Shake Your Bones :: (Calliope + Orion)
Jan 17, 2015 17:43:03 GMT -5
Post by L△LIA on Jan 17, 2015 17:43:03 GMT -5
No one needs to tell Calliope Bloom that the world is fucked up. She knows. Oh, believe you me, she knows. If ever she needed proof, her recent phone conversation with Mace Emberstatt provided a lifetime of clarity. It wasn't even that she contacted him or that she might have said one or two things that were borderline civil to her brother's murderer, but there were unspoken moments when she felt regret for something other than Aesop or Galaxy. So: Up your $%*@!# @#%%^$, World! As if she's going to confess a laundry list of exactly what all of her regrets are for. (However, she could probably be convinced to write up quite the list of things she'd rather do than that, beginning with eating whatever biohazardous material this hospital has slated for incineration today and ending with being the person in charge of clipping Napoleon's endlessly growing toe nails.) Besides, the chemical cooking street-queen of Six is too busy. As it is, she's had her hands full with beakers of questionable liquids, mixing and measuring out her rebellion in a very tangible way. Calliope Bloom versus The World. She's got the whole crystal meth thing down to, well, a science, but last night's project was a little trickier and, frankly, she wasn't expecting it to turn out quite so... purple. Maybe it's for the best that she missed the realm of orange entirely, but regardless of hue, she thinks her hair is definitely red enough to make Galaxy proud. Way to put that talent for chemistry to good use. Gold star. The girl wanders the hospital's hallways with the same kind of thinly veiled aimlessness that resulted in the decision to metaphorically set her hair on fire last night. Now, she burns. Mace's advice to her about Patricia haunts her and her head spins from not just the idea that Galaxy's murderer knows Calliope's fallen friend in a way she can never understand, but that if she accepts that then she also has to come to terms with Mace knowing Aesop in the same way. It's not that she has ever wanted to know her brother or her friend on that level, but who is Mace? Who is Patricia to lay claims to a piece of a person neither of them have a right to? Calliope still isn't certain she's capable of loving the brother she has left, so how is she supposed to care about her sworn enemies? It's impossible for her to know where to go from here. As if trying to give her a helpful hint, she comes across a trail of muddy footprints leading down the hallway to her left. She frowns. Turns. Follows. The echoes of dirt take her away from rooms she knows too well and toward an escape of the unknown. More and more often lately she's found herself nosing into other people's business in a secret attempt to forget her own, so when she reaches the end of the path (a sign reads: Theodore Hartmyre), she has no qualms about oh-so-casually leaning against the open door frame and turning a critical eye toward the pair of strangers within. One lies in bed, obviously comatose, while the other has taken up residence in the chair beside him. There's no mistaking them for anything other than brothers and the only particularly stand-out detail of the scene is how the unconscious guy looks freshly bathed with well-kept hair, while the one fussing over him is... To put it bluntly, the only person in this room who looks even half-presentable is also the only person not capable of taking care of himself. Calliope, her mangy oversized t-shirts, and the burning rats nest she calls hair shouldn't be in charge of delivering judgment, but seeing as how the world is already pretty fucked up, she has no intention of missing her opportunity to contribute. "He's in a coma. Do you really think he cares about whether or not his hair got messed up during the sponge bath? Stop patting his weave and do something with your own life." |
