( THE APARTMENTS GARDEN ) [Murphy had gotten out of the way of Bellamy and Clarke's reunion almost immediately, but that hadn't stopped him feeling it. Bellamy had next to nothing in terms of walls at the best of times, and Clarke was new, completely open, a turbulent spill that swells louder again when Lexa joins them.
He wouldn't expect anything different for her arrival. And he had been expecting it, on some quiet level, like a simple, accepted fact of life. Where there was trouble, a war, the future of humanity on the line, Clarke Griffin would be there. Sooner or later.
What he hadn't been expecting is the envy. It isn't for Clarke, Bellamy or Lexa, nothing specific to the ties between them. It's for the feeling of being reunited, all that hope and joy bubbling up warm between them like a damn fountain, and the cold, certain feeling that he was never going to have that.
It rakes through and wraps around him like thorns, growing larger and blacker in each passing moment. Sat hunched over on one of the benches in the apartments' garden, somewhere on an alien planet, on an alien mission in an alien war, an alien bug steadily growing tendrils through his brain. Emori's face in the throne room as he'd turned, ran to take the hand reaching for him, promising survival. He'd left her behind. And even if Cathaway's warnings about this mission ended up being false, it didn't matter. He was never going to see her again.]
( THE PERFORMANCE ) [He's been a black cloud on the mental landscape of the Nest since the new hatch arrived. Dark and heavy, but withdrawn, contained, maybe even starting to calm and shrink as they all filter into the garden for the performance.
The shift isn't immediate. It starts slow as the lone player splits from the rest, as they travel, walking and walking through wood and scrub and desert. Endless desert. The black cloud of Murphy's mind grows denser with each step, larger, crackles of fire somewhere in the depth of it. The orb descends into the player's hands, the final piece of the story plays out, and as the audience erupts into applause Murphy is a storm churning, fury rippling over the surface in sheets of lightning, spitting electric heat.
He stands, abrupt, pushing rough past the others seated at his table as he moves to leave. It ripples, the crowd disturbed, many of the House's other guests turning from their conversations to watch his hasty departure. The attention doesn't slow him at all.]
MURPHY | open
[Murphy had gotten out of the way of Bellamy and Clarke's reunion almost immediately, but that hadn't stopped him feeling it. Bellamy had next to nothing in terms of walls at the best of times, and Clarke was new, completely open, a turbulent spill that swells louder again when Lexa joins them.
He wouldn't expect anything different for her arrival. And he had been expecting it, on some quiet level, like a simple, accepted fact of life. Where there was trouble, a war, the future of humanity on the line, Clarke Griffin would be there. Sooner or later.
What he hadn't been expecting is the envy. It isn't for Clarke, Bellamy or Lexa, nothing specific to the ties between them. It's for the feeling of being reunited, all that hope and joy bubbling up warm between them like a damn fountain, and the cold, certain feeling that he was never going to have that.
It rakes through and wraps around him like thorns, growing larger and blacker in each passing moment. Sat hunched over on one of the benches in the apartments' garden, somewhere on an alien planet, on an alien mission in an alien war, an alien bug steadily growing tendrils through his brain. Emori's face in the throne room as he'd turned, ran to take the hand reaching for him, promising survival. He'd left her behind. And even if Cathaway's warnings about this mission ended up being false, it didn't matter. He was never going to see her again.]
( THE PERFORMANCE )
[He's been a black cloud on the mental landscape of the Nest since the new hatch arrived. Dark and heavy, but withdrawn, contained, maybe even starting to calm and shrink as they all filter into the garden for the performance.
The shift isn't immediate. It starts slow as the lone player splits from the rest, as they travel, walking and walking through wood and scrub and desert. Endless desert. The black cloud of Murphy's mind grows denser with each step, larger, crackles of fire somewhere in the depth of it. The orb descends into the player's hands, the final piece of the story plays out, and as the audience erupts into applause Murphy is a storm churning, fury rippling over the surface in sheets of lightning, spitting electric heat.
He stands, abrupt, pushing rough past the others seated at his table as he moves to leave. It ripples, the crowd disturbed, many of the House's other guests turning from their conversations to watch his hasty departure. The attention doesn't slow him at all.]