Re: [quicklog: micah c, neil d, cris m, louis d]
[Sam.
But it wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't. Was it? No, no. The shape that stepped out of the trailer, it looked like Sam. It sounded like her. It stood on thin legs like her, and looked at him with her eyes. But it wasn't.
His wish for Micah had brought him here, and even if Micah made himself look like Sam in some last ditch effort to defend himself, even if this was just a projection of his own mind, he couldn't stop here. The need to kill again was in him, painful as hunger pangs, icy in the pit of his stomach. If it wasn't Micah, it would be someone else.
He looked better than he had the last time Micah saw him, fuller somehow, the circles under his eyes beginning to fade. The chain that the medal hung on was around his neck, the talisman at the end hidden under his shirt, warm against the scar it had left on his skin. No one would take it from him again, separate him from himself. He was more whole than he had been in ages, but he had never felt less himself.
And yet, and yet, and yet. Anxiety made his fingers itch, not seeing what he expected to. He looked at the phone again, and the little icon still showed here, still showed there, where Sam was standing.] I know who you are. [It was almost growled, not quite hinged to rational thought. Somewhere, a piece of his brother was lying in a box. They diminished, their family, in ones and twos, in pieces. The strings of bulbs around the carnival creaked in a soft wind, stirring up from the south.
There were footsteps on the dusty earth behind him. He turned sharply, and his expression faded from harsh scorn to flat surprise.] Neil. Cris. [Of course. He had marked the door for them.] It's not her. [He pointed at Micah. His eyes were pale as distant lights.] It can't be.