the stars look down, the train rolls forward {bette/mace}
Jan 28, 2019 2:13:52 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Jan 28, 2019 2:13:52 GMT -5
The others are asleep, retired to their rooms or nestled snugly under a castle of pillows. For a while she joins them, sprawled across a recliner in One's carriage, a thick blanket draped across her frame (so warm that she begins to consider the logistics of stowing it away, a surprise for Reshma when she disembarks).
Sleep, however, evades her. Ten days of madness, misery, and murder - and here she was, ready to be dropped back off as if nothing ever happened, as if she just happened to be born with synesthesia and a scar sliced down her face. She breathes in, breathes out, but the revulsion in her gut twists and turns.
Softly, silently, she wanders into the adjacent car for a cup of tea.
The only other figure - aside from the staff, but she finds the ones who can talk to be more like flies on the wall, listening for secrets - sits at the bar with a cup of hot chocolate, a responsible dollop of whipped cream on top. Emberstatt, in the flesh.
"Mace told me 'Be good to whoever you can be, and don't worry too hard about the rest' but there has to be something else to this, right?"
No, there wasn't.
While Temple broke that rule, so did Bette, so she wasn't surprised at his face the first time he caught a glimpse at her: emotions, turbulent and shifting, hidden behind a mask rendered all too well - she knows the craftsmanship it takes, to stitch it all back up; before the Games she'd say that she nearly perfected it. His, however, has a good 20 years on her. It was nearly statuesque. But she'd seen through enough, the single crack in the verneer.
She doesn't talk to him immediately - if they are to be stuck in a car together, she might as well have a drink along with it. "A Chamomile, please," she says to the bartender, who gently places loose leaf tea in the daintiest cup she's seen - a gold leaf handle, intricate patterns swirling across the glass. It starts to steep, she lets it do its work. She has her own to handle.
"Mr. Emberstatt," she says, for his titles are reserved for those who aim to grovel. She doesn't pause for his acknowledgement.
"This isn't an apology. Those choices, no matter the outcome, they were my own." Were she in the same situation, no context, no knowledge, just thrown headlong into death's maw, she would do the same thing without question.
Does that make her a bad person? Does that make her a cruel person? She isn't sure if the answer matters, yet it makes her heart heavy.
"But we have a second chance. Temple has a second chance. And I wanted you to know that I won't let that be for naught."
The stars in ten, she hopes, will shine brightly when they return. Temple, Lorenzo, Saffron, Mace - they at least deserve that much.
Sleep, however, evades her. Ten days of madness, misery, and murder - and here she was, ready to be dropped back off as if nothing ever happened, as if she just happened to be born with synesthesia and a scar sliced down her face. She breathes in, breathes out, but the revulsion in her gut twists and turns.
Softly, silently, she wanders into the adjacent car for a cup of tea.
The only other figure - aside from the staff, but she finds the ones who can talk to be more like flies on the wall, listening for secrets - sits at the bar with a cup of hot chocolate, a responsible dollop of whipped cream on top. Emberstatt, in the flesh.
"Mace told me 'Be good to whoever you can be, and don't worry too hard about the rest' but there has to be something else to this, right?"
No, there wasn't.
While Temple broke that rule, so did Bette, so she wasn't surprised at his face the first time he caught a glimpse at her: emotions, turbulent and shifting, hidden behind a mask rendered all too well - she knows the craftsmanship it takes, to stitch it all back up; before the Games she'd say that she nearly perfected it. His, however, has a good 20 years on her. It was nearly statuesque. But she'd seen through enough, the single crack in the verneer.
She doesn't talk to him immediately - if they are to be stuck in a car together, she might as well have a drink along with it. "A Chamomile, please," she says to the bartender, who gently places loose leaf tea in the daintiest cup she's seen - a gold leaf handle, intricate patterns swirling across the glass. It starts to steep, she lets it do its work. She has her own to handle.
"Mr. Emberstatt," she says, for his titles are reserved for those who aim to grovel. She doesn't pause for his acknowledgement.
"This isn't an apology. Those choices, no matter the outcome, they were my own." Were she in the same situation, no context, no knowledge, just thrown headlong into death's maw, she would do the same thing without question.
Does that make her a bad person? Does that make her a cruel person? She isn't sure if the answer matters, yet it makes her heart heavy.
"But we have a second chance. Temple has a second chance. And I wanted you to know that I won't let that be for naught."
The stars in ten, she hopes, will shine brightly when they return. Temple, Lorenzo, Saffron, Mace - they at least deserve that much.
