So the hands had matched the voice.

The pain of a million red roses and their sharpened underbelly cut through as she heard it— she wished not to establish the connection, but the pang led her eyes upward for a moment. Mask to mask, monkey to monkey. Raising a hand to wipe a dilapidated tear, it continued to fall as her now tattered hand pressed streaks of crimson against the mask’s cheek.

“How.. ward?” She spoke softly, quietly— attempting to skew her voice with pangs and sloshing of the crystalline sort.

“Why?”

She hoped words exchanged would not bring them both to a lovely pulp. She was scared, afraid— deprived.

howard slayte

He held his finger up to his lips, shushing her. He gave a jerk of the head. No names. He needed to get her attention, but their position was precarious. Howard was an admin of Rocket. If that got out, he was dead.

Assuming he wasn't already.

"Why?" The one word was thick with meaning, in that it could mean anything. "Why...?"

Why were they here? Why them? Why were they doing this? Why? Why? Why? The cornerstone of archaeology was to ask questions, and yet Howard had no answers. There were no answers here.

Only work. Only withdrawal. There was no lighter load for Desiree Blooms to bear.

"I needed to verify." His voice was depressed, but his eye was alert. "You're bleeding."

They all were.

---

DESIREE BLOOMS

It was natural to seek answers to questions that had been left to draw in bewilderment— and to constantly be left in the dust each time, billowing smoke cloaking discordant vision deeper than the last.

But, in the end, how could any of those deemed unfortunate enough to retain such a fate know the true reasoning and secrets that brought them to the cells? She was unsure if it all— at least, other than how his demeanor fixated on the suppressing of names.

It seemed as if they had the same idea from the get. “They want us to bleed,” she said softly, trying to intermittently hide her words with coughs both true and artificial, “.. Pomme. You’re pomme.”

Apple. She’d remember it solely due to the leakage of the crimson juice, ironous rather than sweet and fragrant.

She wanted to say more, but the wandering eyes and ears struck fear unlike any other. A dead end, ultimately stifled by emotion and paranoia. Tears continued to cascade, watering down the collar of the foreign clothing.

If only there was another way to formulate— but the clouds ran dark. They concealed everything they could wish to see and know.

“Diamandis, call me that instead.” She coughed. It would be unfair if she could not conceal, too.

If only he could see the look in her eyes— the one begging him to come up with something. Maybe the silence could be enough.

howard slayte