"You're right." Her voice is a strangle of syllables. She looks down at the woman crumpled on the grass. Fuck, this is going to be tedious. Were Ellen a little more reckless, she might have snapped the bracelet in two for them to share. But she hasn't a single clue how this magic works. Far too cautious to risk it. Who knows, it might not work at all if the twine is broken. Then we'd be shit out of luck. "It's — enough to make a person sick."
One player plucks a baritone note from the gory split in his chest. Harp strings reverberate. Several guests are knocked to their knees. The lead vocalist, a woman in white, compliments his poetic agony.
And Ellen wonders in a panicked split from what she ought to be thinking about ( i.e., what the hell to do next ), if this is what war is like.
Or more accurately, loss.
Total desolation.
The kind that makes generations tremble.
Ripley stoops onto knees with a hand pressed flat on Connie's back. "If we can't do anything about them, we can address it at the source. Us. I mean— they're just bad memories, right? Bad thoughts? And what do you do when you get bad thoughts?" She says this, entirely a hypocrite, as tears continue down her face. She squeezes the bracelet. Presses it to Connie's skin. "It's— it's not easy, I know, but— I don't think we're going to shut that band up."
no subject
"You're right." Her voice is a strangle of syllables. She looks down at the woman crumpled on the grass. Fuck, this is going to be tedious. Were Ellen a little more reckless, she might have snapped the bracelet in two for them to share. But she hasn't a single clue how this magic works. Far too cautious to risk it. Who knows, it might not work at all if the twine is broken. Then we'd be shit out of luck. "It's — enough to make a person sick."
One player plucks a baritone note from the gory split in his chest. Harp strings reverberate. Several guests are knocked to their knees. The lead vocalist, a woman in white, compliments his poetic agony.
And Ellen wonders in a panicked split from what she ought to be thinking about ( i.e., what the hell to do next ), if this is what war is like.
Or more accurately, loss.
Total desolation.
The kind that makes generations tremble.
Ripley stoops onto knees with a hand pressed flat on Connie's back. "If we can't do anything about them, we can address it at the source. Us. I mean— they're just bad memories, right? Bad thoughts? And what do you do when you get bad thoughts?" She says this, entirely a hypocrite, as tears continue down her face. She squeezes the bracelet. Presses it to Connie's skin. "It's— it's not easy, I know, but— I don't think we're going to shut that band up."