Rhiannon noticed the cigarette was about to scorch her fingers, so she stubbed it. “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing,” she hinted. “Being wanted. Whatever it is, all types respond to it. Maybe you’re the fulcrum.” It seemed to her that fate or the gods tugged on whatever strings they wanted, whenever they wanted. Perhaps Searchlight was just a puppet theatre, or a modern-day coliseum.
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ninetydegrees
no subject
on 2013-12-20 08:14 pm (UTC)“So spin on.” She drained her cup.