Cared. Ugh. From the guy who’d just taunted her with the information he’d so caringly dug up. Even his attempts at the pathetic beg managed to be insulting. Her eyes narrowed.
“You aren’t making this better for yourself.”
He wasn’t, and yet. Karla’s frustration was still present, but she felt the momentum of rage halting. She frowned, staring more through Chilton than at him. As if he were hardly there. This was -- no, not new, it was old: a gentle tug, behind the anger. Familiar. How long had it been since she’d noticed it? Years. Before she’d tried and failed for the last time playing at hero.
Her mouth pulled into a sneer, prompted seemingly by nothing. This didn’t happen anymore.
Not now. Her thoughts swirled, threatened to overwhelm her. It felt almost possible that she’d be stuck here indeterminately, frozen, her hand around this man’s throat. Not now.
She’d gone too far -- to let him live, obviously, without facing retribution herself, but the implications extended further. All the smokescreens -- behaviors she’d developed, deployed, designed to imply she possessed weak spots other than her own -- to relent now could imply she’d done just that. Draw attention to it. This thing, badgering her uninvited, wasn’t a suggestion of a simple act of mercy; it was an invitation to tactically self-destruct.
He’d have what he wanted in the first place, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he get into her mind, that way?
This is not you doing this, Karla, stop messing around, just snap his neck, you can be done with it, you can --
She knew. She knew this pattern well enough to recognize what bargaining with herself meant, in terms of what would come next.
He had to be removed, before he said something else that’d push her to do something final.
“This is not happening.” She spoke in a hissing mutter, more for her own benefit than the other party’s.
The chance of being seen in the halls made departure from the front too risky; the wall behind her desk, with its broad windows, faced the courtyard. She released her grip on Chilton’s wrists, his neck, and lifted him over her shoulders, the motions almost seamless.
In only a few seconds she’d phased the two of them out, through the solid glass. Living cargo in tow, Karla shot up and out, a couple thousand feet above Heropa on a trajectory toward the coast.
Low-hanging clouds left a mist on her face. She repeated herself. “This is not happening.”
no subject
“You aren’t making this better for yourself.”
He wasn’t, and yet. Karla’s frustration was still present, but she felt the momentum of rage halting. She frowned, staring more through Chilton than at him. As if he were hardly there. This was -- no, not new, it was old: a gentle tug, behind the anger. Familiar. How long had it been since she’d noticed it? Years. Before she’d tried and failed for the last time playing at hero.
Her mouth pulled into a sneer, prompted seemingly by nothing. This didn’t happen anymore.
Not now. Her thoughts swirled, threatened to overwhelm her. It felt almost possible that she’d be stuck here indeterminately, frozen, her hand around this man’s throat. Not now.
She’d gone too far -- to let him live, obviously, without facing retribution herself, but the implications extended further. All the smokescreens -- behaviors she’d developed, deployed, designed to imply she possessed weak spots other than her own -- to relent now could imply she’d done just that. Draw attention to it. This thing, badgering her uninvited, wasn’t a suggestion of a simple act of mercy; it was an invitation to tactically self-destruct.
He’d have what he wanted in the first place, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he get into her mind, that way?
This is not you doing this, Karla, stop messing around, just snap his neck, you can be done with it, you can --
She knew. She knew this pattern well enough to recognize what bargaining with herself meant, in terms of what would come next.
He had to be removed, before he said something else that’d push her to do something final.
“This is not happening.” She spoke in a hissing mutter, more for her own benefit than the other party’s.
The chance of being seen in the halls made departure from the front too risky; the wall behind her desk, with its broad windows, faced the courtyard. She released her grip on Chilton’s wrists, his neck, and lifted him over her shoulders, the motions almost seamless.
In only a few seconds she’d phased the two of them out, through the solid glass. Living cargo in tow, Karla shot up and out, a couple thousand feet above Heropa on a trajectory toward the coast.
Low-hanging clouds left a mist on her face. She repeated herself. “This is not happening.”