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A Delicate Machine
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((Cass nodded.))

"They couldn't have picked a better place to throw us, really."

So in the end, they had fled back to the asylum after all, compelled by the already encroaching night. Cass couldn't stand the thought of it, of choosing to stay behind in a place that by all rights should have stank like death; even if those tragedies were long since faded like the memories of those who had "lived" in those sterile halls. It spoke to some sense of rightness that it had fallen into such disrepair, but Cass was hesitant to call it a victory without knowing its history. In all likelihood, it had simply stopped being profitable. They wondered what became of the patients who had seen the fall of their prison. Had they been returned to their families, to find understanding and healing elsewhere? A hopeful thought, at least until you considered who had committed them in the first place. Had they simply been shunted to another corner of the world, the only difference the alien soil they were eventually buried in?

The room they were finding brief requiem in had been someone's world, once; and Cass felt strangely like an intruder. They appreciated it when Trav turned the picture out of view, and hoped that none of its subjects had lingered on in the asylum. It was not a place to spend one's eternity.

They would have preferred the roof, but Irene and Wade wouldn't have understood; their one missing day of shared history a wide schism between them. Cass could have borne their return to the asylum if that was where they had ultimately set up camp, but they couldn't find any words to explain their feelings that sounded more than just pitiful sentiment. Nothing important, nothing worth anyone else hearing. Trav would have understood, but he didn't seem to care that much about their locale, either. They could only hope that this wasn't where they would die, hidden away from the sun and moon.

Cass turned to face their new companions. "So, uh... how are you guys holding up?"
a tribute for the dead and dying

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