mama bore a girl with a gun for a mouth
“I’m not sure I’m much of a supervisor,” she hummed while sipping at her lava-free concoction, watching him from the rim of the mug. Instigator sure, though a part of her wanted to be around just to see him get soaking wet. Then she could stare and swoon to her heart’s content, while simultaneously not assisting with much of anything (despite her earlier statements – they could be retracted at any time; she’d given herself permission on mercurial impulses). Pondering over those possibilities, her eyes narrowed at his scoff, and then on reflex, she rebounded his swat with her heel.
She watched him carefully now though, not intending to invoke those more embittered memories. The Honeybee was never certain where to draw those lines – if he’d recovered from the deep wounds or if they were simply too far gone to be anything other than hollowed hulls and shells. While she rarely let the sorrows build in her ribs, he held his tightly like a noose, and she could seek to loosen those knots daily, but it would do them no good if he kept it taut and strained on every poignant note.
So when the platitude shifted, she let it go, gaze wandering back to the waves below and the softening surface of its rolling tide. “Are they?” She deigned to argue about the Grounds – finding nothing satisfactory about the world they’d been thrust into those years ago, surrounded by barriers and demons and ghosts when the night fell for what felt like an eternity. “I don’t go to the Grounds much anymore,” came on another shrug. “Though I did host a duck hunt there.” The grin plastered thereafter was smug and amused; very content in everything that had unfurled in the stupidity.
Her head tilted at the notions of the hot springs though – even if they carried Safrin’s name. The considerations ranged around a similar ‘wet Iskra’ theme, but a horde more notions before she’d readily agree. “But like – when you get out – do you just freeze to death? Run to the next closest building?”
She watched him carefully now though, not intending to invoke those more embittered memories. The Honeybee was never certain where to draw those lines – if he’d recovered from the deep wounds or if they were simply too far gone to be anything other than hollowed hulls and shells. While she rarely let the sorrows build in her ribs, he held his tightly like a noose, and she could seek to loosen those knots daily, but it would do them no good if he kept it taut and strained on every poignant note.
So when the platitude shifted, she let it go, gaze wandering back to the waves below and the softening surface of its rolling tide. “Are they?” She deigned to argue about the Grounds – finding nothing satisfactory about the world they’d been thrust into those years ago, surrounded by barriers and demons and ghosts when the night fell for what felt like an eternity. “I don’t go to the Grounds much anymore,” came on another shrug. “Though I did host a duck hunt there.” The grin plastered thereafter was smug and amused; very content in everything that had unfurled in the stupidity.
Her head tilted at the notions of the hot springs though – even if they carried Safrin’s name. The considerations ranged around a similar ‘wet Iskra’ theme, but a horde more notions before she’d readily agree. “But like – when you get out – do you just freeze to death? Run to the next closest building?”
Melita
of both beauty and battle cries
