I killed god with a grape spoon once

//deer-with-a-blog

[You have received the ORANGE JUICE IN VODKA BOTTLE!]

//deer-with-a-blog

[You have received the ORANGE JUICE IN VODKA BOTTLE!]

The head of a teddy bear comes out of it.

“I’m Gun. And this”—he makes the bear wave a paw at Time—“is Orbit.”

... so, what does your, um.... associate, need me for?

...'GBI'? hm... sorry, i don't think that rings' a bell...

Gun wraps the blanket around her shoulders like a silly little cloak. “You’re certainly right about GBI with inhumans. That’s one of the primary reasons behind this raid.

…

The head of a teddy bear comes out of it.

“I’m Gun. And this”—he makes the bear wave a paw at Time—“is Orbit.”

... so, what does your, um.... associate, need me for?

...'GBI'? hm... sorry, i don't think that rings' a bell...

Gun wraps the blanket around her shoulders like a silly little cloak. “You’re certainly right about GBI with inhumans. That’s one of the primary reasons behind this raid.

The head of a teddy bear comes out of it.

“I’m Gun. And this”—he makes the bear wave a paw at Time—“is Orbit.”

... so, what does your, um.... associate, need me for?

The head of a teddy bear comes out of it.

“I’m Gun. And this”—he makes the bear wave a paw at Time—“is Orbit.”

The head of a teddy bear comes out of it.

“I’m Gun. And this”—he makes the bear wave a paw at Time—“is Orbit.”

This ticks off BP's fuckery-sense, by which i mean she already knows exactly what is about to happen.

This is mostly because she can very easily see your thermal signature through the walls.

The Darude Sandstorm playing from the walls increases in volume.

And she has four ears! How the hell does she shake that off like it’s-

“Bigger problems at that moment.”

Right. Sorry. Refocusing.

“You really don’t have the slightest clue as to what I’m doing down here, do you?”

And the only thanks I get is smoke in my face. Hm.”

She mumbles under her breath,

She snorts as she tapes another thingus to the wall.

"A cause worth dying for, some bullshit redemption- you still hunger for it, don't you? So you find yourself here, in the stronghold of the second most dangerous woman on the planet, practically taunting her to kill you.

“Well, it seems like someone’s projecting her hero complex.”

She smirks.

She raises her head and looks into the Passengers eyes. Their purple pupils don’t reflect the glowing indigo of Guns eyes.

As she mumbles “who would I protect…” to herself, her eyes glow brighter.

“Honestly, Passenger? I’d hope to protect you.

“Shush.” Did you— did you just wave off the fucking middle distance? Young lady, I’ll hav—

“Not young, not a lady, and not listening to you.”

Rude.

Gun looks back to the Passenger.

“Do you realize that the Gun you have on file is one of about, like, six? Different names, hair colors, nationalities, addictions, all of that.

All of those addictions were real. I modified my body in such a way so that I could get high or stoned or drunk or whatever the fuck off of all the stuff I consumed.

When I first arrived on Earth, I smoked. I was stuck in the gutter with the dying soldiers and I didn’t want to stand out. I made it so I could feel the nicotine because I was paranoid of being caught faking it. Once I started feeling it, I started enjoying it—and once I started enjoying it, I couldn’t stop smoking.

Eventually, I went from being famous to infamous, and I had to become someone else. And to do that, I had to quit the cigar. It was my callmark.

Wherever Splint went, cigar smoke trailed behind zem. And to crush that cigar under my boot set my mind on fire. So I turned to crack, tried to distract myself from the withdrawal.

The crack became my callmark, which meant I had to leave it behind with Sheath. Replaced that with Dragons Blood, had to replace the Blood with Heroin, the Heroin with Plutiece, the Plutiece with Uranium, and so on and so on.”

Gun, is there a point to this monologue? One that’s coming up soon?

“My point here is that these addictions were more than just PR. They were my life. They were something I couldn’t cope with getting rid of.

That assessment of drowning in my sorrows? Completely right. I’ve been hiding from all my shit for as long as I can remember.”

Gun takes a small step towards the Passenger.

“And that’s what makes me curious about that.”

She points at the Passengers cigarette.

“You don’t hide from withdrawal and you don’t use withdrawal to hide from something else, since you have never experienced withdrawal. You always stand in shadow and barely talk with people, so it’s probably not a publicity thing. You don’t seem insecure about it, since you didn’t explain or defend it.”

She takes another step forward, still pointing at the cigarette.

"So, I take it everything I said has gone in one ear and out the other, in favor of... some stupid fucking tangent about cigarettes? If you want an answer that drakedamn badly, I'll give it to you." She takes the cigarette out of her mouth, blowing out a cloud of burnished smoke before crushing it in Ascalon's claw.

“The. The floodlights of the theatre? How the fuck is that related to cigarettes? How the fuck is that related to fucking ANYTHING?

What? What, you’re the floodlights? The source of light in this world that brings the stage into perfect clarity? The pure tool of vision or whatever the fuck that makes the smallest drops of blood shine with the iridescence of a ruby?

Or are you in the theatre with the floodlights? Are you the prefect hero inspiring everyone in the audience? The monstrous villain that scares them into complete silence? The flawed protagonist that makes them tilt their heads in fascination? The three dimensional antagonist that brings tears to their eyes? Are you the stage tech behind the floodlights? The electrical current traveling through the electrical system the floodlights are connected to? The dust floating in the air in front of the floodlights? The lightbulb? The glass panel? The metal? The chairs, the carpeted floor, the motherfucking HANDRAIL?

WHAT, in the name of WHATEVER GOD YOU BRING SHAME TO, are you SAYING, Passenger? What point or metaphor or lesson or WHATEVER THE SHIT are you trying to communicate here?”

She tilts her head back, breathing deeply. She’s closed her eyes. She raises her shaking hand closer to her face, closing it into a fist.

Through clenched teeth, she mumbles to herself,

She points her clenched fist at one of the swords— a simple silver blade, with a dark purple accent.

She raises her arm back towards her face. She points it back towards the wall.

She raises it.

She lowers it.

She raises it. Lowers it. Raises it. Lowers it. Raises it. Lowers it.

She turns towards the Passenger, folding her arms behind her back.

She rolls her eyes while mumbling to herself. “You and your ‘pragmatism’.”

She clears her throat as she spins on her heels.

”Sure.”

She pauses. “Yeah, that would…not have workkkkkked.”

"Love you too, sweetheart."

She spins around on her heels, flicking her new wormhole-knife-thing up.

She walks through the flickering dimensional tear in the air.

This ticks off BP's fuckery-sense, by which i mean she already knows exactly what is about to happen.

This is mostly because she can very easily see your thermal signature through the walls.

The Darude Sandstorm playing from the walls increases in volume.

And she has four ears! How the hell does she shake that off like it’s-

“Bigger problems at that moment.”

Right. Sorry. Refocusing.

“You really don’t have the slightest clue as to what I’m doing down here, do you?”

And the only thanks I get is smoke in my face. Hm.”

She mumbles under her breath,

She snorts as she tapes another thingus to the wall.

"A cause worth dying for, some bullshit redemption- you still hunger for it, don't you? So you find yourself here, in the stronghold of the second most dangerous woman on the planet, practically taunting her to kill you.

“Well, it seems like someone’s projecting her hero complex.”

She smirks.

She raises her head and looks into the Passengers eyes. Their purple pupils don’t reflect the glowing indigo of Guns eyes.

As she mumbles “who would I protect…” to herself, her eyes glow brighter.

“Honestly, Passenger? I’d hope to protect you.

“Shush.” Did you— did you just wave off the fucking middle distance? Young lady, I’ll hav—

“Not young, not a lady, and not listening to you.”

Rude.

Gun looks back to the Passenger.

“Do you realize that the Gun you have on file is one of about, like, six? Different names, hair colors, nationalities, addictions, all of that.

All of those addictions were real. I modified my body in such a way so that I could get high or stoned or drunk or whatever the fuck off of all the stuff I consumed.

When I first arrived on Earth, I smoked. I was stuck in the gutter with the dying soldiers and I didn’t want to stand out. I made it so I could feel the nicotine because I was paranoid of being caught faking it. Once I started feeling it, I started enjoying it—and once I started enjoying it, I couldn’t stop smoking.

Eventually, I went from being famous to infamous, and I had to become someone else. And to do that, I had to quit the cigar. It was my callmark.

Wherever Splint went, cigar smoke trailed behind zem. And to crush that cigar under my boot set my mind on fire. So I turned to crack, tried to distract myself from the withdrawal.

The crack became my callmark, which meant I had to leave it behind with Sheath. Replaced that with Dragons Blood, had to replace the Blood with Heroin, the Heroin with Plutiece, the Plutiece with Uranium, and so on and so on.”

Gun, is there a point to this monologue? One that’s coming up soon?

“My point here is that these addictions were more than just PR. They were my life. They were something I couldn’t cope with getting rid of.

That assessment of drowning in my sorrows? Completely right. I’ve been hiding from all my shit for as long as I can remember.”

Gun takes a small step towards the Passenger.

“And that’s what makes me curious about that.”

She points at the Passengers cigarette.

“You don’t hide from withdrawal and you don’t use withdrawal to hide from something else, since you have never experienced withdrawal. You always stand in shadow and barely talk with people, so it’s probably not a publicity thing. You don’t seem insecure about it, since you didn’t explain or defend it.”

She takes another step forward, still pointing at the cigarette.

"So, I take it everything I said has gone in one ear and out the other, in favor of... some stupid fucking tangent about cigarettes? If you want an answer that drakedamn badly, I'll give it to you." She takes the cigarette out of her mouth, blowing out a cloud of burnished smoke before crushing it in Ascalon's claw.

“The. The floodlights of the theatre? How the fuck is that related to cigarettes? How the fuck is that related to fucking ANYTHING?

What? What, you’re the floodlights? The source of light in this world that brings the stage into perfect clarity? The pure tool of vision or whatever the fuck that makes the smallest drops of blood shine with the iridescence of a ruby?

Or are you in the theatre with the floodlights? Are you the prefect hero inspiring everyone in the audience? The monstrous villain that scares them into complete silence? The flawed protagonist that makes them tilt their heads in fascination? The three dimensional antagonist that brings tears to their eyes? Are you the stage tech behind the floodlights? The electrical current traveling through the electrical system the floodlights are connected to? The dust floating in the air in front of the floodlights? The lightbulb? The glass panel? The metal? The chairs, the carpeted floor, the motherfucking HANDRAIL?

WHAT, in the name of WHATEVER GOD YOU BRING SHAME TO, are you SAYING, Passenger? What point or metaphor or lesson or WHATEVER THE SHIT are you trying to communicate here?”

She tilts her head back, breathing deeply. She’s closed her eyes. She raises her shaking hand closer to her face, closing it into a fist.

Through clenched teeth, she mumbles to herself,

She points her clenched fist at one of the swords— a simple silver blade, with a dark purple accent.

She raises her arm back towards her face. She points it back towards the wall.

She raises it.

She lowers it.

She raises it. Lowers it. Raises it. Lowers it. Raises it. Lowers it.

She turns towards the Passenger, folding her arms behind her back.

She rolls her eyes while mumbling to herself. “You and your ‘pragmatism’.”

She clears her throat as she spins on her heels.

”Sure.”

She pauses. “Yeah, that would…not have workkkkkked.”

This ticks off BP's fuckery-sense, by which i mean she already knows exactly what is about to happen.

This is mostly because she can very easily see your thermal signature through the walls.

The Darude Sandstorm playing from the walls increases in volume.

And she has four ears! How the hell does she shake that off like it’s-

“Bigger problems at that moment.”

Right. Sorry. Refocusing.

“You really don’t have the slightest clue as to what I’m doing down here, do you?”

And the only thanks I get is smoke in my face. Hm.”

She mumbles under her breath,

She snorts as she tapes another thingus to the wall.

"A cause worth dying for, some bullshit redemption- you still hunger for it, don't you? So you find yourself here, in the stronghold of the second most dangerous woman on the planet, practically taunting her to kill you.

“Well, it seems like someone’s projecting her hero complex.”

She smirks.

She raises her head and looks into the Passengers eyes. Their purple pupils don’t reflect the glowing indigo of Guns eyes.

As she mumbles “who would I protect…” to herself, her eyes glow brighter.

“Honestly, Passenger? I’d hope to protect you.

“Shush.” Did you— did you just wave off the fucking middle distance? Young lady, I’ll hav—

“Not young, not a lady, and not listening to you.”

Rude.

Gun looks back to the Passenger.

“Do you realize that the Gun you have on file is one of about, like, six? Different names, hair colors, nationalities, addictions, all of that.

All of those addictions were real. I modified my body in such a way so that I could get high or stoned or drunk or whatever the fuck off of all the stuff I consumed.

When I first arrived on Earth, I smoked. I was stuck in the gutter with the dying soldiers and I didn’t want to stand out. I made it so I could feel the nicotine because I was paranoid of being caught faking it. Once I started feeling it, I started enjoying it—and once I started enjoying it, I couldn’t stop smoking.

Eventually, I went from being famous to infamous, and I had to become someone else. And to do that, I had to quit the cigar. It was my callmark.

Wherever Splint went, cigar smoke trailed behind zem. And to crush that cigar under my boot set my mind on fire. So I turned to crack, tried to distract myself from the withdrawal.

The crack became my callmark, which meant I had to leave it behind with Sheath. Replaced that with Dragons Blood, had to replace the Blood with Heroin, the Heroin with Plutiece, the Plutiece with Uranium, and so on and so on.”

Gun, is there a point to this monologue? One that’s coming up soon?

“My point here is that these addictions were more than just PR. They were my life. They were something I couldn’t cope with getting rid of.

That assessment of drowning in my sorrows? Completely right. I’ve been hiding from all my shit for as long as I can remember.”

Gun takes a small step towards the Passenger.

“And that’s what makes me curious about that.”

She points at the Passengers cigarette.

“You don’t hide from withdrawal and you don’t use withdrawal to hide from something else, since you have never experienced withdrawal. You always stand in shadow and barely talk with people, so it’s probably not a publicity thing. You don’t seem insecure about it, since you didn’t explain or defend it.”

She takes another step forward, still pointing at the cigarette.

"So, I take it everything I said has gone in one ear and out the other, in favor of... some stupid fucking tangent about cigarettes? If you want an answer that drakedamn badly, I'll give it to you." She takes the cigarette out of her mouth, blowing out a cloud of burnished smoke before crushing it in Ascalon's claw.

“The. The floodlights of the theatre? How the fuck is that related to cigarettes? How the fuck is that related to fucking ANYTHING?

What? What, you’re the floodlights? The source of light in this world that brings the stage into perfect clarity? The pure tool of vision or whatever the fuck that makes the smallest drops of blood shine with the iridescence of a ruby?

Or are you in the theatre with the floodlights? Are you the prefect hero inspiring everyone in the audience? The monstrous villain that scares them into complete silence? The flawed protagonist that makes them tilt their heads in fascination? The three dimensional antagonist that brings tears to their eyes? Are you the stage tech behind the floodlights? The electrical current traveling through the electrical system the floodlights are connected to? The dust floating in the air in front of the floodlights? The lightbulb? The glass panel? The metal? The chairs, the carpeted floor, the motherfucking HANDRAIL?

WHAT, in the name of WHATEVER GOD YOU BRING SHAME TO, are you SAYING, Passenger? What point or metaphor or lesson or WHATEVER THE SHIT are you trying to communicate here?”

She tilts her head back, breathing deeply. She’s closed her eyes. She raises her shaking hand closer to her face, closing it into a fist.

Through clenched teeth, she mumbles to herself,

She points her clenched fist at one of the swords— a simple silver blade, with a dark purple accent.

She raises her arm back towards her face. She points it back towards the wall.

She raises it.

She lowers it.

She raises it. Lowers it. Raises it. Lowers it. Raises it. Lowers it.

She turns towards the Passenger, folding her arms behind her back.

She rolls her eyes while mumbling to herself. “You and your ‘pragmatism’.”

She clears her throat as she spins on her heels.

”Sure.”

This ticks off BP's fuckery-sense, by which i mean she already knows exactly what is about to happen.

This is mostly because she can very easily see your thermal signature through the walls.

The Darude Sandstorm playing from the walls increases in volume.

And she has four ears! How the hell does she shake that off like it’s-

“Bigger problems at that moment.”

Right. Sorry. Refocusing.

“You really don’t have the slightest clue as to what I’m doing down here, do you?”

And the only thanks I get is smoke in my face. Hm.”

She mumbles under her breath,

She snorts as she tapes another thingus to the wall.

"A cause worth dying for, some bullshit redemption- you still hunger for it, don't you? So you find yourself here, in the stronghold of the second most dangerous woman on the planet, practically taunting her to kill you.

“Well, it seems like someone’s projecting her hero complex.”

She smirks.

She raises her head and looks into the Passengers eyes. Their purple pupils don’t reflect the glowing indigo of Guns eyes.

As she mumbles “who would I protect…” to herself, her eyes glow brighter.

“Honestly, Passenger? I’d hope to protect you.

“Shush.” Did you— did you just wave off the fucking middle distance? Young lady, I’ll hav—

“Not young, not a lady, and not listening to you.”

Rude.

Gun looks back to the Passenger.

“Do you realize that the Gun you have on file is one of about, like, six? Different names, hair colors, nationalities, addictions, all of that.

All of those addictions were real. I modified my body in such a way so that I could get high or stoned or drunk or whatever the fuck off of all the stuff I consumed.

When I first arrived on Earth, I smoked. I was stuck in the gutter with the dying soldiers and I didn’t want to stand out. I made it so I could feel the nicotine because I was paranoid of being caught faking it. Once I started feeling it, I started enjoying it—and once I started enjoying it, I couldn’t stop smoking.

Eventually, I went from being famous to infamous, and I had to become someone else. And to do that, I had to quit the cigar. It was my callmark.

Wherever Splint went, cigar smoke trailed behind zem. And to crush that cigar under my boot set my mind on fire. So I turned to crack, tried to distract myself from the withdrawal.

The crack became my callmark, which meant I had to leave it behind with Sheath. Replaced that with Dragons Blood, had to replace the Blood with Heroin, the Heroin with Plutiece, the Plutiece with Uranium, and so on and so on.”

Gun, is there a point to this monologue? One that’s coming up soon?

“My point here is that these addictions were more than just PR. They were my life. They were something I couldn’t cope with getting rid of.

That assessment of drowning in my sorrows? Completely right. I’ve been hiding from all my shit for as long as I can remember.”

Gun takes a small step towards the Passenger.

“And that’s what makes me curious about that.”

She points at the Passengers cigarette.

“You don’t hide from withdrawal and you don’t use withdrawal to hide from something else, since you have never experienced withdrawal. You always stand in shadow and barely talk with people, so it’s probably not a publicity thing. You don’t seem insecure about it, since you didn’t explain or defend it.”

She takes another step forward, still pointing at the cigarette.

"So, I take it everything I said has gone in one ear and out the other, in favor of... some stupid fucking tangent about cigarettes? If you want an answer that drakedamn badly, I'll give it to you." She takes the cigarette out of her mouth, blowing out a cloud of burnished smoke before crushing it in Ascalon's claw.

“The. The floodlights of the theatre? How the fuck is that related to cigarettes? How the fuck is that related to fucking ANYTHING?

What? What, you’re the floodlights? The source of light in this world that brings the stage into perfect clarity? The pure tool of vision or whatever the fuck that makes the smallest drops of blood shine with the iridescence of a ruby?

Or are you in the theatre with the floodlights? Are you the prefect hero inspiring everyone in the audience? The monstrous villain that scares them into complete silence? The flawed protagonist that makes them tilt their heads in fascination? The three dimensional antagonist that brings tears to their eyes? Are you the stage tech behind the floodlights? The electrical current traveling through the electrical system the floodlights are connected to? The dust floating in the air in front of the floodlights? The lightbulb? The glass panel? The metal? The chairs, the carpeted floor, the motherfucking HANDRAIL?

WHAT, in the name of WHATEVER GOD YOU BRING SHAME TO, are you SAYING, Passenger? What point or metaphor or lesson or WHATEVER THE SHIT are you trying to communicate here?”

She tilts her head back, breathing deeply. She’s closed her eyes. She raises her shaking hand closer to her face, closing it into a fist.

Through clenched teeth, she mumbles to herself,

She points her clenched fist at one of the swords— a simple silver blade, with a dark purple accent.

She raises her arm back towards her face. She points it back towards the wall.

She raises it.

She lowers it.

She raises it. Lowers it. Raises it. Lowers it. Raises it. Lowers it.

She turns towards the Passenger, folding her arms behind her back.

She rolls her eyes while mumbling to herself. “You and your ‘pragmatism’.”

She clears her throat as she spins on her heels.

This ticks off BP's fuckery-sense, by which i mean she already knows exactly what is about to happen.

This is mostly because she can very easily see your thermal signature through the walls.

The Darude Sandstorm playing from the walls increases in volume.

And she has four ears! How the hell does she shake that off like it’s-

“Bigger problems at that moment.”

Right. Sorry. Refocusing.

“You really don’t have the slightest clue as to what I’m doing down here, do you?”

And the only thanks I get is smoke in my face. Hm.”

She mumbles under her breath,

She snorts as she tapes another thingus to the wall.

"A cause worth dying for, some bullshit redemption- you still hunger for it, don't you? So you find yourself here, in the stronghold of the second most dangerous woman on the planet, practically taunting her to kill you.

“Well, it seems like someone’s projecting her hero complex.”

She smirks.

She raises her head and looks into the Passengers eyes. Their purple pupils don’t reflect the glowing indigo of Guns eyes.

As she mumbles “who would I protect…” to herself, her eyes glow brighter.

“Honestly, Passenger? I’d hope to protect you.

“Shush.” Did you— did you just wave off the fucking middle distance? Young lady, I’ll hav—

“Not young, not a lady, and not listening to you.”

Rude.

Gun looks back to the Passenger.

“Do you realize that the Gun you have on file is one of about, like, six? Different names, hair colors, nationalities, addictions, all of that.

All of those addictions were real. I modified my body in such a way so that I could get high or stoned or drunk or whatever the fuck off of all the stuff I consumed.

When I first arrived on Earth, I smoked. I was stuck in the gutter with the dying soldiers and I didn’t want to stand out. I made it so I could feel the nicotine because I was paranoid of being caught faking it. Once I started feeling it, I started enjoying it—and once I started enjoying it, I couldn’t stop smoking.

Eventually, I went from being famous to infamous, and I had to become someone else. And to do that, I had to quit the cigar. It was my callmark.

Wherever Splint went, cigar smoke trailed behind zem. And to crush that cigar under my boot set my mind on fire. So I turned to crack, tried to distract myself from the withdrawal.

The crack became my callmark, which meant I had to leave it behind with Sheath. Replaced that with Dragons Blood, had to replace the Blood with Heroin, the Heroin with Plutiece, the Plutiece with Uranium, and so on and so on.”

Gun, is there a point to this monologue? One that’s coming up soon?

“My point here is that these addictions were more than just PR. They were my life. They were something I couldn’t cope with getting rid of.

That assessment of drowning in my sorrows? Completely right. I’ve been hiding from all my shit for as long as I can remember.”

Gun takes a small step towards the Passenger.

“And that’s what makes me curious about that.”

She points at the Passengers cigarette.

“You don’t hide from withdrawal and you don’t use withdrawal to hide from something else, since you have never experienced withdrawal. You always stand in shadow and barely talk with people, so it’s probably not a publicity thing. You don’t seem insecure about it, since you didn’t explain or defend it.”

She takes another step forward, still pointing at the cigarette.

"So, I take it everything I said has gone in one ear and out the other, in favor of... some stupid fucking tangent about cigarettes? If you want an answer that drakedamn badly, I'll give it to you." She takes the cigarette out of her mouth, blowing out a cloud of burnished smoke before crushing it in Ascalon's claw.

“The. The floodlights of the theatre? How the fuck is that related to cigarettes? How the fuck is that related to fucking ANYTHING?

What? What, you’re the floodlights? The source of light in this world that brings the stage into perfect clarity? The pure tool of vision or whatever the fuck that makes the smallest drops of blood shine with the iridescence of a ruby?

Or are you in the theatre with the floodlights? Are you the prefect hero inspiring everyone in the audience? The monstrous villain that scares them into complete silence? The flawed protagonist that makes them tilt their heads in fascination? The three dimensional antagonist that brings tears to their eyes? Are you the stage tech behind the floodlights? The electrical current traveling through the electrical system the floodlights are connected to? The dust floating in the air in front of the floodlights? The lightbulb? The glass panel? The metal? The chairs, the carpeted floor, the motherfucking HANDRAIL?

WHAT, in the name of WHATEVER GOD YOU BRING SHAME TO, are you SAYING, Passenger? What point or metaphor or lesson or WHATEVER THE SHIT are you trying to communicate here?”

She tilts her head back, breathing deeply. She’s closed her eyes. She raises her shaking hand closer to her face, closing it into a fist.

Through clenched teeth, she mumbles to herself,

She points her clenched fist at one of the swords— a simple silver blade, with a dark purple accent.

She raises her arm back towards her face. She points it back towards the wall.

She raises it.

She lowers it.

She raises it. Lowers it. Raises it. Lowers it. Raises it. Lowers it.

She turns towards the Passenger, folding her arms behind her back.

She rolls her eyes while mumbling to herself. “You and your ‘pragmatism’.”

She clears her throat as she spins on her heels.

This ticks off BP's fuckery-sense, by which i mean she already knows exactly what is about to happen.

This is mostly because she can very easily see your thermal signature through the walls.

The Darude Sandstorm playing from the walls increases in volume.

And she has four ears! How the hell does she shake that off like it’s-

“Bigger problems at that moment.”

Right. Sorry. Refocusing.

“You really don’t have the slightest clue as to what I’m doing down here, do you?”

And the only thanks I get is smoke in my face. Hm.”

She mumbles under her breath,

She snorts as she tapes another thingus to the wall.

"A cause worth dying for, some bullshit redemption- you still hunger for it, don't you? So you find yourself here, in the stronghold of the second most dangerous woman on the planet, practically taunting her to kill you.

“Well, it seems like someone’s projecting her hero complex.”

She smirks.

She raises her head and looks into the Passengers eyes. Their purple pupils don’t reflect the glowing indigo of Guns eyes.

As she mumbles “who would I protect…” to herself, her eyes glow brighter.

“Honestly, Passenger? I’d hope to protect you.

“Shush.” Did you— did you just wave off the fucking middle distance? Young lady, I’ll hav—

“Not young, not a lady, and not listening to you.”

Rude.

Gun looks back to the Passenger.

“Do you realize that the Gun you have on file is one of about, like, six? Different names, hair colors, nationalities, addictions, all of that.

All of those addictions were real. I modified my body in such a way so that I could get high or stoned or drunk or whatever the fuck off of all the stuff I consumed.

When I first arrived on Earth, I smoked. I was stuck in the gutter with the dying soldiers and I didn’t want to stand out. I made it so I could feel the nicotine because I was paranoid of being caught faking it. Once I started feeling it, I started enjoying it—and once I started enjoying it, I couldn’t stop smoking.

Eventually, I went from being famous to infamous, and I had to become someone else. And to do that, I had to quit the cigar. It was my callmark.

Wherever Splint went, cigar smoke trailed behind zem. And to crush that cigar under my boot set my mind on fire. So I turned to crack, tried to distract myself from the withdrawal.

The crack became my callmark, which meant I had to leave it behind with Sheath. Replaced that with Dragons Blood, had to replace the Blood with Heroin, the Heroin with Plutiece, the Plutiece with Uranium, and so on and so on.”

Gun, is there a point to this monologue? One that’s coming up soon?

“My point here is that these addictions were more than just PR. They were my life. They were something I couldn’t cope with getting rid of.

That assessment of drowning in my sorrows? Completely right. I’ve been hiding from all my shit for as long as I can remember.”

Gun takes a small step towards the Passenger.

“And that’s what makes me curious about that.”

She points at the Passengers cigarette.

“You don’t hide from withdrawal and you don’t use withdrawal to hide from something else, since you have never experienced withdrawal. You always stand in shadow and barely talk with people, so it’s probably not a publicity thing. You don’t seem insecure about it, since you didn’t explain or defend it.”

She takes another step forward, still pointing at the cigarette.

"So, I take it everything I said has gone in one ear and out the other, in favor of... some stupid fucking tangent about cigarettes? If you want an answer that drakedamn badly, I'll give it to you." She takes the cigarette out of her mouth, blowing out a cloud of burnished smoke before crushing it in Ascalon's claw.

“The. The floodlights of the theatre? How the fuck is that related to cigarettes? How the fuck is that related to fucking ANYTHING?

What? What, you’re the floodlights? The source of light in this world that brings the stage into perfect clarity? The pure tool of vision or whatever the fuck that makes the smallest drops of blood shine with the iridescence of a ruby?

Or are you in the theatre with the floodlights? Are you the prefect hero inspiring everyone in the audience? The monstrous villain that scares them into complete silence? The flawed protagonist that makes them tilt their heads in fascination? The three dimensional antagonist that brings tears to their eyes? Are you the stage tech behind the floodlights? The electrical current traveling through the electrical system the floodlights are connected to? The dust floating in the air in front of the floodlights? The lightbulb? The glass panel? The metal? The chairs, the carpeted floor, the motherfucking HANDRAIL?

WHAT, in the name of WHATEVER GOD YOU BRING SHAME TO, are you SAYING, Passenger? What point or metaphor or lesson or WHATEVER THE SHIT are you trying to communicate here?”

She tilts her head back, breathing deeply. She’s closed her eyes. She raises her shaking hand closer to her face, closing it into a fist.

Through clenched teeth, she mumbles to herself,

She points her clenched fist at one of the swords— a simple silver blade, with a dark purple accent.

She raises her arm back towards her face. She points it back towards the wall.

She raises it.

She lowers it.

She raises it. Lowers it. Raises it. Lowers it. Raises it. Lowers it.

She turns towards the Passenger, folding her arms behind her back.

She rolls her eyes while mumbling to herself. “You and your ‘pragmatism’.”

She clears her throat as she spins on her heels.

This ticks off BP's fuckery-sense, by which i mean she already knows exactly what is about to happen.

This is mostly because she can very easily see your thermal signature through the walls.

The Darude Sandstorm playing from the walls increases in volume.

And she has four ears! How the hell does she shake that off like it’s-

“Bigger problems at that moment.”

Right. Sorry. Refocusing.

“You really don’t have the slightest clue as to what I’m doing down here, do you?”

And the only thanks I get is smoke in my face. Hm.”

She mumbles under her breath,

She snorts as she tapes another thingus to the wall.

"A cause worth dying for, some bullshit redemption- you still hunger for it, don't you? So you find yourself here, in the stronghold of the second most dangerous woman on the planet, practically taunting her to kill you.

“Well, it seems like someone’s projecting her hero complex.”

She smirks.