#polopost

False laid on the dusty floor in the dusty, futuristic house. She stared unblinking at the ceiling, small wispy cobwebs danced on the ceiling, stretching half the room. It had been weeks, at this point.

Weeks of isolation that at first pleased her introverted self, that had let her work in peace with little issue. She had everything done, everything fixed and organized, and had even removed that ridiculous-horrifically terrifying even-“Blobby” thing Cleo decided was a good idea to spread in her base. The problem had started after removing the last of it. The crippling loneliness set in.

Doc had no qualms telling her that he couldn’t care who else was sent, he was just happy that the “Ore Snatcher” may be gone. Xisuma had no clue what had happened, only that spawn was moved. Anyone else had been busy, or away, or- god forbid- the reason for her loneliness.

And here she laid, in a dusty divot where a bed once laid. His bed.

It was a terrible plan, really. They were found out instantly, didn’t do the due diligence to check and make sure it would even work, and yet they did it anyway. Idiots, the both of them. Especially him. He knew better. He had to have known!

But here False was, on the dusty ground, sand and dirt plastering her hair, her clothes, and the suitcase she brought. A lonely woman on the floor of a house that should not matter anymore. She still wanted it all to matter. The key in her pocket with a note in his handwriting, the dumb top hat that sat beside her on a pink carpet, handsewn by him especially, and worst of all, this damn divot, missing bed and all.

“Maybe it was a wrong decision to come here to search for a new hat.” She felt the dryness of her mouth as she spoke. “Maybe I should…just go home.” Her eyes begun to sting as she lurched into a sitting position.

She wouldn’t cry. Not in this dusty room that should be condemned and torn down to make room for big business. She redonned her hat, grabbed her suitcase, and slowly stepped through the long broken door, half ajar with a pile of dust in its entrance. She refused to give it a second glance this time.

Taking to the skies was her best bet, and she glided through blue skies and thin breezes to her home. The mild natural charm was inviting from the dusty abandoned house she had barricaded herself in. Even so, her eyes still burned. The dust had long since left her eyes, but they still burned.

Earlier, she had found herself in a moment of weakness, a moment of breathlessness that had apexed into her worst thoughts swarming her like a cloud of vex, small and biting and full of painful memories that she couldn’t escape. Normally, he’d be right there, holding her as she broke, resting her in a bed with extra blankets when it was all said and done. Too bad he wasn’t there this time.

Her eyes stung, throat dry and raw, nose stuffy, and all around sluggish. One could mistake her for being sick naturally. She was pretending to do the same.

False lumbered into the room that she had thrown a bed in haphazardly, and all but passed out on the red and white sheets. They were still warm, and they still smelled vaguely of dog.

She bundled them up into a mound, long enough to make a decent expy of the usual occupant of the bed, and hugged it close. It didn’t carry the always-wagging tail, the annoying chatter, or the warmth, but it carried the vague smell. The last vestiges of his life in hers.