Entry tags:

2215-02-03, dewitt, ezra

Who: DeWitt & Ezra
What: All this tension in camp.
Where: The crew corral.
When: A little while before sunset.

Ezra closed his eyes and leaned in to the stack of sturdy boxes at his side. He was situated in the back of the van; door swung open, and had fashioned something of a couch from boxes and a blanket laid over them and the van's floor. He had one foot out and one in; his form stretch along the length of where the back doors anchored when they were closed. There was a bottle of whiskey in one hand; he had it resting against the side facing the openness of camp.

He was still pissed off that there was Haven Military in their camp, and those fuckers weren't dead. They were off limits; were being nursed back to health, and they would be sent back to Haven. To their hive. Ezra had been tense since the moment that declaration had been made, but there were other factors stated that had taken hold of him more deeply. That story Flint had told? Truths; frightening to so many others, but he got it. There were barbaric people; one lived within his own heart. It should come as no shock, and it didn't. At least, not to him and those who sheltered such things within them. Now, to be a considered target of a horde of viciousness? Just how big was this army? He'd been watching people all day, taking in their reactions to the news. Ezra had ghosted through the camp; even without his abilities in practice, watching some of his 'fellow' Diaspora had been easy. No one really paid him any mind or notice. They were so distracted, so concerned. So afraid.

They were going to be sitting ducks, what with these common reactions. Even if they moved, didn't matter. Sitting fucking ducks, with a great big target on their back. He rolled his eyes at the thought, and took another deep swig of the whiskey he'd procured. There was a slight buzz running under his skin; it was warm, comfortable and made the texture of his flannel shirt feel almost like thick velvet against his skin. Was he going to drink until he couldn't remember his own name? It depended, really. Maybe. He had to see what the others in the family wanted to do. The fact that he was sitting in the midst of a living target made him want to forget a lot of shit, but the majority of his actions were always dependent upon those he loved. If they went, so did he. If they remained, he would be stationary too. As for his own wants? They didn't matter. If he'd had no one left? He would have been gone from this place a long time ago, and none of this would matter a shit to him. There was a small voice which snickered inside of him, of course - that he might, had he not almost died as a child, been part of this army the camp was so terrified of. It was a possibility of another life and he knew it. Did it bother him? Not in the least. He'd long known what he was. How could he not, when he was reminded at least once a week by someone else in the camp?