pain_train | SANCTUM INBOX

can't say it ever came up

it's

i don't really remember

but kind of

fuck

don't like talking about it

maybe after you get here

i'll be down in two

[there's no further communication, but true to his word, there's pounding on the door shortly after]

wait you mean OH YOU ASSHOLE

Okay, it's kind of funny. It's the thing Wrath might do herself. Has done. Karma's a bitch. Orion's apartment isn't big, so she opens the door quickly when he knocks. If you can call that knocking.

"You're lucky I'm not so weak with hunger I can't make it to the door," she says, and manages a passable smile. Feeling a little too preoccupied to do anything better.

There's a single raised brow, a slight quirk of his lips, and for all intents and purposes his look could be construed as vaguely amused. It's more of a formality though, a reaction to the overt situation as opposed to the entirety of the reason that he's actually relented and put an end to his being an asshole. "Told you you'd survive."

He makes a motion with one arm, and there's a plethora of plastic bags hanging off his wrist. No other words, but there's a very faint knitting of his brows that suggests concern.

"No thanks to you," she mutters. It's for form's sake, really.

There's a little start of movement, like with anyone else she'd be going in for the hug. But that's right. Maine doesn't like that. And normally she'd take it as a challenge, but not right now. The thought of trying to hug Maine and having him go all stiff isn't one she can really handle at the moment. Instead she reaches out and grab the hem of his shirt instead.

"Thanks for bringing the food." That's important. Because she does appreciate it.

There’s a very small huff, under his breath really, and a great temptation to roll his eyes because while they’re both trying to keep up the pretense of everything being casual, that’s obviously not what’s really important with everything. It’s evident in the fact that there’s tension in the air, in the fact that she starts forward and stops, and it’s one of the times few and far between that he vaguely wishes that he were better at dealing with things like this.

As it is, he’s still out of his comfort zone, but he really should have some sort of response. It resolves itself in his hand on her head, ruffling her hair somewhat as he hums under his breath. “Owed you, didn’t I?”

When he messes with her hair, Wrath actually just leans forward to rest her forehead on his chest for a minute. Sorry, Maine. "Shit," she mutters. "Okay, bad stuff first and then food or I'm not even going to be able to fucking eat. Shouldn't have even thought about it anyway."

Small steps, and he does inhale the tiniest bit sharper at the sensation, but at the very least he doesn’t tense, doesn’t move away. He’s still not very good at the whole contact thing, even less at the comfort part of it, but this is what regular people do, right? The hand stays in her hair, and there’s a rumble deep in his chest; it’s at least an attempt.

“Can’t help thinking.” It’s the truth, and he pulls back, breaking the contact to shrug the bags to the floor.

It's really more than she could have expected. Wrath keeps her head down, shoulders slightly hunched, and actually still holds on to the hem of his shirt.

"Yeah, I guess... but it's like. I don't remember really well. I forget stuff." She rubs the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. "And sometimes I don't make a lot of sense. But I still remember things that are important. And that's why this shit worries me."

For someone who’s job used to consist of causing as much destruction as humanly possible on a day to day basis, it’s somewhat surprising how gentle he can actually be when he wants to. There’s a low noise in the back of his throat, a slight narrowing of his eyes to express his concern, but after that there’s one hand on her shoulder, the other reaching down to very carefully remover her grip from his clothing. With the task accomplished, there’s a quick gaze about the room, and the moment he’s able to locate the couch, he’s very carefully guiding her over to it so that the both of them can sit.

While there are no words in response, the noise he’s making shifts pitch, takes on a more curious tone. It’s the first time he’s seen her this serious, this perturbed, and it’s definitely more than a bit concerning.

Well, Wrath. He's here and listening. Better get to the point. She doesn't even know quite where to start, though, and has to think back over the text conversation to try to find that frayed thread of memory the words had tugged at.

She'd like to lean against Maine, but he's not in to that. So she just huddles a little against the back of the couch, legs crossed loosely. She'd like to draw her knees up to her chest, but that makes her back hurt worse.

"Okay." Where to start. She looks down at her hands, loose in her lap. "So you know there are seven of us. Were. Badb... she was Sloth... she died defending the dome right before it got sealed. Remember that. You would have really liked Badb. Had a mace. Just... fucked shit up. Killed more dysthropes than any three of us put together. Didn't know when to quit.

"But the rest of us... I know. When the army got disbanded. They called us back up for the militia. Because we were famous. Like. That fucking cartoon, right? And the militia needed help. So they call, you go. And... I mean they were okay but. I don't know. I don't really remember that time. A lot of nothing, until I got back in uniform again.

"I dont... I don't know a lot. Like twenty-one years and I don't really remember that much. But I know like... over the next maybe ten years, everyone else retired. The other five retired. I remember them retiring. You know, like the cake and the jokes and everyone's in their dress blacks. But... we were always tight, you know? Like family. And Octavian--Envy--was my partner.

"And when they retired, they just... went away. Never heard from them again. And I didn't really think about it until now, because there was always the mission. I had to--focus, soldier, you have to focus--just. But I thought. I'm out now. They're not a distraction from the mission any more. I should go find them. We can talk.

"And it's like they never fucking existed. They retired, and then just fucking... evaporated."

Edited 2014-12-26 09:24 (UTC)

As she keeps talking and the story unfolds, his look becomes increasingly more solemn, a tension wound in his shoulders and evident in the way he’s holding himself while sitting. If he hadn’t had a poor opinion of all the fuckery before, what she’s saying has certainly done well to cast even worse of a shadow over everything.

There are so many problems with what she’s saying; for as little as he’d always cared about the morality of actions taken during wartime, there’s something utterly distasteful about how wrong the implications here are. Perhaps it’s merely that subterfuge and covert things had never been his forte, but what she’s going on about seems nothing short of clandestine manipulation.

There’s an even growl in the back of his throat, continual and white noise against her talking, and a spike of anger, though it’s strange because it’s nothing that directly involves him. Anger on her behalf. “Liability. Dangerous.”

At least as far as he can think; there’s little to be had for soldiers past their prime, and combined with everything, with the hints of how deep a certain corporation has its fingers in military related things, it’s difficult to point to anything else.

"Yeah," she agrees softly. "And..."

How to make this make sense? It's all just impressions, things she's recalled, snippets, but she can find the common thread that ties them all together.

"They tell you that you're broken. You're broken and we're going to fix you. We're fixing you. But it's not that." North had said so, and she believes him now. After everything she's seen, she can believe him. And that makes for a lot of guilt, because she can recall snippets. She can remember turning Octavian in for non-compliant behavior, and he'd done the same for her.

Because we're broken. They're fixing us.

"And it's not something that happens all at once. Not the first time or second time or... just one day--" She remembers telling North this, not knowing where it had drifted from, but it was true. "One day the fire is just gone. It goes out, and then you go home and eat a gun."

She's drifting. This wasn't the point.

"But that's not the point. It's--it's words, Maine. Everyone has a point where they break. Even the best soldiers. And it's not something they do to your body, because they can just put us back together over and over like goddamn puzzles and we'll keep going, we're tough. It's the words they put in your head and the lies they tell you that you think are true because it's burned into your brain or because you just--want to believe. Because you're broken and they're just going to fix you, they're just going to make you better."

Finally, finally she looks at him, reaches out and wraps her fingers around his wrist, and her grip is perhaps surprisingly strong. "I know I'm not saying this right, but--this is why I'm worried, Maine. What kills you isn't the bullet. It's the words you can't forget."

Edited (TYPOS ARGH) 2014-12-26 10:18 (UTC)

It’s something that’s hitting a bit too close to home, and though he’d be reticent to admit anything, everything she’s saying is putting him on edge. He’s not a resident of this world, he doesn’t know the ins and outs of how things are managed and controlled, but everything that she’s saying strikes a familiar chord with things back home.

He knows what it’s like to be thrown into things time after time, to be sewn back together and pitched back out to break again and again, it’s plain obvious from the stretches of scar tissue that maps his body, and he’s always prided himself on that. He’s always been a wall, a roach, surviving things that shouldn’t be possible, the entirety of his world up until recently has been focused on how physically strong he could be, and…

Though it’s difficult to come to terms with, he can see it, though he’d like to deny with all his being, Wrath makes sense. If he hadn’t known, if life had apparently continued the way it was supposed to back home, he would have welcomed everything. Fine, implant something in his brain, anything to be stronger, ignore the way it would eat away at him, because as long as it would help, would make him a more effective killing machine, it would have been fine.

Except knowing now what would happen, it wouldn’t have.

“’s fucked up.” Everything is. His apparent future. Her actual past. He gives a heavy sigh, locking his gaze onto her hand.

"Yeah," she says quietly. "It is."

Everyone keeps telling her that she's more fragile than she realizes. It's a fucking joke. They're all more fragile than they'll ever admit.

She should probably let go of his wrist, she thinks. Main doesn't like being touched, so it's a bad thing. But maybe he'll let her hold on a little bit longer, because she just needs something solid to hold on to. And there isn't anything more solid in the world than Maine, for all both of them could shatter apart with the right words aimed just so.

"Just be careful," she says quietly. "About what words you let into your head. Cause you're important to me." She gives his wrist a little squeeze and then lets go.

He’s never claimed to be good at anything involving deeper emotions. Forethought and introspection aren’t needed when you kill people for a living, and trying to think too hard on anything in regards to his line of work could only lead to horror. It’s easier to push everything away, put the reality of his actions and their impact (their potential) to the back of his mind and barrel on forward. Trying to parse out dangers that don’t immediately involve grievous physical harm is difficult, makes him uncomfortable.

There’s a quiet exhale as he rubs his face with one hand, eyes closed; it’s too much. Perhaps it’s good for him in the long run, but it’s too much for now. Fingers dig lightly into the bone near his eyes, a paltry attempt to chase away an impending headache, but it’s a certain failure. How is he supposed to deal with her saying that? No one says that. No one has said that.

No, there aren’t words, there isn’t a gushing acceptance of the weight of everything, because he’s not good at this. Frustration bubbles in the back of his brain, and he tries to ward it off. Inhale. Exhale. It doesn’t work. There’s a tremor in his hands, it makes him angrier. Makes him afraid.

His eyes don’t open, and he remains still, save for reaching out and grabbing her wrist, unfortunately none too gently. There’s nothing further though, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Wrath glances up at him when he grabs her wrist, and that tells her everything she needs to know immediately--simply that he's not trying to hurt her. So she doesn't fight his grip or make a noise; it's tight, but not painful. And she leans over, very carefully, just enough to rest her forehead very lightly against his shoulder.

For once, there’s no immediate tension, no flinching away, though he is acutely aware of the contact, hyper focused on the sensation even as slight as it is. Better that, though, than getting caught up in his head. It’s grounding, gives him an out, and maybe, maybe just this once it’s alright.

Breathe. It takes a conscious effort, but he manages to loosen his grip. He wets his lips, voice failing for a moment, but eventually it comes. “Told you you’d make it a half hour.”

Deflect. It’s easier.

God, soldiers are dumb sometimes. She has her turns. It's apparently Maine's turn, though. And sometimes it's okay, to escape stuff like that when it's too difficult. But if you spend all your time running away from yourself, you'll eventually just run out of ground. And that's when things get really ugly.

Wrath shakes her head a little, forehead still against Maine's shoulder. "It's okay, Maine. It's okay to feel shit when it's not live fire."

But she'll still offer him the out, tilting her head enough that he can see her lips quirked in a wry smile. "I'm not even that hungry."

It may be okay, but that doesn’t mean that it’s something that he really wants to deal with. He’s never been one to think too much; anything beyond what would help out on the battlefield wasn’t important after all. And really, the stress of being shot at is far easier to deal with than the stress of making difficult emotional revelations.

Better the devils he knows than the ones he doesn’t, after all.

She’s giving it to him though, a chance to push everything away and throw all of his difficulties back into a locked corner of his brain. He’d be a fool not to take it.

“Asshole,” it’s weak, but there’s a tinge of amusement in his tone, “doesn’t matter. Still supposed to eat.”

"You started it." Wrath groans theatrically and turns, leaning her shoulder against Maine's instead. "Oh fine. And since you brought me the food, you get to pick the movie."

"Didn't start. Finished it." There's a barest hint of a grin, and he's actually reticent to move, instead letting his head fall back to rest on the back of the couch.

One eye opens, and he shoots a look over at her, brow raised; he's been here two weeks, he has absolutely no idea what about any sort of pop culture in Proles. Movies? Haven't really been a priority since he's arrived.

"Nuh uh." Intelligent repartee there, Wrath.

Wrath gives him a look right back. "There's some ones about the army that are fucking hilarious," she offers.

Alright, that actually provokes a laugh, and a friendly shove; thankfully he's mindful to be gentle this time. He doesn't look away though, brows rising further, he'll play this game of chicken don't even try it.

"Always are," because really, when has the media ever known what it's actually like out on the field. "Be there's sixteen things wrong in the first ten minutes."

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