ph_memes | MINGLE - Post-Op(era) Recovery

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After the Fall of Efrain With the Prince of Sorrow's Song dead and gone, the opera dissipates, spitting its victims out on the summit of Crane's Ridge where the Dance of Celestine was held some months before. It's getting late, and there is no one yet in town to run the train. Some will brave the trip home simply for the sake of collapsing into their own beds and achieving some sense of normalcy. Others will do so with the hope of returning with help. But many others will simply say "fuck it" and camp out on the mountain, still fitted with extra firewood from the festival and the means to build temporary structures in nearby storage sheds. The journey down will be safer in the morning, and there's solidarity to be had in a cool spring night spent under the stars.

Oh, look, there's even some non-perishable food and wine from the Dance. Combined with what can be hunted or foraged, as well as snacks and drinks stolen from the concession stand, there's plenty to go around. This might even be a little bit fun! Anyone up for another game of Never Have I Ever? Maybe a little Truth or Dare? Or perhaps you just want to chat and unwind with your friends. Whatever the case may be, have fun. This is your time. After darkness, there is a dawn. At the death of Sorrow, there is joy.

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"And I almost thought I died. What a pair we make, huh." Separate performances, separate acts of violence, but all part of one big display from the now late Efrain. And all of it drenched in red. "...I don't think it's a good look on either of us."

Bleeding out on the floor, committing bloody murder. Does that suit anyone? Probably. There's all types out there.

She releases a breath and another thread of tension falls away with it, muscles easing beneath Ripley's arm. Her hair's in her face, but she doesn't care. At least it's a reminder that she's not wearing that goddamned mask.

Ripley hums a half-hearted agreement.

"This place seems to think otherwise. I guess that's the catch. Enjoy a second chance at life to learn. Grow. At what cost? Your already-splintered sanity. Relive your worst moments on stage— in dreams— and hope that all your frayed threads come together instead of tear apart."

She puts thought to words and finds comfort in chucking them into the fire. Hungry, it consumes. Willing, it transforms words into carbon gas, released into the atmosphere, and continues to rage on.

"Mm. There's definitely been something of a trend, recently." The past being dredged back up to haunt them, time and time again. Not that she can blame the demons for one of her own ghosts, here in the flesh. CT's eyes flick across the ridge to find red hair, only to squeeze shut a moment later, resisting the urge to linger. "I'm really hoping it stops here. Efrain's gone, maybe this was just... his playbook. I don't know."

The dreams didn't feel quite the same, but the similarity is stark enough she can't rule out Efrain's involvement. Either way, she just wants it to stop.

Quiet, barely above a murmur, "I'm tired of being reminded of how no one cared enough to let me survive..."

Ripley's lips set a firm line into her face.

"The world you came from— they made you believe you had to move alone. They isolated you when all you wanted to do was the right thing. But it doesn't have to be that way here. You aren't alone in any of this. And I know that can be hard to believe— the people you were familiar with couldn't be relied on, so why should anything change now?— but believe me, CT."

Fierce loyalty in every word.

She would have fought tooth and nail for her crew, had only they listened to her. Survived long enough to be fought for. But like Connecticut's fellow agents, they were blinded. Lead astray by fear, impudence and the untrue words of another person.

Her hand rests on the shaved side of Connecticut's temple, thumb along the muscle that runs from neck to skull.

"I care."

Her head tilts into the touch almost unconsciously, whole seconds before her eyes even open to look Ripley in the face. Tired eyes, pinprick pupils in deep brown discs, flickering back and forth and up and down subtly as if trying to focus on all of her face at once.

"...I believe you. I still don't really know why, when believing—" a sigh, "—anything or anyone is so hard, but I do."

She can trace the veins of trust that have grown between her and others, between her and Ripley, but to take someone at their word still feels so dangerous, sometimes, and yet... she believes it anyway.

With palm cupped at the base of neck, and thumb tucked just under CT's jaw, Ripley is happy to steady. An anchor for the tired eyes who search endlessly, fitfully, for any sign of danger. Her spy's rigidity and sense of self-preservation turn muscle into knots under Ellen's hand. Trust severed habitually at the root.

It's no wonder CT investigates her. How many years must she have crept quietly in secret? No one to trust, so few to turn to.

It strengthens Ellen's resolve to be the exact opposite. Trustworthy, reliable, a stony pillar for her to lean on. Soft, too, if she needs her to be.

Ripley quirks a half-smile. "Maybe there doesn't have to be a why." Then, playfully, hand unmoved where it rests against her skin, pulse throbbing dully under fingertips, "And now that I'm around, it's going to be re-eeal hard to get rid of me."

A smile cracks her mask in half despite herself, quiet and tired and thin around the edges but genuine. Being genuine with Ripley is surprisingly easy, most of the time.

A single peal of laughter even slips past her lips, a glimmer of light back in those dark eyes. "Oh, really? I suppose that would be a problem, if I wanted to get rid of you. But why would I ever want to do that?"

"Hm, dunno. I might talk your ear off about something horrendous- way beyond the pale. You'd be surprised how quickly reciting from a flight manual puts people to sleep. After all this— you could probably use it. God knows you haven't touched that couch." Ripley teases, a half-smirk playing naturally across her face.

Not to mention how she beams inwardly at having earned a laugh— anything to crack misery into manageable pieces.

...She really ought to move her hand now. It serves no real purpose where it rests against CT's neck, other than to enjoy her pulse. She's grateful to see her in one piece, that's all. Watched tomahawk strike ribcage once, twice— and couldn't so much as grip her chair arms in her trance. Like torture.

It's no wonder, then, that Ripley can't seem to scrape her eyes away from CT's features, confirming again and again that she's real and not some demon's figment. A thing to be taken away when she least expects it, created solely to hurt her.

"You say that, but I'm the kind of person who'll sit and talk someone through every line of code of a project I'm working on, if they'll let me. I might find the technical details from a flight manual quite interesting, from the right person."

She let's the implication just sit, no need to drive the specificity home. They're already face to face, eye to eye, skin to skin. There's only so many ways to get closer, most of which are things CT is pointedly not thinking about to the degree that it almost circles back around to thinking about them anyway.

They're okay. There are no strings pulling them into positions like puppets on a grand, endless stage, right now. They're under the clear night sky, there is nowhere for the strings to stretch from.

If they'll let me.

"I would." Not a trace of hesitation. No dancing or playing coy (despite having just returned from the stage). "Am I allowed to ask questions, too?"

Cool night air and the fire's radiance war with each other. They look ridiculous. One dressed in full costume, the other not. Neither fitted for a night of camping on Crane's Ridge summit. It doesn't matter. They aren't servants to the stage and she couldn't be happier to be sitting on the cold, hard ground.

"All you really have to do is dress-up the technical details. Having something nice to look at inclines people to listen."

"Well of course," CT says, playful and light, "how much of a hypocrite would I be if I said 'no questions'?"

That glimmer of light in her eyes burns a little brighter, like the brown is catching the warmth of the fire. It's nice to have someone to say they'll listen and believe them, again. Nice to remember what it's like to be heard and listen in turn, even for the little things.

"You're right, though. Sometimes the key is making sure they can't pull their eyes away."

Her face feels warm. Must be the fire.

"Some people don't like them. Can you believe it?"

Maybe she's a little facetious. Maybe she leaves out the bit where said questions stick like arrow heads into unsuspecting coworkers' backs. How 'questions' often entail lectures at the hands of their Third Officer. Sometimes it pays to be bossy. In fact, that's exactly what she'd been paid to do.

"It must be an inferiority thing. Means they have to know the right answer and usually they don't."

She gets a sense Connecticut does not have this problem.

The Agent's neck all but burns against her hand. At last Ripley moves it, tucking a strand of CT's brown hair back into place and letting it fall into her lap.

"What d'you say— are we camping or making the hike back?"

"Mm." She re-settles herself, head tucked once again neatly against Ripley's shoulder, and tries not to focus too hard on where her skin feels suddenly cold with the absence. "I think you're right."

Teachers and officers and friends alike, so often rankling against her questions, no matter how innocent or important or otherwise. Not everyone, no, but enough.

A slow breath out. "I'm tempted to just camp it out. It's late and I'm— I'm tired. I'd probably trip and break my neck in the dark, with this thing on."

She snickers, imagining CT as a tulle tumbleweed on its slow descent down the mountain, and feels just a little guilty. Right, not funny. A broken arm or leg isn't the kind of finale she's looking for tonight. "Yeah, you're probably right about that. C'mon—"

Ripley pushes off against her knees and rises from the ground like a scrawny beanstalk. "We'll set up a camp. Maybe it'll be fun." A wry smile on fire-lit face. She extends a hand. "Unless you're going to make me do all the work."

"What, you mean me standing there looking pretty wouldn't count a helping?" she teases, taking the offered hand and pulling herself to her feet. She still almost trips over the skirts on the way up, but she manages to get them out from under her feet before she tumbles. "Don't worry, I'll do my share. Just don't let me walk too close to the fire or I'll go up like the Hindenburg."

"I'd call it motivation."

She catches Connie by her forearms, holding her steady while she shakes loose the layers and layers of tulle caught under her. "Well, you'd better watch your step, Inferno."

Hand in hand, for no other reason than she wants to, Ripley leads the way away from the fire and toward the old storage shed. Caught under her breath, a 'we really ought to rip that damn thing'.

CT comes dangerously close to making a quip about how 'rip[ping] that damn thing' might push it from motivating to distracting, before deciding to hold her tongue for now. Almost feels like ruining the energy, with her hand still in Ripley's.

Then they've got things to do. Set up their shelter for the night, maybe actually eat something from the leftover supplies up here. Wait the darkness out until morning, where dealing with getting down will become more pressing an issue. They've got time. Time to breathe.

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MINGLE - Post-Op(era) Recovery

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