[text; un: longinmouth]

[abheirrant]

How many living individuals remain here?

[This question brought to you by your local guy who has realized he might be in for some trouble if most of the population isn't technically alive.]

Comments

[abheirrant]

[Carlisle meets Poison's eyes. Yes, she would know what that's like, wouldn't she? She was poised to become what was essentially the god of her world, a being able to make and unmake reality with her words alone; it was a position that had been written for her, one she'd been expected to take no matter how she felt about it. There was plenty of room to be caught up in what she believed she should be rather than who she is.

He nods solemnly, his gaze faltering, landing on his hands.]

I'm relieved you have faith in me, truly, but I suppose neither what I feel, nor my capacity to feel it, matters in regards to... well. [Qubit.] Such pursuits are ill-advised at best, and doomed at worst.

[writtendestiny]

What do you think is going to happen?

[She sits down in the nearest seat and frowns at him, holding her tea between both hands. It isn't that she doesn't understand his wariness - and in a place like this, as she well knows, letting yourself have those kinds of soft feelings for someone can so easily end in hurt - but she can't help but think that he at least ought to give it a try...

It would be good for him. And in her opinion, he deserves to be happy even if that happiness is fleeting.]

Are you worried you're going to hurt him?

[abheirrant]

No. [His answer is immediate, unexpected even for Carlisle himself; he supposes it must be an indicator of how confident he is of that. For someone who is so sure he'll be the death of most of the people around him, as he was in Bear Den, that unfettered reassurance is admittedly comforting.

Not enough to put all his worries to rest, though.] No, I- I don't think I would. Or could. He- if there were anyone prepared enough to deal with the worst, were it to come to pass, it would be him, but...

[He trails off, his brow wrinkling with inward frustration.]

Just- look at me, Poison. At what I am beneath this garb. Even if I were not an aberration, and were capable of vocalizing how I feel, I'm not alive.

[writtendestiny]

[She does look at him. Poison's looked at him any time she's seen him from the moment she realised that he was here, and each time she has it has been without any kind of revulsion. She knows what she is, but more importantly, she knows who he is... and if Qubit cares about him then she assumes that he places one before the other in much the same way that she does.]

I can't speak for Qubit, but if he cares about you, do you think that bothers him?

[Poison arches both eyebrows at him.]

It doesn't bother me.

[abheirrant]

It bothers me.

[He pulls in a breath, trying to stifle his feelings, his frustration — anything he can. Somehow, it's not surprising that Poison would accept him no matter what he's like; she's stuck with him this long, even after knowing a more idealized version of himself, after seeing him utterly lose control over his abilities. He's not sure he'll ever fully understand the why of it all, but he's grateful all the same.

He's grateful for many things: the support of his friends, his awareness, the supposed chance he has in his undeath to make amends for his sins. And yet, he cannot help but lament in that moment that his emotions — a gift that sets him apart from most undeads — are simultaneously the source of his humanity and his grief.

Poison has a point, one that needs addressing: would what he is bother Qubit?]

It matters not what Qubit would think, because it's not something I will ever address with him.