Mental Link;

[miscreant]

DEVOUR beg for mercy and i will deny you	ASSIMILATE the scourge will wash over this world
LEAD we do what the living cannot	WANDER your kind has no place in this realm

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

cw: suicide mentions

[miscreant]

[She feels him relax, and some piece of her draws from — some nebulous instict. It isn’t her own experience, but it feels correct to widen her grip a little, to allow him to collapse into her strong arms rather than force him to lean into the points of her fingers. The affection is distinctly familial, the way a mother might hold their child.

She had never had a child. Nor a mother, as far as she could remember. But some part of her mind recognizes the sensation, even if she had not quite imagined her relationship with her broodmate in that manner.

Perhaps Asuka’s desperation for affection and approval was rubbing off on her, and carding its way through Murphy’s hair.]

“We press on”. That is—was one of the banner chants of my people.

[A calling she had nearly forgotten just a few weeks prior, when air filled lungs and terror found her heart again. When she had nearly taken the opportunity to put her life behind her. But she feels his ache keenly, and cannot find herself as devoid of sympathy as she usually is.

She simply isn’t capable of it anymore, when it comes to him.]

I am sorry, John.

[wrackful]

Everyone always is.

[It's quiet, and raw. He's raw, the skin of his mind and his self peeled back, everything underneath open and exposed. The only thing covering it is Seviilia's ice, soothing, numbing, giving him the space to breathe, to rest. He isn't ungrateful. He needs this, needs her, leant into her shoulder without any thought against it. This means more than he can think to understand, or has tried to understand for months now, a core part of him accepting the sympathy and the comfort of her arms purely as they're meant, without suspicion or cynicism.

But the thought still echoes, ripples back across all the things he's seen, all the things he's done, right up to the moment of the hurt on Bellamy's face only minutes before. There's always something to be sorry for. The world - universe - multiverse - never relented in that.

We press on. He can hold that, hear it inside Seviilia, feel the sound of it weave into the air of the monument newly built inside him, roots fed from a foundation of survival that was already there. He can press on.

But right now, with all the pain and the turmoil quieted and cold inside him, all he is is tired.]