§ 058.

[symmachy]

[scatty is standing alone in some alley. it's dark, but there's a streetlight somewhere near. there's blood on her once pristine white shirt, and her cropped hair is a faded red thanks to the dust caught up in it. there is a very, very large hole punched straight through the brick wall closest to her. there are red streaks from her eyes running down her face--she's been crying. crying blood, from the looks of it. but aside from the tell-tale red, grimy trails down her cheeks, her face is dry. her voice monotone.]

Max Gibson is dead.

[a beat. it seems as if that's all.]

... Dead.

[as if she's trying to convince herself. another pause. then scathach clutches the comm in her hand, tilts her head back and gives a very inhuman scream, and throws it into the brick wall, ending the feed.]

Comments

text;

[incywincyhero]

Why the hell wouldn't I be? Someone I know just died. Not that it wouldn't still be awful if it were someone I just met.

text;

[hacktivist]

i see

all right

text;

[incywincyhero]

[Pause.]

That's it?

text;

[hacktivist]

what is the appropriate public response to the death of a lover

text;

[incywincyhero]

[Wait, lover? Wha-- oh.]

[Damn.]

I didn't even know you were dating.
I'm sorry, Ghost.

[A longer pause before the next text:]

Appropriate really doesn't matter. It's about how you *need* to respond.

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[hacktivist]

i need to send her murderers to keep her company

thank you

text;

[incywincyhero]

You're welcome?

That isn't ... quite what I meant.