Erik stands behind the girl for some time, unaware of what words he can possibly offer to break the confines of such a mood that seems to have its spell upon her. He approaches slowly and thinks of Raven and what she might want to hear if she were in this place. Maybe there is nothing wrong. Maybe Erik is projecting his own worries upon someone else.
Still, he won't know until he breaks the silence and he's not sure what to say in order to do so. "Is there something out there?" he finally asks, daring to question instead of merely walking away.
Carla Jean has never been the jumpy sort. After the few weeks she's had, though, looking over her shoulder at every turn, and the way everything culminated there in her bedroom at her Mama's house, she can't help starting slightly at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, turning in its direction. Maybe she shouldn't be staying put, but hell, she's already dead. She doubts it could get much worse than that, and he doesn't seem, at a glance, like someone who'd want to hurt her.
"I ain't been here for more than a couple of minutes," she says, sniffling, rubbing at her eyes with the back of one hand. She's cried in public before and God knows she probably has reason to now, but that doesn't mean she needs to make a scene. "If there's something out there, I wouldn't know it."
Erik steps closer until he can see her profile. He keeps his distance, of course, given that he wouldn't want anyone too close to him if their situations were reversed. "If this is your first encounter with this place, then I apologize. I don't control it, but I can't help but feel sorry for your plight. It's the same one we're all in and few deserve it." Erik is still considering whom he feels deserving of such a torture, though he wouldn't say so aloud. "I'm Erik."
Carla Jean wants to tell the man not to feel sorry for her, that being just about the last thing she'd ever want, but in this instance, she can't work herself up to any biting remarks. It probably isn't called for, anyway. He's trying to help, she can see that, and as much as she hates to admit to needing help at all, present circumstances seem to call for it. She's just moments after facing her own death, and now in a place she doesn't know. Better this, anyway, than someone else out to kill her, like the past few minutes were just some fluke. "Carla Jean," she replies, forcing her voice closer to steadiness. "And I guess that means this is my first encounter with this place." The way he describes it is hardly reassuring, but she can appreciate that. Besides, it can't be any worse than what she just left.
The beach was not Thalia's favourite place on the island. It reminded her too much of California, of the lightning striking the sand and the strange disasters that always happened back home on the shore. Her distaste for it didn't make it any less useful. It was a nice clear stretch to run along, to just be free without falling into look out mode as happened in the jungle.
She spotted the bedraggled girl before she was within speaking distance of her. Slowly down, she came to a gentle halt just a few feet from her. "Hey. Rough day?"
It's probably pointless to just be standing out here, still dressed for a funeral, and not her own. (If she had one, Carla Jean wonders, would anyone come?) Even so, there's something calming about the ocean, and something too unsettling about the prospect of going further. She's dead, except to hear tell here, she isn't, and there's no telling what (or who) could be in those trees.
The voice that comes is one she doesn't recognize, but that's no surprise. It seems too unlikely that there'd be anyone she knows here. Letting out an exhale of a laugh, dry rather than actually amused, she nods. Rough day is an understatement. "Somethin' like that."
The way the girl was dressed didn't really cross Thalia's mind. They weren't her style, but people got stuck wearing all sorts of things they wouldn't normally wear here. It was pretty much normal. The girl looked a little warm and little out of it, but there was something nearly war-torn about her.
"New? Or have the natives just been restless in your general direction?" Sure, Thalia probably qualified as a native, but the comment still stood.
"New, apparently," Carla Jean says, one shoulder lifting. It's a weird descriptor when she doesn't feel new at anything - she's been alive for nineteen years and been through far more than most people of the same age, orphaned and widowed and murdered - but she gets the message anyway, and after the day she's had, isn't much in the mood for nitpicking. "Would never've thought to put it that way."
Depending on how you look at it, there's not much or a lot to look at on the beach. There's the sky, the everchanging assemblage of taunting stars, and there's that unreachable horizon.
Of course, all horizons should be unreachable, because that's the point of them, as far as Spike's concerned, but there's a difference in never reaching them and never being able to start.
But he walks, and he considers them, and sometimes he stumbles upon a woman looking like she hasn't had the best of days.
He pauses. Usually, he'd avoid this, but he's quixotic, and this one doesn't strike him the same way.
"Cigarette?" he says.
His supply is limited, but it's not like they're his cigarettes.
At least he's not asking her if she's okay. Carla Jean ought to be grateful for any concern - and on some level, she is, she won't pretend otherwise - but for the most part, the attention of strangers is a little disconcerting. She's reeling still, anyway, as she imagines should be expected. When she can barely even begin to grasp what's going on, the fact that she's not dead and everything else, it's hard to appreciate such things the way she thinks some would say she ought to.
The question, then - the offer - comes as a comparative relief, simple as it is. Llewelyn always thought her smoking was a dirty habit, but if there's any situation that calls for a cigarette, surely it's hers right now. "Thanks," she says, "that'd be great, yeah."
He retrieves the pack from his pocket and taps it against his palm, once, leaving a single cigarette poking out. He extends the pack for her to draw it out.
"Enjoy it," he says. "There aren't a lot of them around."
Oh, there's tobacco growing, it's not like he pays so little attention he doesn't know that, but it isn't the same thing.
"Not a lot of anything, from what I hear," Carla Jean says with a shrug, grateful even so as she plucks the cigarette from the pack. She doesn't mind that too much, though it's hard to mind anything when she shouldn't be any more than a corpse right now, and when all of this still feels too surreal, like any second it will just cease to exist. They say she'll get used to it, but she isn't taking anyone's word for that just yet. "You got a light?"
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Still, he won't know until he breaks the silence and he's not sure what to say in order to do so. "Is there something out there?" he finally asks, daring to question instead of merely walking away.
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"I ain't been here for more than a couple of minutes," she says, sniffling, rubbing at her eyes with the back of one hand. She's cried in public before and God knows she probably has reason to now, but that doesn't mean she needs to make a scene. "If there's something out there, I wouldn't know it."
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She spotted the bedraggled girl before she was within speaking distance of her. Slowly down, she came to a gentle halt just a few feet from her. "Hey. Rough day?"
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The voice that comes is one she doesn't recognize, but that's no surprise. It seems too unlikely that there'd be anyone she knows here. Letting out an exhale of a laugh, dry rather than actually amused, she nods. Rough day is an understatement. "Somethin' like that."
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"New? Or have the natives just been restless in your general direction?" Sure, Thalia probably qualified as a native, but the comment still stood.
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Of course, all horizons should be unreachable, because that's the point of them, as far as Spike's concerned, but there's a difference in never reaching them and never being able to start.
But he walks, and he considers them, and sometimes he stumbles upon a woman looking like she hasn't had the best of days.
He pauses. Usually, he'd avoid this, but he's quixotic, and this one doesn't strike him the same way.
"Cigarette?" he says.
His supply is limited, but it's not like they're his cigarettes.
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The question, then - the offer - comes as a comparative relief, simple as it is. Llewelyn always thought her smoking was a dirty habit, but if there's any situation that calls for a cigarette, surely it's hers right now. "Thanks," she says, "that'd be great, yeah."
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"Enjoy it," he says. "There aren't a lot of them around."
Oh, there's tobacco growing, it's not like he pays so little attention he doesn't know that, but it isn't the same thing.
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