Who: Marlene Abendroth [ coldestblood ] When: May 12th, early evening Where: Building 2, third floor, VCU break room What: Dealing with the aftermath of the discovery of what was in the mass grave. Warnings: Some swearing, typical Marlene venom in case that needs warning about Rating: PG-13
While it had been a nice idea, training did not take the edge off but only a few things could these days. The more serious matters became, the more she found herself wondering what could be done, how her unit could pull it together more tightly. At times, she let herself dwell in a fantasy where she took out the tongues and chopped off the fingers of those who abused the privilege of being able to communicate easily. With common sense her friend and to avoid some booze-tainted moment to convince her to murder her so-called co-workers, she stuck to tea over liquor, finding the idea of even drinking on campus less than tasteful or sensible unless for celebratory reasons. Her fifth cup was warming her hands, her sore feet propped up during a break. Her mind, given the chance now, wandered.
Upon her return from the site of the mass grave, the fetid odor of all that resided in the ground seemed to have permeated into her clothing, forcing her to discard the jacket, blouse and pants. Decay and rot were part of the job but to see that much at once was even overwhelming even for someone who behaved as if she had a stone for a heart. The extent that the mysterious organization had gone through to target, kill and terrify was beyond words.
And that stone now had a crack in it since hearing her family be threatened. It had become so deeply personal, a matter that was hitting too close to home. Judging from what the Winters family, the Renaud fellow and others had discovered, it was something no one could make lighter. It also seemed some people did not get why (even if for the sake of being logical) the matter of personal death was nothing to behave indifferently about. The death of the enemy was one thing and this was another. Though she had eyed the post and rolled her eyes in disdain, Marlene had not dignified that blonde demon with a reply, knowing that the creature was as harmless as she was useless. Everything about her was hot air, giving the vibe that she so lacked understanding of humanity (shocking, if she was supposedly such an old creature) and no substance. She was just something that spoke for the attention over contribution. And, most humourous of all, if she so felt that way, wouldn't it be terribly brave of her to say it to Marlene's face? At least Maxwell had it in him to do just that though Marlene would never air that aloud.
No, the cowardly little demon would be ignored (even through unsent comments) regardless of how loudly she blathered on in public. As if anyone with two brain cells to rub together gave a serious fuck about what she thought. She'd seen better and more terrifying demons, the ones who lived up to the reputation of their species and it would be those she would give acknowledgment. Even air-headed faeries deserved a harsh word more if only to put them in place and force them to grow-up or get out.
If only most of the Academy didn't trigger action ranging from stinging facepalms to complete irritation and hot-tempered verbal lashings. The slayer was partly aware how these feelings hindered her at times. That thinking and feeling this way just held her in place, no doubt delaying her ascent into a position of power but at least it did not leak into her work.
That in mind, she circled back to what did deserve any comment on the community at all. After the panic she endured, the inability to do nothing for her family or even offer solid advice to those in the same position as she had been, some had been given a conclusion no one wanted. And then those in her position had been given a momentary relief from the unimaginable pain suffered by their co-workers just before realizing there could be another grave somewhere or that the organization could just be waiting to strike again. At that point, it was back to the starting point, of waiting, wanting answers and actions but not being able to do a thing without high risks.
A shuddering, frustrated breath passed from between her dry lips, the cup clattering as it was shakily put down on the saucer. With her fingertips to her forehead, pressing just near her hairline, she did what she had advised the fox shifter to do and prayed with her cracked little heart to spare the other named.