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dmboogie
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A Delicate Machine
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((Well. That was stupid and overdramatic, wasn’t it?))

It was amazing, how much better Cass felt with… however much sleep they had gotten in their system. All they knew was that they had fallen asleep around midday and had woken up to a sunrise. At some point, they had forgotten the nominal purpose of their continued existence, hadn’t they? Experiencing your last moments delusional and miserable was hardly more accurate to what Cass considered to be their true consciousness than a dreaming death would be.

Their neck and back were sore, their wrist still ached (oh, hell. you need to change bandages every-so-often, don’t you?) but they were still able to face the gray morning with brightened eyes. Sadly, comfortably drawing under the open skies seemed to be a lost cause even if the rain had stopped, unless they miraculously found a jacket or a sweatshirt or even just another shirt, jesus christ in hindsight the thing they regretted most was wearing their stupid, still pretty tanktop. Still, the hunting lodge happened to have a romantic air to it, carrying the idea of isolation with it even while it neighbored the homes of those who weren’t prisoners and patients. Chairs were a plus, too.

Cass grabbed their notebook, pencil, baton, and bags and once more moved out into the living room. It was still too a bit too dark to try and give Trav a proper sketch - and while he deserved so much more that was all Cass could do for him, now - so instead they enjoyed enduring their breakfast in peace until the sun found them. Afterwards, they turned back to the promise of art with a more forgiving mind until the announcement found them.

Clarice was still alive. So were Jae and Dorothy. The other names didn’t mean much from their limited perspective and dwindling supply of generalized empathy. It was darkly satisfying to hear that karma had caught up with Isabel, and though they were surprised and somewhat concerned by Dorothy’s involvement in the matter; they couldn’t find room in their heart to blame her for whatever had driven her to join the procession of the Ides of May.

Would the island be a safer place, without its biggest monster? Would it be a more treacherous place, with other, unbloodied people trying to fill the gap? Only time would tell.

And as time was the most precious possession any of them had left, when it became clear that remaining in the lodge wouldn’t automatically separate Cass’s head from their shoulders, they returned pencil to paper, artist to art.
a tribute for the dead and dying

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Rivers of Sadness and Mutual Need · The Hunting Cabin