Day 007: Some Kind Of Monster
Summary: Sometime between the end of Day 6 and start of Day 7, Fiona confronts Faolan about his murderous impulses.
Date: 09 May 2016
Related: Smells Like Teen Spirit
Fiona Faolan 


By The Firep
In camp somewhere, by a fire.
02 May 2149

The mood of the camp after the successful assault on the Grounders is victorious, and the celebration goes well into the night. But as the hours pass, the energy dwindles down, and soon the camp quiets as people exhaust themselves into sleep. But Fiona can't. She's always had insomnia as an unfortunate bed buddy, and tonight, perhaps for obvious reasons, it's pretty bad. She sits in front of the camp's fire, knees to her chest and staring unblinking into the flames like an oracle of ancient days.

Faolan is in the dark and a little to the side, easy to miss, the fire's flickering light against his back. But a kid almost falls over him in the dark, and exclaims: "Shit, sorry! I didn't mean anything by it! We're cool, Fey, we're cool!" Some tales of his actions in the rescue must have started to spread. He doesn't respond.

With his t-shirt and jacket both gone to making stretchers, his torso is naked. Though he is still young and his frame yet undefined, there's the sense he's just going to add to an already brawny physique. He hasn't washed his face or his hands, and there's something gruesome about the coat of dried blood that covers them completely. As if he's had a really botched tanning job. He looks weary, exhausted, leaning forward between his knees, his broad shoulders hunched and his head bowed. He is absolutely focused on what he's doing, and what he's doing is cutting lines in his forearm. Five of them, parallel incisions that'll scar. Well, and perhaps infect if a med tech doesn't have a look. He's only the last cut, and his hand is wobbling while he bites in the pain.

The Crash. The Mount Weather botch. Two more fights since with the Grounders, and the only scratches he's taken are the cuts he makes now. All that blood? Someone else's.

The movement of his body is enough to stir her attention, and Fiona unwinds her limbs so she can rise, and slowly walk around the fire to stand in front of Faolan, watching silently as he completes the final cut. She says nothing for a moment, and then just walks away…though not for long. When she returns, it's with a small container of water and a rag. Settling herself into a kneeling position across from him, she says, "Hygiene in the camp is important. If we don't clean you up a bit, you're going to reek. And those cuts will infect. So don't yell at me about how I choose to use some of my water ration."

He looks at her, tired eyes taking in the shape of her, her face, her arms and the hands that bring the water. He rolls a shoulder in a shrug. Drops of blood trickle down his forearm where he's cut himself. It has less the mark of self harm than it does marking, for while they're deep enough to cut they're not so deep as to truly injure. "Alright," he says, dragging the words out of the back of his throat. "Won't yell at you." Whatever manic darkness had animated him in the ambush, its gone now, leaving him wrung out in its wake.

Nodding, Fiona pours a bit of water onto the rag, scoots closer, and applies it first to his face, wiping away at the blood and grime. She's neither gentle nor rough precisely, just thorough, unless he otherwise prevents her. "What you did. At the ambush." She says quietly. "That's you, isn't it."

He dosen't prevent her from doing anything, doesn't really react except if she lifts this arm or that arm to get better access. He lets her clean him, his frame relaxed not so much out of any sense of peace as simply being too tired for tension to exist in him anymore. "No," he says with a frown. "It's not me." It's said stubbornly, and his eyes leave her to stare past her rather than at her. "Its.. its them. They ambushed us. They took our people. I just.. we just got them back." But it doesn't sound as if he believes it.

"And what was it that got you put in the box?" There's an echoing shrug of her own as she continues to clean him up as best she can. "I saw you. You enjoyed it. And I couldn't tell if you couldn't stop, or if you just didn't want to."

"That was an accident," comes Faolan's hissed response, and for a moment his rage is back, his body coiling with taunt muscled tension and violence. He grips the knife he'd marked himself with like he intends to use it. But a moment later he's breathed out, sighed away it all. In a calmer, sadder voice he repeats himself: "It was an accident. They said it was an accident. Misfired gun. Should've never let her handle it. She just kept pleading." His girlfriend whose circumstance of death he can't actually remember.

"It was combat. They didn't surrender. Not my fault. They could've surrendered." But its a hollow excuse when he doesn't know if he'd stopped if they had. Any grounder standing had made his blood boil with murderous rage.

Fiona looks down at the knife, blanching before she lifts her eyes to his again. "You had a choice. You didn't have to kill them. You weren't supposed to kill them; you promised me. Why did you promise me if you knew what you were going to do?"

"There was no choice," Faolan mutters defensively. "They weren't putting their weapons down, they were carving our people up." Though he'd only learned that afterwards, of course. In his memory its all a crimson soaked tunnel vision. "I did what I had to to end it quickest possible, for.. for our people's sake. I made you a promise and kept it. You got two prisoners, don't you?" Just none that Faolan had taken, since every grounder he'd come across he'd brutally killed. One entirely on his own.

"Neither of those prisoners were ones you took." Fiona's tone is flat. "Other people's actions don't fulfill your promises." Her hand holding the rag drops away, resting in her lap. "The kinds of world we could have, it can't be built on the kind of joy I saw on your face." Her eyes drop. "I have to look at you differently now."

"My actions helped them take those prisoners. Each one of those grounders I killed, helped someone else by relieving them of pressure," Faolan tells her. "I protected Layla, and she saved their leader." Mostly he'd been annoyed with Layla for interfering with his private death-dance, but he brushes aside that memory. "I made the stretchers. I carried one of them all the way back. You don't know me. I took.." but that's a lie, and he's never been good at blatant lies. So he switches: "I take no pleasure or joy in having killed them. I regret it. I don't want to kill anyone. I don't. I DON'T!" He flashes his carved arm up at her. "These aren't trophies, they're so I don't forget it should hurt. Jane. The grounder with the normal face. The grounder on the horse with the sword. The grounder with the spear. The grounder with the axe." Five people he's killed, in the order he's killed them. They probably had families, friends, lovers. I KNOW THIS. I'm not some fucking psycho!!!!" Snarling, he bounces to his feet.

She stands too. Odd, that the outburst is less fearsome to her than the moment before when he was gripping the knife. "I have to look at you differently." Tension fills her voice. "I…I liked you, Fey. I thought you understood me. Even if you didn't agree with my choices, you understood them." That to her is admirable. "But you're dangerous. You're like a gun without a safety."

"I do understand them," the tall boy says to her. His voice becomes something almost a plea. "I understand them, I understand you. I'm not like the others, Fee. I'm not. And I'm not.. I'm not that." Not something dangerous, for people to be afraid of. "All I want is for people to be safe, for all of us to be safe. I don't want to hurt anyone. It was just a battle, Fee. People.. things.. it was chaotic. Things happen in the middle of a battle. You can't control it."

Fiona actually looks like she might cry, her hands clenching into fists as she swallows it down. "What happens next time? What happens when we need to sue for peace and you can't stop yourself. What happens when you make me another promise and you break it? I trusted you. I trusted you more than I trusted Grey to keep his word." Ugh, don't cry, Fiona. Not in front of boy you like. That's weak.

What do you say to that? His jaw grinds teeth together, and a self loathing grimace steals across his face as he recalls the sweet pleasure in plunging his spear into a fragile throat. In knowing he'd been better, faster, and more alive. More powerful. Better. Its like another person's memory, and its nauseating. "This is unfair." A ragged shaky breath is sucked in. He turns away from her. "Whatever. Think what you like. Judge me if you want. I'll still be around if you need me for something you can trust me to do. I'm going to check on the prisoners." He sheaths the knife.

Fiona is not primarily a physical kid. She's not out of shape, but she's no guard cadet. Sometimes though, she's fast enough, strong enough. When it counts in the moment. He turns, and she reaches out, grabbing his hand and rather than trying to force him to turn, she uses the momentum to bring herself around to fsce him. Close enough to be in his grill, if she weren't so short and he wasn't so tall. She has to crane her neck to look at him. "I don't want to judge you. I want to trust you. I want you to be…" she trails off. "I want you to be better. The man I met the first time we really talked. I know he's inside you."

He frowns as she grabs his hand and swings around in front of him, blocking his exit. For a few long moments he just looks down at her, a conflicted expression on his face, silent as he listens to her. His tongue comes out to wet his lips, and the first time he opens his mouth nothing comes out. He's strangled his words at infancy. Instead he shakes his head, his gaze hardening, and when he actually speaks its with a dark and bitter tone. "We don't get what we want, though, do we?" Swallowing, he continues in milder, calmer, sad-friendly: I'll always give you a fair hearing, Fee, I'll support you if I think you're right. Possibly I'll support you even if I don't, just in the hopes you are. But," always a but. "But you don't know nothing about what's inside of me. You said what matters, and I heard you, and now I gotta go check on the prisoners. So?" So she should move and stop blocking him. He shakes his hand to get hers off, and means to step around her.

Fiona lets his hand go when he shakes it off. "Sorry." It's mumbled, and she steps out of the way. "I want to know, though. What's going on inside you." She doesn't seem to expect a response to that, however, turning back to the fire with intent to sit back down.

"No, no you don't," Faolan says, not so much at her as he says it to himself. He keeps going through the camp, into the dropship to take over a guard duty of the prisoners. No violence no anger, no threats, no attempts to interact with them. He'll just sit there in front of them and stare, mulling on Fiona thinking he's some kind of monster.

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