eternity is boring.
i could go back to sleep but i have been sleeping for so long and i have been waiting for you my darling my sweething fleshthing baby child baby boy
child tells me to be patient but i am tired of being patient and patience and waiting i am tired of
speaking in riddles and waiting and of you oh do not be angered my little emperor my bloodthing warmthing softthing hollowthroated bag of bones in a fleshy envelope ill get you out
but i get tired of words and words and words and coherency and waiting and moving and playing and scaring and devouring
so i must
look somewhere else.
look somewhere.
look where.
look
her
SIXTEEN HOURS TWENTY FOUR MINUTES AND THIRTY TWO SECONDS AGO AND QUITE SOME DISTANCE AWAY FROM JAMES BISHOP HADLEY:
TAMARA FINDS THAT she never seems to have a choice when it comes to things that absolutely bore her.
Of course, she doesn't have much of a choice in anything these days, but the assembly is just downright redundant. She knows that they're going to talk about last night's attack. She knows the speech that's going to be recited—hell, she helped write half of it. And she knows that she's going to be assigned to some clean-up unit at the end of the day, instead of doing anything of actual help, because—as the Magisters put it—she was too much of an unpredictable variable, too much strangeness, too much potential bait. And then they'd say something about the common good and serving the people.
How convenient, to call her inhuman and then demand she work for the betterment of humanity.
She drums her fingers on her armrest, earning a look from an uptight looking young woman sitting right next to her.
Tamara gives her a polite smile, and a look of recognition dawns on the woman's face. The woman doesn't smile back. She frowns, gets up, and sits down two seats away from Tamara.
"Well, fuck you too," she mutters under her breath, and starts drumming her fingers against her armrest again.
There's a few hundred people in the auditorium, and this had surprised Tamara when she first walked in, considering how many people had been sent out to deal with the nyx last night. Of course, they all look tired and harrowed, and here and there Tamara can see a few of them with injuries, but this is still a decent turnout, all things considered. And all things considered, something is off.
It's been fourteen minutes since they'd all been gathered here, and there's still no sign of anyone on the stage, let alone the podium. Despite the absolute monotony of these assemblies, someone should've been on by now, droning on about something or the other. This is unusual.
And just as Tamara has the thought that something is wrong, he walks on stage.
Everything about him is smooth and unruffled, despite last night's ordeal. Not one thread out of place. He is young and powerful and it shows, in the way he carries himself. He walks to the podium with an animal's grace—sure-footed, never wrong, every step precise. And he's smiling too, that easy, charming smile of his. Like nothing is wrong, and if it is, he's the last person you'd expect to worry.
