Re: log: eddie/damian edwards island
Damian listened without much reaction as Nelson spoke. He had no feelings about 'depression,' and he did not wish to express anything else, so, with the help of his hoodie shadowing his face, he did not. He smoked his cigarette, both of his eyes on the radio as he continued to tune through stations. He caught clarity, like sun through snow, once or twice, but it faded out each time, a snag of a song trapped in a time capsule, torn away to wherever or whatever. Damian did not know if it was the device that lacked or if it was the island. He decided, for now, he did not need to know and he only resorted to smacking the handheld once. It was frustration seeking an outlet, but he was not going to dwell on that, not in front of Nelson and not with everything happening. As he followed the smaller man down the incline toward the beach, he attempted to ascertain why Woods was an outlier, since, largely, he was nothing especial or extraordinary, save for his resurrection, and that was the Pit, not him. No, by all accounts and on all fronts, Woods was an average man. It had to be the Pit.
Coming to this conclusion, Damian thought to share it—which, you will agree, was improvement. However, as timing would have it, as the mouth of the cave closed around them and swallowed them into its belly, teeth and stalagmites all around, they came upon the unremarkable Jason Woods, tied to a chair. Morse code sounded out a message Damian's brain worked on as, warily, he moved on silent feet around the back of prop and man. He glanced to Nelson and nodded, as if urging him to round to the front and see what might happen. He was there, remaining behind, to grab Woods, if necessary. Or cut his throat, if necessary. His radio had long gone silent, and he tucked it now into the pocket of his hoodie.
The click and whirr of outmoded technology, the bridge from analog to digital, it did not avert intent warrior's gaze. Damian's attention split, but it was acute—it was monitoring the situation as a cohesive whole, even as he focused on the man unmoving in the displaced chair. And as he was not an idiot, he understood the classroom Latin. Nelson would as well, he assumed.—Before he could do anything with it, however, there came a blinding whiteness, and Damian recognized it as divine. It had the same warmth, the same tenor of Misha and his span of wings, and, though he had trained for years to remain cool-headed, he found the Latin, at that moment, overly jarring and annoying. So Damian took out a pistol and shot the tape three times, until it fluttered on its spindle like a dying bird shot from its branch. "Woods," he told the lifeless man in his chair, "it is time to go."