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Log Title: Rooftop Disaster

Log setting: Random Roof on a building on Bourbon street, during Mardi Gras.

Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Jason
Trace

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The fire escape was no problem for Trace, who clambers after Bat, clever hands finding handholds with apparant ease. He hefts himself up over the gutter and pads after Batiste, dropping down into a crosslegged position a few feet away from the blonde boy. His hands wrap around the toes of his sneakers, tugging at them idly and staying quiet. Down below, the 24-hour party lurches on, but it pales in comparison to the silence hung over he and his friends as he waits for someone to speak first.

Jason scrambles up the fire-escape after Trace, just as nimbly if without excesses of enthusiasm. With the exception of a few chuckled quips to Grace and Nadine, he's been quiet since dropping his shorts on Bourbon. His reactions to this are damn near impossible to guage, it seems. Either he's a lot calmer than everyone (including him) expected... Or Bat might be right to be afraid up here on the roof. A lot higher than those stairs, isn't it? He scrambles over the lip of the roof and drops down somewhere that could be vaguely called 'next' to Trace. Doesn't look up at Bat anymore, nope. Just leaves his eyes on his hands where they rest in his lap. He's not starting this, nope. Though one should be grateful to the two girls who, surprisingly, seemed to keep him standing earlier tonight. That was a big shocker, lemme tell you.

Yes, it's a damned long way down to the ground. Batiste considered that about every second step on the way up here in the first place. But it's not the falling that kills you, just the sudden stop at the end, right? Right. So he'll just sit for a few seconds longer, contemplating how to bargain his way out of that sudden stop, should it come to that. Who knows -- maybe he'll be shot and -then- rolled over the edge. He's been seeing many a scenario like that in his mind, since that first fateful phone call that informed him of everything. "So," he says, looking up, eyes moving from Trace to Jason to the sky. Nice night, at least, with the stars out. "Where you guys been staying?"

"Caddy's place," Trace volunteers quietly, shoulders hitching in a little shrug. "Real nice chick we met. Anyway, it's near where Ben useta live. Cathy brought us over some a sheet an' some pillows an' a blowup mattress so we ain't sleepin' onna floor no more." One hand slips up to twist around a much-frazzled blue braid anxiously.

The redhead actually twitches at the sound of Bat's voice. Just once. But then he sweeps his deep red hair (it's natural, did we mention this?) back from green eyes and peers over at the blond erstwile member of 'The Triangle.' Where we been staying? Guess this isn't gonna get taken care of quickly, huh? He just nods slightly to Trace's words. Yep, that's where we are. No need to elaborate, huh? He'd ask where Bat's been staying, just to be blandly conversational - but he suspects he knows the answer there.

Jean-Batiste's eyebrows lift a little. "Real nice chick, and she didn't have an extra blanket for you guys?" He chews the inside of his lip for a few seconds as he looks back to Trace, then shifts around so he can dig in his pocket. Time for another clove. He's only had, what, four in a row? Five? He lights up, flint sparking, and watches the smoke vanish as he blows it out to the side. "There's plenty of blankets at the apartment. How long since you guys have been there? I loaded in the stuff from Walker's place. Ben sent it in the mail, I guess. Looks like everything's there, so." Bony shoulders jostle his shirt in a shrug. "You guys still have a key? I'm crashing there sometimes. Mornings, usually."

"Well, she ain't 'zactly got no Ritz of an' apartment, y'know?" Trace mumbles. "Jessa lil' bigger'n our place. She was onna street herself but fer a couple months ago. Anyway, we ain't been there f'too long. Jest, y'know. She's helpin' us out." Yet those next words make Trace's brows furrow gently in puzzlement. Stuff..? Then he flashes a quick 'oh shit' expression, glancing Jason-wards, before looking down and letting braids sweep down to hide some of his flushing face. Whoops. You mean, they *didn't* throw our stuff out? Jason gives Bat a sharp look. Okay, must not jump on every little word, but... "Ain' like she's got blankets to spare," he says very quietly, backing up Trace's words. Gee, not very momentous, those first words spoken from Jason to Bat since he ran out the door that day so long ago. He starts to look back towards the muffled roar of the crowd below, but, yeah, Bat's words catch him. He doesn't quite look towards the blond one, but he almost does. Stuff? Was in the mail. Everything? Everything. But what does Jason say? "We got plenty of blankets." Guilt he can deal with later. Right now, it has no place here. Trace gets a glance that says as much.

Yes, it's amazing how fast Batiste can run when set upon by a wild animal bearing vague resemblance to a human being, isn't it? He didn't even slow to look back until he was three blocks away. He watches Jason glance to Trace, then looks back to his clove, flicking a small pillar of ash off the front of it. Another drag, a hard one, smoke sent up towards the stars. "Yeah, well," he murmurs, a little flatly. "You guys want your stuff, it's there." He's quiet a few seconds, then asks the tips of his boots, "So what happened to Dove?"

"We took Dove," Trace says softly. "I bought food for her even when I didn't have none m'self. I been takin' good care'a her. She doan' much like Caddy's cat though. They hiss at each other sometimes." The boy falls quiet, fingers twisting and tugging hard at that caught braid now. Okay, this sucks. Let's all just dance around the trivial stuff until we fall asleep up here on the rooftop. You all have the initiative of river slugs, you know that? So Trace finally blows out a rough sigh and looks up between the two of you, lingering on Bat as he says. "So Dove's fine, we gotta roof f'tonight, maybe finally somethin' t'eat now that I sold my masks, an' now let's please talk about Ben an' Walker, an' how things went from parental figures ta pederasty."

Yeah, Jason's fangs really were aimed for the throat that day/night/whatever. He just nods slightly to Bat's next words, but doesn't say anything. Not here to talk about the stuff. The stuff can be hammered out between him and Trace later. It's clear this is all just dancing around the main issues tonight. And, surprisingly, Jason's not really up for that. He gets this 'fed-up' expression growing because, really, all he's had to deal with lately is bullshit. And he's sick of it. In fact, he looks about to interrupt Trace's thing about Dove over it, 'cept Trace goes and gets fed-up too. Woo! Or something. The blue-braided boy gets a quick look, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth indicating amusement (parental figures ta pederastry - heh), but now, now it's all Bat. Green eyes fix on the blond boy. Yes, please, tell us how this happened, those eyes challenge. With a secondary, 'Blame it on me, I dare you.' thing going on. He's been quiet. And, at least earlier, seemed just lost over all this. But he's remembering now. Remembering the pain.

Jean-Batiste's mouth shifts as teeth set lightly, breath filtering in slowly through the nose, then sighed out through the mouth. He drags again on his clove, holding the smoke in until the licorice flavour starts to burn, then exhales and repeats the process. When he looks back to the two of you, his expression is carefully composed and flat, his eyes two glimmerings of unreadable moisture in the darkness. "Since when did I see Walker and Ben as parents? They're barely-" He stops, reconsiders. "No. Let's not start there. I want to know what you guys think happened."

Trace shifts uncomfortably, giving Jason another glance before looking to Batiste timidly. His shoulders are set in a tense hunch. "They did... stuff to you," he says softly, and flinches a little (God, it's so weird and gross to think about!) before continuing uncertainly, "Ben said so. An' Jason said Walker did too. And it's like, who the fuck are they? They fuckin' used us, an..." He stops, catches himself, and finally looks down. "Kay, not me. I ain't pretty like you. But even so, s'fucked up, when they had *each other* 'n didn't need t'go break the whole family apart 'n turn my whole world upside-down jest fer some fuckin' sex. Walker weren't even sorry... He was such a dick when I come'd by ta talk with Ben an' pay him back the fifty, an--" Oh, whoops. Jason didn't know about that, did he. A blush prickles at Trace's cheeks, but after just a short, surprised pause, he presses on. "Anyway, it jest seems t'be some screwed up priorities. How could all that shit be more important than us, an' our family? The fucks!" And there's Trace's naive little opinion. He sighs and drops his eyes to contemplate the sidewalk.

Jason does, indeed, give Trace a little look at that witheld bit of info that just came out. Jesus. Can NO one... No, not worth it. Not after what happened at the house. As Trace speaks, Jason slowly shakes his head the entire time, eyes kept lowered from both of you. It's clear that he doesn't share Trace's view on things. No, no... his blame isn't on those two. "Fuck Ben 'n Walker," he says softly, firmly, as Trace finishes. And no, we're not talking like that. "We didn' figger in their priorities, but it don' matter." Slowly, emerald eyes raise and find Batiste's. "What I wanna know is /why/, Bat. I mean, really, did ya think this wasn't gonna happen? Or... or, wait, Bat. Why did ya do it 'n then why'd you all hide it? I mean... either ya thought it was /okay/ with me in which case y'didn' need ta keep quiet - an' you'd be stupider 'n I know you ta be. Or... or y'knew it was wrong an it'd screw shit up, 'cept you did it anyway. I mean, even if it was an accident, 'n happened once..." But he pauses and those green eyes positively blaze - he's getting going already. "'N why don' I think it only happened once? But still if it /was/ an accident, why didn' you 'fess up? Either way, though, you /had/ ta know it'd be worse like this..." Yeah, angry. But it's a controlled anger. Not like that night. No, not like it at all right now.

Jean-Batiste flicks his tonguebar against his teeth a number of times as he listens to the both of you, pausing now and again for another drag off his clove. Several times he almost speaks up and interrupts, but manages to stop himself. He wanted to hear all of this, after all. By the time the list of crimes and accusations have finished spilling into the night-time air, his expression is subdued, eyes dull. "They didn't -do stuff- to me," he begins, rolling his eyes a little. "No more than I -did stuff- to them. I really don't care how badly the two of you think of them right now, but you can cross pederast and rapist right off that list, eh? Both of you should know better than to think either of them would make anyone do something they didn't want to." So, yes, think better of them in order to think worse of him, or something like that. "Walker has no reason to be sorry for what he did. Neither does Ben." Pause. Drag. Slow exhale, then a glance back to the both of you. "Neither do I. There was nothing wrong with what we did. It wasn't cheating." He licks his bottom lip after he says that, and considers waffling for a few seconds. No. Stick to your guns. "Nothing we did changed how they felt for eachother, or-" A glance to Jason here, brief but steady, "-how I felt for you. I..." Deep breath. "I don't know if either of you will believe that, but...it's the truth." He takes a final drag off his clove, grinds it out and looks again to Jason. "I love you. I think I'll always love you, even if you stand up and tell me you hate me and never speak to me again." Even if you push me off the roof. Even if you shoot me dead. But he can't quite vocalize those.

The roof, Trace decides in retrospect, was a mistake. Because my God, Jason's gonna kill him. Or he's gonna jump himself, or *something*. The bluecap's eyes have widened, and he's backing away crab-style a few floundering steps before slumping to a halt and watching with wide moon eyes as Jason shrieks out his heart at Batiste. Nothing he can say. 'It wasn't cheating'. Like hell it wasn't. Maybe these sexual ideals might count for something if Jason had been privy to them from the beginning. So he sits, stranded in place as he watches the intense moment unfold.

Yes, the roof wasn't such a great idea. Batiste's not certain it's better than all this happening in the middle of the Raven, as was the original plan. He'll ponder the trade off between eavesdroppers and lethality later, though. He stays seated, and tries to look up at Jason as he's shrieked at. He manages for a few seconds, but it's too loud, too angry, too raw. Down to his toes, and the roof-shingles, which he watches as Jason's words wash over him and cling like lead, dragging his shoulders downward and slumping his spine. He swallows hard as the words end, and takes a raggedy breath, teeth stripping bits of skin off his bottom lip until they ooze blood. Finally, softly, he speaks. Determined, amazingly succinct words, much like in the movies where someone looks down at a bleeding hole in their chest and says, 'Oh dear, I've been shot.' "I didn't say anything because I knew this is how you'd react. I didn't say anything because I knew you wouldn't understand. Things didn't go to hell because I did it. Nothing -changed- because I did it. The only reason things went to hell is because you found out."

"My god," Jason utters in a low, quietly amazed voice. "My fucking god." Such a contrast from his screaming. But, hey, apparently /someone/ missed the /entire/ point of his screams. "You actually... /don't/ get it, do you?" It's like *bing!* lightbulb! "It woulda been /alllll/ okay if everyone I cared about in the fuckin' world /lied/ to me about /everythin'/ that was goin' on. How long you think you coulda kept it up anyway, Bat? Huh?" He shakes his head, staring completely amazedly at the blond one. "How... fuckin'... SELFISH CAN YOU FUCKIN' GET YOU MOTHERFUCKER???" Oh, hey, /there's/ that screaming again. Whew, was getting worried there. "This was gonna happen no matter WHAT an' you KNEW it! But you lied as LONG AS FUCKIN' POSSIBLE so you could get as much GUILT-FREE DICK as you fuckin' COULD!!!" Goddamn! The neighbors prolly completely forgot about Mardi Gras. /This/ is drama! "You never gave me a CHANCE to understand, you COCK-SUCKING WHORE!!! I WANTED to understand! I WANTED to know why you'd fuckin' DO THIS TO ME, BITCH! I wanted to know what coul' make you fergit that you loved us!" Oh, those eyes are blazing now, glinting with moonlight that isn't quite there. Not a natural glint. Something old lurks in those eyes. Something primeavel (sp?). "But it weren' nuthin, cuz you NEVER LOVED US, cock-sucker. /NEVER!!/" And then, he snarls and aims a vicious kick at Batiste, swinging with all his might. "GET OUT OF HERE! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, BITCH!! GO BACK TO THE COCK YA LOVE!!!" It's a screaming chant to a chorus of kicks and fists as that wild, only vaguely human thing comes out of Jason again. Though this time it's not /out/ of the building Bat's gotta worry about. But remember, he's only doing this because he cares.

Jean-Batiste's shoulders hunch more, flinching under the words that fly at him. Diminished, almost huddled, not looking up until near the end. Then there's a flash of defensive anger mingled with frustration and fear and enough other emotions to turn his too-bright eyes dark as onyx. Not enough, though, and too late -- he's only starting to say his first word when the first kick lands, hard, and drops him to the shingles. More land, after that. Anywhere. Everywhere. He flinches, tries to duck and cover, but he can't remember which way the fire escape is, doesn't know which way to go. He doesn't retaliate, though he tries to protect himself, arms and hands that aren't fast enough to block even half of the blows. Soft sounds -- grunts and cries of pain and breathless sobs.

Oh my god. OHMYGOD, this is not happening! Instincts and savage blood and rabbit natures and lingering loves, all these war with him. Wanna go pull Jason off of Bat and calm them down? Wanna help kick the selfish, weasly kid into a pulp left to dry on the shingles? Wanna laugh or cry, wanna clamber back down the fire escape and run like hell, or keep on running like hell? (I hear Seattle's kinda cool.) So torn and shaken, all he manages is inaction, eyes entirely spooked and caught in the headlights of this confrontation.

The beat-down continues for an indeterminable amount of time for all involved. Adrenaline slows everything down, but is this something that really wants to be endured for any space of time? Jason's a small kid, sure. Weak, sure. But he's got emotion powering each kick, each swing of the fist. And against such feeble defenses, the beating adds up. But even adrenaline can't power the kid for too long. Two last kicks to an already well-tenderized torso, and then he spins away and stumbles off several yards. He ends up bent-over and panting, hands on his knees, back to Batiste. "S'all... S'all cuz'a the cock..." he pants out, shaking his head slowly. "Yer still here cuz you still want my cock." He nods slowly at this. Of course, it makes sense now. It's not because you're a beaten, bloody mess over there, Bat. It's because you want his cock. That's why you didn't just leave when he was kicking the shit out of you. He straightens and looks back at Bat's huddled form, and then to Trace, green eyes... not there anymore. I mean, they're there, but Jason, as a person, isn't. Literally out of his mind. "It's because of the cock," he says to Trace, as if the bluecap too should see the wisdom in this. He turns back to Bat, reaching back under his jacket, drawing something from the small of his back. Now, there's two things he keeps there. Both illegal. One is his lockpicks. The other is /usually/ the knife he keeps handy for self-defense. Remember? The knife he /didn't/ have in the apartment. Of course, the boys /did/ steal a gun, y'know, Bat. What if that's the gun? Do you still love him? "Show me your cock, Bat," he says softly, almost soothingly. Disturbingly so. C'mon, it'll be all right. All you need to do is show him your cock.

So, there's Batiste, beat-up, looking pretty. A cut lip, or bloodied nose -- or both, it's hard to tell for certain -- and one eye is squinting more than the other, and he's moving in that twitchy, weak way that suggests he's hurting right down to the pores. Really, one of his more attractive moments. It takes a while for him to uncurl even slightly from the huddle he'd become, half-expecting another flurry of blows to land on him soon as he opens himself up. When they don't come, he wipes his face with his hand, looking down at the purple-black painting his skin, and rests his forehead against his forearm. Sidelong, he watches Jason, listening to him past the dull pounding of his pulse as it reverberates painfully through his body. "No," he says, softly, thickly. "If I...just wanted you for your cock...why did I stop, that time...that time in the bayou? Why..." He snuffles -- an ungenteel sound at -very- best -- and spits out something gummy and dark and unpleasant, and continues. "Why...didn't I fuck you, right from the start?" He closes his eyes for a second, and sighs, or maybe says, "I love you."

Ohhh boy. Jason's lost it. Trace blinks at the redhead with complete lack of comprehension. HUH? No, please don't talk to him about whatever cock Bat might be craving, Jason's or otherwise. He grapples with this latest insanity, and takes a few venturing steps closer. And now Batiste's mumbling stuff, and HE's not making any more sense than Jason, and it's just all become frighteningly clear that both of his friends are completely unhinged. Trace feels like an intruder here, as their words grow more intimate, not to mention in over his head. One quick glance over his shoulder checks for some sort of help he might call too should things get ugly.

*shing!* And behind door number 1 is... /the knife!/ Oh well, not like Bat's running very fast right now. The steel glints as he wipes both sides of the blade against his pantleg. "Yeah, okay, that makes sense," Jason says dryly, still winded from his 'exercise.' "Ya don' fuck me 'cuz you love me, but, you fuckin' /junkie whore/" - the words come with such spite and evil they might as well be another flurry of kicks - "But y'fuck everyone else. Yeah, you love me. I can tell." He pauses, just a few steps away from the huddled form, propping the knife hand on his hip and rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "How do I show my love for thee? Perhaps hide a secret or three. Fuck all in the house behind yer back, 'n then proclaim my love when you attack!" Oh, I do say, that's /frightfully/ clever, old chap! But then those green eyes on on Batiste, both fists propped on his hips - one clutching the exposed knife. "You jus' don' get it, Bat, do ya? Yer totally incap'ble of admittin' you fucked up." He shakes his head. "An' that's /all/ I fuckin' wanted, y'know. Woulda been /all/ it fuckin' took." And out of nowhere, his foot lashes out into Bat's stomach again, savagely. "BUT YOU STILL DON'T UNDERSTAND, DO YOU MOTHERFUCKER??? I WAS IN LOVE WITH YOU!!!" Things, Trace, are officially ugly.

Nope, no running. Just sort of half-curled, half-propped, watching Jason. Watching the knife. He swallows thickly and starts to cough, and turns his face a little to spit again. Wipes his face, accomplishing little but smearing around the blood that was already there. He looks up, starts to say something, and gets punted again. Ouch. Back to the shingles, curled, breath trapped in his lungs and completely unwilling to come out as he makes little wheezing, croaking sounds. Tears dribble out of Batiste's eyes as he tries to speak. No breath, no dice.

And finally stirred from his standstill, Trace's hand slips onto Jason's shoulder very gently. Might surprise you, for all that screaming Jason was doing could easily distract anybody from his quiet approach. Hazel eyes large and bewildered and frightened, but one thing does seem firm. No. He shakes his head just a little, wide-eyed. "Don't," he whispers softly. "It's done. You wanted t'know, an' now we know. Now it's done. No needta hurt him or yaself no more..." He squeezes the shoulder once and releases it. Trace just isn't the sort of boy who'd dare try and wrestle the knife away physically. Crouching down, he runs a hand against the brittle, now-unbraided (ooo, symbolism) blonde hair. The contact hits a slick spot and when he pulls his hand back, it comes away with a smudge of bright red. He sighs softly and pulls himself up to his feet.

Jason does jump at Trace's gentle touch, actually. But more for the fact that it was gentle than anything. He's so tightly-wound right now, just the contrast startles him. Makes him look to those wide, frightened hazel eyes. And, despite that his own green orbs are wild with pain and anger and that... /thing/ that is both Jason and not, the redheaded one nods slowly. Those words... they cut through it all and remind him of something. His heavy gaze goes to the curled form and he nods simply. It /is/ done. He knows now. And every kick is just a kick into his own side. "There were so many things that you coulda seen, Bat," he whispers now. He looks to Trace again. "Every action, naughty or nice," he begins quietly, twitching a tiny smile at the 'naughty or nice,' "comes back to its owner once, twice, thrice." His eyes, luminescent in the city's lights, return to Bat's huddled form as he kneels slowly, fingers of his free hand gently touching that patch of crimson amidst the blond. "But even as this pain will return three times three..." He stares at the blood on his fingertips as he speaks, and then suddenly sucks it off and spits it back into Bat's hair with a little snarl of distaste. "With /this/..." Another suddenswift move as he's to his feet and, unthinkingly, drawing the knife along the inside of his own left arm, beneath the sleeve of his jacket. "With /this/ you'll never again have power over me!" He shakes his arm out over the huddled form, sprinkling red droplets over blond hair and amidst the other marks of red. Where Trace's wide eyes see more than just the bodily essence of Jason sprayed out upon the boy, Batiste actually /feels/ it as the pain from innumerable kicks and punches fades - though not completely. Not quite the Super T-Cells that Starlight had, as Batiste will surely feel this for days to come, but any broken bones and open wounds mend, leaving just blood and bruises. "I don't care anymore," Jason says softly, voice losing that chant quality. "I remove you from my life as I do myself from yours." Perhaps, to Jason, this is a worse punishment than any physical thing he could inflict.

Yeah, Jason's 'self' gathered up as he started speaking the words. Like some /aura/ about him sparked and built as each word came, and then sparked and built some more with his actions. They were one, all encompassing action meant to achieve some goal... And then Jason's blood flies out from his veins, it brings with it the potent part of the magick - which this is, indeed - and transfers it to Batiste, where it infuses itself into the boy, working its way into his mouth and into his eyes and into his ears. It's healing magick, yes, but tainted with something darker. Like in restoring what damage Jason had done, it absolved him of any karmic responsibility. Or at least, that's what he's attempting.

And Batiste...lays there. What more is there to say? Breaking hearts make no noise, and some anguish is too deep for sound. Dark, dull eyes close, and tears continue to leak out and mingle with blood to drip silently on the shingles. Stillness and quiet, save for the tight hitch of shuddery breaths.

DICE: Jason rolls 4 dice at diff 5 => 1 1 4 6 (0 successes)

Trace gives a soft, surprised gasp as the blade flashes and cuts Jason's arm open. He shies back a step, watching with wide eyes as the cantrip builds, clearly watching what Batiste can only feel. Or not feel, who knows. Because while he sees that glamour spread, seep in, but Batiste stays still and wounds seem none the better, so the bluecap blinks and looks to Jason, a little puzzled at the redhead's intent. "What magic was that...?" he whispers with confusion, looking down to find the wounded boy's broken form again. His arms fold around himself in a tight huddle, his eyes hazel pools of torn emotion.

No. It wasn't quite the effect he was planning. As the magic fades, its effect still unseen - if there, indeed, was an effect - Jason shakes his head slowly. "So it's gotta be." He spits again, this time on the roof next to the boy, then turns and heads towards the ladder. His piece has been said, he needs say no more.

So it's gotta be. Started with moonshine-laced tea at the Raven, and ends with spittle on the roof-shingles. Maybe there's irony in there, somewhere. Then again, maybe there's not. Batiste continues to lay there, leaking pink-stained tears, unmoving save for jumpy breaths. Eyelids flinch, as the sound of footsteps carry along the roof to his downturned ear; lips move in silent-croaked words, then are still again.

Trace glances to Jason as he heads for the fire escape, then looks down to his fallen friend. Heartbreak times three on this rooftop today, high above the merriment of the streets. He pads right up to the blonde boy and lowers himself, going down on one knee. He leans down further, lips brushing the boy's cheek, first the barest touch of a kiss and then lifted, stirring at soft parting words mumbled into bloodslick hair. His sorrow-bent frame slowly unfolds then, straightens to standing. He pads towards the fire escape and there's a soft scuffle, creek, and scrape of palm and concrete and metal quietly heralding his descent.

Jean-Batiste senses "Trace whispers, a soft hot rush into your hair, "Bat, I'm so sorry... It must not have worked, the magic. We're gonna call f'help for you. You'll be well, okay?" His voice is clenched now, choking words softly past a constricted throat. "You'll be well. G'bye blood brother."

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