heed, herald of trumpets. (lore v. syren)
Mar 14, 2021 20:37:27 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 14, 2021 20:37:27 GMT -5
It's cute how many people have told her to be safe, stay safe, don't die -- Reagan, Garry, Kyler, her own redhead babe.
As if she's the one in danger, please.
She stays up too long talking to Sin in the night; talking at him, as they usually do. Comforting as is to talk to herself so politely, there's a piece of his mind that she'll never truly unravel and understand. Sin Mortuus will live as he died: a goddamn mystery. An audio novel no one can hear, she sleeps deeply on it, thinking over how she'll do this. Minutes of talk wrapped up to questions Lorraine would never get answered, he signs his name like a contract on the back of her hand.
And she grins, softly. Tenderly, the same way she could remember her mom's smile when she loved her. Kind in the moment, malicious in the memories, Lorraine would be flattered to be remember so. If she doesn't walk out of this thing with a crown and a sash like usual, she'll be damned if she doesn't traumatize the one who does. Let Sin Mortuus be the one to walk away from this, return to those district twelve streets -- she'll see him at night. It's reassuring her, the sense of her that craves to be remembered.
The morning comes, murder hungry on the mind.
As if the Devil ain't strong enough, he created teenage girls with a gun. Day Four comes with a sense of ease, she watched Kane die in front of her and it still doesn't feel good enough; twenty two on day four fuck. "I think we're gonna die of old age at this point," she told Kyler on the walkie, rambling into the static with no response. Somehow, it's easier.
Talking at the walkie, at Sin; Castor is nothing but audio and it's like she doesn't have to exist to him if she doesn't want to. In that kids mind, she gets to be a black fog, lines of a woman she pretends to be; Lorraine, captain of the ship. She wonders if she sounds half as confident in Castor's ear. As the other three wake up, she grows more antsy. One hand constantly hovering towards the pistol, there's a second where she's talking to Castor and Syren alone about food.
Sin sits across the camp, vision in his hands.
It's sickly sweet in her gut, the satisfaction of how nervous killing him makes her. Like a good break up, the relief of getting it over with outweighing the guilt, the shame; the anxiety. "I can go with Sin," she says to the two of them,
"No, no, he should stay with Castor," Syren says, Lorraine's eyes widening.
"Castor needs a nurse, not a mortician."
"He needs someone who can protect him, Lore." Fighting words almost, Syren's overwhelmingly calm, "I'm out of tar and in an emergency, Sin's got the best aim."
Lore clenches her fists under her tucked arms.
"Am I wrong?"
Dead wrong, babe. Lorraine shrugs, the anxiety in her chest near toxic and she's one upchuck away from saving a bullet for herself anyways. She digs in her bag, finding the cigarette Reagan left her before throwing a peace sign up to Sin Mortuus, hand already wrapped in Castor's.
"Keep him safe," there's a pressure in her neck, the stress of working up to murder just to spend a day picking flowers with Syren goddamn Steele. Why does she keep protecting them? Four days in and the priority is Castor again, as if she's expected to lay her life down for a hopeless boy. Shit.
It isn't much longer that they split in two directions, Lorraine and Syren heading away from the bank as the younger boys run towards it. "I'm so tired of smelling shit and piss, sis," kicking rocks and scrap metal as they walk. Filling the air with dead sentences, just to distract herself from the overwhelming weight of the gun on her thigh. "Don't get me wrong, Six wasn't much better," for the focus on health care, they still reeked of a growing plague.
She can't talk much, District Eight's double fisting smog and nicotine addictions, but still.
"Next time, toots, let's just meet at a motel. Deal?"
As if she's the one in danger, please.
She stays up too long talking to Sin in the night; talking at him, as they usually do. Comforting as is to talk to herself so politely, there's a piece of his mind that she'll never truly unravel and understand. Sin Mortuus will live as he died: a goddamn mystery. An audio novel no one can hear, she sleeps deeply on it, thinking over how she'll do this. Minutes of talk wrapped up to questions Lorraine would never get answered, he signs his name like a contract on the back of her hand.
And she grins, softly. Tenderly, the same way she could remember her mom's smile when she loved her. Kind in the moment, malicious in the memories, Lorraine would be flattered to be remember so. If she doesn't walk out of this thing with a crown and a sash like usual, she'll be damned if she doesn't traumatize the one who does. Let Sin Mortuus be the one to walk away from this, return to those district twelve streets -- she'll see him at night. It's reassuring her, the sense of her that craves to be remembered.
The morning comes, murder hungry on the mind.
As if the Devil ain't strong enough, he created teenage girls with a gun. Day Four comes with a sense of ease, she watched Kane die in front of her and it still doesn't feel good enough; twenty two on day four fuck. "I think we're gonna die of old age at this point," she told Kyler on the walkie, rambling into the static with no response. Somehow, it's easier.
Talking at the walkie, at Sin; Castor is nothing but audio and it's like she doesn't have to exist to him if she doesn't want to. In that kids mind, she gets to be a black fog, lines of a woman she pretends to be; Lorraine, captain of the ship. She wonders if she sounds half as confident in Castor's ear. As the other three wake up, she grows more antsy. One hand constantly hovering towards the pistol, there's a second where she's talking to Castor and Syren alone about food.
Sin sits across the camp, vision in his hands.
It's sickly sweet in her gut, the satisfaction of how nervous killing him makes her. Like a good break up, the relief of getting it over with outweighing the guilt, the shame; the anxiety. "I can go with Sin," she says to the two of them,
"No, no, he should stay with Castor," Syren says, Lorraine's eyes widening.
"Castor needs a nurse, not a mortician."
"He needs someone who can protect him, Lore." Fighting words almost, Syren's overwhelmingly calm, "I'm out of tar and in an emergency, Sin's got the best aim."
Lore clenches her fists under her tucked arms.
"Am I wrong?"
Dead wrong, babe. Lorraine shrugs, the anxiety in her chest near toxic and she's one upchuck away from saving a bullet for herself anyways. She digs in her bag, finding the cigarette Reagan left her before throwing a peace sign up to Sin Mortuus, hand already wrapped in Castor's.
"Keep him safe," there's a pressure in her neck, the stress of working up to murder just to spend a day picking flowers with Syren goddamn Steele. Why does she keep protecting them? Four days in and the priority is Castor again, as if she's expected to lay her life down for a hopeless boy. Shit.
It isn't much longer that they split in two directions, Lorraine and Syren heading away from the bank as the younger boys run towards it. "I'm so tired of smelling shit and piss, sis," kicking rocks and scrap metal as they walk. Filling the air with dead sentences, just to distract herself from the overwhelming weight of the gun on her thigh. "Don't get me wrong, Six wasn't much better," for the focus on health care, they still reeked of a growing plague.
She can't talk much, District Eight's double fisting smog and nicotine addictions, but still.
"Next time, toots, let's just meet at a motel. Deal?"