[ Evidently, Robby hasn't learnt yet. There's his belief - that he'll run, let 2B focus on their man, and he can clear the path behind them of some shithead cultists, just enough to help; and then there's the actual events, where the women who has shown her skills over and over, doesn't need any of that. There is no running on his part: there is a new way of being carried without question, an urge for questioning on Robby's part, but where instructions given cut him off.
At this point, Robby should make a nickel jar for every time he gets picked up. Even two nickels is richer than he'd ever imagined being.
The cultists are a wave: first upon their group, and then in sound, too: harmony only in madness, but it sings in Robby's ears in the rush of 2B's escape. Crunching wood blends well to their hate, and it's only as they enter the world outside - suffocating, thick, as dire as the day that Robby found himself here - that everything doesn't seem as loud. The rumbling of the skies -- even they don't match.
It might be easier to breathe, too, but Robby doesn't feel it right away. There's a stumble onto jellied legs when 2B does let him go, but the other man falls, more winded and shaken. Somehow; when there's a giddiness throughout Robby's body too, an awareness has him ready for a fight that's no longer around them. But the man, the one whose name he never asked, never needed to; Robby goes over to him and kneels, putting hands on his shoulders, trying to look him over under the dark lighting, the heavy fog. ]
Hey, we're gonna be alright- we got out. We'll help you walk.
[ He can hear the man's ragged breath better than he can see anything, but he looks up at 2B. Not a question in his gaze, but an expectation, a trust of judgment: in her lead, the one offered before the madness ensued.
And because he doesn't realise quite yet, of the wound in the man's side, his less than good vital signs, with the smell of iron already in the air. ]
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At this point, Robby should make a nickel jar for every time he gets picked up. Even two nickels is richer than he'd ever imagined being.
The cultists are a wave: first upon their group, and then in sound, too: harmony only in madness, but it sings in Robby's ears in the rush of 2B's escape. Crunching wood blends well to their hate, and it's only as they enter the world outside - suffocating, thick, as dire as the day that Robby found himself here - that everything doesn't seem as loud. The rumbling of the skies -- even they don't match.
It might be easier to breathe, too, but Robby doesn't feel it right away. There's a stumble onto jellied legs when 2B does let him go, but the other man falls, more winded and shaken. Somehow; when there's a giddiness throughout Robby's body too, an awareness has him ready for a fight that's no longer around them. But the man, the one whose name he never asked, never needed to; Robby goes over to him and kneels, putting hands on his shoulders, trying to look him over under the dark lighting, the heavy fog. ]
Hey, we're gonna be alright- we got out. We'll help you walk.
[ He can hear the man's ragged breath better than he can see anything, but he looks up at 2B. Not a question in his gaze, but an expectation, a trust of judgment: in her lead, the one offered before the madness ensued.
And because he doesn't realise quite yet, of the wound in the man's side, his less than good vital signs, with the smell of iron already in the air. ]