"You're— you're wrong." Ripley forces the words up a raw channel throat, turns backward and forward in a desperate search for being. A voice can't come from nowhere, can it? But there's nothing. It escapes her. She fights on. Tears obscure her vision. Maybe they're to blame. "There's infrastructure here. There— there are moons and— and an established populace. Dahlia said— she said this place exists somewhere. And I believe her."
You don't make friends in Hell.
You don't adopt pets.
You don't experience pleasant, mundane afternoons.
She tells herself this, over and over. Cloys desperately to every bit of logic her nails catch, impossible to keep herself upright.
no subject
"You're— you're wrong." Ripley forces the words up a raw channel throat, turns backward and forward in a desperate search for being. A voice can't come from nowhere, can it? But there's nothing. It escapes her. She fights on. Tears obscure her vision. Maybe they're to blame. "There's infrastructure here. There— there are moons and— and an established populace. Dahlia said— she said this place exists somewhere. And I believe her."
You don't make friends in Hell.
You don't adopt pets.
You don't experience pleasant, mundane afternoons.
She tells herself this, over and over. Cloys desperately to every bit of logic her nails catch, impossible to keep herself upright.
"You're just noise. U—Useless percussion."
So get. Out. Of my head.