There are things you can't ignore and move past. Forget with time. You can't fight people's battles for them, you can't always be a saving grace, but sometimes the battles are there because of you, what you did or who you are. And then, you don't fight because of your nature. Then you fight because they came after your own.
Rave's his own now, because of this if not before it, and Sophie before her. This is his fault, Hobbes knows that, accepts responsibility. He also knows he's playing into a trap.
But what else can you do? Sometimes you have to be predictable. There's just nothing else you can do.
The shuttle is a half a mile away in a clearing. He'd ridden the motorcycle until now, the machine designed to be silent, deadly. Once, he'd ridden it in Ranger raids. Now...
He killed the engine outside the oil refinery. He wasn't thinking, there was no thought. Just anger, deep, banked, but fierce. How dare he? How dare Pinocchio act as if he had any right to vengeance? After everything in the world which he had
( ... )
His touching doesn't just set off storms, it hurts. Her body hurts, her arms hurt, her mouth hurts. Hard to see, hard to think, and she cries. She hasn't cried since Medicorp. Not since she got away and the drugs wore off and the pain, the pain, the pain came in pounding surges through her brain. She learned to deal with it then, and when the neural net healed in place, she could cope
( ... )
He doesn't need to see the flash of movement or the yellow heat-glow to know that he's here. He Knows. Scents it in the air like an animal. His nostrils flare.
The little thing next to him makes a tiny, shuddering sound and for a blinding instant all he can feel is disgust. Weeks ago he was lying under the stars with Neil, and the fiction they built around themselves was something that he had actually allowed himself to believe. And it had been good. Too good.
So this is what's under the surface. Maybe it's for the best that he stops lying to himself.
His gun is pleasantly heavy in his hand. His other snakes out, close to the girl, pauses.
"Gonna take that tape off," he hisses. "When I do, you better scream. You want a chance of living through this night, you scream your fucking lungs out."
He's chosen the location carefully. No one will hear her. No one but who he wants to.
There's no plan, not since the beginning at Sophie's funeral when he'd sworn an oath to himself. Selfish, probably. Not what she'd wanted. But it was something in an empty future, and then it had been enough.
There's no plan now, but at least there's a worthy purpose. Some times you play into a trap because it's the only thing you can do. Hope that dumb luck is enough. Hope that if it isn't, then it's quick and that the girl gets away. You hope, you hope...
"Rave," he called, back still against the boiler, calling over his shoulder into the yard. His gun was drawn, cocked, ready. He took a deep breath. from what he knew from Mike's rap sheets, if the man was close enough to hear him, he'd have already seen him bleeding across the infared. Already fucked, already waist deep.
"If you can hear me, I want you to know it's okay. You're gonna be alright, Rave. It's Tom. I'm here to help you." He grinned in the darkness, unseen.
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Rave's his own now, because of this if not before it, and Sophie before her. This is his fault, Hobbes knows that, accepts responsibility. He also knows he's playing into a trap.
But what else can you do? Sometimes you have to be predictable. There's just nothing else you can do.
The shuttle is a half a mile away in a clearing. He'd ridden the motorcycle until now, the machine designed to be silent, deadly. Once, he'd ridden it in Ranger raids. Now...
He killed the engine outside the oil refinery. He wasn't thinking, there was no thought. Just anger, deep, banked, but fierce. How dare he? How dare Pinocchio act as if he had any right to vengeance? After everything in the world which he had ( ... )
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The little thing next to him makes a tiny, shuddering sound and for a blinding instant all he can feel is disgust. Weeks ago he was lying under the stars with Neil, and the fiction they built around themselves was something that he had actually allowed himself to believe. And it had been good. Too good.
So this is what's under the surface. Maybe it's for the best that he stops lying to himself.
His gun is pleasantly heavy in his hand. His other snakes out, close to the girl, pauses.
"Gonna take that tape off," he hisses. "When I do, you better scream. You want a chance of living through this night, you scream your fucking lungs out."
He's chosen the location carefully. No one will hear her. No one but who he wants to.
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There's no plan now, but at least there's a worthy purpose. Some times you play into a trap because it's the only thing you can do. Hope that dumb luck is enough. Hope that if it isn't, then it's quick and that the girl gets away. You hope, you hope...
"Rave," he called, back still against the boiler, calling over his shoulder into the yard. His gun was drawn, cocked, ready. He took a deep breath. from what he knew from Mike's rap sheets, if the man was close enough to hear him, he'd have already seen him bleeding across the infared. Already fucked, already waist deep.
"If you can hear me, I want you to know it's okay. You're gonna be alright, Rave. It's Tom. I'm here to help you." He grinned in the darkness, unseen.
"Remember what the node said to the construct?"
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