Safronov's voice doesn't answer, but it's not like she completely abandoned him, as the darkness seems to have eyes.
As Nick starts forward, the path of translucent veins, glowing and red, slopes to a descent. It winds in twists and turns, before it comes upon a glass room. The details are vague, save for a woman in a white dress. Her golden hair flows to the back of her knees, strands covering her face (although someone like Nick might have no trouble distinguishing certain familiar features).
At least shes's clearer than the shadowman in the room with her, standing taller than her so that he has to lean forward when he appears to be looking at her hidden face.
"You're burning up. You can't be sick, can you?"
"Feel nothing," she says in a voice that Nick should know well, but she's not the Rey he knows. She sounds hollow, dead.
"Perhaps that is for the best." The man's amusement is audible in his voice, like this is what he wants.
The golden-haired woman moves forward, shoulder bumping against the man. He goes to grab her arm, only to stagger away with a yell, his hand red hot and burning. He yells in agony as blood starts trickling down his face. The woman bleeds as well, a thick black substance dripping from her hands. A flash of flame sparks but does not take.
And then it stops. The man gasps, slowly pushing himself onto his feet, panting through the noticeable pain. "What do you... feel now? Don't tell me you didn't feel something after that..."
"Do not."
"What you mean to tell me is that you're incapable of feeling anything? Anything at all?"
"Only for her."
"'Yet each man kills the thing he loves'. Do you want to die, Freyja?"
Before she could answer, the scene glitches. In its place is a burning laboratory, though much of the details are blotted out and objects and tools flickering in and out of existence. The same golden-haired woman is standing amid the fire, unconcerned with the smoke and heat around her as she stares down at her hands, blackened and shaking.
Every so often one of the tables glitch, revealing a body on the floor. A woman with similar fair hair as the other, though shorter and definitely familiar in a number of bittersweet events, some more bitter and others more sweet. But now that woman is unmoving, unbreathing. Her neck twisted in an unnatural way, with burn marks in the shape of hands around her neck...
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As Nick starts forward, the path of translucent veins, glowing and red, slopes to a descent. It winds in twists and turns, before it comes upon a glass room. The details are vague, save for a woman in a white dress. Her golden hair flows to the back of her knees, strands covering her face (although someone like Nick might have no trouble distinguishing certain familiar features).
At least shes's clearer than the shadowman in the room with her, standing taller than her so that he has to lean forward when he appears to be looking at her hidden face.
"You're burning up. You can't be sick, can you?"
"Feel nothing," she says in a voice that Nick should know well, but she's not the Rey he knows. She sounds hollow, dead.
"Perhaps that is for the best." The man's amusement is audible in his voice, like this is what he wants.
The golden-haired woman moves forward, shoulder bumping against the man. He goes to grab her arm, only to stagger away with a yell, his hand red hot and burning. He yells in agony as blood starts trickling down his face. The woman bleeds as well, a thick black substance dripping from her hands. A flash of flame sparks but does not take.
And then it stops. The man gasps, slowly pushing himself onto his feet, panting through the noticeable pain. "What do you... feel now? Don't tell me you didn't feel something after that..."
"Do not."
"What you mean to tell me is that you're incapable of feeling anything? Anything at all?"
"Only for her."
"'Yet each man kills the thing he loves'. Do you want to die, Freyja?"
Ḿͦ͗ͨ҉͓ẹ̡̪̞̳͎̫͎̅̄̏̌ͪͧͥͤ͢͡ͅm̡̨̱̞̼͕̦̣̊ͥ͐͝o͕̼͍͙ͣ̾̈̑̾́̔̌̅͞ͅŗ̼̮̝̫͕̺̹̪ͬ̅̾ͧ̆̂̇͐̚̕ẏ̸̡̲͉̺̺͒̈̍̍̑ͅͅ ̜͖͇̣ͮ̐̍ͦ̔Ḙ̩̲̱̙̮̫͂̈̌̿ͥ̈́̑͝ŕ͎̥̾̌ͦ̿́ͅr̡̼̥͕̲̝̆ͮͮ̊ͅo͈̞̥͎̖̯̿ͤͯ͌͛̾͌̾̀̀͢r̫̖̥͈͖̠͎̩ͯ̅̽́̀.̢͓̮̳͔͙̞̮ͥ̊ͧ͛͞ ̫͇̭͉͙͕̣̠ͣ̐̏̇͒̄̈̐͜͞S̤͉̥̗̩͚̘̞̹ͬ̂̑ͯ͂̌ͣ͟͞ơ̖̲̪͇͙̿̉̅̍̏͢m̷̦̘̱̝̥̺͇̤̎̈́ͪ̈̅̑̚͝e̡̺̼͈̗̙̺͍͈͂̂ͧ͊̉͊ͯ́̕ ̛̫̩̞͋̇D̴͚̯̘̤̥̖̮͛̈̽́ͥ͞ͅa̜̦͈͈̰̗̐ͣͤ͂̚tͮ̾̌ͣ̽͑͏̬͈̱̪̼͈͘͞a̧̭͚̝̣̭ͯ̌̆̽̿͛̏͒̉͡͡ ̳̤̠͖͕̗̙̼̖ͭ̉̓ͮͧ͑̋́̚U̵̞͚̘̭̦̝͇̱͉̅͐̂̽̇͂ͮn̛̗̻̗ͭ̈́̅̎̂͘ä͖́ͤ̋́͞v̘̝̹ͥ͐̊̅͑̑̾͘a̯̫͓͖̘̜̞͑͑ͫ́̎̐ͧ̆͜i̧͇̠̗͔̪̭̞̜̥̅̆l̸̠͕̞̙̟̯̻̫̗̑ͯ̾̃ă̻̤̱̋ͧ̓̐͛b̭͍̲̭̘͙̐̽̅̈̃̇̚͞l̴̼̜͔͇͎̈́̾͆ͣ͂ͨ̚͢eͪ̿͏̘.̶̧͕͚̮͇̈̾̔ͣͬ̓
̉ͦ̀̍̐̇҉̭̙̣̘̩̰̺̙̕
̴̛̥̩̮̼͉̀D̛̞̪͚ͬ͗̓o̮͙̣̘̘͙̞͉̾̐̄̓͑͐̚ͅ ̭͉̩̦̥̥̻ͬ͆́̕͡ͅY̵̧̖̘̝̰̯͎̫̫͌͒ͪͅo̸̸̙̲̼͚̪͙͉ͤ̎̓̀͌͜u̦͎̳̹͎͌ͤͫ̋̽́ͅ ̯͙̜͍̯͖͍͋ͦͧ͊̆͐̾̈́ͦ́W̳̄̾ͭͫ̓ͨ̓ͨͅi̜̳̇̓ͮ̎ś̸̘̠̼̠͎̐ͪͬ̂͐͜ͅh̲͙̤̙̼̻ͧ̈́ ̒ͧ͝͏̭̳̯̻̠T͓̰͆́̈́͊̓̅͗̌o̷̞̳ͦ̾͠͝ ̬͐̌͆ͩͦ̐͡P̶̱̦͂ͮͩ̿̉̏͐͢r̵̷͚͕̻̎͆̿ͧ̐͌o͕̟͚͙̱̙̩̅̾̀c̪̺̪̺̼̲̦̳̻̑͗͒͒ḙ͆̓̀̎ͪ͟e̙̥ͭ̒͐͒̇͘d̤̥͓̘̯̲͕̞̽̉?̜̪̤͈͙̞͎̯̳ͩͩ͂͘
Before she could answer, the scene glitches. In its place is a burning laboratory, though much of the details are blotted out and objects and tools flickering in and out of existence. The same golden-haired woman is standing amid the fire, unconcerned with the smoke and heat around her as she stares down at her hands, blackened and shaking.
Every so often one of the tables glitch, revealing a body on the floor. A woman with similar fair hair as the other, though shorter and definitely familiar in a number of bittersweet events, some more bitter and others more sweet. But now that woman is unmoving, unbreathing. Her neck twisted in an unnatural way, with burn marks in the shape of hands around her neck...
M̤̼̹̟̉̂̂̉ͮ̿́ͅe̡̪ͬ̇̓͛m̧̲̤͚̬̳o̮͛ͮ̋̕r̼͖̋ͩ̎͢y̟̻͖ͧ̄̍͞ ̲͚̳ͬ͛̓ͧ͊ͅͅE̙̤͊ͫ̂̉ͫ̽ͅr̬̳͑ͯ̒r͚͙̟͚̩̗ͦͮͣ͑ͅơ͖̺͙̥̗̞̝͊́r̸̗̰̥͓̘̹̤̉͊ͩ.̤̹̫͎̠ͨ͒ͭ̆̐ͯ̚ ̪͙͈͇̈̀̔̋͐̔̽S͉̩̜̠͉̠̿́ͯ͗͆̋͜i̻͚̫̞̙ͧg̬̃ṇ̯̲͓̃̉͐ͧ̅͗́a̲̼͙̟̾ͩl͕̳ ͉͙̆̓͊̎͆I̮̪̼͌n̶͉̬̜̥͕̮̼͐͆̓͗͋ͤţ̹͒͌̂ͮ̍ͪͧeͧ͋ͥ̈͝r̠̬̙̰̹̹f͙͚̪̜̑̂͗̓͛ȩ̞ͬͯ̃̊͋ͭr͙̺͙̗̫̊ē̡ͦ͆̿̎́̈́ṅ̤̟̩͓̪ͬͭ̉̉̀c̪̬̯̺̥e̯͖̙ͅ.͕̙́
The Russian inflection of Safronov's voice speaks: "Continue. This is only distraction."
Though the memory is one Rey could definitely use some fixing up... there are more recent wounds that need healing.