(no subject)
A very tired, very shaken May stumbles into the Nexus. She has a hand clutched tightly over her head, covering her left eye. The skin there, half-hidden, is purplish, bruised. Someone has a habit of picking at scabs.
She stares upwards at the sign, pallid fingers clutching the hole in her head all the tighter.
"...Why...are there so many..perfect parts..."
She sinks into a couch nearby, woozy, not quite all there.
"...Why can't...someone be per..perfect.."
She stares upwards at the sign, pallid fingers clutching the hole in her head all the tighter.
"...Why...are there so many..perfect parts..."
She sinks into a couch nearby, woozy, not quite all there.
"...Why can't...someone be per..perfect.."