every word has consequences.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzevery silence, too.
Ryan had been to a few events like this: he used to cover them. You show up, take a couple pictures, do a little eavesdropping, write a piece about how good the speeches were and how happy you were for all the award recipients, and that was it. He learned pretty early on not to dress a certain way, or else you might be mistaken for the event staff, which was a hassle that heâd once preferred to avoid.
The past six months hadnât been easy; Ryan wanted his life to go back to normal, but it had become increasingly obvious that wasnât going to happen. Either no one wanted to deal with him at all, or they wanted more out of him than he wanted to give. So far heâd survived by selling some of his unused shots from the revolution- some of his shots had turned out to be a bit too artistic for rogue news websites. He would have preferred to go back to being unknown by everyone besides the sorts of people that actually cared about the sports and entertainment pieces published to the media streams.
Heâd been invited to this event. He wasnât entirely sure he wanted to be there, or that he even deserved to be there. In his mind, he hadnât done anything extraordinary; heâd done what anyone who had the nerve to call themself a journalist should have done, he told the truth. Apparently his work had helped catch the attention of the governments whoâd sent aid to the revolution. The seemingly endless work heâd done in those long months had accomplished something, at least.
Ryan knew many of the people who were receiving awards: heâd taken their pictures, heard their stories, in one case his pictures had brought major attention to them in the first place. Ryan genuinely felt bad for Noah; while he couldnât begin to understand what it was like, he did know how uncomfortable being put on the spot could be. How you never forgot the way the other children mocked you when your ears turned red, your eyes welled with tears, and you couldnât spit out the words no matter how badly you wanted to. Some people refused their awards, and Ryan could understand their reasonings. He felt very much the same, in some ways. When called up to receive his own award, Ryan looked visibly uncomfortable. All those eyes on him made him wish he could run and hide; he stared wistfully at a fire escape, wondering if he could make it out before someone stopped him to ask if he was okay. He also considered using the moment as a platform to speak up about how disappointed heâd been in journalism in Scarmouth, how so many people should be ashamed, and how little faith he truly had in the new leadership.
Instead, he graciously accepted the award. âThis is very nice... Iâll try to make sure my cat doesnât break it.â Someone chuckled. Ryan hadnât meant to make a joke. He grew a little more uncomfortable, and it struck him that this was the first award heâd ever received for his work. He wasnât sure this was what he wanted to be known for. He wasnât sure he ever really wanted to make a name for himself in the first place. He also knew he probably needed to say something else, âI, uhâŠâ Why was it so hot? Was he speaking too quickly? He was speaking too quickly. âI did nothing more than what I felt I had to do, but thank you.â
Once all the awards were finally distributed, Ryan, like everyone else, made a beeline for the bar. Being the homebody he was, he never got out much, and he didnât really know what to ask for. He wound up with some fruity monstrosity- tasted pretty good, though. He wasnât really sure what to do with himself, but he saw Noah and made his way over. âHello,â He said, and after a beat, âIt's nice to see you again.â Ryan had never just attended an event like this, and Noah was the person in the room he felt most comfortable with at that moment. Whether this was a good or bad thing had yet to be seen.
The past six months hadnât been easy; Ryan wanted his life to go back to normal, but it had become increasingly obvious that wasnât going to happen. Either no one wanted to deal with him at all, or they wanted more out of him than he wanted to give. So far heâd survived by selling some of his unused shots from the revolution- some of his shots had turned out to be a bit too artistic for rogue news websites. He would have preferred to go back to being unknown by everyone besides the sorts of people that actually cared about the sports and entertainment pieces published to the media streams.
Heâd been invited to this event. He wasnât entirely sure he wanted to be there, or that he even deserved to be there. In his mind, he hadnât done anything extraordinary; heâd done what anyone who had the nerve to call themself a journalist should have done, he told the truth. Apparently his work had helped catch the attention of the governments whoâd sent aid to the revolution. The seemingly endless work heâd done in those long months had accomplished something, at least.
Ryan knew many of the people who were receiving awards: heâd taken their pictures, heard their stories, in one case his pictures had brought major attention to them in the first place. Ryan genuinely felt bad for Noah; while he couldnât begin to understand what it was like, he did know how uncomfortable being put on the spot could be. How you never forgot the way the other children mocked you when your ears turned red, your eyes welled with tears, and you couldnât spit out the words no matter how badly you wanted to. Some people refused their awards, and Ryan could understand their reasonings. He felt very much the same, in some ways. When called up to receive his own award, Ryan looked visibly uncomfortable. All those eyes on him made him wish he could run and hide; he stared wistfully at a fire escape, wondering if he could make it out before someone stopped him to ask if he was okay. He also considered using the moment as a platform to speak up about how disappointed heâd been in journalism in Scarmouth, how so many people should be ashamed, and how little faith he truly had in the new leadership.
Instead, he graciously accepted the award. âThis is very nice... Iâll try to make sure my cat doesnât break it.â Someone chuckled. Ryan hadnât meant to make a joke. He grew a little more uncomfortable, and it struck him that this was the first award heâd ever received for his work. He wasnât sure this was what he wanted to be known for. He wasnât sure he ever really wanted to make a name for himself in the first place. He also knew he probably needed to say something else, âI, uhâŠâ Why was it so hot? Was he speaking too quickly? He was speaking too quickly. âI did nothing more than what I felt I had to do, but thank you.â
Once all the awards were finally distributed, Ryan, like everyone else, made a beeline for the bar. Being the homebody he was, he never got out much, and he didnât really know what to ask for. He wound up with some fruity monstrosity- tasted pretty good, though. He wasnât really sure what to do with himself, but he saw Noah and made his way over. âHello,â He said, and after a beat, âIt's nice to see you again.â Ryan had never just attended an event like this, and Noah was the person in the room he felt most comfortable with at that moment. Whether this was a good or bad thing had yet to be seen.
he seems to feel his own worth,
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzand the greatness of his fall.
When youâre given a chance to integrate back into society- especially after a particularly bloody (and successful!) uprising- you take it. Attending a stuffy awards ceremony for the very people youâd once actively worked against seemed like a strange decision, but Miles knew he wasnât that important. Not really. So he went to the award ceremony. These were the heroes of the revolution, and ultimately they werenât all that impressive. (Well, aside from Damien. Sure, he turned down the award, but good for him.) Nobody seemed larger than life, several seemed like they would rather be anywhere else. Something about seeing it all laid out in front of him like that made him feel like perhaps he hadnât done enough.
He thought about just leaving after the awards were given out, but there was something about fancy party food that was impossible to pass up. The free booze wasnât really his thing, but Miles had never let himself feel ashamed for sipping a diet coke at a party before, and he wasnât about to start now. As it were, he was pretty content to sit back for a time. There was plenty to take in, after all. Sad as it may have been, Miles knew that if life had played out how it was âsupposedâ to, heâd be very used to events like these. And probably in prison. Sometimes things really do work out, in the end.
Two things happened: first, Miles spotted Magnolia, and considered walking over to say hello. Then Camilla Rhodes approached Magnolia. An interesting mixture of dread and anxiety filled Milesâ stomach, and he immediately knew that there was no way he was going to go anywhere near that if he could help it. Cam was likely to be on her best behavior, but Miles was sure nothing good would come of it.
Second, someone came and took the empty seat next to his. Now, in years past, this wouldnât have bothered Miles in the slightest. Now? He was in a room full of people, and though he knew he could leave whenever he wanted, he was beginning to feel a little trapped. He didnât know if this would pass, if he would ever get used to being free again. He shot Scott a look that pretty accurately communicated his thoughts: âwhat do you want?â
Pretty quickly, though, Miles thought he understood: Scott wanted to sit down with someone nobody here would be looking for. If you look busy enough, people will leave you alone. Itâs true at work, parties, the grocery store. So he smiled; bright, brilliant, and genuine enough that most people wouldnât question it. âI think I would rather be at the lab right now, but you know how I live to disappoint.â He leaned over so he could speak lower and still be heard, âWeâre all adjusting, arenât we?â Other than that, he mostly dodged the question of how heâd been: the past year of his life had been a nightmare followed by some kind of listless twilight. Things were starting to look up for him now, but it wasnât hard to guess that Miles had had a rough go at life, lately.
He shrugged, settling back into his seat, âBut enough about me,â He said, as if he had actually said anything personal or noteworthy, âWhat about yourself?â
He thought about just leaving after the awards were given out, but there was something about fancy party food that was impossible to pass up. The free booze wasnât really his thing, but Miles had never let himself feel ashamed for sipping a diet coke at a party before, and he wasnât about to start now. As it were, he was pretty content to sit back for a time. There was plenty to take in, after all. Sad as it may have been, Miles knew that if life had played out how it was âsupposedâ to, heâd be very used to events like these. And probably in prison. Sometimes things really do work out, in the end.
Two things happened: first, Miles spotted Magnolia, and considered walking over to say hello. Then Camilla Rhodes approached Magnolia. An interesting mixture of dread and anxiety filled Milesâ stomach, and he immediately knew that there was no way he was going to go anywhere near that if he could help it. Cam was likely to be on her best behavior, but Miles was sure nothing good would come of it.
Second, someone came and took the empty seat next to his. Now, in years past, this wouldnât have bothered Miles in the slightest. Now? He was in a room full of people, and though he knew he could leave whenever he wanted, he was beginning to feel a little trapped. He didnât know if this would pass, if he would ever get used to being free again. He shot Scott a look that pretty accurately communicated his thoughts: âwhat do you want?â
Pretty quickly, though, Miles thought he understood: Scott wanted to sit down with someone nobody here would be looking for. If you look busy enough, people will leave you alone. Itâs true at work, parties, the grocery store. So he smiled; bright, brilliant, and genuine enough that most people wouldnât question it. âI think I would rather be at the lab right now, but you know how I live to disappoint.â He leaned over so he could speak lower and still be heard, âWeâre all adjusting, arenât we?â Other than that, he mostly dodged the question of how heâd been: the past year of his life had been a nightmare followed by some kind of listless twilight. Things were starting to look up for him now, but it wasnât hard to guess that Miles had had a rough go at life, lately.
He shrugged, settling back into his seat, âBut enough about me,â He said, as if he had actually said anything personal or noteworthy, âWhat about yourself?â