[ Strangely enough — the longer the horror show continues, the more Red's face matches that of her memory-self.
It's not to say that she doesn't feel anything, because she definitely does ( her stumble backwards is proof enough ). Her gut twists itself into knots, her heart seizing painfully. It doesn't get easier the second time, and she expects it won't be any better the third. Or the fourth. Her personal little hell, played out in front of her.
But Boxer clutches her tighter against him, and that's the wake up call ( kind of like hearing his voice had been, the first time ). Her body standing still as her eyes harden, her mouth shut — her face a stone cold mask, in complete contrast the open despair on Richie's. And in complete contrast to Boxer shielding his eyes, she tracks memory-her walking through towards the familiar teal-glow.
She swallows. Nods, almost distracted, her eyes on ... her ( this is getting old, fast ) as she stands over the corpse. She hates the fact that she remembers exactly what she had been thinking at the time, the exact moment grief made room for anger. Red's hand moves to clutch the back of Boxer's jacket, only tearing her eyes away when the sword gets pulled out of ... the corpse. The rest of this, she presumes, will play out in picture-perfect sequence, all the way from here to the end.
So, her eyes land on Richie. She's in no position to worry about anyone else, really, not when the Storm seems to be keen on dragging every ugly memory out from the closet. But it's hard to ignore the surge of — something, when she meets eyes with him. Shakes her head, briefly, as if to answer a question he's asked.
Her eyes flicker over to the sparks on the ground as her memory self walks away, dragging the sword behind her. It's a good enough cue to gently tilt her head off to the side in an attempt to lead all of them away. ( She let's go her hold on Boxer's jacket, too, only stepping away when his grip loosens. Slowly, but surely. ) There's nothing else that they can do here, really, aside from avoiding the Process and waiting for the storm to let them be.
— And as if on cue, they're back on dirt roads, trees occasionally dotting the fields around them. No sign of glowing buildings, the night replaced by day. Just like they've left it, she presumes, if she can consider that leaving in the first place. Red's lips set into a thin line, jaw tensing more the longer the silence stretches around them.
( Some part of her starts preparing for the questions she's sure Richie has. What happened. Why it happened. If this is why Boxer is ... the way he is. How far they managed to get before the Storm destroyed everything. She hates that whether or not she wants to answer is completely secondary. )
Eventually, she tilts her head again, this time gesturing at the open road ahead of them. Same logic applies — there's no reason to stick around. ]
update: thread is cancelled because i took a million years, sorry
It's not to say that she doesn't feel anything, because she definitely does ( her stumble backwards is proof enough ). Her gut twists itself into knots, her heart seizing painfully. It doesn't get easier the second time, and she expects it won't be any better the third. Or the fourth. Her personal little hell, played out in front of her.
But Boxer clutches her tighter against him, and that's the wake up call ( kind of like hearing his voice had been, the first time ). Her body standing still as her eyes harden, her mouth shut — her face a stone cold mask, in complete contrast the open despair on Richie's. And in complete contrast to Boxer shielding his eyes, she tracks memory-her walking through towards the familiar teal-glow.
She swallows. Nods, almost distracted, her eyes on ... her ( this is getting old, fast ) as she stands over the corpse. She hates the fact that she remembers exactly what she had been thinking at the time, the exact moment grief made room for anger. Red's hand moves to clutch the back of Boxer's jacket, only tearing her eyes away when the sword gets pulled out of ... the corpse. The rest of this, she presumes, will play out in picture-perfect sequence, all the way from here to the end.
So, her eyes land on Richie. She's in no position to worry about anyone else, really, not when the Storm seems to be keen on dragging every ugly memory out from the closet. But it's hard to ignore the surge of — something, when she meets eyes with him. Shakes her head, briefly, as if to answer a question he's asked.
Her eyes flicker over to the sparks on the ground as her memory self walks away, dragging the sword behind her. It's a good enough cue to gently tilt her head off to the side in an attempt to lead all of them away. ( She let's go her hold on Boxer's jacket, too, only stepping away when his grip loosens. Slowly, but surely. ) There's nothing else that they can do here, really, aside from avoiding the Process and waiting for the storm to let them be.
— And as if on cue, they're back on dirt roads, trees occasionally dotting the fields around them. No sign of glowing buildings, the night replaced by day. Just like they've left it, she presumes, if she can consider that leaving in the first place. Red's lips set into a thin line, jaw tensing more the longer the silence stretches around them.
( Some part of her starts preparing for the questions she's sure Richie has. What happened. Why it happened. If this is why Boxer is ... the way he is. How far they managed to get before the Storm destroyed everything. She hates that whether or not she wants to answer is completely secondary. )
Eventually, she tilts her head again, this time gesturing at the open road ahead of them. Same logic applies — there's no reason to stick around. ]