[She went to Rohan's house, because of course she did.
Of course she did. She could've gone home, but there's no one at her own apartment except for Arnold and the cats, no actual person to find her and realize that something is wrong if it turns out that she's right, and something is wrong. Abbacchio would've known that something was wrong, of course, except that he's disappeared and maybe crystallized and possibly gone home, and the world is lonelier without him.
So of course she'd gone to Rohan's house when she'd started feeling the now-familiar effects of chroma deprivation, because sooner or later Rohan would find her. The last time it took him fifteen years to find her, but this time would be shorter. In the worst case scenario, he'd come back from wherever he'd gone out to tonight and find her, and all she'd have to do is hold out until then.
She's lying on her side on the couch when he comes in, buried under a mountain of blankets like she's trying to stave off a chill that isn't in the air. Only her head is visible beneath the mound, but thin threads like crystal-white seams are just barely there crisscrossing her cheeks. The communicator is lying a few inches from her nose, face-up on the cushion. No wonder she was having such a hard time typing to him, when he was messaging her.
She doesn't raise her head, when the door opens. She doesn't even make a sound. But her eyes do open, halfway, as she sluggishly tries to glance toward the door.]
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Of course she did. She could've gone home, but there's no one at her own apartment except for Arnold and the cats, no actual person to find her and realize that something is wrong if it turns out that she's right, and something is wrong. Abbacchio would've known that something was wrong, of course, except that he's disappeared and maybe crystallized and possibly gone home, and the world is lonelier without him.
So of course she'd gone to Rohan's house when she'd started feeling the now-familiar effects of chroma deprivation, because sooner or later Rohan would find her. The last time it took him fifteen years to find her, but this time would be shorter. In the worst case scenario, he'd come back from wherever he'd gone out to tonight and find her, and all she'd have to do is hold out until then.
She's lying on her side on the couch when he comes in, buried under a mountain of blankets like she's trying to stave off a chill that isn't in the air. Only her head is visible beneath the mound, but thin threads like crystal-white seams are just barely there crisscrossing her cheeks. The communicator is lying a few inches from her nose, face-up on the cushion. No wonder she was having such a hard time typing to him, when he was messaging her.
She doesn't raise her head, when the door opens. She doesn't even make a sound. But her eyes do open, halfway, as she sluggishly tries to glance toward the door.]