we sit vigil 'til the dawn sneaks up. {bette&ridley}
Oct 1, 2019 20:41:41 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Oct 1, 2019 20:41:41 GMT -5
An owl's talons tap on the floorboards. Wood meets wood with a satisfying clack.
Like Myrcella, like Saturn, like Oblivion Reigns. Three years out from purgatory and she has become a constant. A stick in the river. A satellite among the stars.
Le Roux is a name that she's heard for a time: echoed in caverns and broadcast on screens. She's worked with them: John and his too-broad stature, posturing to fill the room; Isaiah and his written words, hidden among puzzles. Strategy had rolled them onto the same facets of the die: when more than words, more than fists, would do the trick.
In the end, it does not matter how many connections she has to this girl. What matters is the here and the now. They are at a crossing that Bette cannot follow.
"Ridley," she says, for introductions are no longer necessary. They haven't been, for a while. The world - what is left of it - knows her face. Knows her name. She settles into a nearby couch and rests her cane on the arm rest.
"We get five minutes. I can only answer so much."
Her hair, chopped short, exposes her scar from eye to lip. It is stark in the halogen lighting, in the ceremonial furniture as old as Panem itself. But she has always found her home among the relics. Today is no different.
"If you have anything, ask away."
Like Myrcella, like Saturn, like Oblivion Reigns. Three years out from purgatory and she has become a constant. A stick in the river. A satellite among the stars.
Le Roux is a name that she's heard for a time: echoed in caverns and broadcast on screens. She's worked with them: John and his too-broad stature, posturing to fill the room; Isaiah and his written words, hidden among puzzles. Strategy had rolled them onto the same facets of the die: when more than words, more than fists, would do the trick.
In the end, it does not matter how many connections she has to this girl. What matters is the here and the now. They are at a crossing that Bette cannot follow.
"Ridley," she says, for introductions are no longer necessary. They haven't been, for a while. The world - what is left of it - knows her face. Knows her name. She settles into a nearby couch and rests her cane on the arm rest.
"We get five minutes. I can only answer so much."
Her hair, chopped short, exposes her scar from eye to lip. It is stark in the halogen lighting, in the ceremonial furniture as old as Panem itself. But she has always found her home among the relics. Today is no different.
"If you have anything, ask away."
