Malcolm Tucker (fuckitybye) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2012-11-21 20:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed, !plot |
Who? Malc & Grey
Where? Edge of the forest/beach.
When? After his encounter with the jabberjays.
What? Grey tries to make it better.
Rating? High, language at least.
Status Closed, ongoing.
Malcolm tended to read every bit of information posted to the network, even things that really didn't affect him in any way. He tended to store it all away somewhere, just on the off-chance that it might be useful ammunition in the future. It was habit, more than anything else. It was the only thing he knew how to do, it was the only thing that gave him any sense of normalcy and purpose.
So, of course, eventually he had remembered what had been said about the birds. They mimicked the voices of loved ones. But really, that just lead to so many more questions that anything else. How had birds known? To mimic something, you first had to hear it- and it wasn't mimicking, it was like a recording. He couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere, Lucy really was screaming for help. The worst part was, he could never know. He would never find out.
Wandering out of the forest again, he'd automatically reached for his phone. He knew it wouldn't work, of course he knew that- but still, he punched in her mobile number, surprisingly memorised. Nothing, not even a dial tone. His ex-wife. Landline. Nothing. Mobile- how did he still know- but knowing wasn't going to help. Nothing. Obviously.
"Well, you're fucking useless then!" he shouted at the stupid piece of technology, launching it away from himself, almost disappointed when it just sank into sand instead of breaking into a million pieces.
He didn't know what to do. There was nothing he could do. Rejoin the group and pretend nothing had happened? Act normal? Start a stupid fight with someone? It wasn't even like they had any alcohol, which would probably have been his next solution. He couldn't deal with any of it- instead, he just sat down on the beach, leaning forward to rest his forehead against his palms, trying to resist the urge to just hit himself like a nutter. Everything felt pointless. He didn't know how he was ever meant to face anyone again.