Walk Through the Fire (Raz0r) - Raz0r's Mainland Sanctuary

Porter rolled up not long after Rai's departure, parking on the street and galumphing quickly into the house.

"Raz0r? Q?" he called out.

The call came from upstairs in her bedroom.

"Up here!"

Porter stormed up the stairs - no point in asking her how she was, he would see soon enough.

He threw open the door.

On the floor was a cage with 8 dead bunnies. She was on the bed, propped up with pillows. Her eyes were a little red rimmed, and her left leg...wasn't there.

"Hey."

"It would appear you have had a bit of a misadventure."

He sat on the bed next to her.

She chuckled weakly.

"Yeah. Little bit of one. Lost it to a wall. Glad I didn't lose more. But Brody's downstairs."

He reached up to touch her hair.

"What can I do for you?"

She gave a weak smile.

"I don't want to be alone."

"That's easily solved. Although if you can spare me for a little bit later, I'll run out and fetch supplies to get us through New Year's Eve. This room suffers from an acute lack of streamers and silly hats."

She chuckles.

"I think I can spare you for that. I'm not going to be moving far without help."

"Good - but that can wait. For now, I just want you to feel safe."

She smiled and reached out to cup his cheek with her hand.

"You're here now."

"Even when I'm gone, I'm always close." He tapped at his heart.

"You've had a devil of a week, Raz0r. You need proper rest and relaxation. And movies."

She smiled.

"It's been one hell of an ending to the year, yeah. But it's looking brighter."

"That's the spirit. Now, what sort of movies do you suppose I should get for your viewing pleasure?"

"My Left Foot? The Man With One Red Shoe? Lean On Me?"

She chuckled.

"Your pick. There's a bunch of older stuff I haven't seen. If it's from the last two decades, I've probably seen it."

"Very well, then. I shall surprise you."

She smiles.

"That's probably for the best. Maybe you'll get me some culture."

"Pish-posh. You are already well-refined, my dearest."

She chuckles.

"I'm a foster kid who knows how to fake it. But if you think so, I can't help but agree. You're the most cultured man I know, so your opinion matters more."

"Cultured? Perhaps. Or perhaps it's an affectation."

She chuckled.

"Perhaps. I like when the facade falls away."

"Some facades are thicker than others. And what happens when the mask falls away, and there is nothing behind it?"

She smiles.

"Then you know that it's all be a lie. But I was more specifically about your veneer of civility."

"Some might say that veneer is thin indeed - diaphanous like a dragonfly's wing. I hope they are mistaken."

"I was raised to do what is right and conduct myself with decorum. Once, that was not so strange. In these nights, it seems less common - when, whether mortal or kindred, the young stumble about in herds, rebelling in the same direction, groping clumsily for some sense of identity as though self-realization can be achieved by means of cursing one's forebears alone. How can the sane move forward when they are shackled by those who are blind to the past, and their fellows both. We endure a degraded society where achievement is measured as a byproduct of philosophical onanism and each man votes himself this year's recipient of the 'Finest Solipsist' award, sans irony. Who is the radical intelligentsia in a society where counter-culture is the mainstream? Who remains but the lonely reactionary, stewing in his own juices, eyes fixed on the past? Like a certain fireman who must memorize a book, it falls to the lone rememberer to do what is right - even if what is right is harsh, or bloody, or final."

"I assure you, my lovely, the civility and cruelty both go all the way down to the molten core of me, for they are one and the same."