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"So?" Clerise asked, looking baffled at her confusion. "What's that got to do with anything?" She waggled her eyebrows some, her lips curling upwards under the scarf.

Her amusement faded as Sasha turned into a tiny ball of rage, revealing that the lump of clothing was actually a case.

She remembered that case. Sasha had clutched it, when Clerise was in the hospital, and played her a song. With a low hiss, the redhead grimaced beneath her scarf. "Why'd he take it-- wait."

Turned on his TEAM? ...Sasha could have KILLED him? Hopefully, this was some ******** hyperbole-- but from the look on Sasha's face and the hardness in her voice, something told Clerise she wasn't kidding.

"Okay. One, let's get out of here. Two, we're going to my room. Three, you're explaining there." Clerise tried to wrap her hand in Sasha's once more, to tug her towards the exit, to get out of the smell of the dank and the dark.

It wouldn't ease the itching in her skin, just beneath the surface. The feeling of wrongwrongwrong. The ******** had she MISSED the last few days?

There would be time to judge s**t later. Clerise shut the door behind them, her grip on Sasha's hand warm, firm, and unwavering. "I'm in Clarice's room," Clerise murmured, having freed her mouth from the scarf. "Mine is in worse a state than that," she admitted. "I was borrowing her things until I took a day of leave."

Clerise squeezed Sasha's hand. "I just need the basics. You can skimp on the deets if you'd rather, but I really, really need to know what the ******** is up."

With a steady but unhurried pace, she led them towards the second floor. The room wasn't a mess, actually, not by far. She kept the main room religiously clean, made the bed every morning, and even did the laundry way more consistently than she had in her own room.

It was a matter of principle. Plus, there was still some alcohol left.

Thank god. She'd probably need it.

Clerise tugged them over to the bed, since Clarice's room didn't have any sort of couch. She listened as Sasha explained a few things. Getting things from her pre-island world, about Rep, about...doing...things Clarice would have done, had she been there. Or at least, that was what she grasped from it.

Her eyebrows shot upwards at the fact that Sasha took something from the Doctor. "Dammn, whirlygirl. Taking stuff from the Doc?" A low whistle, and then she let Sasha continue.

"I mean," she shrugged. "Sounds like fair warfare to me. Rep's kinda of a d**k, you just be a d**k back and eventually get over it. I mean, you got your flute back now. We could like, plan some revenge, or something? Take something of his he finds valuable?"

Clerise had not even the slightest idea of how on the money she might be. The woman gave her companion a speculative stare, trying to piece together the story.

"When does it get to the nearly-murdering-time?"

"Curiiiouser and curiouser," Clerise replied, giving Sasha in incredulous and inquisitive eye. Why the ******** did the Doc have a picture of Sasha's house. Creepy. It was probably in the like, Life Labs, sure, buried in the files--

{[ Filed away for later, love, don't you worry. Unlike you, my mind's not a sieve. ]}

Thanks, buttercup.

The redhead snapped back to attention at the sound of Jerry being battered in human guts. She blanched, lip curling at the thought. The details Sasha were providing were...hazy, but it was enough to throw Clerise for a loop.

She opened her mouth to say he wouldn't do such a ******** thing, but, well. The intermediate Hunter wasn't a dumbass. That man had a knack for getting himself into pickles that were nearly as bad as her own. Worse, apparently. Any time she got into deep s**t, it was usually her own ******** fault.

See; the spar and that week long stint in the hospital. See; the horseman and almost dying and losing Balthazar. See; almost dying and gaining Balthazar back.

Rep was probably stupid in a similar way. There was a small, off chance that...Maybe it was all just some sort of great misunderstanding! That'd be super cool. Peachy keen, really. Really.

Pushing it away, Clerise tightened her fingers around Sasha's, letting her talk without further interruptions from the peanut gallery. It wasn't that the woman didn't trust Sasha and her words...because she did, almost implicitly. But it was so hard to parse that things could go so horribly ******** wrong.

"Did he?" The slight crack in her voice was a dead giveaway for Clerise's mind bending a bit under the stress.

Of course, they killed monsters. Of course, civilians die.

These things happen.

{[ Talk now, go pear shaped later.]}

What does that even mean-- whatever.

"...Does this end with you trussing him up like a christmas turkey?" Even as the words left her mouth, the redhead snorted at herself. "Sorry, reflexive humour for every situation, you know? Keep going." In a move to comfort herself more than Sasha, Clerise carded a hand through the other girl's hair, her touch light and tentative as they ran through the strands. It was shorter, sure, but it was still thick and glossy like laminated midnight.

"I don't like where this is ******** going in any which goddamned way, but I get the feeling you're not even close to done yet."

Clerise raised her brows.

She knew how Rep treated girls, had seen it first hand, had kicked his a** over it before gaining some mutual respect that they shared. She ignored the fact that Rep hated her two X chromosomes, and he ignored the fact that she had them. They got along fine, because Clerise was on the list of his friends as something of an exception.

Clearly, Sasha had not made that list.

The redhead wondered, in a swirling mire of misery, if all of this wouldn't exist had she simply let it go. To let his insults roll off her back like a duck did to water-- but.

{[ You know that he's hateful. Don't make excuses for the pitiful that are not pitiable. He earned the lock and key that bind him; remember that, love. ]}

Had Clerise been more green, had she not lost him for so long-- maybe she would have let those words roll off her back. She would have made excuses.

But Rep had killed someone, and was ruining at least one other person with his callous actions. The redhead offered no resistance as Sasha swiftly turned from the docile songbird into a raptor.

Piece by piece, the mysterious mission's events were filled in. Rep was in charge. Runic items. An old woman who harboured monsters--but what monsters? The runic nets, used on allies. Turned on his teammates, his fellow hunters, his pack, whether he liked it or not, all other hunters were his pack.

She ran a hand through her hair. "Well, this all sounds like s**t." Red eyes locked onto Sasha-- this had been what was lurking under the surface, under that thin, brittle veneer of calm. It had shattered quickly enough.

"So, here's what I think: I don't think some old bat deserved to die for harbouring monsters, because I don't know what monsters. I do think it's s**t that he turned on his team, and used nets on them. I think it's equally s**t that in order to get runic weapons, he has to go through you." Clerise slid off the bed as well, idly digging through her duffelbag in search of something.

"Clearly, you're pissed. You have a good reason to be pissed. Do I think you should murder him? Nope, and I think the fact that you wanted to and want to, is honestly kind of ******** creepy."

Still digging. Maybe it was here, somewhere.

"I'm not going to make excuses for him, but yeah. That's how Rep works. Mouthy till the ******** end-- and especially since I think he talks as a form of panic mechanism. He's retarded- SO ******** RETARDED." The redhead's frustration was palpable as she punctuated her last few words with a smack to the wall, hand balled into a fist.

I miss you.

{[ I'm here, you know, you daft sheila. ]}

You know who I mean.

"Listen. I don't ******** know anything, apparently-- what stops you from turning on someone you hate? The only thing that stopped you is the idea that you would be him-- and what does that 'him' mean? Someone misguided? Without morals? Not worth forgiveness or saving?"

She looked at Sasha, heartbroken. "That ******** idiot is like my brother, but he's crossed a line. I don't know why. What stops YOU from crossing it? What stops any of us?" Clerise didn't have an answer.

Clerise felt helpless as Sasha broke down.

"Well." She reached a hand out, wanting to pull the other girl to her bosom, but...not yet. Clerise pocketed what she had been digging for in her bag.

And then she stood, her face gravely serious. "You know ******** what? Good." Too long had her life been about running from shadows and not being a complete disaster for her father. She remembered those years, those lonely years of approval seeking that manifested in unfortunate, unfortunate ******** ways.

"I mean. Not good that it went creepy-zone. But...honestly, it's good that it was about you." She stalked closer to the smaller woman, gripping her shoulders with both hands, her grip tight and fierce and a fervour in her eyes. "It never is, is it? You talk about Jerry, or the Doctor, or your Papa, or what ails you. But what about YOU?"

"I'm not going to go on some feminist rant about the patriarchy. But YOU are important. Your HAPPINESS is important-- and that happiness isn't acquired by contently, blithely living in the content shadows of someone else's ******** expectations for you. You get to be mad, sometimes! You can be pissed off and let it fuel you, but don't let it control you."

Releasing Sasha, Clerise reached for the thing in her pocket. It was a ratty polaroid from 2004, and it's of Clerise and a few other girls. She's not standing front and center-- in fact, she's kind of in the back, to the side.

But she looks young and bright and happy, unmarred by monsters, untouched by age, and preserved by time. It's yellowed and has a water-stain on the corner. Clerise presses it into Sasha's hand. "I ran away when I was sixteen because I was too cowardly to stay, because I was a disappointment by existing and I couldn't be anything he wanted. So I did what made me feel free."

"Anger isn't the only thing that can make you feel alive. Rage doesn't have to be your only motivator-- because it is poisonous, like a ******** rattlesnake. You felt it, you know I'm right."

She heaves a sigh, the life draining from her in an instant. "I don't know. You don't have to conform to any ******** thing you don't want to. Rule yourself not by the expectations of what others might ******** find, but by what you feel like doing. And then you give them the goddamned bird when you're successful."

Clerise's heart felt lighter, if only for a moment, as Sasha's tears abated. There was very little that was worse than seeing a friend in pain, and being able to do nothing about it.

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to be good," the redhead said, her voice low and scratchy but insistent. "God knows there's few enough of them out in the normal world, let alone on this goddamned island." Tentatively, she laid a hand on Sasha's shoulder, her touch light. "But I think-- no one is good all the time. Good is what you are for your parents to earn approval, good is what you are when people are watching, good is what you try to do in school."

Red lips quirked upwards, and so did the corner of equally red eyes. "But you don't have any of those goddamned shackles. And ********, be mad. Get angry-- and channel it. But don't let it ******** rule you, don't let it be everything."

God knows she'd been mad before. It hurts, on the inside and out, and it made Clerise's skin p***k in ways she enjoyed and despised. To lash out at someone because you felt awful, and taking solace in their pain.

"I think you've done a bangup job being 'good' at what you do." Clerise grinned, poking at Sasha's new coat. "You've done a damn fine job. We made it through the ******** apocalypse, whirligirl. We survive, excel, and move up."

Clerise opened her mouth to keep going, but Sasha's last words hit her in the ribcage, and they stuck there like tar. She was silent, for a moment, and promptly laid down on the ground, rolling over onto her side with a sigh.

"You and me both, man."