"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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(Mizore Soryu continued from Ghosts)

Mizore was lost.

She had tried to go to the Parish, she knew, tried to follow the map, but somehow she had gotten wound about and ended up going back to the Residential District. Closest thing to a city on the island. Mizore had always loved cities.

And that's when the announcements came on.

Radio noise. Blah blah. The person who'd gotten her collar off--Liz Polanski?--was apparently continuing to resist, giving the terrorists ants in their pants. Good for her.

"…then Raidon Naoko went ahead and shot Alison Walworth and Madison Stone in rapid succession. I must say, Mr. Raidon sure knows how to bring some of that drama back to shootings…"

Oh.

And Mizore, on a rock looking down at the city, had to sit and think.

Killer. That was the thought she forced. She had to see him as a killer now. For her own safety.

The next thought came laughing, unbidden. Radio Asuka, darling of the midnight police. Since when have you cared about safety?

Laughing, running through foggy nights, the flips and wheels of parkour. Dangerous colors. Living in a desperate, drugged-up commune. Since when?

So that was no argument.

And she was thinking of his skin now, what she had seen, and his voice, smokey, fogging her mind, but making everything clear.

You yelled at him. When he was holding a gun to your face. Are you gonna do that again? Do you think he'll hesitate to shoot you now?

The island had changed him. Just as it had changed her.

And you think of yourself as steady. Think of how it must have changed him. He's probably gone.

But he wasn't. He couldn't be. She could hold him in her mouth now, the taste of him, metallic, desperate, real.

Sensory idiot.

She got up off the rock. Her plans hadn't changed.

Down, down, down, down into the residential area. Stumbling, kicking off rocks, diagonal paths. She knew which house she was looking for.

Yes. Scott McGregor had died here. And the boy with the skinny back, who she had painted with quotes from "The Hollow Men", he was still here, undisturbed. Someone had come into this house recently though. Shoe marks scuffed the carpet.

Listen.

Someone was running the shower.

Mizore's first instinct was not to meet him. To get out of this house and find another. But that was stupid. If someone was vulnerable enough to get into the shower, that person was probably not an incredible murderer. And asking someone where Raidon was--well, it likely wouldn't turn up any results. But it was something.

Also I really need someone to talk to to make sure I'm not going batshit. That thing.

So she padded up the stairs.

The shower was definitely running. Some clothes were tossed off outside the door. Mizore picked a shirt up cautiously. Scents, sizes, styles could tell gender and a recognizable garment or a name label might be nice right about now...

I know these clothes.

A shirt for a skinny boy. The gentle scent was unmistakable.

Naoko.

In a lifetime of impulsive actions, this might have been the most impulsive of all.

Bite your lip. Calm your head. Open the door.
--------


Alice Boucher was a liar.
Liz Polanski played with fire.

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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All's Fair · The Residential Area