week 11, wednesday night

[socloverit]

[She's made a sort of routine of this—force the robots to haul her from her room late in the day, early in the night; find the places no one cares about this late when most of the last few residents of the ship are off to bed so she can be alone until the day comes and she can retreat back into her room while everyone else starts to stir. She's like a moth, drawn to the lights in the fuel reserve room again and again, but it's nothing especially complex. Clover just likes shiny things.

Tonight's no different; she's sat at the end of the bridge, scythe in one hand, datapad in her lap, but the volume for Furry Passing muted so she can hear what's going on around her.]

Comments

[socloverit]

[Really, Clover isn't sure what she's expecting, but it's...not that. For a moment she freezes up, her grip on the scythe too tight, trying to gauge Grell's sincerity.]

...You shouldn't have. You didn't and you don't.

[But—her brother is dead and one of her best friends is dead and the other still is at risk on the Nuwa and she keeps losing people here and she has listened to the audio files sent to her Furry Passing inbox last night again and again and again like she expects to lose them too. She's tired, she's so tired, and she wants the words to sound vicious but she doesn't have it in her to be angry anymore, not right now.]

Noted.

[It isn't forgiveness, and Clover won't give it to her, especially when she doesn't think it's the only thing Grell has to apologize for. But she won't apologize, either. Arumat and Machias were her friends, too, and as far as she's concerned, nothing she said about the AI's hand in their deaths was wrong. But her grip on the scythe eases up and lowers, almost lazy and casual, hand falling from her hip, and instead of sharp edges and spite Clover is just slumped and sullen.]

[erythristic]

[it's as much as she could ever hope for. she leans against one of the railings, quiet for a moment, absorbing the orb's light. it's the closest thing they have in this place to the sun, and maybe that's what's making her sentimental, or it's the sleep schedule that means she's constantly tired in her bones, or just how one was never acutely aware of how much loneliness sinks into them until they are given the briefest respite from it.

maybe she wants an admission to convince Clover how seriously she's taking this. maybe she wants Clover to understand, someone to. maybe she only wants to say it to keep herself from falling apart entirely.]

...the woman on the Nuwa. She deserves a better person to see than me, someone who'd be worth it. She deserves to be resting instead of yanked from her afterlife to a place like this.

But, even so...is it foolish, to hope she survives?

[socloverit]

[She doesn't like that Grell is here making herself comfortable on the railing, making conversation or trying to explain herself or—or whatever it is that she's doing. But when Clover answers, she doesn't sound dismissive despite her words.]

I dunno. [Her answer is solemn instead, and she thinks maybe there's no good way to convey as much if she leaves it like that, so Clover continues.] I mean, I dunno why you're asking me. It sounds like common sense that if you care about someone, you want them to live.

[She draws her arms in, unable to fold them like she tends to without putting down the scythe, but her free hand grips her opposite arm instead.]

If there's anything else to it, it doesn't have anything to do with me.

[It isn't dismissal—it's that Clover can't see her place in this, can't see the point in asking her opinion or what Grell wants from it.]