... There's about one way people die here, generally speaking.
[ One hand is back to touching the knife as she thinks, having listened quietly to what he's saying. Understanding to some degree the kindness of knowing there are endings. She's known her own for years, if not the specifics in how she'd meet that ending. Living under time limits lends a certain fatalism to all she does. ]
Old age. Maybe if you manage to stick around long enough, you'll age into a peaceful grave.
[ It's the best ending any of them could ask for, isn't it? She's holding the knife now, passing it off to her non-dominant hand as she casually observes the room. No one's paying attention to their corner, all involved in their own heads, their chattering partners, or the bottom of their drinks.
She lays her dominant hand flat on the table. With casual brutality, she drives the point of the knife down between the bones of her hand, feeling it pierce through her skin and out again through her palm. There's a thud that accompanies it, but the bleary attention the sound draws drifts away again as she picks up her drink, finishing it off, and setting it back down with an almost matching thunk.
That cut was more than enough to activate her transformation if she had a particular death wish for the people around her. Not him: he'd survive. Everyone else here wouldn't. But she doesn't, staying all of five feet tall and seemingly unaffected by the wisp of steam that lazily curls out around the blade where it pierces her skin. She pulls it out after she's finished her drink, prying the handle back to dislodge the point, drops of blood steaming off it as she pulls the knife free.
Her hand is already healing as the knife withdraws. That hint of steam, and a heat he may or may not be sensitive to: her hand is fever-hot right now. ]
It's the one theory no one's tested out. Since the longest anyone has been here is ten years... and they weren't of advanced age.
no subject
[ One hand is back to touching the knife as she thinks, having listened quietly to what he's saying. Understanding to some degree the kindness of knowing there are endings. She's known her own for years, if not the specifics in how she'd meet that ending. Living under time limits lends a certain fatalism to all she does. ]
Old age. Maybe if you manage to stick around long enough, you'll age into a peaceful grave.
[ It's the best ending any of them could ask for, isn't it? She's holding the knife now, passing it off to her non-dominant hand as she casually observes the room. No one's paying attention to their corner, all involved in their own heads, their chattering partners, or the bottom of their drinks.
She lays her dominant hand flat on the table. With casual brutality, she drives the point of the knife down between the bones of her hand, feeling it pierce through her skin and out again through her palm. There's a thud that accompanies it, but the bleary attention the sound draws drifts away again as she picks up her drink, finishing it off, and setting it back down with an almost matching thunk.
That cut was more than enough to activate her transformation if she had a particular death wish for the people around her. Not him: he'd survive. Everyone else here wouldn't. But she doesn't, staying all of five feet tall and seemingly unaffected by the wisp of steam that lazily curls out around the blade where it pierces her skin. She pulls it out after she's finished her drink, prying the handle back to dislodge the point, drops of blood steaming off it as she pulls the knife free.
Her hand is already healing as the knife withdraws. That hint of steam, and a heat he may or may not be sensitive to: her hand is fever-hot right now. ]
It's the one theory no one's tested out. Since the longest anyone has been here is ten years... and they weren't of advanced age.