You hate Marduk, and you hate Riccin, and you hate Pheres, because if you weren't with them, you wouldn't be about to die.
And right now, Mardie is at the top of the list, because she's keep trying to talk to you, her bottom lip trembling like she's got any right to be upset when all of this is all her fault. You're never going to do a favor for her ever again. You're never going to do a favor for anyone ever, ever again, even if you don't die, but you are, and...
"You're so dumb," you accuse Marduk, petting your lusus. She's bumping her antennae against you, mandibles pinching gently at your skin as she tries to figure out what has you so upset. Your throat is too tight for the chirps and hums that you use to communicate with her, though, and so you just pet her instead, trying to draw comfort from the smooth press of her exoskeleton against your skin. "You're SO dumb."
(Lowbloods never leave lasting ghosts: there's too many, and they've got no resistance to the other psychic imprints. They start off strong, brighter and realer than all the rest, but all they do is rub and rub and rub on each other, until a perigee or three passes and there's nothing left but an imprint with no memories and a dozen names. You tried keeping lowbloods leashed, when you were little and hopeful, and all that happened is that they rubbed off on you instead, piece by piece, until fading away entirely.)
(When you die, there'll be no one to leash you and try to keep you real. You'll just be one of those blobs in the sewers, with no name and no face and no -)
"They can't run my symbol 'cause I don't have a symbol," you warble, spitting out the words, and now you're crying, gross, ugly sobs that you don't bother to try and keep in. You're going to die and it's going to be forever. "I don't have a symbol or an ID or anything else and they're going to cull me and it's all your fault!"
[so the hysteria is like when cops bust underage drinking] [except in this case]
And right now, Mardie is at the top of the list, because she's keep trying to talk to you, her bottom lip trembling like she's got any right to be upset when all of this is all her fault. You're never going to do a favor for her ever again. You're never going to do a favor for anyone ever, ever again, even if you don't die, but you are, and...
"You're so dumb," you accuse Marduk, petting your lusus. She's bumping her antennae against you, mandibles pinching gently at your skin as she tries to figure out what has you so upset. Your throat is too tight for the chirps and hums that you use to communicate with her, though, and so you just pet her instead, trying to draw comfort from the smooth press of her exoskeleton against your skin. "You're SO dumb."
(Lowbloods never leave lasting ghosts: there's too many, and they've got no resistance to the other psychic imprints. They start off strong, brighter and realer than all the rest, but all they do is rub and rub and rub on each other, until a perigee or three passes and there's nothing left but an imprint with no memories and a dozen names. You tried keeping lowbloods leashed, when you were little and hopeful, and all that happened is that they rubbed off on you instead, piece by piece, until fading away entirely.)
(When you die, there'll be no one to leash you and try to keep you real. You'll just be one of those blobs in the sewers, with no name and no face and no -)
"They can't run my symbol 'cause I don't have a symbol," you warble, spitting out the words, and now you're crying, gross, ugly sobs that you don't bother to try and keep in. You're going to die and it's going to be forever. "I don't have a symbol or an ID or anything else and they're going to cull me and it's all your fault!"