The silence- or more, the quiet sound of terrible things moving slowly in the dark, the sound of metal on concrete- is broken suddenly, and the heavy atmosphere almost seems to fade a little. It all begins with one word.
"MOTHERFUCKER!!" Banging noises accompany it, the sound of Troy smashing a crowbar into anything and everything in the hallway. "I'm not going through this shit again! I'm already in touch with my inner child, or whatever shit you wanted to show me. YOU HEAR ME! I'M NOT DOING IT! WHERE IS LYNN!" There's more banging and some shattering noises as he smashes more pictures on the wall.
Then he turns a corner and it's only Troy and Eileen in the hallway. Troy stops smashing things and just stares, trying to figure out if this is some trick. "Hello?" he asks, warily.
The sound of Troy Abernathy rampaging about with a crowbar sets her heart slamming into overdrive, but the fog of panic does not settle over her thoughts and eyes. Self-preservation pipes in, though, and points out that there are smarter safer ways to create this encounter than running up and shouting his name some more. She takes three shaky steps backwards, tucking herself into the darkened corner at her end of the passage, where the walls themselves seem sloppily wrapped in bandages and there's no crazily swinging light to make her sudden appearance in front of him extra surprising. And most importantly, giving them a good fifteen feet of space in which to work this out before she'd be forced to pull her gun on him again
( ... )
He watches all of this very patiently, letting her go through her dance of self-preservation. His expression is carefully blank as he listens, but near the end, his mouth twitches up into a smirk. Stop trying to kill her, indeed.
The frightened look is gone- or at least, on hold for the moment. He wipes the sweat off his forehead and addresses her tiredly. "Miss Galvin, was it? Good to finally meet you, I suppose. You seen a little bald-headed teenage girl running around here anywhere, or is that pushing my luck too far?"
She stares at him in utter incredulity, jaw dropped as though he'd just burst into song. "Y-you're serious? You hear me? Jesus Christ, I'd hug you if I wasn't falling apart, I... Holy shit!" Her bark of a laugh is half-choked. The outburst is not the rational, dignified, or properly stricken response to this situation, but she's so overwhelmed with gratitude and relief that she just doesn't care. "I haven't seen her, I-I think she got turned around, or you did, I don't know, all I know is you two got separated so Henry and I, he went one way and I went this way and so I hope he has her, he probably does, he saves people's lives, he doesn't think that he does but he does." She snaps her mouth abruptly shut, realizing that in her delight and low blood pressure, she's letting herself act far too ordinary for this situation
( ... )
Only half of what Eileen was saying made any sense. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised- this place played all sorts of mind games on you. She must have been confused by them. But her question was a valid one. He put a hand to his leg to check it, and found that was a bad idea. The infected area pulsated with pain, and he caught himself wincing.
"Nothing I can't handle," he says, shaking his head. "But how about you? You look like someone put you back together with duct tape." There is concern in his voice- she was not in good shape. "Maybe we should get you better situated before we move on- or at least let me take a look."
"Appreciated," she agrees to the offer, with an added, "But nothing I can't handle." The echo honestly and lacking any hint of mockery or reproach. She can live, fight even, on worse than this. Cruel and strange, but true. She bows her head and fiddles with the belt chafing at her neck, finding herself making an admission to fill the air. Perhaps she feels compelled to make up for their awful mutually-one-sided confrontation in the parking lot with more doses of honesty than strangers are usually awarded within the first two minutes of conversation. "You know, I felt pretty angry when you called us 'Broken Sacraments' back there, but you wouldn't believe how pitiful I was when I did this before. Broken arm, two places, wrist too; two broken ribs; broken skull, below my eye like. Guess I sort of was one." She regrets it pretty quickly; digging that confrontation back up just when things have started looking up may be dumb
( ... )
He nods through her explanation. Definite trauma- this is hard for her to talk about, but compared to the rest of the events of the day? She must have figured she might as well. Also, some possible bargaining; she's trying to make herself vulnerable so he can feel like he needs to help her. She needn't have bothered.
The last comment definitely gets his attention, though- he immediately checks his pocket and pulls out a small bottle of percocete. It was officially for Lynn, but that was really just what he'd been telling himself. He had popped one or two since they got here. "Well, if that's really the case- even if it's not- you definitely need one of these." He takes a single pill out and holds it out for her. "I'd give you something to drink, but- well, you know. Stuck in a hellhole and all of that."
Eileen's never been onboard with disguising her gratitude to maintain a cool collected face. She nods with her thanks in her eyes and knocks the tablet back like a pro. Perhaps it's the bad light, but shadows of bruises seem to shrink like islands being swallowed by tides. Her posture gradually straightens; the pain in her arm and the gash across her torso doesn't wash away, but fades to something less brutal. And after some experimental flexing, she finally pulls the makeshift splints off of more normally-sized fingers. "Listen, I want to tell you something, if you haven't figured it yet already. What this place tells you, what it shows you, it's true but it isn't honest. Like a bent mirror from the wrong angle, you know?" The faint laugh lines at the corners of her eyes disappear when a distant banging noise echoes along the narrow walls, immediately drawing her attention. When she turns back to him, her voice is more cautiously quiet. "I don't know what question it's asking you, but trust me on this. Think about the
( ... )
Hearing that term brought up in this place? Nearly gets a guffaw out off him. As it is, he chuckles. Eileen's the right age to be a fan of his book, but after all this? Maybe she was a fan before all this happened to her. He'd prefer the trauma and determination in her eyes now. "Right. Much easier to preach than the practice, although I didn't exactly have this sort off trial in mind."
A concern enters his mind, but he shakes it off as he starts following her. "You know, I wish I had gone crazy? That this was a psychotic break, and they have me in a padded cell next to Lynn's- or better yet, in some overpriced Hollywood facility. But every time I try to analyze it and detach, there are details that don't make any sense for them to be here. And who knows, maybe that's just my mind compensating, but I'd honestly rather I was crazy. It's just not the case, is it?" He sounds more non-chalant about the diagnosis than he really is, as if he's having a discussion about the weather.
Eileen is the last person who'd begrudge anyone their decision to appear blissfully casual in the face of an event with the potential to be soul-crushing. And she decides not to raise the point that, if the law of averages holds, he'll probably get his wish. Like others before him, he probably will be a little bit crazy even if they get back no worse for the wear than they are in this moment. She shoots him a conflicted look from behind a straggly fall of hair, and then is back to her strained hope. "No. It's not. But if it makes you feel any better, you've probably got a leg up on the rest of us. Analyzing and all
( ... )
Troy laughs, a bitter and small sort of bark in this atmosphere. "If this is the right way, I'd hate to see the wrong way." He eyes the hand with a queasy disgust and does his best to keep walking. He finds this place more familiar than he should, he imagines, and he wonders if its got something to do with it reacting to him, like she said. "I guess thinking happy thoughts is working out better than I'd expected," he adds, less sarcastically
( ... )
"MOTHERFUCKER!!" Banging noises accompany it, the sound of Troy smashing a crowbar into anything and everything in the hallway. "I'm not going through this shit again! I'm already in touch with my inner child, or whatever shit you wanted to show me. YOU HEAR ME! I'M NOT DOING IT! WHERE IS LYNN!" There's more banging and some shattering noises as he smashes more pictures on the wall.
Then he turns a corner and it's only Troy and Eileen in the hallway. Troy stops smashing things and just stares, trying to figure out if this is some trick. "Hello?" he asks, warily.
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The frightened look is gone- or at least, on hold for the moment. He wipes the sweat off his forehead and addresses her tiredly. "Miss Galvin, was it? Good to finally meet you, I suppose. You seen a little bald-headed teenage girl running around here anywhere, or is that pushing my luck too far?"
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"Nothing I can't handle," he says, shaking his head. "But how about you? You look like someone put you back together with duct tape." There is concern in his voice- she was not in good shape. "Maybe we should get you better situated before we move on- or at least let me take a look."
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The last comment definitely gets his attention, though- he immediately checks his pocket and pulls out a small bottle of percocete. It was officially for Lynn, but that was really just what he'd been telling himself. He had popped one or two since they got here. "Well, if that's really the case- even if it's not- you definitely need one of these." He takes a single pill out and holds it out for her. "I'd give you something to drink, but- well, you know. Stuck in a hellhole and all of that."
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A concern enters his mind, but he shakes it off as he starts following her. "You know, I wish I had gone crazy? That this was a psychotic break, and they have me in a padded cell next to Lynn's- or better yet, in some overpriced Hollywood facility. But every time I try to analyze it and detach, there are details that don't make any sense for them to be here. And who knows, maybe that's just my mind compensating, but I'd honestly rather I was crazy. It's just not the case, is it?" He sounds more non-chalant about the diagnosis than he really is, as if he's having a discussion about the weather.
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