[ debatable if clementine has even noticed the weekly effect yet. when sieghart comes in she's in the process of drawing back from inspecting the car... ]
I wanted to see if I could get it running, but...
[ she doesn't actually know that much about cars. help. ]
[The question is halfway rhetorical. They never know when the rest of the car might come in handy. He crosses the remainder of the distance to give the vehicle a closer once-over.]
Hm? Ah, yeah. She's an engineer who loves to take things apart and put them together into something new. I may be a genius swordsman, but I don't know anything about fixing cars.
[That's more than he can do. In any case, the car's currently a bust, so he makes himself comfortable by sliding onto a seat and leaning back with his hands behind his head.]
It's troublesome, but this just might be the next thing that Virgo asks us to fix.
[Speaking of fix—or not—the stardust bursts into existence from above as soon as he settles, showering them both:]
In all the years you've fought monsters and demons alike, you have never seen so much blood.
The ashen smoke and stench of burning flesh assail your senses as you navigate the burning ruins that you once called your home. What was once a warm refuge attended by your brothers is now a hellish purgatory with their bodies strewn everywhere. Nary a one utters so much as a cry while the fire claims their limbs, burning all evidence of their once immortal existences away. Every step you take lands your feet in a puddle of their blood, welled in the cracks of the stone floor, and your gait grows increasingly desperate the farther in you go.
Hoping against hope for a response, you rattle off as many of their names as you can and shake the ones who are still relatively intact by their shoulders, ignoring how weak your voice sounds against the roaring of the flames.
You cough into an excoriated arm that was damaged by a collapsing pillar you passed earlier. The divine blood coursing through your body patches the excoriation until there's naught but a faint scar to indicate that it was ever there. Your wide-eyed gaze snaps to a pile of your brothers' unresponsive bodies. You don't understand. Why haven't they healed like you yet? Why won't they get up? Why won't they wake up?
Finally, your breath hitches when you come upon Graham, crumpled on the ground, with the fire raging all around him. Throwing yourself onto your knees, you gather his body in your arms and shield him from the scorching heat, only to find that his chest neither rises nor falls like all the rest.
"N-no!" Your vision blurs and voice cracks as you give him a despairing shake. "Get up! Wake up! Please!"
But Graham doesn't open his eyes. Your dearest friend, who saved your life with nothing but kindness in his eyes when he found you, a lonesome stranger on the verge of death, is gone. Everyone is gone; the fire is just meant to bury what's left of them. Now all that's left is you.
The unbearable pain that pricks your eyes, chokes your throat, and sears your skin falls to the wayside as you hold Graham's corpse close and wail in a terrible combination of grief and rage.
Who could've killed the Highlanders? The question rattles harshly in your mind, piercing the deafening howl of the flames. Whoever it was, you'll kill them. You'll tear them apart. You will get revenge.
If only you hadn't been so careless.
Your chest tightens. Although you scream yourself hoarse, it does nothing for the agony that splits your heart as you weep at once. You can't breathe. You don't think you can even live with yourself. The grief, the rage, the guilt—they hurt. They hurt so much that you think you may just go mad from it all.
This is your fault.
If only they had never saved you that day. If only you'd died right then and there, alone . . .
All of this is your fault.
It's your fault. Your fault. Your fault, yourfault,yourfaultyourfaultYOURFAULT—
not exactly, obviously. for clementine, the fire and the blood were something that came well after losing her home. but the heat and the smoke and the glow of the flames make her tense up. and there's no divine blood, never any belief that people would survive against stacked odds. but.
she knows the feeling of responsibility and guilt. she knows being the only one who survives. watching the people she owes her life to lose theirs instead again and again.
[When it's like this, the past becomes the present. Old emotions surface anew, and the tears from the memory carry over to the now. A couple tears fall down the slope of his cheeks as Sieghart stares up at the garbage ceiling. He lifts his hand and wipes his eyes with the back, taking a silent breath.
The ache passes through him, and he's left with nothing in the aftermath.]
[This place is leaps and bounds better for offering proper food from the outset. Thanks to some unwelcome stardust, however, Sieghart doesn't get the chance to say this.
He recognizes the boy. It's the face he sees every time he passes Clementine's door, and it rankles whenever he does, because children shouldn't have to carry such experiences at that age. Reality isn't always kind, though. After witnessing the fiery daycare, it's no contest to him as to which location is more preferable.
[ man being fine with people seeing your memories and then them seeing specifically the one that still gives you nightmares is. unfortunate. but alright, sure. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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I wanted to see if I could get it running, but...
[ she doesn't actually know that much about cars. help. ]
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[The question is halfway rhetorical. They never know when the rest of the car might come in handy. He crosses the remainder of the distance to give the vehicle a closer once-over.]
It's too bad that Mari isn't here . . .
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[ that's a joke. there is no beach. ah well. ]
... Someone from home?
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Hm? Ah, yeah. She's an engineer who loves to take things apart and put them together into something new. I may be a genius swordsman, but I don't know anything about fixing cars.
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The most I can do is hot wire it.
[ which doesn't really help with it not starting. ]
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It's troublesome, but this just might be the next thing that Virgo asks us to fix.
[Speaking of fix—or not—the stardust bursts into existence from above as soon as he settles, showering them both:]
In all the years you've fought monsters and demons alike, you have never seen so much blood.
The ashen smoke and stench of burning flesh assail your senses as you navigate the burning ruins that you once called your home. What was once a warm refuge attended by your brothers is now a hellish purgatory with their bodies strewn everywhere. Nary a one utters so much as a cry while the fire claims their limbs, burning all evidence of their once immortal existences away. Every step you take lands your feet in a puddle of their blood, welled in the cracks of the stone floor, and your gait grows increasingly desperate the farther in you go.
Hoping against hope for a response, you rattle off as many of their names as you can and shake the ones who are still relatively intact by their shoulders, ignoring how weak your voice sounds against the roaring of the flames.
You cough into an excoriated arm that was damaged by a collapsing pillar you passed earlier. The divine blood coursing through your body patches the excoriation until there's naught but a faint scar to indicate that it was ever there. Your wide-eyed gaze snaps to a pile of your brothers' unresponsive bodies. You don't understand. Why haven't they healed like you yet? Why won't they get up? Why won't they wake up?
Finally, your breath hitches when you come upon Graham, crumpled on the ground, with the fire raging all around him. Throwing yourself onto your knees, you gather his body in your arms and shield him from the scorching heat, only to find that his chest neither rises nor falls like all the rest.
"N-no!" Your vision blurs and voice cracks as you give him a despairing shake. "Get up! Wake up! Please!"
But Graham doesn't open his eyes. Your dearest friend, who saved your life with nothing but kindness in his eyes when he found you, a lonesome stranger on the verge of death, is gone. Everyone is gone; the fire is just meant to bury what's left of them. Now all that's left is you.
The unbearable pain that pricks your eyes, chokes your throat, and sears your skin falls to the wayside as you hold Graham's corpse close and wail in a terrible combination of grief and rage.
Who could've killed the Highlanders? The question rattles harshly in your mind, piercing the deafening howl of the flames. Whoever it was, you'll kill them. You'll tear them apart. You will get revenge.
If only you hadn't been so careless.
Your chest tightens. Although you scream yourself hoarse, it does nothing for the agony that splits your heart as you weep at once. You can't breathe. You don't think you can even live with yourself. The grief, the rage, the guilt—they hurt. They hurt so much that you think you may just go mad from it all.
This is your fault.
If only they had never saved you that day. If only you'd died right then and there, alone . . .
All of this is your fault.
It's your fault. Your fault. Your fault, yourfault,yourfaultyourfaultYOURFAULT—
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not exactly, obviously. for clementine, the fire and the blood were something that came well after losing her home. but the heat and the smoke and the glow of the flames make her tense up. and there's no divine blood, never any belief that people would survive against stacked odds. but.
she knows the feeling of responsibility and guilt. she knows being the only one who survives. watching the people she owes her life to lose theirs instead again and again.
well, fuck. hard to say anything after that. ]
... I'm sorry. That looked - awful.
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The ache passes through him, and he's left with nothing in the aftermath.]
Don't be. It was a long time ago.
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That doesn't make it any less awful.
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What's done is done. I've gotten my revenge as well. There's no need to dwell on it.
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[He stretches, starting with his arms over his head.]
No, it's me who should be saying sorry. That memory wasn't meant for you to experience.
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I just get the feeling you didn't have a say in it.
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Like I said. Everyone's memories are like that. It's not like I mind people seeing.
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Yeah, well. It's always something, here. I didn't know the weird weekly stuff would still happen even when you're on this side of things.
[ she didn't die in her last game... ]
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[ she can't decide. ]
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[ maybe it's just that everywhere sounds kind of cool to her since it's all so different from home.
anyway speaking of fire trauma and daycare. an old memory begins, starting at 1:07:50 until 1:18:00
edit: wait i should probably trigger warn for gun violence as per it is TWD ]
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He recognizes the boy. It's the face he sees every time he passes Clementine's door, and it rankles whenever he does, because children shouldn't have to carry such experiences at that age. Reality isn't always kind, though. After witnessing the fiery daycare, it's no contest to him as to which location is more preferable.
He stares straight ahead.]
. . . That's his name, huh?
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Yeah. Uh... Alvin Junior. After his dad.
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That was good advice back there.
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