'I get it'. She almost laughs at that, though it'd be a dark and humourless sound. She doesn't even get it herself, anymore. Oh, she knows the logic she used, she knows what she thought would happen, but she doesn't understand why she thought it would work. She doesn't understand how her desperation to get her brother back ended up in him dead at her feet and a part of him lost to her even now, with him alive on the rig.
"Wasn't fucking planning on it," she says, and it's true. Waking up in that goddamn sitcom town, her character an only child, had put fear into her like noting else; fear that he'd died, that she'd somehow failed him again, that she'd lost him again.
She'd wanted him close by, she wanted him there to know he was okay, but even that somehow bit her in the ass.
Her head drops against her knees and her shoulders start shaking. She'll never abandon him again, she couldn't, not unless he asked her to, and the worst thing is accepting that risk. That one day he might decide it's not worth it to keep trying, anymore, that he'll actually disown her the way she thought he was the day she arrived here on the rig.
Around them, the memory starts to shift. She can almost feel it, even without looking, and knows where it's going; it's like the two fucking memories are linked together and she can't separate them, no matter how hard she tries.
The new scene is a shitty motel parking lot somewhere else on the planet. Another version of past South—looking tired and ragged, wearing normal clothes over her undersuit with a bulky duffel over her shoulder—is heading inside.
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'I get it'. She almost laughs at that, though it'd be a dark and humourless sound. She doesn't even get it herself, anymore. Oh, she knows the logic she used, she knows what she thought would happen, but she doesn't understand why she thought it would work. She doesn't understand how her desperation to get her brother back ended up in him dead at her feet and a part of him lost to her even now, with him alive on the rig.
"Wasn't fucking planning on it," she says, and it's true. Waking up in that goddamn sitcom town, her character an only child, had put fear into her like noting else; fear that he'd died, that she'd somehow failed him again, that she'd lost him again.
She'd wanted him close by, she wanted him there to know he was okay, but even that somehow bit her in the ass.
Her head drops against her knees and her shoulders start shaking. She'll never abandon him again, she couldn't, not unless he asked her to, and the worst thing is accepting that risk. That one day he might decide it's not worth it to keep trying, anymore, that he'll actually disown her the way she thought he was the day she arrived here on the rig.
Around them, the memory starts to shift. She can almost feel it, even without looking, and knows where it's going; it's like the two fucking memories are linked together and she can't separate them, no matter how hard she tries.
The new scene is a shitty motel parking lot somewhere else on the planet. Another version of past South—looking tired and ragged, wearing normal clothes over her undersuit with a bulky duffel over her shoulder—is heading inside.