07-31-2020, 10:31 PM
[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 60%; min-height: 8px; font-family: arial; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; padding: 25px"]Devland's attention was momentarily cast to Michael. Half-lidded eyes observed the older male, confusion nestled in his hazel eyes. Disgust rolled off the elder in waves, but what drowned the feline was Michael's fury. It was palpable. There was a heat to it; it was like the area around them had suddenly ignited. The younger of the two had half a mind to step back before he got caught in the explosion, but he lingered. He grimaced.
And then Michael was speaking, cursing. Devland watched as Michael shook with white-hot anger. Grand displays of emotions always left the boy feeling chilled. His own emotions were smaller; where most burst into flames, Devland smoldered. Some small part of himself wished he could be as angry as Michael. He wished he could care so much about something that his emotions threaten to violently spill, but that wasn't the case. Even as he looked down at the ravaged corpse, the only emotion that bubbled upward was disgust and even that was somehow muted. "I don't understand," he heard himself asking, "why would they do this? The Pitt - that's what you said - why would they do this?"
Ears filled with his own words and thoughts, Devland didn't hear Paola arrive until she was gasping. He shifted to look at her, and something like pity seized in his chest. From where he stood, he could just make out the tears that gathered in her eyes. His grimace morphed suddenly into a small frown. Why was she on the verge of tears? Had she known the now-deceased individual? He watched, speechless, as tremor after tremor shook Paola's form. Where Michael trembled in anger, it seemed Paola did so in fear.
"It was the Pitt," Devland finally answered after hesitating for what felt like an eternity. He moved closer to her, making sure to stand firmly in front of the mutilated body. "Or that's what Michael said anyway." He gently nudged Paola forward, offering her his best smile, but it was cracked and obviously forced. "Come on. We should probably go. I heard something about not messing up crime scenes." His tone of voice was breezy at least. "I think Michael's got this covered anyway."
His eyes landed on Georgia just before she turned to leave. She seemed as equally disturbed as Michael or Paola, and from the way she turned and briskly left, Devland wondered if something darker lurked beneath her waters. He made a mental note of it but knew he would never question it. Giving his head a little shake, he turned back to Paola. "Hey, come on. Georgia's, uh, she's waiting on us I think." He motioned with his head to where the other girl had disappeared. "I bet she needs help with something. Come on." Again, Devland nudged Paola forward, away from the bloodied scene.
"Oh, hey, Paola," Devland added, "I think it's supposed to rain tomorrow. I was looking through my notes, and it seems like it might happen." Was this his attempt at helping? Comfort wasn't his strong suit, but he was pretty good at running his mouth to distract others. He crinkled his nose at the thought, but continued on, "I think it'll be a light rain though. Something nice, you know?"
And then Michael was speaking, cursing. Devland watched as Michael shook with white-hot anger. Grand displays of emotions always left the boy feeling chilled. His own emotions were smaller; where most burst into flames, Devland smoldered. Some small part of himself wished he could be as angry as Michael. He wished he could care so much about something that his emotions threaten to violently spill, but that wasn't the case. Even as he looked down at the ravaged corpse, the only emotion that bubbled upward was disgust and even that was somehow muted. "I don't understand," he heard himself asking, "why would they do this? The Pitt - that's what you said - why would they do this?"
Ears filled with his own words and thoughts, Devland didn't hear Paola arrive until she was gasping. He shifted to look at her, and something like pity seized in his chest. From where he stood, he could just make out the tears that gathered in her eyes. His grimace morphed suddenly into a small frown. Why was she on the verge of tears? Had she known the now-deceased individual? He watched, speechless, as tremor after tremor shook Paola's form. Where Michael trembled in anger, it seemed Paola did so in fear.
"It was the Pitt," Devland finally answered after hesitating for what felt like an eternity. He moved closer to her, making sure to stand firmly in front of the mutilated body. "Or that's what Michael said anyway." He gently nudged Paola forward, offering her his best smile, but it was cracked and obviously forced. "Come on. We should probably go. I heard something about not messing up crime scenes." His tone of voice was breezy at least. "I think Michael's got this covered anyway."
His eyes landed on Georgia just before she turned to leave. She seemed as equally disturbed as Michael or Paola, and from the way she turned and briskly left, Devland wondered if something darker lurked beneath her waters. He made a mental note of it but knew he would never question it. Giving his head a little shake, he turned back to Paola. "Hey, come on. Georgia's, uh, she's waiting on us I think." He motioned with his head to where the other girl had disappeared. "I bet she needs help with something. Come on." Again, Devland nudged Paola forward, away from the bloodied scene.
"Oh, hey, Paola," Devland added, "I think it's supposed to rain tomorrow. I was looking through my notes, and it seems like it might happen." Was this his attempt at helping? Comfort wasn't his strong suit, but he was pretty good at running his mouth to distract others. He crinkled his nose at the thought, but continued on, "I think it'll be a light rain though. Something nice, you know?"
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[glow=black,200,600]all of your flaws and all of my flaws[/glow]
devland taji / the typhoon / beta / tags / penned by redamancy
[glow=black,1,100]they lie there hand in hand