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#42
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Suzerain of Sheol
Desolation Denizen
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Now, she isn't totally sure -- magic is a very complicated process, after all -- but she has two hypotheses: either it worked perfectly, or something has gone horribly horribly wrong. Slumped against the door, and not totally sure how she got there, her hair either standing on end or singed off her head, cause she can't see it and that would seriously suck, Emilie is very slowly trying to piece together exactly what her next move should be. Not as slowly as poor Rupert is trying to piece himself back together from every corner of the room and possibly out the window too, but...
Okay, she thinks she has step one figured out. Her supplies on her belt seem miraculously intact, so she retrieves a pair of syringes, one empty and the other loaded with the amazing gift of God that is heroin. It's a little awkward without a tourniquet, but that's hardly going to stop her now is it? She fishes around for a vein until blood flashes in the chamber, then with the deft hands of a master druggie, swaps it out, hammering that fucker into her bloodstream because she can literally not even deal right now.
A minute or twenty probably go by with Emilie twitching and whimpering her happy sounds, but that's okay. Everything is super okay now. Once she's ready, she pushes herself to her feet with a grin, swaying back and forth but not quite toppling over. Nope, there it goes. Swaying back and forth on her knees now, that's cool, IT'S COOL PEOPLE, SHE'S COOL! She giggles a little. A lot.
She decides to sit back against the door again. That was a good spot. Okay, okay, here she goes, she's gonna do it. "Hey babes." Does that sound flirty? They're pretty hawt. She'd go for it. Maybe not right as this second, though. "You know what's lit?" She tells them the answer. "Meeeee. Aww yeahs, little Mousie's lit as fuck. Anyway, howzit? I've got some coke somewhere, oh wait you probably spilled it. That's cool. Booze is in the fridge. I'm just, uh, I'm just gonna sit here for a minute. You be cool, now. All... three of you. Swag. Blaze it."
She faints.
Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.
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Posted 01-20-2017, 03:20 PM
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