If everything else goes to hell, here, at least they'll have some good pictures. Chanel liberates her brother from his phone and alternates between the two, snapping first pictures of just Armani and his new friend, then both of them, then one just her. She offers it back for his inspection. "Extremely cute."
She deems. Only then, inspecting her phone, does she take another moment to look around the room. "All right, but we should save Healer Crockett."
She's sure that legend feels secure, knowing who is traipsing around her memories, now.
"We should," he agrees, still hugging the Creeper with one arm, hand splayed on their chest as he looks around the room. "Okay, on three we run to where we think the linchpin is. Ready? One... Two... ....... THREE!" He bolts off toward Pocket, hand outstretched to try to be the first to touch her sunglasses in case Chanel has the same idea.
Chanel, actually and unfortunately, did have exactly the same idea and the next moment finds her trying to run even faster, arm also outstretched, to knock the glasses off Pocket's face. Or grab them. Just as long as she can claim victory.
Chanel has always been faster. Armani howls like a banshee just like he did as a child when he knew he was about to lose to her. Chanel touches the glasses first with Armani coming in a split second behind her, accidentally palm striking Pocket hard in the cheekbone in his grab for them.
The glasses don't glow, but the scene moves along eventually.
“How are you doing, dearheart?” Healer Crockett asks with a great deal more softness than has been seen of her outside of patient care.
Pocket’s head swivels and she meets the Head of Thorntrail’s concern with a wide, peaceful smile. “I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to do.”
That doesn’t seem quite like an answer, but Zipporah isn’t sure if that’s intentional or not. The magimagicicada are often like that. The healer quirks her head to the side, about to say that she doesn’t understand, but it seems Pocket already knows.
“I’m going to help heal the hurt,” she confides to Zipporah and Ebenezer. That smile she holds falters, twitching down flat. “It’s the least I can do. It’s what I have to do. For my brothers and sisters. For El, for Cal, for everyone hurt, and everyone still living. I’m glad that I can do it.”
Before either Head of House can remark on Pocket’s words, Caleb Qualls stands. “It’s done.”
His words suck the air out of the room.
Kettleburn is the first to stand, always willing to set an example when everyone else is at a loss, even if he, himself, isn’t sure what to do. “It’s done,” he echoes. “One more step.”
The time to question Caleb’s decision has long since passed, but Zipporah still has to resist the urge to ask him one more time: are you sure? What about Marilynn? What about Bryce? The same questions he’s surely been asked a hundred thousand times by now.
One more excruciating second ticks by, and then Kettleburn steps forward to pull Mr. Qualls into a hug. “An honor and a pleasure, y’stubborn cabbage.” And before he can pull away, Pocket’s fluttered over to join the hug, too.
As Zipporah Crockett’s eyes blur with tears, she tilts her chin up. Just beyond the three of them is that awful hole, that wound in the very earth. The light inside it changes, not an ember but the dim blue of Peckenpaugh’s auditorium. Time to take a leap.
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peckenpaugh2020-06-01 11:18 am
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
She deems. Only then, inspecting her phone, does she take another moment to look around the room. "All right, but we should save Healer Crockett."
She's sure that legend feels secure, knowing who is traipsing around her memories, now.
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
Or grab them. Just as long as she can claim victory.
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
“How are you doing, dearheart?” Healer Crockett asks with a great deal more softness than has been seen of her outside of patient care.
Pocket’s head swivels and she meets the Head of Thorntrail’s concern with a wide, peaceful smile. “I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to do.”
That doesn’t seem quite like an answer, but Zipporah isn’t sure if that’s intentional or not. The magimagicicada are often like that. The healer quirks her head to the side, about to say that she doesn’t understand, but it seems Pocket already knows.
“I’m going to help heal the hurt,” she confides to Zipporah and Ebenezer. That smile she holds falters, twitching down flat. “It’s the least I can do. It’s what I have to do. For my brothers and sisters. For El, for Cal, for everyone hurt, and everyone still living. I’m glad that I can do it.”
Before either Head of House can remark on Pocket’s words, Caleb Qualls stands. “It’s done.”
His words suck the air out of the room.
Kettleburn is the first to stand, always willing to set an example when everyone else is at a loss, even if he, himself, isn’t sure what to do. “It’s done,” he echoes. “One more step.”
The time to question Caleb’s decision has long since passed, but Zipporah still has to resist the urge to ask him one more time: are you sure? What about Marilynn? What about Bryce? The same questions he’s surely been asked a hundred thousand times by now.
One more excruciating second ticks by, and then Kettleburn steps forward to pull Mr. Qualls into a hug. “An honor and a pleasure, y’stubborn cabbage.” And before he can pull away, Pocket’s fluttered over to join the hug, too.
As Zipporah Crockett’s eyes blur with tears, she tilts her chin up. Just beyond the three of them is that awful hole, that wound in the very earth. The light inside it changes, not an ember but the dim blue of Peckenpaugh’s auditorium. Time to take a leap.