a. z. fell
She/Her
30
December 21st
Fortree, Hoenn
Bisexual
Surviving
Civillian
i'm just a demon who goes along with hell as far as she can.
[attr="class","samcam"] “I know!” she says, teeth bared, voice laced through with a horrible, high-pitched giddiness. The array of liquor choices is just a mask, a veneer, a metaphor for a deeper problem. Of not being enough. Of being too sweet. Of being too weak. And all at once she’s spinning the situation back in on herself, making it about her, making it about her breakdown and her inability to measure up, because Freya is finding things she’d lost in her house, and Freya is comforting her, and Freya is trying to make her feel better by saying it’s okay that bad things happen to Freya.
And she can’t protect her from any of it, or stop any of it, and now, suddenly, it’s trying to be about her again, the dragon is whirling on her from where she stood behind it poking it with a stick.
No, all of her internal workings scream, no, we’re not doing this again. Whatever defense mechanisms she left in place when she originally went in and overwrote her brain strain at the seams to cushion this blow, to turn this ship, this five-hundred-thousand ton tanker barreling straight for the iceberg, loaded with some freaky sort of memory napalm that ignites on contact with water. It hurts us, it hurts us. She freezes for a moment, swallowing ash in a dry mouth, as her mind crunches into fucking Smeagol, dropping to all fours and fleeing Freya’s bright light.
She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. She left that warning there for a reason. She didn’t get rid of it for a reason.
Kanaya glides around the peninsula and goes to a forgotten about corner cabinet. From within, she pulls out a gleaming orange bottle of sazerac rye-- a nine-hundred-dollar bottle, purchased in a genuinely, innocuously forgotten moment for an occasion such as this, such as celebrating the continued living of a friend-- and goes about pouring Freya a glass.
In the time it takes for Kanaya to solve all her problems, her human has reset.
“No,” she says, voice calm again, disaster mitigated. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.” She takes the broom and sweeps up the glass into a dustbin. “It’s not better it happens to you, it’s shit. It shouldn’t be happening to anyone against their will.”
Kanaya slides the glass of whiskey around the collection of myriad alcohols on the peninsula to Freya.
“Fuck, man. That’s so shitty, and cowardly.” She leans her chin on the broom handle in thought, small of her back against the counter. A beat, then, brightly, “So! How do we kill them?”
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