three words of advice: don’t trust strangers —                                                  that’s technically four words.                                             —clio. please.

    as the exchange with her mother ran through her mind, she couldn’t help but think of her childhood. when she’d boot up the gameboy and that trippy fade-in image of the legendary-of-the-year popped up in colour, where her little avatar would be standing in a hospital. impulsively, little clio would click the special button and a voice would remind her that no, biking was not allowed in-doors.

good advice; applied here through the need to remind herself this is probably why she remembers life-saving information the way she does. to be fair, a combination of mom and pokémon professor’s were the root of most of her attitude to strangers.                           i will most likely probably end up murdered.

scrunching her nose, clio’s knuckles whitened as the paradoxically expensive and yet out-of-date smartphone was gripped as if she were hanging from a ledge; the floor, a thousand feet below.

frozen on the spot, she’d hoped that her mother’s wisdom would float on by through her mind and drop a big hint on what to do. or what not to do. then again, photographing a stranger’s dogs was probably in the latter category to begin with. the woman even had a backpack.

                          she could have murder shit in there. like tape and something knife-like                                    …a knife.

she looked at her hand, where the dog biscuit sat for what must have felt like an eternity.

                           what if it’s a trap and she puts me in a headlock and stuffs me in her bag.

         wait …what.

     clio’s lips parted into a grin; inverting her concerned brow into a mixture of horror and amusement. bursting into laughter, she cackled, stumbling back and almost stepping on her own foot. lurching over, eyes glazed with tears as she struggled to compose herself. mind having thoroughly outdone itself in a combination of intrusive thought, having a ptsd-affected mother whose paranoia seeped into her daughter from a young age, and good ol’ fashioned anxiety.

   ❛ i’m sorry! ❜ she wheezed, back still somewhat hunched and arms flailing in front of her,  ❛ i don’t mean —i just … sorry. i don’t ——my head,❜ stopping herself, she breathed in and out with hefty sighs that staggered from her lips, ❛ i just. ❜                  need advice asap.

There was a cog missing in the conversation somewhere, and Jill wanted to step back for fear of tripping over it. It was taking the girl an awfully long time to accept the dig biscuit, and Jill’s eyes even flicked to the palm of her hesitating, outstretched hand to check she hadn’t pulled out something else entirely more offensive. 

Jill did take a step back the moment the girl crumpled, out of surprise if nothing else. Given her circumstances, it took an awful lot to perturb Jill Valentine, but this was just a trip to the shops. The bottom of her bag was soaking up the remains of a single cracked egg because she hadn’t packed it properly, and that was going to be a bitch to clean up when she got home. That’s what was on her mind. 

There was a bitter streak in her that made it very hard not to fling her hands up, state that the entire situation that was unfolding (or rather, curling up into a ball of anxiety and panic) in front of her was not her problem, and go home. Fortunately for her, she didn’t need to perform the customary playback of eight hours into the future in her mind to decide whether or not she’d feel guilty enough about it to put the wine she’d be enjoying later down. Bongo gave a gentle whine, his tail waving cautiously as he approached the girl. 

And a good thing too, that wine glass was already making its way to the sink in Jill’s mind. 

Gentle as ever, Bongo nosed at the girl’s palm, huffing a breath into her flesh before giving a few small licks. Jill recognised the motions -- slow so as not to startle, gentle, patient. He had done this with her too, on bad days. He’d beaten her to the punch on noticing that the girl’s actions were more than just plain fucking weird. One by one the signs of panic and anxiety cleared up, and Jill was thankful Bongo was here. Despite visceral experience with such matters, she found herself stuck to the stone, with no clue whatsoever how to help. 

“Uh -- are you okay?” Great start, Jill. The biscuit was shoved back into her pocket, and she took a step forward. Not enough to close the gap, though. She was still a pace away from Bongo, head tilted and doing her best to seem non-threatening and almost certainly failing with the permanent frown etched into her brow (this one at least was worry, and not her almost constant state of partially pissed-off). Bongo seemed to be doing most of the work anyway, now happily nuzzling into the girl’s palm, tail doing its best to lift him off the ground like a helicopter. 

     food was definitely taking the majority of Angela’s focus. a yawning feeling had grown into something monstrous and demanding once she was offered it – which spoke highly of both her focus as well as her hunger. while she managed to reign herself in to keep from looking ravenous, she couldn’t help the embarrassment flitting across her face at Jill’s question.

          ❝ um? ❞

     not a reassuring start to her defense. she ticked the hours back in her head after a glance at her watch – when had it gotten so late? – and her brow furrowed between trying to remember when she had gotten to her lab, and when she last remembered eating at all. coffee was involved at some point – breakfast? not that time kept her away from it at all, but a good guess as any. she debated holding her tongue, perhaps blaming her silence on manners and not talking while she eats. but with Jill’s stare pinning her in her place, not answering would be more incriminating at this point, so she gave her best possible effort:

          ❝ earlier today – i just got busy and missed … dinner. ❞

     at least dinner. it wasn’t entirely a lie, so she felt less guilty than she could have about it. that said, she still twirled her fork nervously through her food, and she felt so silly for getting so worked up about any of this. she took a bite and chewed with just a bit more care than she would usually – if only for an excuse to not speak for a moment.

It was sort of funny, how Angela squirmed under a question that should have been simple, and endearing too. Years of training in armed forces and hours of standing in waterlogged mud, rain crashing down about her ears while straining to hear what her commander was screaming in her face -- all served her well here, in a pokerface that didn’t give anything away. Laughing at Angela was the last thing she wanted to do. Especially when she looked so uncomfortable already, as though Jill was leafing through her diary right in front of her. 

“Uh huh.” 

Still, she was incredulous, and stabbed a potato with her fork, finally looking away to concentrate on shoveling her own food into her mouth. Jill wasn’t nearly as gracious -- another habit picked up as a soldier. 

For a moment there was silence broken only by the scrape of plastic against aluminium, and for a moment Jill thought she’d made it a little awkward. It was a prying question, she supposed, and she’d unintentionally put a spotlight on someone it was growing rapidly more clear by the second did not like the attention. Jill lowered her fork. 

@latrodectae

Jill is sitting on the edge of the bed and in her mind her spine carves mountains in the dim light of the moon that spills from the open doors to the balcony. Hunched over with her elbows on her knees, she picks at a scab on her wrist. It’s in the shape of an arc, a war wound from a battle closer to her heart than she’d like to admit. 

Amélie’s voice sings in the air and it is music Jill could write a symphony to. Or at least – so she thinks. She’s tried before and come up fruitless, the failing entirely in the artist and so far from the muse. A piano key rings in her mind, repeating like raindrops. D flat. Over and over again, until the tune begins to sound more eerie than ethereal. 

Jill looks over her shoulder. 

Widowmaker is bent over the bedside cabinet, sniffing white powder and coughing up a storm. It had been a good night until now, and Jill feels more naked than her lack of dress could show. 

“Early morning,” she grunts, before reminding herself she doesn’t owe Widowmaker any explanation. She pulls her pants on, and her belt nicks the cuts on her wrist. Another day where she can’t take her gloves off, nor remove the blue scarf from her neck. Like a sinner at a confessional she keeps her eyes to the floor. 

She’s so intent to reach the door without looking back she forgets to button her shirt, and pauses just long enough for the manacles to creak under the weight. There’s been no protest, and such a simple sign makes Jill’s heart ache. She wants to stay.

Jill glances back, but she doesn’t see anything.

“I have changed nothing from my typical routine.”

        “ Well, I wouldn’t say I’m looking for it — or stumbling… really just, curious. ” She smiles slightly, GREEN hues trail upward from the Scrapper to the Oseram. Her cheeks flush pink slightly, almost as if embarrassed by the notion: when in reality it was all true & there shouldn’t have been any guilt about the matter. The Nora treated such places as taboo, cursed, only reason she was allowed to even APPROACH the metal ruins was of her status.

      It never stopped the huntress beforehand however, sometimes on hunts she could almost hear a VOICE whisper from the ruins: a tempting lure that if a glance caught even the tiniest SHIMMER of the rusted structures, Aloy would lose herself to its call & begin to wander. It amazed her that she could even break from the trance with little distraction: & it seemed that it could spread to others.

     “ You’ve never heard of a Cauldron —? It’s a large metal door carved into mountain… & it goes DEEPER into the earth. ”

What a misinterpretation, and it serves as an excellent distraction. Jill still hasn’t touched the machine as Aloy asked, but she takes the opportunity to bring her hand back to her knee as she twists in Aloy’s direction. 

“Those are called Cauldrons? I -- well, now a lot more things make sense.” Her grin as always is small, and very sheepish. Her eyes flicker back to the machine, resting cooly in the grass. It seemed like a boar then, absent breathing. Just otherworldly enough that Jill can’t shake the unease. 

      Would he be —-? After he’s death Aloy couldn’t imagine what the man would have thought of her actions afterwards —- becoming a Seeker & traveling beyond her land she called home: HUNTING down a man that lead to a larger plot of domination shrouding a great evils intent of EXTINCTION: Hearing Rost’s story, the girl often wondered if she had become like him — Someone who found purpose in self-sacrifice rather than live a life. No; she was meant to survive, just as the old man wanted.

     ‘ You don’t have to rely on the tribe, but they rely on you. To stand alone is the strength to stand together. ‘ Her final lesson with Rost opened her eyes to a bigger meaning: & it played through to the end. Would Elisabet think so as well? GAIA? GREEN shifts upward, remaining silent as ear catches Jill’s words: They had been through the same journey, the other seeing Aloy’s growth & maturity with every step. Perhaps wherever Rost was, he was proud — even if she remained in constant denial. & Jill’s common ground gave a physical push of the gesture.

    Shoulders twitch a bit as the redhead felt something hot roll down her face, then another on her opposite soon she was no longer in control — it was tears. Quickly, her head spins away, avoiding visual contact as a hand swipes hard at her wet face.

Years ago, after the distraction of battle was gone and there was nothing but smoke embers and loss, Jill had had a moment like this. She remembered it clearly, she had walked as though the act alone could give her a purpose until exhaustion stole it away. She had collapsed in the rain in a dilapidated sparkworker cave and hidden beneath a solid toolbench to cry. She pretended her own tears were rainwater and that she wasn’t any weaker for them. 

It worked out in the end, but it wasn’t advice she would give to Aloy. The grief that she held within her heart had roots far deeper than anything Jill could relate to. 

Instead, she wrapped both of her arms around Aloy and pulled her close. 

⊱┆ @shootingsharp.

    breathing slowed, lips pursed; clio tapped her phone’s screen to zoom in, lightly. she knew at least three people who would love a picture of the calmly sitting, tail-swishing dalmatian that waited patiently outside of the store.

     be a good boy.                       girl.                             …gender-fluid four-legged individual.

 akin to metal sheets being struck together, a familiar sound beeped. in an instance, the dog was illuminated by an obnoxiously blinding light. oops. fuck.

turning around to face her, the dog’s head tilted  —tail wagging, ears perked. his owner’s arrived; but all clio did was stand there, hoping the stranger wasn’t fond of fighting for her dog’s honour in a parking lot at 7pm.

there had been a small moment of panic when jill reached the cashier and gave her customary squint through the glass double doors that opened into the brightly lit supermarket. it wasn’t dark enough to be pitch black, but even in the dimness the white usually reflected white -- bongo was never hard to spot. distracted enough by her frantic search, the cans of dog food ended up on top of the eggs in her old and fraying rucksack. 

she could regret that later -- just like she thought she might regret not listening every other dog owner who had berated her for never putting bongo on a leash. they underestimated his good behaviour. (maybe she’d put too much stock in it this time.)

the offered pennies worth of change was abandoned in favour of the few seconds she would gain in getting outside to find bongo. jill stalked her way to the door, rucksack flung over one shoulder, fist anxiously tightening around the strap -- only to see exactly why her view of her dog had been obscured.  

jill could see the picture over the girl’s shoulder but decided against creepily approaching from behind and making a comment that bordered on intimidating. instead, she brushed past the girl, casting a small half-smile her way before kneeling at bongo’s side and shoving a hand in her jacket pocket.