....Oh God.
He was in a good mood earlier. There is no good reason Caliban should be curled in a deep, dark corner of the Mansion, rocking back and forth, making small noises like a wounded animal in a voice exhausted by screaming, his eyes bloodshot as though someone threw sand in them, his arms wrapped around his knees and one hand holding a pistol. He just found one and is sincerely considering using it.
He's a wreck, basically. Tears streaking his face, he can't stop moving but doesn't have the strength to get up. At least it's dark here. He doesn't want anyone to find him. Not even Molly. "Oh, Jesus, Molly," he says in a very hoarse voice, and shudders violently.
There is no way he's going to come out of here ever again, he has decided. He should have died a year ago with Niko's sword in his belly. Godamn, why didn't he?
Caliban picks up the pistol again, hands trembling, and just looks at it, stomach lurching. One hand finds the scar on his stomach under his shirt and he shakes harder. "Niko," he says hoarsely, barely audible.
Um. So basically. I am a bad typist and crackplotted him into remembering Bad Things. Carry on. :|
He's a wreck, basically. Tears streaking his face, he can't stop moving but doesn't have the strength to get up. At least it's dark here. He doesn't want anyone to find him. Not even Molly. "Oh, Jesus, Molly," he says in a very hoarse voice, and shudders violently.
There is no way he's going to come out of here ever again, he has decided. He should have died a year ago with Niko's sword in his belly. Godamn, why didn't he?
Caliban picks up the pistol again, hands trembling, and just looks at it, stomach lurching. One hand finds the scar on his stomach under his shirt and he shakes harder. "Niko," he says hoarsely, barely audible.
Um. So basically. I am a bad typist and crackplotted him into remembering Bad Things. Carry on. :|