[ Spooked is... one word for it, but only because all of them are on edge. It's hard not to draw parallels anymore, with radicals and kidnapping and people getting caught in the crossfire. While the Camerata were methodical towards an oblivious group of citizens ( no physical altercations in recent memory, except her's ), this one had been abrupt and atmosphere-changing. Olympia had never been an open city, not in with what she remembers, but the mood nosedived into something worse.
So maybe their ... reaction is warranted, a little. His overreaction, then her's, no matter how ridiculous it may seem ( they still haven't moved from the doorway, and it's a miracle that none of their housemates have come around ). Red smooths out a weirdly folded collar on his jacket, absentminded at best. Raises her shoulders in response to his apology, letting the words fall where it may — he has no reason to justify anything, really.
Did something happen? slow and careful, the entire sign muted because she only has so much room when they're chest-to-chest like this ( not that she'd have it any other way ). She tilts her head to the side, as if that'd help. Whatever it is can't be good, but... well, he's home now. There's less and less reasons he can avoid the topic entirely. ]
[Feels like a perfectly reasonable amount of reaction, right now. Humor him, Red.
Slowly, he eases up. As she fusses his his collar and nudges him toward moving this conversation along and explaining himself. He could very well avoid the topic a little longer if he refuses to look down at her hands. But...he doesn't really need to try to interpret the motion to know what she's thinking. Sure as hell can't put it off forever—she wouldn't stand for being sheltered from it, even if he could try. Bad news or not. After a little while to find his footing, he exhales. Scrubs a palm over his face, but meets her eyes, after he drops it down. Square and serious, reigning back the impulse to take her by the hands, lest he stifle her ability to make herself heard in kind.]
...They found some more of the missing persons. Under our damn noses, over there at the Institute.
[He doesn't lead with the part about Yusuke calling him over to help deal with the burnt and bloody body of a good friend. One thing at a time, maybe. And while it is, honestly, good news that they've been found...his expression clouds, brow creased, jaw tight.]
Whatever those no-good lunatics did to them, down there...never seen anything like it.
[ And as he eases back, it's her turn to tense. Except she manages to catch it by the reins before it turns into something that's too easily noticeable, a brief pause in her fretting before she returns to smoothing out the wrinkles in his clothes. Keeping her stance steady, while she nods ( her jaw tensing, briefly, before her shoulders rise and fall with an inhale and an exhale; no need to jump to conclusions, yet ).
But god. It's hard, because after all that they've seen together — to hear a never seen anything like it is ... rattling. Terrifying. A part of her is already imagining the worst case scenario, an entire mountain of bloody bodies because of one thing or another. Cloudbank hasn't seen physical violence in years ( and then her performance happened ) — she thinks that she may have seen a lifetime's worth in the last few months.
Another inhale, then an exhale. She glances up at him again, briefly, then returns to resting her hands on his arms. Silence speaks volumes, after all; in this case, it's a gentle request to continue. ]
[Something like that. They've seen some pretty horrific shit since things went south at the Empty Set. But outright torture, chemical weapons...got to be a pretty different ballpark. The more you know, etc.
This time he does reach to take hold of her hands. Holds them tight between them, thumbs brushing against her knuckles while he works his way to the kicker. But as seriously and as clearly as possible—]
Rich— [Still, a pause. Too long not to be foreboding, echoed in the twist of his fingers in hers.] ...he didn't make it out.
[At least, not in any state worth considering salvaged. Not even a Trace left to wring out an echo from. (He's not too sure the man would have appreciated the idea of it, anyway. But it's oddly final feeling. Abrupt.)]
Yusuke called me up to help take care of what was left, but— [Nothing much to be done, really. And, after a frustrated little beat—] Think he's still out there.
[Yusuke, wrist deep in the cleanup. Stubborn kid. (Reminds him of someone.) And as much as he hates it...the cool light of the Transistor at their backs is plenty reminder that there's only so long he can be reliable, right now. Running out the clock pretty soon, too, or he'd have stuck to his guns and stuck around to keep eyes on him.]
[ The moment his name is spoken — she doesn't want to hear the rest. Dread coils in her gut immediately, because despite not being a mind reader it's not hard to predict where this will go. It almost makes too much sense, with Boxer looking shaken from the moment he stepped in, his frantic messages earlier.
And it couldn't have been good; that much was certain from the very beginning. Some part of her was preparing for the worst from the moment she moved to walk out the door. The problem is the same part of her may have underestimated just how ... awful this could get.
The news isn't surprising ( hadn't been, as of 2 seconds ago ), but it has her freeze nonetheless. Body tensing, her hands immediately moving to grip his. Her gaze eventually averting his just so that she can let the full meaning of that sink in. The bodies in Cloudbank had been processed long before she could get to them; those that hadn't were people that she could do without. The rest had ... presumably made it out, some how.
Which leaves her here, at the wake of someone's death that she frankly hadn't been prepared for. She swallows down the lump in her throat, her gaze eventually at level with Boxer's shoulder. There's nothing to acknowledge that she's heard what he said — but it's not as though she had much of a choice.
Red lets the silence sit, her breathing slow, controlled ( selfishly, she finds that she's glad that they're alright, against all the odds ). Eventually, with her hands still in Boxer's, she raises her head to look at him. Mouths a single word at him — how? ]
[He waits her out, watches her close, doesn't rush her. Red's not fragile, not by a long shot. He counts on it, more than he knows. But he worries. (And he worries, more, that she's keeping herself clammed up and strong for longer than she has to, shouldering more than she should. Hypocrisy, thy name is—)
Still, he answers her. With a grimace, and an honest—]
...wasn't pretty.
[There's a clear hesitation, though, to give her the gory details. (The way the victims had been brutalized, skin was burned and displaced, sloughing off at a touch, like there was nothing holding them together.) But she ought to know the gist. It wasn't murder they were after. It was torture.]
Guess they thought they'd get something out of them, if they took it slow. [And as even-tempered as he tries to keep things, he can't help the edge of scorn in his voice.] Don't know what.
[The whys and hows are still getting pieced together, but—this was not a random thing. Some organized fringe group, taking advantage of people's lives, trying to use them, somehow, to further their own ends. (Change the city, even.) Even starting over in a new place, a different world altogether...have to be blind not to see the ways that could spiral into something worse.]
[ Anger is ... easy. Straight forward. To be furious is to have a one-track mind that gives her a clear head for the tense jaw, the harsh eyes ( while clouding her from everything else; a small price to pay ). This isn't the heart-seizing grief she felt when she saw Boxer's body, her head spinning in an attempt to process all of it. She recovered quickly, then. Grabbed the sword, pulled it out of her lover's body, then fought the entire city with it.
This is her skipping over all of that, the need for retribution without the means to do so — somehow, the odds are even worse than last time. But the thought of doing nothing, once more, grips her with a dread that she wants to shake herself from immediately. Control slipping as the impulses get easier.
( She needs to get to the Institute. )
Red averts her gaze — choosing to stare straight at Boxer's chest, as if somehow that would fix everything. Her grip on his hands only tightens — he doesn't have to say much for her to get a picture. Vaguely painted, missing details, but awful nonetheless; she's seen what these people can be capable of. No massacre in her city could have prepared her for ... this. All of this.
It takes effort to keep her fury in check to hold back on the impulse to walk out the door. She leans her forehead on his shoulder, and inhales ( exhales, just as calmly as before ). ]
[He knows she's angry—he's angry, too. She has every right to be, she wouldn't be Red at all if she were willing to lie down and roll over when things got tough. But...there's times when it can't be helped. They were too late. Richie is gone. Others are recovering. Watching the jagged energy pass over her face is almost as bad as walking the halls of the Institute as they ferried off the wounded. Even with his feet under him again, he still manages to feel helpless to do anything about it.
But it helps, he hopes, to have each other. So she leans into him and he holds her close and leans in to kiss the crown of her head and hum nonsense I've got yous, and we're goods into her hair until she sees fit to disentangle from him. Or until, regretful, he has to let her go and face the music. That he is, still, living largely on borrowed time, and he's come close to overextending it already before booking it back.
(And later, when he's still exhausted his reserves and confined to the Transistor again for a while and Red ducks out the door without the weapon at her side...he doesn't have the energy or the heart to suspect anything of it. Too keen to put the fresher horrors behind them with the rest, maybe.)]
[ Red returns only when she's certain everything alright. At the Institute, with Yusuke, with herself ( whatever had ... happened ). Discussing it was never an option, given the things that Boxer must have seen, the things that he tried to keep her from ( with good reason, now that she's seen it all; she would have wanted the same for him if she had the option ).
Which means it's late — the common areas continue to be empty at times like this, everyone either getting the rest that they desperately deserve or out searching. She's the same — it's easy to slip upstairs to her room ( their room ) without being spotted by anyone. Pausing before she turns the doorknob, taking a deep breath — it's fine, it should all be fine, there's no reason for him to notice anything anymore, and—
( If she thinks that she hears the ghost of a laughter, faint and barely there, she decides to dismiss it entirely. )
She opens the door. The Transistor propped up against the wall, emitting its usual soft, teal light ( the walls look like they're glowing white, almost, and she blinks that away once more ). She looks ... alright, at least, if not a little tired, as she closes the door behind her and leans against the wood. Eyes searching for the familiar figure, all the while bracing herself for the worst.
( Faint splashes of color run up from her upper arm, to the back of her neck. Her hair done up in a bun. A familiar jacket covers her arms, but the moment she leans away from the door— ) ]
[No figure in the room when she walks in—she's been gone a while, but not long enough to count as strange. And it's been a hell of a day. (He doesn't sleep, exactly, not quite the way he used to. But sometimes, times like this, all long-day and low-on-reserves, he sort of...gets close. Checks out. Recharges.) Still, the Transistor flickers up to bright again as Red makes her way into the room, flashes with the static sound of his voice.]
Red? That you? [His vantage point is low, from here. The room's dim enough now that the sun's setting. Even as he says it, he knows the answer, so—] Hi. Didn't hear you come in.
[A little bit of a question in it. She'd been out a while.]
[ A nod in greeting, a brief flicker of a smile as she looks towards the Transistor ( it shouldn't feel normal, yet here they are ). She's tempted to just change out of her clothes and sleep the rest of this all off, but to do so without arousing suspicion is another story entirely. And while it's not that she wants to keep things from Boxer, it's...
She wants to keep this particular thing from him. No reason for him to worry over something that's rapidly on its way to becoming old news; she'll tell him, eventually, once everything is a little less raw ( once he won't immediately be reminded of Richie when he finds out, and how close that could have been; she doesn't want to think about that, either ). So—
I needed fresh air. Which isn't... untrue, exactly. She reaches to shrug the jacket off, and immediately thinks better of it — she'll have to figure something out, if she wants to get changed. Just not right this moment.
She does, however, cross the room ( turns her back towards the teal glow of the sword, whether or not she realizes it ). ]
[Here they are. Hard to say if it's a factor of resilience or resignation that this is normal, now. (Both maybe, in different measures for each of them.) But, y'know, still no match for the real thing. Stubborn, he pushes his luck and risks triggering that proxy function one last time today so he can be with her, what's left of him. The same convincing imitation, managing to render in behind her, evident in the way his voice sounds a little less manufactured the next time she hears it, even before he catches up to her across the room.
And, with an air of understanding—
Long day. Least it's almost over.
[And if she needed space—well, they've got a pretty full house, on better days. She's back, now. So it's reflex, at first, the way he steps in next to her, raises a hand to brush her hair back, kiss her temple hello. Offer to take her (his, her) coat from her so she can make herself comfortable—
(The Transistor still recognizes Red as the USER when she's in range. And mostly he just pushes it to the back of his attention, because with no Process in the city there's usually little reason for a read on her vitals or a look at her chosen loadout of Functions. Unless...)
He goes still, attention narrowing. His fingertips hover at the sliver of stained skin at nape of her neck. Still, carefully—]
Hey, Red— [He's good at disguising the little creep of fear in his voice. But no one knows him better than she does.] Could you...?
[ It's too easy to lean into the contact — some of the day's weight being placed on someone else, even for just a moment. She hums in response to his comment, eyelids briefly closing shut — just as much of a reflex as him leaning towards her is, by this point. Even if they're not constantly checking over their shoulder for a stray camera, a nosy fan — the privacy of their room is, as always, a very welcome thing.
And with that, she forgets — not quite letting her guard down, but an imitation of it. No need to worry within the safety of their four walls, where the danger has long passed ( while still protesting when his hands move to her jacket, hugging it closer around herself ). She's comfortable here; it's easy to remember to make sure he doesn't find out, but not as easy to remember what exactly that entails.
So, while she hears the creep of fear in his voice, it takes her a minute before she realizes where that comes from; she's already tilted her head, looking up and over her shoulder. Blinking up at him, wondering what it could be for, what he wants, and then realizing that the day isn't quite over yet.
She can only pray that he hasn't noticed ... everything. Somehow. Her arms are still covered, at least, surely there isn't much else— ]
[He'd come to her straight from ground zero. From manhandling what was left of Rich away to wherever he'd gone to rest, and whatever had done it to him. And more fool he is for it—he hadn't thought too much of it at the time. Too much to sift through at once, too many pressing things to worry about. And what was a dangerous contagion, in Cloudbank? Nothing, less than nothing.
Now, in hindsight, it's the first thing he jumps to, when he sees the staining on her neck. His chest constricts, the convincing psychosomatic illusion of blood in his veins going cold. She turns, but he brushes his fingers at the mark as it creeps around her neck, behind her ear, under her hair. Traces it as it vanishes under the collar of his old coat. Brows furrowed, apprehensive.]
There's something— [That mark—it's new, he knows. Looks far too much like the ones on the victims. He hesitates, again, as if afraid of the answer. But, so much better to know. So—] Red... You seeing this?
[It keeps going, doesn't it? Just how far? (How bad?)]
[ The path his fingers take triggers the worst of her instincts — the pain flaring, as it just had. Or at least, that's what it feels like; whether or not that thing is still crawling inside her remains to be seen, but the reminder that it could tears down her composure like it never existed in the first place. The poor facade of normalcy shattering as she gasps, back tensing, pulling away from his grasp entirely.
She turns from him, immediately — protecting the most vulnerable part of her body ( for now ) by keeping it hidden from the people that have access to it. Eyes wide even before what she's done sinks in properly, as the ghost of the laughter echoes around the room.
( Laughter, mixed with finally, finally—, the rest disappearing into unintelligible mumbles. It's an improvement, against all odds, a definite confirmation that the effects are properly fading. That doesn't lessen the bone-chilling terror that grips her. )
— And then, silence. It's too late to feign anything, she knows. The longer the truth of what just happened sinks in, how much Boxer would have picked up, the less she's certain of what she needs to do. This isn't like her; the doubt that's settling isn't supposed to have her paralyzed with indecision. She needs to pick something, anything, she's fine.
Surprisingly, she opens her mouth ( I— ). Unsurprisingly, no sound comes out. ]
[He isn't expecting such a violent reaction, and it shows. She gasps in pain and pulls away. He jerks his hand back away from her neck as if burnt, himself. Eyes wide, startled, sort of wounded, until his wits flood back and he swallows the creep of fear and the brush of horror best he can, steels himself into something steadier.
He holds, there, watching her sharply. Keeps his hands where she can see them. Palms out. Frozen on the spot. As if afraid he might chase her back again somehow.]
Red...?
[His heart twists at the sight of her even as he races to work out what the hell is wrong. (She opens her mouth and nothing comes out. She flinches and folds in on herself, twists and freezes in fear, and something is wrong, he should have realized it sooner. Should have—what? Seen this coming? Gone with her, wherever she'd gone, after he'd—)]
I'm so sorry. [For hurting her. (For bringing this down on her, if he did.) Every word of it slow and clear, pitched low and mollifying and steadier than he feels. Is she hurt? Sick? Confused? Is that why she'd been so slow to get home, so startled when he'd touched her? He's thrown for a loop, and he hates not knowing.] I just...need you to let me in.
[They aren't much for oversharing. Take space for themselves when they need it. But hiding something like this? After all that's happened? She couldn't have meant to try. And yet—he doesn't dare approach. Not yet.]
What... [At a loss, he pauses. Then—] What happened?
[ Of course he'd apologize — she suddenly has to resist the urge to laugh, the entire situation ridiculous. Between him and her and the circumstances they've ( she's ) landed themselves in, the distance she's creating feeling farther than ever. Red bites her tongue, holding his gaze for as long as she can ( if there's one thing she's confident in, it's this ).
He should not have found out about this. Ever ( another one added to the list ). But the likelihood of everything going her way was never very high, was it? She straightens out her shoulder, pursing her lips together for a moment before she eventually raises her arms.
I'm fine. Too little, too late. She knows, but she still has to try nonetheless. Just a sore spot. I should have said something. Still should.
The next set of signs come slowly, hesitantly, her eyes finally moving to stare at his shoulders, instead. I went to go visit Yusuke.
( She tried, really, to keep it from him. She still would, if he hadn't found out so easily, if the uncertainty in his voice wasn't so obvious. But she knows a lost battle when she sees one. They aren't much for oversharing, but willful ignorance burned them badly. ) ]
[It takes him longer to respond than her—because he needs to parse the symbols she's making and then make them make sense when they really, really don't. She wouldn't need to visit if Yusuke had come home, so, half a second too slowly, like he wishes he were reading her wrong—
You went back there?
[He's both thrown by it and utterly unsurprised, but he hates the thought of it. Red walking in on the blood-stained halls he'd tried to spare her from. Alone, unarmed, to that poison place, even after they'd managed to dodge the bullet it represents. For once. And then come home hurting anyway, hiding it away like she'd hoped he wouldn't notice.
It tracks a little too well. The blindsiding of it is enough to spur the sick spin of fear and stubborn worry into helpless, endless frustration. Aimless, his hands clench at his sides.]
Red, what in the world did you think you were going to find?
[ ( It's not the first time she's been targeted by the things he tried to protect her from. )
Her anger, as always, is a quick, flaring thing. Easily told in the tell-tale signs of a tensed jaw and harsher eyes, a mask of cold indifference settling on her face. Meeting fire with fire, every step of the way ( she's stressed, exhausted, and frustrated, all at once. Her track record of thinking through things alone still something she refuses to apologize for ).
At least the shock is gone. The confusion and the guilt being replaced with this, as tension rises in the room.
I wasn't going to leave him there. She couldn't. She's mourned before, watched someone's death play out in front of her. No one deserves that.
The place was cleared out. I wouldn't have gone back if it was still dangerous. ]
[Doesn't he know it. Only really stings the worse, for it.
He can see her hackles picking up, feel it in the tense hum of argument ready to happen in the air. He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't take advantage of the fact that she has no choice but to let him talk over her. It's been a long day, a long week, or more, and they're all at the end of their collective ropes in one way or another, and he really doesn't want to make it longer. But—he digs his heels in. Because it all sounds sensible enough, when she spells it out that way—until she claims that the place was cleared out. Safe. Because there remains the little problem of the jacket still clutched stubbornly and symbolically around her shoulders to keep him from knowing what's underneath.
So he doesn't raise his voice, but it comes away sharpish despite himself. It's been a long day—and it isn't as over as she'd like it to be.]
[ It's a lie by omission, technically — she wouldn't have gone back if the place was still swarming with extremists and assholes, she's not that suicidal. She just hadn't expected things to still linger, not before it was too late. And when it was too late, well —
By that point, she couldn't turn back.
She holds his gaze — expression barely flickering when he holds his ground, because some part of her knows that he couldn't step down ( just like how she can't, either ). Not here, not over this.
So, once more ( with feeling ): I'm fine now. Don't expect me to apologize for going. ]
[They are very different people in a lot of ways. And in a lot of ways it works to their favor. But then—]
I'm not asking you to apologize.
[Don't put words in his mouth, Red. Here, the frustration bleeds through audibly. Hands fisted at his side as he struggles to make himself understood.]
Red, I'm just asking you to talk to me.
[Unfortunate phrasing, maybe, but he's too caught up to catch it. (Maybe they dodged this bullet again, maybe she is fine. But how is he supposed to feel, knowing she'd been hurting and hiding it from him? That he might never have known anything was wrong at all until it was too late?)]
She's not unreasonable, at least ( most of the time, anyway ). Unfortunate vocabulary choices aside, it's enough to give her pause — guilt will take its time before it returns, but his request isn't entirely impossible. Even with her hackles raised, she knows he's not asking a lot.
( Well — sort of. But she knows that if she was standing on the other side, she'd be handling it a lot more poorly than he is, right now. And that's — that's enough for her to consider it, even for a moment. )
The silence stretches. She refuses to move. If there's conflict, she refuses to let it show. It's hard to convey tone when she chooses to remain expressionless, her movements curt and controlled — or maybe that's all that he needs to tell.
She takes off her jacket — the shirt she's wearing does little to hide the trail of color that starts on her arm, trailing up to the back of her neck. The edges of it fading, turning into a darker shade of her skin.
Identical to some of the victims, alive or dead. ]
[Even his slow-burning temper has limits, can crawl up to a boiling point after a bad day. And it has been, fighting his frustration and his self-inflicted too-tight rein on his mouth and her own stubbornness and her own frustration with the barrier her forced silence puts between them. She finally gives him what he's asking—not to the letter, of course, because she can't. But she stops trying to hide it, drops away the jacket to bare what's left of the experience on her skin.
He'd suspected. Seeing it laid out is different. The fight seems to drain out of him, all at once. Like he's been clocked in the jaw, voice low and hushed with restrained horror, growing guilt, the same breathless, helpless feeling as watching her fight through the city and take blow after blow and be powerless to stop it.]
Oh, Red. [He doesn't dare close his eyes, or he'll see the bloody halls, the burned skin on the victims. The nonsense fear that he'll open them to find the burns spreading, cracking and bleeding. Finally, he breaks out of the standoff to meet her where she stands. Rests his fingers lightly at the sides of her shoulders, as if afraid to hurt her further. Hesitates, as if unsure what to do, where to start. Until, simply, almost pleadingly—] I can't lose you.
[He'd tried and failed to keep her safe before. But please.]
You don't have to do any of this alone. Not— [Not always. Not as far as he can try and fail and try to be there for her. More than he could, in those few days. If, it seems, never enough.] Not anymore.
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So maybe their ... reaction is warranted, a little. His overreaction, then her's, no matter how ridiculous it may seem ( they still haven't moved from the doorway, and it's a miracle that none of their housemates have come around ). Red smooths out a weirdly folded collar on his jacket, absentminded at best. Raises her shoulders in response to his apology, letting the words fall where it may — he has no reason to justify anything, really.
Did something happen? slow and careful, the entire sign muted because she only has so much room when they're chest-to-chest like this ( not that she'd have it any other way ). She tilts her head to the side, as if that'd help. Whatever it is can't be good, but... well, he's home now. There's less and less reasons he can avoid the topic entirely. ]
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Slowly, he eases up. As she fusses his his collar and nudges him toward moving this conversation along and explaining himself. He could very well avoid the topic a little longer if he refuses to look down at her hands. But...he doesn't really need to try to interpret the motion to know what she's thinking. Sure as hell can't put it off forever—she wouldn't stand for being sheltered from it, even if he could try. Bad news or not. After a little while to find his footing, he exhales. Scrubs a palm over his face, but meets her eyes, after he drops it down. Square and serious, reigning back the impulse to take her by the hands, lest he stifle her ability to make herself heard in kind.]
...They found some more of the missing persons. Under our damn noses, over there at the Institute.
[He doesn't lead with the part about Yusuke calling him over to help deal with the burnt and bloody body of a good friend. One thing at a time, maybe. And while it is, honestly, good news that they've been found...his expression clouds, brow creased, jaw tight.]
Whatever those no-good lunatics did to them, down there...never seen anything like it.
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But god. It's hard, because after all that they've seen together — to hear a never seen anything like it is ... rattling. Terrifying. A part of her is already imagining the worst case scenario, an entire mountain of bloody bodies because of one thing or another. Cloudbank hasn't seen physical violence in years ( and then her performance happened ) — she thinks that she may have seen a lifetime's worth in the last few months.
Another inhale, then an exhale. She glances up at him again, briefly, then returns to resting her hands on his arms. Silence speaks volumes, after all; in this case, it's a gentle request to continue. ]
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This time he does reach to take hold of her hands. Holds them tight between them, thumbs brushing against her knuckles while he works his way to the kicker. But as seriously and as clearly as possible—]
Rich— [Still, a pause. Too long not to be foreboding, echoed in the twist of his fingers in hers.] ...he didn't make it out.
[At least, not in any state worth considering salvaged. Not even a Trace left to wring out an echo from. (He's not too sure the man would have appreciated the idea of it, anyway. But it's oddly final feeling. Abrupt.)]
Yusuke called me up to help take care of what was left, but— [Nothing much to be done, really. And, after a frustrated little beat—] Think he's still out there.
[Yusuke, wrist deep in the cleanup. Stubborn kid. (Reminds him of someone.) And as much as he hates it...the cool light of the Transistor at their backs is plenty reminder that there's only so long he can be reliable, right now. Running out the clock pretty soon, too, or he'd have stuck to his guns and stuck around to keep eyes on him.]
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And it couldn't have been good; that much was certain from the very beginning. Some part of her was preparing for the worst from the moment she moved to walk out the door. The problem is the same part of her may have underestimated just how ... awful this could get.
The news isn't surprising ( hadn't been, as of 2 seconds ago ), but it has her freeze nonetheless. Body tensing, her hands immediately moving to grip his. Her gaze eventually averting his just so that she can let the full meaning of that sink in. The bodies in Cloudbank had been processed long before she could get to them; those that hadn't were people that she could do without. The rest had ... presumably made it out, some how.
Which leaves her here, at the wake of someone's death that she frankly hadn't been prepared for. She swallows down the lump in her throat, her gaze eventually at level with Boxer's shoulder. There's nothing to acknowledge that she's heard what he said — but it's not as though she had much of a choice.
Red lets the silence sit, her breathing slow, controlled ( selfishly, she finds that she's glad that they're alright, against all the odds ). Eventually, with her hands still in Boxer's, she raises her head to look at him. Mouths a single word at him — how? ]
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Still, he answers her. With a grimace, and an honest—]
...wasn't pretty.
[There's a clear hesitation, though, to give her the gory details. (The way the victims had been brutalized, skin was burned and displaced, sloughing off at a touch, like there was nothing holding them together.) But she ought to know the gist. It wasn't murder they were after. It was torture.]
Guess they thought they'd get something out of them, if they took it slow. [And as even-tempered as he tries to keep things, he can't help the edge of scorn in his voice.] Don't know what.
[The whys and hows are still getting pieced together, but—this was not a random thing. Some organized fringe group, taking advantage of people's lives, trying to use them, somehow, to further their own ends. (Change the city, even.) Even starting over in a new place, a different world altogether...have to be blind not to see the ways that could spiral into something worse.]
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This is her skipping over all of that, the need for retribution without the means to do so — somehow, the odds are even worse than last time. But the thought of doing nothing, once more, grips her with a dread that she wants to shake herself from immediately. Control slipping as the impulses get easier.
( She needs to get to the Institute. )
Red averts her gaze — choosing to stare straight at Boxer's chest, as if somehow that would fix everything. Her grip on his hands only tightens — he doesn't have to say much for her to get a picture. Vaguely painted, missing details, but awful nonetheless; she's seen what these people can be capable of. No massacre in her city could have prepared her for ... this. All of this.
It takes effort to keep her fury in check to hold back on the impulse to walk out the door. She leans her forehead on his shoulder, and inhales ( exhales, just as calmly as before ). ]
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But it helps, he hopes, to have each other. So she leans into him and he holds her close and leans in to kiss the crown of her head and hum nonsense I've got yous, and we're goods into her hair until she sees fit to disentangle from him. Or until, regretful, he has to let her go and face the music. That he is, still, living largely on borrowed time, and he's come close to overextending it already before booking it back.
(And later, when he's still exhausted his reserves and confined to the Transistor again for a while and Red ducks out the door without the weapon at her side...he doesn't have the energy or the heart to suspect anything of it. Too keen to put the fresher horrors behind them with the rest, maybe.)]
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Which means it's late — the common areas continue to be empty at times like this, everyone either getting the rest that they desperately deserve or out searching. She's the same — it's easy to slip upstairs to her room ( their room ) without being spotted by anyone. Pausing before she turns the doorknob, taking a deep breath — it's fine, it should all be fine, there's no reason for him to notice anything anymore, and—
( If she thinks that she hears the ghost of a laughter, faint and barely there, she decides to dismiss it entirely. )
She opens the door. The Transistor propped up against the wall, emitting its usual soft, teal light ( the walls look like they're glowing white, almost, and she blinks that away once more ). She looks ... alright, at least, if not a little tired, as she closes the door behind her and leans against the wood. Eyes searching for the familiar figure, all the while bracing herself for the worst.
( Faint splashes of color run up from her upper arm, to the back of her neck. Her hair done up in a bun. A familiar jacket covers her arms, but the moment she leans away from the door— ) ]
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Red? That you? [His vantage point is low, from here. The room's dim enough now that the sun's setting. Even as he says it, he knows the answer, so—] Hi. Didn't hear you come in.
[A little bit of a question in it. She'd been out a while.]
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She wants to keep this particular thing from him. No reason for him to worry over something that's rapidly on its way to becoming old news; she'll tell him, eventually, once everything is a little less raw ( once he won't immediately be reminded of Richie when he finds out, and how close that could have been; she doesn't want to think about that, either ). So—
I needed fresh air. Which isn't... untrue, exactly. She reaches to shrug the jacket off, and immediately thinks better of it — she'll have to figure something out, if she wants to get changed. Just not right this moment.
She does, however, cross the room ( turns her back towards the teal glow of the sword, whether or not she realizes it ). ]
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And, with an air of understanding—
Long day. Least it's almost over.
[And if she needed space—well, they've got a pretty full house, on better days. She's back, now. So it's reflex, at first, the way he steps in next to her, raises a hand to brush her hair back, kiss her temple hello. Offer to take her (his, her) coat from her so she can make herself comfortable—
(The Transistor still recognizes Red as the USER when she's in range. And mostly he just pushes it to the back of his attention, because with no Process in the city there's usually little reason for a read on her vitals or a look at her chosen loadout of Functions. Unless...)
He goes still, attention narrowing. His fingertips hover at the sliver of stained skin at nape of her neck. Still, carefully—]
Hey, Red— [He's good at disguising the little creep of fear in his voice. But no one knows him better than she does.] Could you...?
[Just...c'mere a minute.]
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And with that, she forgets — not quite letting her guard down, but an imitation of it. No need to worry within the safety of their four walls, where the danger has long passed ( while still protesting when his hands move to her jacket, hugging it closer around herself ). She's comfortable here; it's easy to remember to make sure he doesn't find out, but not as easy to remember what exactly that entails.
So, while she hears the creep of fear in his voice, it takes her a minute before she realizes where that comes from; she's already tilted her head, looking up and over her shoulder. Blinking up at him, wondering what it could be for, what he wants, and then realizing that the day isn't quite over yet.
She can only pray that he hasn't noticed ... everything. Somehow. Her arms are still covered, at least, surely there isn't much else— ]
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Now, in hindsight, it's the first thing he jumps to, when he sees the staining on her neck. His chest constricts, the convincing psychosomatic illusion of blood in his veins going cold. She turns, but he brushes his fingers at the mark as it creeps around her neck, behind her ear, under her hair. Traces it as it vanishes under the collar of his old coat. Brows furrowed, apprehensive.]
There's something— [That mark—it's new, he knows. Looks far too much like the ones on the victims. He hesitates, again, as if afraid of the answer. But, so much better to know. So—] Red... You seeing this?
[It keeps going, doesn't it? Just how far? (How bad?)]
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She turns from him, immediately — protecting the most vulnerable part of her body ( for now ) by keeping it hidden from the people that have access to it. Eyes wide even before what she's done sinks in properly, as the ghost of the laughter echoes around the room.
( Laughter, mixed with finally, finally—, the rest disappearing into unintelligible mumbles. It's an improvement, against all odds, a definite confirmation that the effects are properly fading. That doesn't lessen the bone-chilling terror that grips her. )
— And then, silence. It's too late to feign anything, she knows. The longer the truth of what just happened sinks in, how much Boxer would have picked up, the less she's certain of what she needs to do. This isn't like her; the doubt that's settling isn't supposed to have her paralyzed with indecision. She needs to pick something, anything, she's fine.
Surprisingly, she opens her mouth ( I— ). Unsurprisingly, no sound comes out. ]
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He holds, there, watching her sharply. Keeps his hands where she can see them. Palms out. Frozen on the spot. As if afraid he might chase her back again somehow.]
Red...?
[His heart twists at the sight of her even as he races to work out what the hell is wrong. (She opens her mouth and nothing comes out. She flinches and folds in on herself, twists and freezes in fear, and something is wrong, he should have realized it sooner. Should have—what? Seen this coming? Gone with her, wherever she'd gone, after he'd—)]
I'm so sorry. [For hurting her. (For bringing this down on her, if he did.) Every word of it slow and clear, pitched low and mollifying and steadier than he feels. Is she hurt? Sick? Confused? Is that why she'd been so slow to get home, so startled when he'd touched her? He's thrown for a loop, and he hates not knowing.] I just...need you to let me in.
[They aren't much for oversharing. Take space for themselves when they need it. But hiding something like this? After all that's happened? She couldn't have meant to try. And yet—he doesn't dare approach. Not yet.]
What... [At a loss, he pauses. Then—] What happened?
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He should not have found out about this. Ever ( another one added to the list ). But the likelihood of everything going her way was never very high, was it? She straightens out her shoulder, pursing her lips together for a moment before she eventually raises her arms.
I'm fine. Too little, too late. She knows, but she still has to try nonetheless. Just a sore spot. I should have said something. Still should.
The next set of signs come slowly, hesitantly, her eyes finally moving to stare at his shoulders, instead. I went to go visit Yusuke.
( She tried, really, to keep it from him. She still would, if he hadn't found out so easily, if the uncertainty in his voice wasn't so obvious. But she knows a lost battle when she sees one. They aren't much for oversharing, but willful ignorance burned them badly. ) ]
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You went back there?
[He's both thrown by it and utterly unsurprised, but he hates the thought of it. Red walking in on the blood-stained halls he'd tried to spare her from. Alone, unarmed, to that poison place, even after they'd managed to dodge the bullet it represents. For once. And then come home hurting anyway, hiding it away like she'd hoped he wouldn't notice.
It tracks a little too well. The blindsiding of it is enough to spur the sick spin of fear and stubborn worry into helpless, endless frustration. Aimless, his hands clench at his sides.]
Red, what in the world did you think you were going to find?
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Her anger, as always, is a quick, flaring thing. Easily told in the tell-tale signs of a tensed jaw and harsher eyes, a mask of cold indifference settling on her face. Meeting fire with fire, every step of the way ( she's stressed, exhausted, and frustrated, all at once. Her track record of thinking through things alone still something she refuses to apologize for ).
At least the shock is gone. The confusion and the guilt being replaced with this, as tension rises in the room.
I wasn't going to leave him there. She couldn't. She's mourned before, watched someone's death play out in front of her. No one deserves that.
The place was cleared out. I wouldn't have gone back if it was still dangerous. ]
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He can see her hackles picking up, feel it in the tense hum of argument ready to happen in the air. He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't take advantage of the fact that she has no choice but to let him talk over her. It's been a long day, a long week, or more, and they're all at the end of their collective ropes in one way or another, and he really doesn't want to make it longer. But—he digs his heels in. Because it all sounds sensible enough, when she spells it out that way—until she claims that the place was cleared out. Safe. Because there remains the little problem of the jacket still clutched stubbornly and symbolically around her shoulders to keep him from knowing what's underneath.
So he doesn't raise his voice, but it comes away sharpish despite himself. It's been a long day—and it isn't as over as she'd like it to be.]
Don't lie to me, Red.
[Not like this. Not today.]
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By that point, she couldn't turn back.
She holds his gaze — expression barely flickering when he holds his ground, because some part of her knows that he couldn't step down ( just like how she can't, either ). Not here, not over this.
So, once more ( with feeling ): I'm fine now. Don't expect me to apologize for going. ]
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I'm not asking you to apologize.
[Don't put words in his mouth, Red. Here, the frustration bleeds through audibly. Hands fisted at his side as he struggles to make himself understood.]
Red, I'm just asking you to talk to me.
[Unfortunate phrasing, maybe, but he's too caught up to catch it. (Maybe they dodged this bullet again, maybe she is fine. But how is he supposed to feel, knowing she'd been hurting and hiding it from him? That he might never have known anything was wrong at all until it was too late?)]
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She's not unreasonable, at least ( most of the time, anyway ). Unfortunate vocabulary choices aside, it's enough to give her pause — guilt will take its time before it returns, but his request isn't entirely impossible. Even with her hackles raised, she knows he's not asking a lot.
( Well — sort of. But she knows that if she was standing on the other side, she'd be handling it a lot more poorly than he is, right now. And that's — that's enough for her to consider it, even for a moment. )
The silence stretches. She refuses to move. If there's conflict, she refuses to let it show. It's hard to convey tone when she chooses to remain expressionless, her movements curt and controlled — or maybe that's all that he needs to tell.
She takes off her jacket — the shirt she's wearing does little to hide the trail of color that starts on her arm, trailing up to the back of her neck. The edges of it fading, turning into a darker shade of her skin.
Identical to some of the victims, alive or dead. ]
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He'd suspected. Seeing it laid out is different. The fight seems to drain out of him, all at once. Like he's been clocked in the jaw, voice low and hushed with restrained horror, growing guilt, the same breathless, helpless feeling as watching her fight through the city and take blow after blow and be powerless to stop it.]
Oh, Red. [He doesn't dare close his eyes, or he'll see the bloody halls, the burned skin on the victims. The nonsense fear that he'll open them to find the burns spreading, cracking and bleeding. Finally, he breaks out of the standoff to meet her where she stands. Rests his fingers lightly at the sides of her shoulders, as if afraid to hurt her further. Hesitates, as if unsure what to do, where to start. Until, simply, almost pleadingly—] I can't lose you.
[He'd tried and failed to keep her safe before. But please.]
You don't have to do any of this alone. Not— [Not always. Not as far as he can try and fail and try to be there for her. More than he could, in those few days. If, it seems, never enough.] Not anymore.