(no subject)
He'd come to the Compound in search of something to mark the missing of a friend. Somehow, he thought he'd be used to it now, like having it happen so often would put you into the frame of mind that let a man deal with the constant blows of loss and death. The loss of the Mystic Man had pierced him thick in the heart and losing Adora forever had sealed him off. Now, Glitch seemed determined to get him to open up again, slowly, and somehow that made it the worse when loss happened.
So when Cain noticed Stormy was gone, all he could think to do was go brew himself some vanilla ice cream and eat it in her stead, with a 'here's to you' muttered too low to be audible.
He'd been thinking on her for a while, now. Every time he changed shirts and saw the wound. Every time he latched his gun into the holster. Every time he saw anything even remotely tasting of vanilla. Right then, though, with the jukebox playing the tune that heralded the Mystic Man's entrance in Central, he was sitting with a block of wood and his razor, carving idly away at the wood and whittling it down from a block into something far more compact, far more close -- a far more intimate lick of a thing.
It was to be some kind of ring. Parted in two with something so simple as a line, but it was something to put his mind to, instead of thinking of what his own gold ring symbolized (the loss it spoke of), or what the music meant to him, of just another fallen friend. There were too many of them and now he saw their specters in the people who shared his home. Loss and grief and he still didn't know how to deal with either of them.
So when Cain noticed Stormy was gone, all he could think to do was go brew himself some vanilla ice cream and eat it in her stead, with a 'here's to you' muttered too low to be audible.
He'd been thinking on her for a while, now. Every time he changed shirts and saw the wound. Every time he latched his gun into the holster. Every time he saw anything even remotely tasting of vanilla. Right then, though, with the jukebox playing the tune that heralded the Mystic Man's entrance in Central, he was sitting with a block of wood and his razor, carving idly away at the wood and whittling it down from a block into something far more compact, far more close -- a far more intimate lick of a thing.
It was to be some kind of ring. Parted in two with something so simple as a line, but it was something to put his mind to, instead of thinking of what his own gold ring symbolized (the loss it spoke of), or what the music meant to him, of just another fallen friend. There were too many of them and now he saw their specters in the people who shared his home. Loss and grief and he still didn't know how to deal with either of them.