[That's right. The "why" went from an explanation to a purpose, or, at least, it would be in Whelk's favor if that were true. If he's going to fully cross, he'd much rather it be back into the world of the living than to some unknown plane beyond; worse yet, nothingness. He fears nothingness so.]
I doubt our answers have much to do with our location. It's just a shitty diner chain.
[A voice crackles on the overhead speakers. Had music been playing before? Whelk can't seem to remember. A cheerful voice asks: Why do you think you're unlovable?
[Whelk stares at the ceiling.]
What?
[Why do you think you're unlovable?
[He's still staring. Before he knows what's happening (what's happening?), he's looking back at Caitlyn and scoffing.]
Well. No one ever has.
[He glares at the sound of his own voice, then back up at the speakers.]
[Caitlyn draws her rifle (since when did she have her rifle—that rifle?) and takes aim at th… what, the ceiling? Her eyes are wide, furious on his behalf. Where did that voice come from?]
You. [Low, authoritative, sharp.] Enough of your questions. What’s the purpose of this?
[Why do you think you’re unlovable?]
[To Whelk:] Could you love a monster?
[Back up, lip curled:] Show yourself.
[Okay, well, the fucking rifle makes him jump a little, palms preemptively flying up before he realizes he's not the target. Caitlyn seems to be angry on his behalf, in fact, and he doesn't hate that.
[To her question, he can't help but respond - no, really.]
[Is he? It's difficult to take inventory of yourself when everything about your life feels fake. That was true when he was still breathing too. Does he still breathe?]
I care. [A beat. She turns away, sharp and forcing a blink.] Don’t ask anything else. Something about this place is compelling answers that we’re obliged to give.
[A nod to Whelk, demanding he follow, and she steps backward toward the door. Eyes still trained on the ceiling. There’s nowhere they can’t escape from—even death.]
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pantheraliam) wrote2030-03-12 03:03 pm
no subject
I doubt our answers have much to do with our location. It's just a shitty diner chain.
[A voice crackles on the overhead speakers. Had music been playing before? Whelk can't seem to remember. A cheerful voice asks: Why do you think you're unlovable?
[Whelk stares at the ceiling.]
What?
[Why do you think you're unlovable?
[He's still staring. Before he knows what's happening (what's happening?), he's looking back at Caitlyn and scoffing.]
Well. No one ever has.
[He glares at the sound of his own voice, then back up at the speakers.]
What the hell? What was that?
he is god’s human chewtoy
[What?
[Caitlyn draws her rifle (since when did she have her rifle—that rifle?) and takes aim at th… what, the ceiling? Her eyes are wide, furious on his behalf. Where did that voice come from?]
You. [Low, authoritative, sharp.] Enough of your questions. What’s the purpose of this?
[Why do you think you’re unlovable?]
[To Whelk:] Could you love a monster?
[Back up, lip curled:] Show yourself.
no subject
[To her question, he can't help but respond - no, really.]
I am a monster. You already know.
But no. I can't love anyone.
no subject
[Glance his way, abjectly consternated. Back up. Nothing appears, no more mocking voices… for now.
[Hell, though. Whelk doesn’t seem the type to just… say that.
[The rifle lowers, just a hair.] You’re being forced to answer. [Right? What if she doesn’t ask?]
no subject
Whatever. Who cares? It's not a secret anymore.
[Is that freeing? He still feels trapped.]
no subject
I care. [A beat. She turns away, sharp and forcing a blink.] Don’t ask anything else. Something about this place is compelling answers that we’re obliged to give.
[A nod to Whelk, demanding he follow, and she steps backward toward the door. Eyes still trained on the ceiling. There’s nowhere they can’t escape from—even death.]