face to face with death and all he felt was empty.
He would’ve liked to pretend and likely would that seeing this corpse shocked him and rocked him. That was the normal reaction, right? The mom with her body draped over the coffin, screaming ‘My baby!’. It wasn’t this solemn stare, this resigned acceptance--this absolute nothing.
Death begot dramatics. Ivy left, puking and running and scared. Ace remained in the room for a moment. Marinating in the vibes,burning his nostrils with the stench, letting the discontent and coldness dip into his consciousness until he felt colder than a penguin sipping a milkshake in a snowstorm.
I ain’t gonna die.
You know you will one day.
I ain’t gonna die here.
And what makes you different from these two? Or any one of your classmates? What makes you special?
Everything.
1 in 1000. Least you still believe that.
He exited the room slowly, he closed the door deliberately and his eyes found Ivy’s back instinctively. The coldness he felt in the room replaced by an eagerness and empathy he wore as well as anything. His hand found her shoulder as he approached her, his eyes couldn’t seek hers. He felt better with his hands on her, as if her energy and aura was absorbed into his. He had been angry at his apathy. It was pretty pathetic, right? Ivy's reaction to the body effected him more than the body itself.
What kinda psycho was he?
“You good?”
A silly question from a silly boy.
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
She wanted to turn around the moment he touched her, bury her head in his chest, but she didn't want him to see her like this. She couldn't bear to move but she needed to clean herself. She felt untouchably disgusting but she leaned back against him anyway.
"Fine," she said, numbly, and it only wouldn't be a lie for a few more moments, she hoped. What did it matter? She was alive. She didn't know who that body, corpse, thing had belonged to, it was no one she loved, it didn't matter. Meat and bones and she didn't want to think about it but it didn't matter, it didn't matter, so long as she never had to look at it again. She was—what, different? Special? It felt better to think that way, at least, she'd cling to that life preserver as long as it lasted her no matter how much or little she believed it. Everyone else probably thought they were special, too, the girl on the bed—
Her stomach clenched again. Her hands still tight over her mouth still reeked of stomach acid, her throat still burned. She doubted she could lose the image no matter how badly she wished she could. The trick was in ignoring it.
"I'm fine," she said a bit more steadily. "If—"
If I die, bring my body to the ocean.
"If you need anything, yell for me. I ought to wash up. I'll be quick."
The front door was a few steps away. She glanced behind her, eyes bright and wet, for only a moment.
"Fine," she said, numbly, and it only wouldn't be a lie for a few more moments, she hoped. What did it matter? She was alive. She didn't know who that body, corpse, thing had belonged to, it was no one she loved, it didn't matter. Meat and bones and she didn't want to think about it but it didn't matter, it didn't matter, so long as she never had to look at it again. She was—what, different? Special? It felt better to think that way, at least, she'd cling to that life preserver as long as it lasted her no matter how much or little she believed it. Everyone else probably thought they were special, too, the girl on the bed—
Her stomach clenched again. Her hands still tight over her mouth still reeked of stomach acid, her throat still burned. She doubted she could lose the image no matter how badly she wished she could. The trick was in ignoring it.
"I'm fine," she said a bit more steadily. "If—"
If I die, bring my body to the ocean.
"If you need anything, yell for me. I ought to wash up. I'll be quick."
The front door was a few steps away. She glanced behind her, eyes bright and wet, for only a moment.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
“Yeah, okay, I’ll be here and shit.”
He was alone again, being seduced by solitude and silence and the stench of suffering and slaughter. What was he playing at here with Ivy? What was he doing to survive on this island? Was this self awareness or selfishness? What about Meilin? Did he want to find her? Was that his goal? To martyr himself for one of his teammates or his girlfriend and he hadn’t found her, so fuck it, Ivy would have to do?
He had felt it since Connor left and he felt happy about it. No, lie. He had felt it when Declyn grabbed his hand and tried to comfort him after the first announcement. He knew what he would have to do to survive out here: harden that heart he wore so blatantly on his sleeve. He had been fighting against that reality since he had woken up, he was beginning to accept it, smarten up.
He went to his pack, he slipped out of his cotton tank, cursed that he left his only shirt at the leadership house. He didn't know if the wetness of his chest was from cold sweat or cold rain. He reached into his pack for his last half loaf of soggy bread. He didn’t mind being hungry, he didn’t mind being hurt--you had to embrace and ride with the pain. That’s how you got hit and got back up.
He took a bite of bread.
He drank his water.
And he waited for her to return.
To distract him from the silence and the stench of suffering.
She's a pretty good distraction at least. But you knew that, didn't you? Her ability to be a distraction came teammate recommended.
You're playin' with fire, you know that, don't you?
He did.
He wasn't scared of getting burned.
He hadn't smartened up that much.
[[ Ace Beats to be Continued In: sweeter than heaven and hotter than hell ]]
He was alone again, being seduced by solitude and silence and the stench of suffering and slaughter. What was he playing at here with Ivy? What was he doing to survive on this island? Was this self awareness or selfishness? What about Meilin? Did he want to find her? Was that his goal? To martyr himself for one of his teammates or his girlfriend and he hadn’t found her, so fuck it, Ivy would have to do?
He had felt it since Connor left and he felt happy about it. No, lie. He had felt it when Declyn grabbed his hand and tried to comfort him after the first announcement. He knew what he would have to do to survive out here: harden that heart he wore so blatantly on his sleeve. He had been fighting against that reality since he had woken up, he was beginning to accept it, smarten up.
He went to his pack, he slipped out of his cotton tank, cursed that he left his only shirt at the leadership house. He didn't know if the wetness of his chest was from cold sweat or cold rain. He reached into his pack for his last half loaf of soggy bread. He didn’t mind being hungry, he didn’t mind being hurt--you had to embrace and ride with the pain. That’s how you got hit and got back up.
He took a bite of bread.
He drank his water.
And he waited for her to return.
To distract him from the silence and the stench of suffering.
She's a pretty good distraction at least. But you knew that, didn't you? Her ability to be a distraction came teammate recommended.
You're playin' with fire, you know that, don't you?
He did.
He wasn't scared of getting burned.
He hadn't smartened up that much.
[[ Ace Beats to be Continued In: sweeter than heaven and hotter than hell ]]
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
She stepped back out into the rain.
She'd been so afraid to go in the front door to begin with, but she lacked the energy for paranoia right now. A quick glance back and forth to confirm the lack of anyone else obviously present was enough for her. She looked up into the rain, the downpour thick as a shower, rinsing her face and her hands clean, or clean enough. She desperately wanted for soap, or a towel, or anything that might help her feel a touch less untouchable, but it was what it was. She let the rain soak her clothes, some of the mud running clean, most stubbornly clinging to fabric.
Ivy wasn't much for camping. She didn't like the feeling of dirt on her skin. It felt like a petty complaint, after everything. It felt good to hold to it regardless.
The village was cast in the dim yellow light of a sunset storm. The rain showed no sign of stopping.
Her third night with Ace. The only thing she had, here, by total coincidence, by relying on his need to be a hero. A train she would run as far as the line went, but it was a line that would end, eventually. Whether it ended with one of their deaths or with him coming to his senses was the only matter up for debate. Her safety forced her to make him work against his own self-interests, and she should feel worse about that than she should, maybe, but she walked back into the infirmary and looked at him and it was easy to forget.
She was glad he was here, and that for a moment that was all.
Maybe that mattered.
>> Ivy Langley continued temporally in sweeter than heaven and hotter than hell
She'd been so afraid to go in the front door to begin with, but she lacked the energy for paranoia right now. A quick glance back and forth to confirm the lack of anyone else obviously present was enough for her. She looked up into the rain, the downpour thick as a shower, rinsing her face and her hands clean, or clean enough. She desperately wanted for soap, or a towel, or anything that might help her feel a touch less untouchable, but it was what it was. She let the rain soak her clothes, some of the mud running clean, most stubbornly clinging to fabric.
Ivy wasn't much for camping. She didn't like the feeling of dirt on her skin. It felt like a petty complaint, after everything. It felt good to hold to it regardless.
The village was cast in the dim yellow light of a sunset storm. The rain showed no sign of stopping.
Her third night with Ace. The only thing she had, here, by total coincidence, by relying on his need to be a hero. A train she would run as far as the line went, but it was a line that would end, eventually. Whether it ended with one of their deaths or with him coming to his senses was the only matter up for debate. Her safety forced her to make him work against his own self-interests, and she should feel worse about that than she should, maybe, but she walked back into the infirmary and looked at him and it was easy to forget.
She was glad he was here, and that for a moment that was all.
Maybe that mattered.
>> Ivy Langley continued temporally in sweeter than heaven and hotter than hell
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."