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He wouldn't meet her eyes.

Not that she wanted to meet his either. She knew she was judging, killer, player, scared and scared and scared and scared. She knew there were things she wanted to keep hidden. She knew my heart is on my sleeve, I've never been very good at this. Not meeting his eyes, was better, yeah? Better.

Doesn't mean it didn't hurt like a bitch.

And he was groaning now, in pain, and she was touching him, tiny touches, pushing his muscles, pressure points, gentle, to ease the pain. The knife wound was not wide, but deep, and I really should have stitched that up before.

But she hadn't been thinking, then. Not that that was any excuse.

"Hold still." She said. "I'm going to need to stitch you up."

And he was silent, cold and tense when she unbuttoned his shirt, ragged and filthy. Below that, his chest was shivering; back scarred and beautiful tattoos and I've almost forgotten how to paint.

She had a clean t-shirt in her bag. Knotted it, gave it to him. "Bite down."

Don't move, and don't scream.

He closed his mouth, silently. The first-aid kit was admirably stocked; she knotted the thread and kept herself from cursing as she put the needle in his skin.

He hissed, as she stitched, but nothing else happened.

And as she finished, she shook her head. Not for him, but for her, because I can't stay here anymore. She needed to get away from this boy who wouldn't say anything to her, and I would have let him kill again, because he had art on his back and pale lips and knew the implications of what he was doing and somehow I find that irresistible, idiot girl.

But the spray can was almost out and her wax pencils were ruined, and she couldn't use a goddamn painting to find herself now.

So instead she left Raidon, hissing with pain, bent over. Touched his back, picked up an empty canteen, said lamely "I'll be back," and left him, bent over. Ran--no, hobbled--to the stream.

Raidon could defend himself now. From Julian, from everybody. He was awake, and he wasn't looking at her, and she needed to think.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. And the stream was cool, and she could scoop water into her mouth, imagine it tasted faintly of lime. Like a messy girl, a child, because really I couldn't feel like more of a baby right now.

Only then did she realize she still had the tweezers, the needle and thread in her hand.

And she could see a boy, a reflection in the water. She looked up, and he was no longer made of splashes and ripples, sitting on a tree stump. His arm was bloody, and he was stitching it up badly, hissing curses while he did it, and she winced as he put a needle into his skin because you're doing it wrong.

And yes, he was probably dangerous, because at this point on the island, nearly everyone was.

That said, he shouldn't have to sew up his arm like that.

So she stood up, slowly. Put up her hands, showing the needle and tweezers and thread. The boy saw her, but didn't startle.

"Hey. I'm Mizore Soryu. I'm not playing, etcetera etcetera, you can see I'm not holding any weapons, but you're really screwing up what you're doing to your arm. Want me to help?"

The boy was looking at her, more fascinated than startled. Well, that was nice. It meant he wouldn't shoot her in a panic.

"I'm going to come closer now, unless you tell me not to. Are you alright with that?"

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

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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Riddles Of Monsters · The Woods: Inland