the aftermath. COMPLETE.
| PRESENT ;
| caim, lawfer ;
| dick in a box turned dick in a sling ;
| forward dated to about 36 hours after anima collapses ;
| archives ;
After Anima's disappearance, the rest was nothing but a blur to him. He remembered Nina's pained gasp, a bloody arm and something not beyond his abilities to temporary treat (he had called for Caim, for Erielle, but where where they, where were they?), and dust everywhere. He remembered getting yelled at by Erielle, for one, and not saying anything in retaliation despite his stinging cheek because he shouldn't have done that, should have never raised his gun at Nina. But there was no other way, was there-?
He remembered being tired of all this.
It took him a full day to recover, on a bed he snagged soon after everything had settled down. (Last he recalled, she was safe, in a bed somewhere, with Ava, with her sister, with the person most important to her and-) There were no physical wounds as far as he could tell, but the past couple of days had taken its toll on him-no sleep, no rest, no sound of mind-but things were different now. Calmer. Quieter. Not necessarily safer, but for now, he could trust Nina to be safe. It didn't stop him from wondering, however, feet finally touching the cold ground from what seemed like an eternity of sleep (but not enough, never enough)-
Ah, no, this wasn't right.
This wasn't the city he remembered. This wasn't the conflict he remembered. And most of all, this wasn't the people he remembered. Long years had passed for all of them, and subtle changes were something Lawfer was good at catching. Four years was a long time to take into consideration, enough for one girl to grow up, one boy to realize the wheels turning around him, enough for them to realize that there's something wrong with everything around them. Enough to see the people once looked up to on a different light, as entirely fallible human beings, right, wrong, justified, unjustified, strong, weak-equal.
-he stopped in front of the archives, a place he swore to never set foot in again without good reason. But he had a reason, didn't he? And this time, with a motive. Taking slow steps, Lawfer looked up at the building too big to underlie its actual rate of usefulness, finally reaching the end. Hands grasp the end of his weapon ("It's busted, isn't it? I'll fix it u-" "Later, later!") and he stops, eyeing the barrel of the gun before resting it on his shoulder, a move for comfort more than anything else.
Pushing open the tall, wooden doors, Lawfer made his way in, letting the doors shut with an annoying squeak, and then a bang. He'd do something like that on purpose in the past, to let everyone in the archives know that he had entered-it was no different this time, save for the fact that he had purpose.
Purpose. To him, it was like a new word, a new privilege to play around with. No, not play-rather, to act upon. It showed in the way he looked forward, without hesitation.
"Caim!"
His voice echoed.