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Cicada Days
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i can feel something inside me say
[ *  *  *  * ]
"Who the fuck did this?"

"..."

'Who' evaded him, sets of syllables encoded in the language of the dead. Names like Sandy Bricks, Ben could remember those. Honest names, straight off the Cochise registration sheets. But some names, they no longer seemed to be names to Ben. The melting scoop of dung that was once a functioning high schooler's brain had slopped straight off the spoon. Down his spine, in one agonizingly long frisson Ben struggled to keep a steady chest against. Matt almost ran into Ben. Some sort of half assed instinct toppled Ben's flat feet, he tried to back up himself. Almost gave Nate a face full in the process.

It was disturbing, how stoic Nate had suddenly become. Glassy eyed, and Ben could almost see the corpse stenciled in technicolor over Nate's corneas.

"Nancy."

"It was Nancy Kyle." Hm. Who was 'Nancy Kyle'? Maybe that question mattered, maybe it didn't. It was the sort of question Ben knew he didn't care about. The sort of question that only became an answer when you chased after it. With whips, and guns.

"We have to get out of here."

The dead liked to rest in peace. One of those old wise sayings sourced from the winds and mother's talk. It definitely wasn't a peaceful scene, but the gaggle of idiots standing around under the terrorist's lenses probably didn't do it any further justice. Justice, rather, existed elsewhere.

"Come on." Ben pivoted on the spot, but found Nate was still in his way. All five whatever feet of him, immovable as the marble curve of Lady Justice's back.
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