In the long, anonymous streets somewhere, Les moves to scrub fresh blood from his lips with the back of his hand; stops walking, surprised to see the shadow of someone he knows
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McKinley ... almost winces, at that. Reflexive conscience.
He shakes his head.
"I understand things have become ... difficult," he says, sounding frustrated. Clearly he's been his only audience for this particular monologue. "And I knew from the beginning that the two of us wouldn't see eye-to-eye on everything. But I can't--"
He looks to Les. He has to understand this, at least, even if he doesn't feel the same way about it.
McKinley frowns, startled and pained in equal measure. Your heart breaks, talking to this boy-- maybe it shouldn't, maybe he's being condescending without meaning to.
He hesitates.
"It's ..."
Another frown, this one thoughtful.
"For me, it's very grounded in how I grew up. What my parents taught me, the kind of example they set ... eventually, I think you can create your own sense of right and wrong-- but a great deal of it is ingrained. That's why social and moral structures can be helpful ..."
He glances at Les to see if this is having any effect.
"I don't know," McKinley admits. "I think-- there were some things I always felt to be wrong, and things I always felt to be right, even without being told. But it was others who provided me with my first ... guidance. Direction."
It's only Les.
He shakes his head to clear it. He's eaten, but not recently-- his luck has been bad.
He smells blood on the air now, however.
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And gives McKinley a rather helpless expression, for someone with blood on his mouth.
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"Les."
He can't tell if it's pity or plain discomfort mingling with hunger; it ought to be ridiculous, that blood and that look.
Ought to be, anyway.
McKinley runs a hand through his hair.
"Mostly around here, actually. There's been ..." He trails off, apologetic.
"It was better, being here."
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Not insinuating anything by it. Just asking.
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Did Les not have a problem?
(Well. Maybe he didn't. Who knows?)
"I, ah ... took issue with Miss Pullman's particular brand of crisis management." His lips draw into a hard line. "That's all."
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"I . . . "
But rather than explain what it is he felt about it, Les says, "Why?"
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He shakes his head.
"I understand things have become ... difficult," he says, sounding frustrated. Clearly he's been his only audience for this particular monologue. "And I knew from the beginning that the two of us wouldn't see eye-to-eye on everything. But I can't--"
He looks to Les. He has to understand this, at least, even if he doesn't feel the same way about it.
"There are some things I can't do."
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Les looks up. Has connected can't and shouldn't without prompting.
Does not know why.
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He hesitates.
"It's ..."
Another frown, this one thoughtful.
"For me, it's very grounded in how I grew up. What my parents taught me, the kind of example they set ... eventually, I think you can create your own sense of right and wrong-- but a great deal of it is ingrained. That's why social and moral structures can be helpful ..."
He glances at Les to see if this is having any effect.
"Does that make sense?"
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After a moment, he says, "So it's a thing you learn from other people, before you can do it yourself."
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"They were bystanders."
His voice is a little harsher, too.
"That's why it was wrong. Blood isn't-- not to be cliche, but it's not the opiate of the masses."
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"What would you have done?"
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"What I did do, I think."
A shrug, a little helpless. "Buried her. Grieved. Offered comfort, if I could have."
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