WHO: Katurian Katurian and Wanda Maximoff
WHERE: City streets
WHEN: June 9th, after dark
WARNINGS: Description of past injury.
SUMMARY: Wanda encounters a depressed Katurian by the side of the road about a week after his latest
failure.
FORMAT: Starting with paragraph, feel free to chose either!
(
cause we all know art is hard )
Bewildered and concerned, she promptly dismissed all sense of self-preservation, padding quietly up to the crying man in the dark.
"Excuse me," she murmured, voice soft and gentle as she crouched down beside him, still far enough away to not be impolite. "What's wrong?"
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"Fine," he slurred. "Thank you."
Then he recognized her voice, as though filtered through a delay. He chanced a look at her. The night shadows could almost disguise the slight burns on his face, the bruise on his neck. He was otherwise the same Katurian. Small. Skinny. Well-dressed, but disheveled. Wanda was someone who had been friendly to him, who thought his stories were well written, who put up with his neuroses when they first met. He felt his face grow hot with shame.
"O-Oh," he breathed.
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"Oh, you poor boy," she whispered, somehow managing to sound sympathetic rather than condescending as she tentatively reached out in an attempt to push his hair back from his face. "What happened to you?"
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"I'm not usually like this," he said a little too quickly, his good hand fidgeting with the typewriter. "I'm usually-- very well-composed, and to see me like this, I mean-- I'm-- I'm very well-composed."
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She was quiet for a moment, and then spoke again, softly. "Do you want to talk about it?"
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He winced an inhale, feeling the pressure on his rib.
"Can you just tell me about your day?" he asked, his voice small and wavering.
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"I just got back from LA, actually. I've been working at the refugee camps, handing out blankets and band-aids to the HIVE escapees. I'll probably go back tomorrow, but.. I needed a break. It had been three days since I'd been home, and.. well, I wasn't sure I could go any longer without washing my hair." Despite the subject matter, her tone was light, almost inane. Calm.
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"You like helping people," he said. He didn't look up.
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"It -- I've always found more comfort in.. in helping other people with their problems, than.. facing my own."
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"I--" He swallowed, nodding. "Yes. I understand." He let his hand relax. "I mean, I'm n-no--"
His eyes fell on the street in front of them, on dim signs and lights he hadn't been supposed to see since his real death almost nine months ago. He sucked in a breath.
"I'm not a hero."
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"So few of us are," Wanda murmured, looking down at her half-forgotten frappachino.
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