☀ genji vc: leaves from the vine, falling so slow, like fragile tiny shells, drifting in the foam,, little soldier boy, come marching home, brave soldier boy, comes marching home
Acts of Affection: Semi-Accepting.
☀ -Singing to sleep.
0200 HOURS.
Quinn wakes with a start, a quiet fear; fists curled tight enough that red crescent marks bleed her palms. There are echoes. Cold glass and frost and ice and the sound of people talking, but always too distant to make out. She hears a voice, now; less distant, more tinny. Blinks, drowsily, but remains still. Her pulse is like a jackhammer, like loud drums in her ears. It takes a while to understand what she’s hearing.
It’s familiar. Recognized. The nostalgia hits like a wave, dark and relentless. A young boy slumped in a chair, bowl of cereal in one hand, tablet in the other. The song filtering through as he watches, eyes rheumy and wet. He sniffs, wipes at his face with the collar of his pajama shirt. ‘Why are you crying?’ she asks.
‘He lost his son.’
Quinn’s breath shudders, broken up as she presses a fist to her mouth. The singing stops. The only noise is the faint snores of the other agents, punctuated by her own disjointed breathing. A few seconds pass, and she turns to look over. The others slumber in the cots, all except for a blinking pair of red eyes, gleaming in the dark —- pointed at her.
‘He lost his son.’ Still echoes. The memory slips between her fingers. It gets harder to remember what that voice sounds like.
“Genji.”
“I apologize. I did not mean–”
“Your voice--” Quinn starts. There’s a pause. His attention is laser-focused on her. She lies back down, eyes pointed at the concave roof of the tent they’re all housed in. Her breathing evens out, before she turns her back to him. There’s a short sniffling sound, before Quinn pulls the blanket over herself entirely. “It’s off-key.”