Frank lets him go; one hand on the floor, one on the neck of the bottle. Kira curls his hands to fists and clenches his teeth, as Frank ellaborates, all but vibrating with mounted frustration. He closes his eyes; he takes a breath. He holds in the immediate reaction, building behind his pursed lips.
It didn't happen.
None of that happened. Fuck you. Fuck your special ops violent backstory bullshit. Fuck them for getting to pretend it happened, because it's a memory they share. He has a picture that could be of anyone, he has a coat with a bloodstain that has never gotten him Ty, remade, rolling out of the fountain. He has cards that only mean as much as their symbols, that offer none of the guidance they once did, and probably never meant anything in the first place.
He wants to tell Frank all of it; he wants to open his mouth and scream.
But more than a betrayal of Karen, it would just--it would be awful. He's being awful; he's always awful, he knows, but fuck if he's going to tell Frank to be there for her, and then tell him the reason is all in his stupid, copy of a copy head. A brain grown in a jar, electric shocks mimicking life. They don't even fucking know. They're never going to know.
Frank has never shot anyone.
Karen has never published a single story.
Kira has never told a single future, including his own.
And he can't tell him that; they are friends. These are the only people he has, and everything he misses, everyone, is just some part of a script. Something that maybe once was. Something that won't ever be again. "That's great, Frank." The words are hollow and hoarse to his own ears, and another swig does nothing for it. He leaves the bottle on the shelf, eases Aurora off of his lap, and starts to pull himself up. Once he's standing, he makes himself turn, holding onto the shelves for support.
"But that's not all she believes about you. That's not all of who you are. We don't have any guns for you to shoot, around here. Never have, probably never will. Be the other fucking parts; especially around her."
no subject
It didn't happen.
None of that happened. Fuck you. Fuck your special ops violent backstory bullshit. Fuck them for getting to pretend it happened, because it's a memory they share. He has a picture that could be of anyone, he has a coat with a bloodstain that has never gotten him Ty, remade, rolling out of the fountain. He has cards that only mean as much as their symbols, that offer none of the guidance they once did, and probably never meant anything in the first place.
He wants to tell Frank all of it; he wants to open his mouth and scream.
But more than a betrayal of Karen, it would just--it would be awful. He's being awful; he's always awful, he knows, but fuck if he's going to tell Frank to be there for her, and then tell him the reason is all in his stupid, copy of a copy head. A brain grown in a jar, electric shocks mimicking life. They don't even fucking know. They're never going to know.
Frank has never shot anyone.
Karen has never published a single story.
Kira has never told a single future, including his own.
And he can't tell him that; they are friends. These are the only people he has, and everything he misses, everyone, is just some part of a script. Something that maybe once was. Something that won't ever be again. "That's great, Frank." The words are hollow and hoarse to his own ears, and another swig does nothing for it. He leaves the bottle on the shelf, eases Aurora off of his lap, and starts to pull himself up. Once he's standing, he makes himself turn, holding onto the shelves for support.
"But that's not all she believes about you. That's not all of who you are. We don't have any guns for you to shoot, around here. Never have, probably never will. Be the other fucking parts; especially around her."