"We tried to be better, but we aren't. I don't think anyone could last more than a week here if they weren't willing to do bad things." - Alba Reyes

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frogue
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just a picture of a cloud
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He followed her, trying to keep his mind from the last time they were in a bedroom together. Bad thoughts of bad times. Bad, bad things.

It was spartan inside. Dirty, but not trashed. The other one'd looked like it'd been worked over by a crackhead with a sledgehammer, but this room had just been worked over by time.

Johnny dropped his bag onto the bed and sat down next to it, rubbing the shoulder where the strap had dug into it. He wasn't in the habit of carrying a backpack, and hadn't really lifted anything heavier than the odd stereo in years. He let his hand trail down, over his shoulder and down his arm, feeling the scrawny bicep through the thin fabric of his hoodie. There was probably more bone than muscle there, and even that was unlikely to be up to much, he thought. Johnny had never really been much for drinking milk.

He lent back, letting his head fall onto the mattress. A fog of dust filled the air the second he hit the surface, and the mattress beneath him was shockingly lumpy, but it was dry and it was soft and for the minute, at least, he felt safe.

"Are we hole-d up then, chief?"
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