#plot shenanigans

“Live.”

“I hope there is some modicum of peace for the departed.” Alice muttered, more of a whisper really. 

November 5th. This date, when she was young, was something she was usually fascinated by in her own way. She loved that old poem about ‘The Gunpowder Treason’ and all that, however, after she grew older... And this day, the day of the Fire that took everything, even her sanity, with it. It had become so much different. 

“Remember remember the fifth of november, the gunpowder treason and plot. I can think of no reason, why the gunpowder treason, should ever be forgot.” That poem had a much different meaning now, much more personal.

One hand lifted, a small bottle of drink in her hand. Some sort of alcohol she hadn’t taken a sip from. No, instead, she gently turned it out. Pouring the contents onto the ground. Something she had read about and seen done in graveyards now and then. 

It’s subtle.

Almost unnoticeable. But things are often closer to hand than Radris’ thought they should be - sometimes with a tick of faint green lightning running a circuit around it.

The scattered remnants of the hivemind pulse and shriek with adulation unparalleled, you almost forget yourself and join in. It hurts to listen, even if you managed to drown them out somehow you could still feel her through your fibers. Dizzy and sick you lay in the darkened and almost comforting expanse of your motel room, teeth gritted and hands clapped over your ears. She calls to you, like a siren off shore trying to draw in her prey.

You refuse to heed her call, you’re not her dog anymore, not her puppet to play with. It hurts to disobey, it hurts almost as much as her teeth, her claws, her kisses. Each lilting call grows in volume and insistence, laced with something hungry and old you recognize as well as you know your own name. It hurts, you hurt, every literal fiber of your being seems to vibrate in tune with each ragged and hypnotic note, all your energy and focus goes into keeping you still and sane on your bed.

Balia’s pokemon all watch Miri as she enters the room. Aragh wags his tail and offers the child a lick to her hand. Sparks’ ears twitch and Quiz purrs as the little tyke drops off her gift.