[ there's something about the memory that leaves crea with a disgusted taste in his mouth. watching it occur from her eyes, crea's able to feel her boredom and unwillingness to give these innocent people any mercy. perhaps they were not 100% innocent, but they were civilians. to kill them is unfair and cruel.
but it works. so when the memory ends, crea can't bring himself to denounce waltaquin's actions immediately, because he knows that they had the desire effect. but he knows that couldn't be everything to it, and he's about to speak up...
when the world distorts again and, waltaquin too, can see a certain memory ]
[Waltaquin feels no guilt or remorse for the memory Crea experiences, even after he's been put through the paces of witnessing it. There's simply...nothing to be sorry for, whether that's because she cannot see her actions in any other way or because she has no associated feeling with the memory or some third more twisted reason.
What she sees in return, however, is only somewhat surprising. She thinks she sensed some part of it within him along, a similarity that made it so much more enjoyable to run her fingernails underneath the seams to see what might pull up.
He hates killing, surely, perhaps more than anything else in the world. She herself cannot understand it, hating that thrill that sparks every time, perhaps no more than he can imagine not loving the friend onto whom he's pinned his entire heart.
But it's the thing he's the very best at, too.
When the exchange has ended, Waltaquin can't bring herself to speak at first, either.
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but it works. so when the memory ends, crea can't bring himself to denounce waltaquin's actions immediately, because he knows that they had the desire effect. but he knows that couldn't be everything to it, and he's about to speak up...
when the world distorts again and, waltaquin too, can see a certain memory ]
crawls sheepishly back toward memshare
What she sees in return, however, is only somewhat surprising. She thinks she sensed some part of it within him along, a similarity that made it so much more enjoyable to run her fingernails underneath the seams to see what might pull up.
He hates killing, surely, perhaps more than anything else in the world. She herself cannot understand it, hating that thrill that sparks every time, perhaps no more than he can imagine not loving the friend onto whom he's pinned his entire heart.
But it's the thing he's the very best at, too.
When the exchange has ended, Waltaquin can't bring herself to speak at first, either.
So she laughs.]
ME THINKING I REPLIED TO THIS OH MY GOD
crea...
feels irritated. bitterly, he grins, eyes sharp as ice. ]
What's so funny, Waltaquin? Hm?