Roland's dead, Roland's dead, Roland's dead. It's a sickening mantra that won't leave her head, that she hides her face into the soft fur for as long as she can to try and smother it out. At least to that, making Mordecai's job of keeping her from falling off, where she stays low and hidden.
It's only when she feels them stop that she lifts herself up. She can't hold it in anymore. It's graceless, sliding from the side of the creature, man, she doesn't know, to the ground with a thud. Can't walk. Legs won't listen, not properly anyway, and she has to crawl away from them. Pulling herself on weak arms. "Stay here. Stay away from me."
Because this pain, this misery, always had to go somewhere. This life that was so pointless, as Mordecai had said. All of it had come to nothing. Had to become something, because she was a person. Not a voice, not a machine, just a girl, with tremendous, terrifying power that as she gets as far as she can manage on her hands and knees, crumples in. Not with rage, nothing so majestic.
Just the pitiful sound of a screamed cry. Rocking her body in small, as one broken sob becomes another. Becomes another, building on themselves until the light in her finally spills over. The burning white marks that ebb and flow, rip out of her back to huge white wings of purple-tinged light. The arcs of lightning that ball and rip apart the air around her, the distortion that comes with it. The empty space that briefly becomes the walls of the control core, white and metal, unforgivingly cold, becomes the plains of Pandora, empty desert for miles and miles -
Becomes a little girl's bedroom. Pastel colors, stuffed toys, a bed with flowers on the quilt and drawings on the walls made in thick crayons with clumsy lines. Nothing so strange to a hundred other rooms like it. But one drawing, out of all the others, depicts the crudely formed figures - four of them. That with little arrows pick out each one: Brick, Lilith, Mordecai, Roland and labels them simply: new friends.
Because it wasn't about Roland - what was Roland to her? What was she to any of them? Nothing. Less than nothing. Worse than nothing. Nothing didn't hurt them. Nothing didn't kill them. But she had gotten them hurt. She had betrayed them. Lied to them. When they were all she had ever had. That the pain, the misery, the utter agony of dying not quickly, but over years and years at Jack's hand, she had tried to find some meaning to at least, her death, that she could finally be something in their life that wasn't all those things.
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It's only when she feels them stop that she lifts herself up. She can't hold it in anymore. It's graceless, sliding from the side of the creature, man, she doesn't know, to the ground with a thud. Can't walk. Legs won't listen, not properly anyway, and she has to crawl away from them. Pulling herself on weak arms. "Stay here. Stay away from me."
Because this pain, this misery, always had to go somewhere. This life that was so pointless, as Mordecai had said. All of it had come to nothing. Had to become something, because she was a person. Not a voice, not a machine, just a girl, with tremendous, terrifying power that as she gets as far as she can manage on her hands and knees, crumples in. Not with rage, nothing so majestic.
Just the pitiful sound of a screamed cry. Rocking her body in small, as one broken sob becomes another. Becomes another, building on themselves until the light in her finally spills over. The burning white marks that ebb and flow, rip out of her back to huge white wings of purple-tinged light. The arcs of lightning that ball and rip apart the air around her, the distortion that comes with it. The empty space that briefly becomes the walls of the control core, white and metal, unforgivingly cold, becomes the plains of Pandora, empty desert for miles and miles -
Becomes a little girl's bedroom. Pastel colors, stuffed toys, a bed with flowers on the quilt and drawings on the walls made in thick crayons with clumsy lines. Nothing so strange to a hundred other rooms like it. But one drawing, out of all the others, depicts the crudely formed figures - four of them. That with little arrows pick out each one: Brick, Lilith, Mordecai, Roland and labels them simply: new friends.
Because it wasn't about Roland - what was Roland to her? What was she to any of them? Nothing. Less than nothing. Worse than nothing. Nothing didn't hurt them. Nothing didn't kill them. But she had gotten them hurt. She had betrayed them. Lied to them. When they were all she had ever had. That the pain, the misery, the utter agony of dying not quickly, but over years and years at Jack's hand, she had tried to find some meaning to at least, her death, that she could finally be something in their life that wasn't all those things.
But in the end? She couldn't even manage that.