She keeps waiting for it. Quiet and still on her table while people throw back the more expected of responses louder, piling over each other, defense to the attack, turning the topic into smaller bits. Her legs stayed crossed and her hands stay still on her jeans. The more people move, the more noise they make, the more they fidget, the more their voice tighten, the more still she is. Contained.
She shouldn't be, but she’s still waiting for it. Keeps waiting for it. A logical, well laid out, thought through, reason out of any mouth that does not break down to the desperation of survival, to trusting the maw that bites at them everyday because they, supposedly, have no other choice.
This is why she refused to act or speak from emotion about it. Only logic was allowed in her choice. Hard. Cold. Experienced. Logic. This is why she knew what would happen when her hands were still on the last container, still looking down at those weapons, when she said they had to come back. The very manipulable desperation for survival could justify just about any slight, or taint, or cost, or later repercussions, if you gave it long enough.
Hell had proved that. The Apocalypse had proven that. History proved that left and right, all over every book.
And this one?
This was just a very little one. So far. A tiny step. Because the need ’was so great, you see. It was worth it.’
With so many people you could pick out that were already salivating over the weapons in the boxes, and the ones laid out as examples on table, hunters and farmers and domestics alike. And people were already trying to change the narrative, by changing the name for the weapons, and justifications about their use. Like all of that couldn’t change in an instant. In necessity. In further desperation.
no subject
She shouldn't be, but she’s still waiting for it. Keeps waiting for it. A logical, well laid out, thought through, reason out of any mouth that does not break down to the desperation of survival, to trusting the maw that bites at them everyday because they, supposedly, have no other choice.
This is why she refused to act or speak from emotion about it. Only logic was allowed in her choice. Hard. Cold. Experienced. Logic. This is why she knew what would happen when her hands were still on the last container, still looking down at those weapons, when she said they had to come back. The very manipulable desperation for survival could justify just about any slight, or taint, or cost, or later repercussions, if you gave it long enough.
Hell had proved that. The Apocalypse had proven that.
History proved that left and right, all over every book.
And this one?
This was just a very little one. So far. A tiny step.
Because the need ’was so great, you see. It was worth it.’
With so many people you could pick out that were already salivating over the weapons in the boxes, and the ones laid out as examples on table, hunters and farmers and domestics alike. And people were already trying to change the narrative, by changing the name for the weapons, and justifications about their use. Like all of that couldn’t change in an instant. In necessity. In further desperation.