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Being a degenerate is okay these days
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((Raina Rose and Johnny McKay continued from Thanatophobia))

Outside, outside was good, outside was freeing. Raina didn't think she'd ever loved the outdoors as much as she did right this minute as she burst through the front entrance of the asylum and out to the gardens, all her plans and justifications completely forgotten, swept away with the noise of gunfire still ringing in her ears.

She was still dragging Johnny by the wrist, and so when she stumbled, feet tangling in the overgrown weeds and one ankle twisting painfully, he went down to the ground with her.

For a few moments, everything was startlingly quiet save for their labored breathing. The quiet was broken when Raina began to sob, screwing her eyes shut and pressing her forehead into the dirt. She didn't want Johnny to see her cry. He'd feel awkward and sorry for her and maybe guilty, and sure she could maybe yell at him for lighting up a cigarette when she'd told him the smell would tip people off to where they were, but it wasn't fair to blame him for what had happened. She wasn't unfair. She'd been determined to treat everyone as equally as she could.

And that was why Jasper and Audrey could die, just like anybody else who wasn't in on their plan and ready to help.

Raina felt sick. At Alvaro, at herself, at the sick bastards who had put them here, at the government that had failed for ten years now - ten years! - to put a stop to all of this. At everyone who was watching at home, whether they meant well or not. Fucking grief consumers. She could yell at them, if she wasn't trying to hard to keep from full on blubbering.

And dammit, she'd meant to stay in the asylum longer, to go search the basement labs for anything useful, but she couldn't. She couldn't go back in and risk running into Alvaro and his gun or seeing Jasper and Audrey's bodies. She couldn't do anything right now except lay in the dirt and cry, like she should have been for the last three days.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."
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Coward Mont Blanc · Crematorium Gardens