[As Scott talks, Allison keeps walking, fingers sliding along the mirrored wall beside her, cool and sticky and reassuring. It's enough, for a moment, to make the voices in her head recede, instead filling her mind with a vivid image of Scott and Stiles at the comic book store, standing by a rack and fighting about something stupid, like who would win in a fight: Batman or Superman or something equally ridiculous.
It's enough to make her smile, and listening...really listening to him is enough to bring her a moment of clarity right before it slides away again, and those dark versions of herself are ready to strike, ready to execute her for imagined crimes...
I trust you.
She's bleeding, she's frightened, and she's lost...but she shuts her eyes and keeps walking, fingers trailing along one wall of mirrors.
Every step that echoes is the sound of a dozen hunters coming for her. Every breath is an arrow being loosed. Every creak, every distant echo is the sound of a gun being cocked or a voice signaling another soldier in hushed whispers, a brush of cloth as hand signals communicate her location, her vulnerabilities, the precise moment to strike...
She keeps her eyes shut. She trusts Scott.
And she keeps walking until the slick glass under her fingers shifts, from wall to door. The moment it happens, she starts knocking, pounding...not caring if her cuts bleed, if her wounds open.
She just keeps knocking, too frightened to call out lest they find her.]
[video]
It's enough to make her smile, and listening...really listening to him is enough to bring her a moment of clarity right before it slides away again, and those dark versions of herself are ready to strike, ready to execute her for imagined crimes...
I trust you.
She's bleeding, she's frightened, and she's lost...but she shuts her eyes and keeps walking, fingers trailing along one wall of mirrors.
Every step that echoes is the sound of a dozen hunters coming for her. Every breath is an arrow being loosed. Every creak, every distant echo is the sound of a gun being cocked or a voice signaling another soldier in hushed whispers, a brush of cloth as hand signals communicate her location, her vulnerabilities, the precise moment to strike...
She keeps her eyes shut. She trusts Scott.
And she keeps walking until the slick glass under her fingers shifts, from wall to door. The moment it happens, she starts knocking, pounding...not caring if her cuts bleed, if her wounds open.
She just keeps knocking, too frightened to call out lest they find her.]