2020-01-05 - The Light That Blinds

The dark days of winter have set in - a bleak rain falls from the sky, slanting almost sideways at times, buffeted by a cold wind. It's miserable out there, and all the lovely snow of the Christmastime has turned to mush and treacherous ice. Alexander and Isabella have come to visit Byron - Alexander suggested dropping by to talk about when might be convenient to go check on the house where he'd fallen into Peregrine's trap, now that the holiday excitement had come and gone. Which may also be an excuse by the two to see how Byron is recovering, but that probably hasn't been stated out loud, to spare the man's pride. They've made it all the way up to the elevator, and the door opens on the penthouse. But it doesn't show the penthouse. Instead, the 'ding' of the elevator arriving is the last thing the three of them hear that reminds them of Bayside Apartments.

Now? They are somewhere else.

It's warm, with bright sun overhead, and clearly no longer winter. Autumn, maybe, but early in the season. There are fields to their left - tomatoes growing ripe and ridiculously large in free-rising plants with no need for stakes or cages. To their right rows of vegetables of every sort grow in bounty and without regard for season or climate. Pineapples grow next to strawberries grow next to cabbages as big as wrecking balls, and in the hazy distance, there are fruit and nut trees practically groaning with bounty. It's a beautiful, fertile valley, and the ground slopes downward towards what looks like a clear lake teeming with fish, and some sort of compound. In the center of the compound is a church, built in the Californian Spanish-influenced style. It looks vaguely familiar to Byron, although in much better shape than the last time he saw it, as a world was about to end.

Their clothing has changed. They're no longer wearing their winter layers; instead, each are wearing plain white t-shirts, and sturdy work pants, with identical shoes. There are a few other people working the fields, their faces alight with happiness, wearing the same clothing. Alexander, looking around, has gone very, very still. "Oh, no," he says, quietly.

She is not fully recovered, considering the extent of her injuries, but when has that ever stopped Isabella Reede from venturing out when she feels the need? At the very least, the crutch is gone, and the only indication that she has a healing wound on her foot is the slightest limp when she moves. Her hearing, too, is healing, though she still needs the device wedged in her ear to do so clearly; it peeks out against the dark falls of her hair, left loose to keep her warmer. She had not been expecting the cold to last this long, in all honesty, her mind vaguely remembering what it is like here in the Winter, only the fact that it was extremely dangerous to herself and her family - this year, however, is slowly reminding her of it.

She entered the elevator dressed in Winter gear; thermal leggings, layers, a jacket and snow-boots, with her knit cap pulled low on her forehead and her scarf wrapped around her neck. By the time she emerges with her companions into the hall leading to Byron's private suite in Bayside Apartments, the sun hits her face, warmth blanketing her skin. The Autumn's tableau on an unfamiliar place stretches out before her, idyllic and fragrant and teeming with abundance - almost too much of it, in truth, and for some reason the sight of it and the people working the fields make her uneasy for reasons other than the fact that this is clearly a Dream.

Oh, no, her lover says, somewhere next to her.

Her green-gold eyes swing towards his face, before she casts them out again towards the church in the distance. "I don't..." She tugs at her clothing, suddenly feeling naked now that her layers are gone. Even here, however, the moonstone pendant remains, swinging against the white of her shirt and scattering motes of color as it reflects and refracts the glowing brightness of day. "...where are we?"

Byron was at home and yet he was still layered in so much winter gear that one might have assumed that he'd just come home from being out. He had on a heavy coat, a winter hat and two pairs of gloves on his hands. Unfortunately, for him, that is not the case. And luckily for Byron, or unluckily, perhaps, his guests don't encounter him all decked out in things to keep him from freezing within his own heated apartment.

Instead, he finds himself dressed like the rest of them-- everyone working out in these fields. Due to the hypothermia, he had been prone to hallucinations, though most of that was daydreaming as he felt the cold taking over him. However, this was different, though at first, it's still difficult for him to determine if this was real or not. The pair who he expected to see outside of his doorway just happen to be here as well and despite the change in weather and climate, he could still feel his heart racing quickly within his chest as a shiver runs up his spine.

For a time, he just stands there, almost as if in a trance, staring out at Alexander and Isabella, but soon enough he's broken out of it. Perhaps it's the shift in location that's shocked him out of his daze. Steadying his own breath to a slower, even pace, he gives their surroundings a good surveying view, when he asks, "And wherever this is, can we stay here?" Surely, he jests, but he's been miserable in the winter weather.

Alexander's breath is rapid, his pupils contracted to points. "Nowhere we want to be," he says, quietly, to Isabella's question. He tugs at the hem of his t-shirt, his shoulders hunched a little as his eyes dart from Isabella and Byron. "And you don't want to stay," he says, to Byron, his voice rough and grim.

His suspicious manner is a marked contrast to everything around them, which practically bursts with light and warmth and growth. There's the faint snatch of song on the wind, but it's too brief to make out any of the details. A couple of the people have noticed them, and they approach, their eyes bright with welcome. "Brothers, sister! It is good to see you. You must be new to the Garden." The woman speaking is in her middle years, maybe about forty or so, with a couple of streaks of gray in her blonde hair, and warm green eyes. "I'm--"

"Linda," Alexander supplies, tonelessly. "Linda Calcott."

Linda blinks, and smiles. "Oh, I must have introduced myself already. Sorry, I do forget these things." Probably because there's a hole in her head. It's the size and shape of a puzzle piece, and it goes clean through her skull - they can see daylight and the fields on the other side, and get glimpses of blood and brain matter running down the interior. It doesn't seem to hurt her, though. She continues to smile. "Have you three had a chance to clean up? It's good to have clean hands before dinner, and if you wait until prayer, there's never enough time at the sinks before the serving starts. Then you might miss out on dessert! Come along." She chatters amiably, waving for them to follow her down towards the compound.

Pieces fall into place rapidly, though if asked, Isabella would be hardpressed to state when she realizes it. It could be the cumulative effect of the way Alexander starts to breathe, how wild his dark eyes look and the familiarity present on his features as he looks around. The way they're dressed, the fact that there's a church in the premises. Perhaps even the fact that he can name the woman who addresses them, with the hole in her head, and how she welcomes them - brothers, sister, she had said. It puts the green-eyed archaeologist on the protective and defensive, immediately, despite the warm tone and the beckoning gestures. She is trying very hard not to stare at the missing piece in Linda Calcott's head.

She waits until the woman turns to start leading to the path down the church, a look directed to her childhood friend, before her attention falls on Alexander again. "Then we're leaving," she tells him quietly, decisively, attempting to keep her voice low for the investigator and entrepreneur, only. "The people who have tried to leave before, where do they usually go? Which route did they usually take?" She scans their surroundings with her eyes, refraining from using her gifts to feel around objects and spaces - not unless it's absolutely necessary. But if she can prevent it, she is not letting Alexander or Byron setting foot in that compound, where they're being invited to eat and pray.

Her hand's already moving to the small of her back in an instinctive gesture, only to find her sidearm gone. Frustration bubbles from the back of her throat. Of course.

Byron, honestly, didn't expect Alexander to say anything different. His attention is already drawn away to continue to watch as these others work. Perhaps that is when he notices the woman approaching them and the gruesome injury that she wears proudly in the middle of her forehead. If nothing else was obvious to him, despite, you know, the whole being transported to another location entirely, it's the appearance of Linda that really seals the deal. His hands are tucked into his workpants pockets, most likely to keep them warmed, as he watched this bizarre exchange between the Alexander and the blonde.

This is when Byron leans in to Isabella to ask in quieter words, "So Clayton knows where we are?" Alexander surely knows who this woman is. He then goes on to ask, "So where exactly are we?" His posture straightens somewhat when this Linda turns her attention back to them and he'll flash her a friendly enough smile at the invitation. Only when she's out of earshot does he turn back to the others, "What exactly is this all about?" This time, he expects answers from Alexander.

"You know that's not how this works, Isabella," Alexander says, his eyes never leaving Linda. "The only way out is through." It's hard for him to say the words; his jaw wants to clench and tighten to prevent any words from getting out. He flinches at Byron's question. His head ducks. "What it's always about, Thorne. Pain." A deep breath. "But. Mine. You two, stay here. I'll...finish this, one way or another, and then it should dump us all out back in the real world. The fields should be safe. Just...stay." He starts walking, following Linda.

Who is continuing to chat, oblivious to the tension in the other three. Her voice carries. "You haven't yet been assigned to duties, have you? Is there anything that you particularly enjoy doing? The Reverend tries to match everyone to their strengths, and God's plan, of course. But," she laughs, lightly, "I don't mind saying that if you happen to be a good cook, that would be a blessing. Tyrel does what he can, bless him, and he's certainly better than most of us, but he's just not that good at baking."

"I can run the infirmary," Alexander says, his voice toneless.

Linda's step hitches. "Oh. Well. Someone's already in charge of that. But ask the Reverend. You never know!" Her head tilts back and the sun falls over her, her shadow stretching behind with its one, puzzle piece shaped bit of light. Elsewhere, others in the fields are doing the same, and a silence is descending. Linda gestures towards the large plants. "Come, sister, brothers. Take shelter. Quickly."

"Why?" Alexander asks, his brow furrowing.

"The angel of judgement is coming." And indeed, something is lifting off from the roof of the church, a shadow spreading impossibly large, black wings as it takes flight.

Byron's questions get a glance, the fine lines of her face twisted inexplicably. There's a brief nod, at his queries, but otherwise, she doesn't clarify - that was the investigator's story to tell. "I don't think anybody completely knows how this works," Isabella retorts, instead, voice tight with tension. "We won't know unless we try." There have been no explorations on that end, no experiments, but from her perspective, if there was any time to make an attempt, it was now.

She hangs onto that, because she can't help it - frustration bleeds from the deepest point of her stomach. "Alexander, you don't have to-- " Keep feeding Them, is what she wants to say, but her jaw clicks shut and she's watching his back as he walks away, asks them to stay because it's safe here. "We're already here," she says after a breath, instead. "Maybe this'll end faster if the three of us work in concert." She's not about to let him go in there alone, if he's set on it.

Linda's chatter is noted, her lips pressing into a hard line, and she's about to ask her own questions when she warns them of the angel of judgment, and the shadow that launches from the roof. Icewater fills her veins, spills down her spine. She's always been more comfortable with actions than words, and she'll attempt to try and push both of her companions into the large plants and diving into it after, crouching and attempting to make herself as small as possible once she sinks into their verdant embrace.

"I mean, running has worked before," Byron says, gaze drifting along the fields of crops, "Then again, I don't know what triggered the end game in the Dream that I'm thinking of, but we escaped it, mostly... without needing to destroy, attack or kill things." Easton Marshall's Dream is in his mind and for a moment, his thoughts go back to that. There is something familiar about this whole thing, however, and that has him looking over the fields to the house and back again.

While he does this, Alexander starts to follow behind the other woman, distracting him now. "Out of all of us, splitting up the party would be something /you'd/ say would be a terrible idea." Byron will at least call out in as hushed a tone that he can. Just seeing the way the light shines through the hole in Linda's head is disturbing. Though the further she is, the least likely that he'll be able to see her brain matter through the crevice.

"The angel of... god damnit." Byron practically spits out when he realizes who this placed looked familiar. The field. The house. The angel. With his lips pursed, he can't help but shake his head in annoyance, "We've encountered something like this before. Dual angels. We were separated then too.. somewhat anyway. Different realms." With Isabella trying to hide them out in the tall fields, Byron doesn't put up too much of a fuss.

"When I had the fever," Alexander agrees with Byron's memory. He also doesn't resist being pushed into the plants, and Linda crowds in with them. All around the fields, people are ducking down or frantically working. A couple start to sing hymns in the happiest voices they can manage as the shadow of the angel passes over them. Everywhere it touches, it is cold - a blast of winter cold that withers and wilts the verdant fields.

"The angel isn't to be feared," Linda assures them, even as she cowers with them. "The angel keeps us on the path. The righteous man welcomes the correction of the Lord, according to the Bible. And it's true. It's true," she says, fervent in her belief as the angel approaches. Alexander's head tilts up, watching it. Even as it approaches, the features of it don't resolve - it's a patch of black cold in the sky, dark and undifferentiated from wingtip to wingtip.

It passes over them, and knives of cold pierce deep. The nearest leaves rime with frost. And then it's gone, making a slow circle across the fields, and gradually making its way back to the church. Linda pops out of the cover with a cheerful smile. "There. That's done, then. And none of us had strayed, so there's nothing to fear." Except that another piece of her skull is gone, pierced clean through. She hums a happy tune as she waves to them. "Come, come now! There will be service, soon, and you want to get washed up and something to eat before that."

The other people in the fields resume their work, and their chatter to one another. They all seem happy and content - but most of them, like Linda, have those terrible wounds in their heads. A few have none. But some have so many that their skull is riddled with them, and far too much pink-grey brain is exposed to the air. A fly buzzes idly through a jagged hole in one head. Alexander has gone pale. "We don't want to run. The...angel will find us if we run. We don't want to be corrected." His voice is dull. "Come on." He reaches up to push a leaf aside, and leaves a smear of blood behind.

The angel isn't to be feared, Linda says.

Isabella stares at her, the unraveling threads of her temper transmuting her eyes into pits of emerald fire, and even while the angel passes over them, with its unnatural chill touching her skin and wilting lush flora within its icy wake, she manages, somehow, to tilt her face up and glare at the shadow as it moves. "Then why are you hiding?" she remarks, addressing her for the first time and unable to keep both incredulity and ire from her voice. She is simply guessing - unlike Byron, she's not experienced this Dream before, but on some level she knows that the entity is keeping them here, by the way it's encircling over the flock, and the words that Linda utters. Her teeth grind together behind closed lips, and not just because of the cold that permeates her bones and adds onto what's already there.

Her eyes flick over to Alexander, his face so drained of color, the garish scarlet streak he leaves behind, so stark against so much green, and then to Byron when he attempts to fill in some of the blanks. Her hand reaches out, unable to suppress the urge, to squeeze her lover's shoulder before she rises from her crouching position. "Alright," she says, her tone grimly determined. "We won't run." There are only two other alternatives, then, if that's the case, and by the look of her, she's ready for both. She follows, because there isn't much of a choice - and she won't know what options actually exist unless she has more information.

She carefully, silently, eyes the glittering, frosted leaves as they pass.

Byron was already freezing despite the climate of the place where he finds himself now, so when that angel tarnishes the land by bringing a great chill over all of those once healthy and growing crops, he definitely feels it. Huddled down among the dying fields of crops around them, he turns to Alexander now, giving him this suspicious look, "So that day on the beach? That was your Dream all along?" Sometimes it's difficult to tell who's Dream they are experiencing and if Alexander had mentioned it before, by now, it's slipped Thorne's mind.

"What do you mean we don't run? Didn't we run the last time?" Byron asks, before adding in, "When the door opened for us." There was that. "We were asked about our virtues and our sins. Then something happened on their end, see, we separated and I only got to see one side of the Angel, while the others got the more.. destructive side?" He may have inquired at that moment too, because all he saw on his end was the anger which the other team had caused, "What exactly did you all do?"

Linda blinks at Isabella, her eyes wide and innocent. "I wasn't hiding. Just showing respect." She seems to believe it, too. At least in this moment, with the sky clear of the angel's shadow. She smiles. "Come, come!" The workers are filtering in from the fields, and she beckons them to join them.

Alexander glances at Isabella at the squeeze on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says, to both of them. His manner is listless, resigned. He follows after Linda, shoulders drooped. A couple of drops of blood make their way from the tips of his fingers to fall on the hoed rows of the fields. To Byron, he says, "Probably. I had a fever. I had weird dreams. That one would make sense." He scans the fields, not looking at the younger man. "Erin yelled at it, and Joey started beating the crap out of it. It was charmingly direct." A pause. "Erin wasn't wrong. It wasn't an angel. That's not an angel, either." He frowns. "Or maybe it is. If God exists, he's a bit of a bastard. I'm sure his angels are just as bad."

The compound, as they approach, is a cheerful, bright place. Well-laid out, and clearly converted from perhaps some old monastery or seminary. There's wells for water, and the place is built to keep the heat down in California summers. People, maybe a couple of dozen, wander from place to place. Each of them smiles and waves in a friendly manner at Byron and Isabella and Alexander. Each of them also has at least one piece torn out of their head. More, several show other wounds, as well. A broken arm here, a hand flayed to the bone there. None of them seem to notice the injuries.

Linda tries to lead them to the left, where a large area with sinks and basins are clearly meant for group washing. There are some shower stalls on either end of the room as well, for about ten people at a time. "Right through here," she chirps. Alexander doesn't go left. He continues walking towards the center of the compound, towards the church. Linda's face goes oddly shaped - her friendly smile never wavers, but terror sparks in her eyes. "Oh, it's good that you're eager, brother, but the Reverend isn't ready, yet! Let's wash up and eat, and then you can attend the service with the rest. He doesn't like to be interrupted!"

Alexander ignores her.

I'm sorry.

There's no absolution on Isabella's face; her expressiveness twists in a manner that is distinctly pained, heat stinging from underneath her lashes and leaving her irises bright and brilliant, moisture threatening to spill as the drops of blood falling from his fingertips. For a moment, she nearly gives into it, the urge to wrap her arms around him in front of Byron, Linda and this entire congregation filled with punctured heads and broken limbs. But she doesn't, because they're in the middle of a dangerous situation and the priority for the time being is to get out with as much of their bodies and sanity as it can allow.

She does not tell him that he has nothing to be sorry for. Instead: "Oh, love, I know," she murmurs. "I know."

The archaeologist says little else after that; she heard about the prior Dream, but only in the vaguest terms, and so she plays catch-up with the characters that were involved in the last one. "Erin and Joey were there?" she wonders, her surprise plain. She does not comment on the existence of God, but simply directs a wary eye towards the church and the ominous shadow on the roof, save for, "She would say that." Speaking of their friend in a quiet tone that speaks of her own affection to the ex-heiress. "She goes to church. She wouldn't abide....calling such things that." Her attention wanders again, however, the closer they get to the compound, shivering still from the angel of judgment's wake and just how friendly the faces are, who are passing them by and greeting them warmly, all with the holes in their heads, pieces torn out. She can hazard a guess as to what they truly signify, but keeps silent there; again, it is not her story to tell.

When Alexander veers off away from the communal washing area, she shakes her head towards Linda when she tries to stop them. "Don't," she says, pointing a finger towards her, white heat curling over that single syllable, more of her temper rising to the fore. And with that, she pivots to follow the investigator's path towards the heart of the church, and growing more tense at every step.

"That's right." Alexander reminds Byron of exactly what went down that day. "She was screaming at it and condemning it or what have you. I mean, it worked." He says to the others, still speaking in quiet tones as they approach the compound. "If it comes down to that again, we could try that at least." But unlike Erin, none of them were believers. Not in the way that she was.

There's this uneasiness that continues to grow. While the angel may have brought about fear, these people, these cultists, as far as he could tell, were incredibly disturbing with their plastic smiles and pieces of some of them having gone missing. He didn't get to see Linda's face fracturing that second time, but he once it was done, he saw the results of it all. "What's wrong with them?" He asks, turning slightly in Alexander's direction. "Was all of this brought upon by the angel?" He's talking about the injuries.

At this point, Byron is ready to somewhat pretend to be complying to whatever it is that Linda and the others want them to do. When Isabella calls her out on this, however, he murmurs, though perhaps Alexander might be the only one to hear him "You sneak off when no one else is looking. Not when they are still being all sunny and sunshine to you."

Alexander doesn't look at Isabella at her murmur. His gaze never wavers from the church. It's a simple enough place; not exactly the way it was in Byron's first encounter with it - there, it had a more ancient country feel to it. Here, there's that Spanish influence. It's been repainted. The side windows have been emblazoned with white paint, in the shape of a circle that contains a white cross and an open hand.

Linda and the other followers cringe back from Isabella's order. They crumple in place like people accustomed to following orders. But Linda's eyes spark. "Defiance will bring correction. Be careful, sister. Do not stray from the path!" Her hands go up to touch the pieces of her that are missing, the first time she's allowed herself to acknowledge them. "Don't stray."

Alexander hesitates at Byron's questions. He doesn't look around; his expression is set like stone. "They've have the pieces of their minds that were in conflict with the Reverend's needs suppressed, denied, or removed. They don't know what's real anymore. Only what they're told is real." He swallows at the last question. "...I suspect so. In the dream, at least. In the real world, there were no angels. Just me." He takes a breath as they reach the doors of the church. They're simple. Not particularly imposing. Even welcoming, despite being shut. "We have to go in there. And it's best done as quick as possible. Playing along and drawing this out won't," he swallows, "it won't help." And yet, he doesn't move. Just stares helplessly at the doors.

The followers have trailed them to the doors, and are staring at them, those same plastic smiles on their faces. Only Linda has a trace of worry in her carefully cultivated features. She's also the only one bleeding from her wounds, a steady trickle of blood down her face. From the other side of the door, there's the sound of great, beating wings. "You'll ruin it all, if you go," Linda says, sadly. "You'll destroy it. You know you will. Why can't you all just be happy? Follow your purpose. Walk the path. With us. It's what you want. We accept you. We love you. The Reverend loves you. He knows what's best for everyone."

There's a peculiar power to her voice, and it calls to the parts of them that don't fit in. The parts that want to be a part of something bigger, the parts that want the easy answers, the truths that cannot be broken. Give over your pain, something whispers inside of them, and we will take care of you. Just do as you're told.

There's some grim satisfaction in watching the congregation's followers stop at that single word, but in the end, she barely feels it. After looking Linda right in the eye after her warning, the archaeologist pivots again to follow the rest of her companions. "Sometimes, the only way to get out of a trap is to spring it," Isabella mutters under her breath, her strides picking up the closer they get to the church. Listening to the sanitized version of what she already knows communicated to Byron, a concerned look swings towards his direction, but otherwise, she doesn't add onto it, but her jaw is set and her features are alive with warring emotions, left inscrutable because of them.

Her teeth are visible, for a moment, at Linda's continued imploring somewhere behind her, and the urge to whirl back at snap at her rises - because what else is new? They were doing just fine before they were pulled into this Dream, and who the hell was anyone to tell them what their purpose was? As for the Reverend...

I wouldn't realize until later that I also hadn't seen love, or mercy, or compassion, and that a certain amount of doubt is required.

She can feel it attempt to reach her, thread deep into the empty, dark void within herself - the parts of her that have been missing for a decade and change, and the moment these fingers, this unwanted invasion touches it, she is quick to slap it away with a shake of her head and a shoring up of her not-insignificant willpower. Every attempt to mollify her, to seek her submission, only increases the inferno that she's desperately trying to keep at bay, her eyes fixed on Alexander's resigned and helpless expression as he stares at the doors they are meant to walk through. Because how dare they. How dare they. To demand to give over her pain, all she had left of her twin that still feels alive within her, while forcing the investigator to relive his own, over and over?

No.

Her attention turns to Byron. "Do you...?" she murmurs, the rest of her inquiry writ large on her mien. Do you hear that?

She doesn't tarry, then. She takes several steps forward. "I'll go first," she tells both her companions as she moves. Her hands reach out to grasp the handles of both doors and pushes them inward, striding on through - towards the ominous sound of those beating wings, and the clamoring call of a beautiful, terrible lie.

There is no doubt in Byron's mind that Alexander knows what all of this is about, even as he watches these followers of the Reverend, several gears are turning in his mind. "You knew of the place all along?" There's no look to Alexander when Byron asks this, he's being mostly attentive now, realizing how dangerous this situation is that they've found themselves in. Then again, most Dreams feel dangerous to him. "Ever since the beach?" What he doesn't remember at this moment is that Byron saw something completely different than the others in that one Dream. He saw the fields, or what was left of them, and the abandoned church. The others were at a party...

Then something that Alexander says clicks in Byron's mind, "They had parts of them removed, but you didn't?" It's only then that he finally looks to Alexander briefly.

Turning to look over his shoulder now, seeing all of those smiling faces staring back at them, Byron's jaw tightens, swallowing deeply. There's evident tension in his shoulders when his posture straightens. Not a defensive stance, he still looks as if he's about to jump into action at any given notice. When Linda begins to speak, there's this furrowing of his brow and he looks as if he's about to ask the woman a few questions of his own regarding this entire event. Isabella's inquiry cuts him off at first, but he does feel the weight of the woman's words, that call.

Byron had always felt broken from an early age, determined, yes, but there were parts of him that were shattered. This need to show the world just how brave and helpful and friendly he was.. how Perfect he was, was done just so his peers would like him, that he would be a part of something. His making countless friends as he traveled between different circles in school helped rally the other students to his side. It made him feel liked, wanted and sometimes needed. That's the part of Byron Linda's voice touches upon.

At that point, his posture relaxes as if he's let his guard down. For the most part, anyway. There's always a side to Byron that he keeps guarded and it very well may be those defenses kicking in now and keeping him from joining with the others entirely. Somewhat entranced by those words that keep playing over and over again in his mind, he doesn't notice that Isabella was in the process of opening that door to either freedom or... The desire to stay and dine was strong, but he hesitantly turns to Reede and that doorway to who knows where.

It's a simple chapel.

That's one of the first contrasts between the interior Byron saw in the last Dream, and the church Isabella's resolute entry reveals. A humble, but well-tended church with only about a dozen pews, a simple lectern instead of a grand throne, and behind it an altar and a large crucifix. There are stained glass windows, although they aren't grand; they cast rainbow light upon the polished wood and faded carpets. Also, this church isn't in ruins, but rather clearly loved and in use. It is, until Isabella enters, empty but for two figures.

The first is younger even than Isabella: A man in his early twenties, wearing the same outfit as the rest of the followers - although it's immediately clear that he's not a follower, and possibly has never been a follower of anything in his life. He's handsome and clean-shaven, with thick, blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He's got the aura that both Isabella and Byron can easily recognize, although perhaps in different ways; the aura of a commander, of an orator, of someone used to drawing people in. He's working on a notebook, standing behind the lectern, his other hand making the occasional gesture, like he's practicing in his head.

The second is the angel, standing behind him and to his left. It's much smaller here than it was outside, maybe an inch or two under six feet, although the great bulk of its wings adds height. Its features are no more easily discerned, though; it is a black hole in the fabric of reality, a spot of cold emptiness that repulses the eye. A missing piece, for all that its void is clearly positioned to guard and protect the golden man. The angel's wings mantle in silent threat as the doors open.

But the first man looks up from his notes, and offers a brilliant, welcoming smile. "Now that's the kind of enthusiasm I'm talking about," he says, cheerfully; his voice has just a hint of a country drawl to it, and is warm and friendly. He comes from behind the lectern and hops down to the aisle. "I like to think I'm a decent preacher, but usually people aren't so eager to hear me that they show up early!" His laughter is brief, and at his own expense as he approaches, extending a hand to Isabella, and then to Byron. "It's good to see you both. Welcome home."

Alexander trails well behind; he's staring at the man with a sort of bleak, wistful longing.

Byron continues to ask his difficult questions, and she doesn't answer them, though there's a look of apology flashed to him at that. It isn't her story to tell.

All the information collects, every sense keyed into Isabella's mind and filling it with the fragments she can glimpse, the broken, endless scholar's galleries of her shifting with each variable introduced. She absorbs as much as she can, if not just because she is desperate to assist her companions out of this situation, and she cuts herself against the savage twist in her stomach at the look on Alexander's face when he espies the Reverend, with his blond hair and brilliant smile. It's difficult not to focus on the mysterious Zachary, but she tries, because his construct, his manifestation here, is not the only dangerous thing in the room. She is all too aware of the void-faced angel standing by the lectern, and her heart sinks somewhere within her, vanishing in the empty spaces torn out of her by her twin's brutal exit from her life and soul.

Its face may be blank, and dark, and featureless, but were she rip the void away to reveal its features to the world, she already knows what is waiting for her behind it.

It's only when she's addressed that her green-gold stare reclaims its focus, her stance easy and regarding the approaching construct with narrowed eyes. It isn't him, not really, she knows enough about Dreams to discern that much, but she is no saint; jealousy wars with its more fearful and miserable counterparts, and it's usually in this stage of the game where the dominos start to fall, setting her up for some manner of great failure that her battered heart would only carry for the rest of her life. She's always thought, and with no small measure of grim humor, that at some point, she was most definitely going to punch a man of the cloth right in the face. It's just that she didn't think it would happen so soon. Probably. Maybe.

"Well. You're not wrong, about the enthusiasm," she observes, her voice dry as she eyes the hand extended to her as if it were a live viper ready to sink its fangs right into the life-giving vein in her inner wrist. "Enthusiasm to go home, especially so. But sorry to say, Reverend, this isn't home. I'm certain you'll tell us that it could be, if we let it, but it's not. So if you could just show us the way out of here, we'd all appreciate it, and while we're...." And her jaw tics faintly at the hinge, casting a sidelong glance at the angel with his wings and attempting to keep a bead on where he moves as she speaks. "...thankful...for the hospitality, I'm afraid we simply don't have the time to stay for dinner."

Isabella may be here kicking down the doors to bring them to freedom, but Byron is still conflicted by it all-- that part of him that is soothed by this sense of belonging that the church is offering versus his wary survivor's instincts. He is the second through that door if only due to a great curiosity more than anything else. What he sees before him is on a less grand scale that what he recalled during that last Dream. The church itself felt like a cathedral with its high ceilings and extravagant stained glass and... Then he remembers something, his eyes immediately scan the room to meet with the two individuals in the distance. The throne. Aside from the angel, the throne in the church was the second thing that stood out most in his mind, but instead he finds a simple podium and the figures standing there.

Once his eyes catch sight of the face of the angelic being, who is the first to catch his attention, they immediately shift in discomfort. This allows him to further study the man behind the lectern. An unfamiliar face, but then again, everyone they've met so far were unfamiliar to them-- at least to Isabella and himself. Thus, he half-turns to spy on Alexander right now. He'll know who this figure is. Often times, Byron is quick to speak up in a given situation that might warrant that kind of professionalism and salesman attitude. Or a way to disarm people with words. Here, however, he's still taking in their situation, listening to the back and forth between the man and Isabella go on.

Alexander definitely knows who this is. And when Byron looks back, that seems obvious. What's also obvious it that the followers, with their wounded bodies and broken minds, have followed the three inside the church. They stand behind Alexander, blank-faced.

The Reverend's welcome never falters even as Isabella gives his hand that downright unfriendly look. He just moves on to offering his hand to Byron, instead. Much like Byron, he's mastered the art of professional warmth - it's a little less polished than Byron's version, more 'honest country folk' than 'LA businessman', but scratch the surface, and they're equally practiced. "But you are home," the Reverend is saying to Isabella. "I don't mean to say you could be. You are. Whether you choose to stay, or not, is always your choice." For the first time, his eyes flick to Alexander, and his voice softens, "It's always been your choice," but when Alexander sucks in a harsh, hurting breath, his eyes move back to Isabella, and he finishes, "But that doesn't mean it's not home. Just that you're not yet ready to accept it. That's okay." He smiles. "God's path for us is never unclear, but it has its twists and turns."

"Zachary," Alexander says, finally, his voice hoarse. "Let them go."

The Reverend, Zachary, laughs, gentle and amused. "Or what, Alexander? You'll murder me?" For just a second - although somehow they can both see it clearly - Zachary's face is burned to char, which still doesn't mask the contusions and breaks and shattered skull as if he was broken under hammer blows. Then it's gone, replaced with his normal, handsome features. His smile is a bit apologetic, "Sorry, too soon? Too soon. Anyway, I'm not holding anyone. They can leave anytime they like." He points to a door, which maybe wasn't there before, right next to where the void angel is standing. His attention falls back on Isabella and Byron. "But I think you should stay. You're among the Chosen, aren't you? I can feel it in you, like a flame. You have a purpose, one that your whole lives have been building towards. You feel it, don't you? The need to find what you're meant for?"

Belief, solid and absolute, lends his words their power, and he looks at them both, expectantly.

Despite her level words, Isabella's face is completely devoid of her usual affability; the only reason why she doesn't look downright hostile is the fact that there are dangerous creatures in the room and she is well aware that her recklessness came absurdly close to ripping herself, and possibly the other with her, apart by monsters the last time she had been caught in a Dream. If nothing else, she learns her lessons well, though almost always at great expense to the heart and body, and putting Alexander and Byron at risk is completely unacceptable to her. She may have never met Zachary before, she knows that this is probably somewhat different from what he had been in life, but she is familiar, if not through hearsay alone.

But you are home.

wElCOme hOMe, LEela, as if superimposed over the man's friendly tone and it's that terrible overlap that keeps her rooted on the ground, stoking the furnace within her. Had she Lilith's inclinations and abilities, she would be setting the entire church on fire all over again, but she is not so equipped as her, or anyone else in her acquaintance, to do that. There is, instead, the struggle to keep herself from cocking back a fist and driving it right into the...

...charred, broken skull that Zachary's face transforms into briefly, fire snuffing out at the sudden turn of nausea in her stomach at the split-second glimpse of a peeled back eyelid and face melting around a glittering, bright blue eye. Her throat tenses in her swallow, cords of muscle and sinew standing out at the sensitive hollow and her color changes. It's suddenly too much, rooted on the spot as she is, especially when he gestures to the door standing near the angel whose face she knows, nevermind that it's presently blocked out by a pit of nothing - the Dream's smallest, tenderest mercy, and one that she's unsure will last if this continues to go on. If this draws out. Don't draw this out.

But her hands start to shake, and her fingers clench tightly into fists in an effort to stay the tremors.

"You've said enough to him," she manages, attempting to push the uncertainty down, taking one shaking step sideways instead in an attempt to block Zachary's view of Alexander. Not that it would do much, she's shorter than everyone and everything in the room but she tries. Watching the man's face, and burning it deep into her memories, she continues, voice hoarse and frayed on the edges, "I'm not the sort to believe in anything preordained. Maybe I shouldn't rule anything out after everything, but if there is such a thing - purpose, what we're meant for, whatever. I'm relatively certain we're not going to find it here, and if by any chance you're right after all, that's a mistake I'm very much willing to make." She slides an eye over her shoulder towards her companions. "So we're leaving. Ronnie...take him. Start moving."

On seeing those blank and sometimes mutilated faces all standing behind Alexander, Byron can help but mutter an quietly seething, "Great." That's going to make things difficult if they ever needed to backtrack. Watching this subtle unfriendly exchange between Isabella and the Reverend, his dark eyes fall upon the extended hand, the one that his dear friend clearly rejects. Perhaps feeling some sense of obligation and aside from trapping them there and expecting them to join his cult of all things, Byron has no real animosity towards this man and so while he maintains this guarded demeanor, he will give the charismatic man a firm and confidant handshake.

He will say once the man speaks up about home, "If you'd told me years ago that this was home," Many, many years, "I might have said 'Cool'. Right now, I like where my life is going, but I'm glad to see that this offer is just that. An offer. An option to take or... politely reject as we please." That's the survivor Byron talking. All the while, once their handshake had ended, even as he speaks these words, there's a careful look given the place as if despite the laxness of his tone, he may be quietly trying to gauge what actual options they might have as a means to escape.

Then finally Alexander utters the other man's name and this brings Byron's attention back to the Reverend. Hearing that laughter and what the man might try to pass off as a sick joke. Then everything changes in what feels like a split second. It's as if he can smell that charred flesh once he says the pain and agony made clear on this Zachary's face. The way that his skin is melted, burned. The way that his skull is shattered. Then it's gone. With this set of his jaw, despite the carnage he'd witnessed done to one man, Byron almost has a mind to ask the other man about all that. What had happened to him. If anything, those intense dark eyes of his remain focused on Zachary for a long silent moment before they flicker over to the magical door that suddenly appears.

This is how things happened last time-- except there was no casting away this false angel nor was there actual violence to be had.

However, when the man speaks about being one of the Chosen, there is a part of Byron's mind that lingers on the man's words. He goes back to what he'd said earlier. If this were another time, then a younger Byron Thorne very well may have been influenced by this man's words. Instead, he found another. Not a mentor, exactly, but someone who believed in his talents at a point when he still had nothing to his name.

"She's right," He starts with a shake of his head, "I just don't think that we'll find any of those answers here." He understands the need and desire to be told just how special you are. That you are the Chosen ones. But unlike the others, at least in certain regards, Byron knows that the man isn't talking about him. He's no flame. No lighthouse. No shining beacon. So it's much easier for him to dismiss such words and at Isabella's request, he gives Alexander this look. It's not apologetic or anything of that nature and more of a 'Looks like we're doing this' sort of deal. He knows that Alexander does't like physical contact, so if anything, Byron will acts as a Shepard and try to herd the other man to safety.

"That's a shame," Zachary says. He doesn't sound heartbroken, but certainly regretful. He gives Isabella a long, thoughtful consideration, then takes a few steps back, hands raised. Look! He's unarmed! "Would you at least consider staying for the worship service? I try to keep them brief and entertaining; when one preaches to the lost, I find the quantity of words is less important than their quality. No one likes a long-winded sermon!" He flashes another of those friendly smiles. Behind Alexander, the blank-faced followers are filing in, moving around the three in the aisle, light winking through the holes in their head. They take their seats in silent unison, as if it'd been practiced. Zachary gives Byron a grin. "And you never know where you might find an answer or two. What could it hurt?"

There's a movement from the angel of the void. It steps forward to stand in front of the door that Zachary has pointed out as being the way out. Its wings lift and spread. Zachary seems oblivious to the idea that his friendly offer has just become a bit of an ultimatum. He's making his way back to his lectern and checking his notes, before smiling out at the audience. "If you'd like to stay, there are some seats right there," he says, gesturing towards an empty section of pew in the front row. By sheer coincidence, there are about five followers closing the double doors to the church, and then standing there, blocking the door.

Everyone turns to stare at the three, waiting for them to sit down. For his part, Alexander is easily herded - he wants to touch people EVEN LESS than usual, and that's only partially because both of his hands are covered in blood, which drips steadily on the carpet. Luckily, that's already red. He hesitates when they pass the pew with the empty seats, though.

Her temper is on the very verge of snapping, the longer Zachary talks. It is hanging on by a thread, even as Byron steps forward and offers his hand to shake, ever the cool and calculating figure in stark contrast to her fiery, reckless self. Her teeth clench so hard behind closed lips that she's almost certain the way they grind is permeating through the church, calcium and porcelain wearing down their pearlined edges. She is no fearless creature - even now, she feels it, black doubt worming through her veins like poison, but oddly (or perhaps understandably) she feels it less around the blue-eyed preacher, and more at the prospect of coming head-to-head with the faceless angel blocking the door to freedom. "We wouldn't be lost for long if you simply let us leave," Isabella replies testily, white heat threading through each syllable, fuses to a series of ticking timebombs threatening to reduce her to paste, and everything else into ash.

It's that last part that stays any further reckless action on her part. She and Byron are still recovering from the last Dream, and this Dream is built around Alexander's open wounds; the way his fingers drip red on the floor makes that evident enough. Narrowed eyes glittering like emerald slits take in the angel's ominous figure before turning a step to regard the rest of the congregation filing in, and the double doors closing once they're all seated. And while there is a grateful look cast to Byron when he backs her up with the Reverend, the situation, at least at the moment, is pretty clear to her:

They can't fight them all. Not in the state they're in. And while the Reverend doesn't look armed, she knows better than that.

But to risk listening to the man any more would possibly mean falling further into his thrall, and she...

God damn it.

"Fine," she manages, pushing the single, acerbic word through her clenched teeth. From her tone and temper, it almost sounds like a curse. There's a look to Byron, to gauge his expression - if he disagrees, she prepares herself for that, also.

In this herding of Alexander, Byron does notice the man's bloody hands and the first thing that comes to mind is: Did someone cut him or when did he have the chance to cut himself. The second thing that comes to mind is: These mutilated hands, but why? Surely, this can't be similar to the price that everyone else had paid for being imperfect or straying from the teachings of this particular gospel.

The third thing that comes to mind brings Byron's attention away from Alexander's hands to now focus on the Reverend himself.

Seeing the angel stand more vigilantly by their exit way, Byron looks entirely unamused by this. "I'm glad to see that we really have a choice in the matter of leaving." Whether the angel would step aside or not if they wanted to push on through is unknown, but Byron has his doubts. Then with this whole congregation coming together, this reminds Byron of their wedding crashing and the way that both he and Alexander felt like outsiders when all of the other guests had already taken their seats.

Lingering somewhere behind Alexander, still in that herding position, Byron casts one more look towards the angel at the doorway before hearing Isabella reluctantly relent in that annoyed way of hers to the suggestion that they join in on the sermon. This is what makes him blink. Of course, he notices just how much they are outnumbered here and he doesn't trust the Reverend's words at all in regards to their own escape. In a hushed tone, he circles Alexander to lean in close to Isabella, "Are you sure?" For the next fleeting moments, Thorne is calculating their odds of just making it to the door. Even if the angel had stepped aside and gestured to the portal in an inviting way, after what he'd witnessed these angelic being do before, he wouldn't want to get anywhere near them at all.

Another look is then given Alexander, an inquisitive one, before turning back to Isabella, "We have to be on our guards and not be swayed or taken advantage of." He's obviously oblivious to the spell that he was nearly under earlier.

Are you sure?

"No," Isabella tells Byron quietly, meeting the entrepreneur's dark-haired stare with her own and attempting to keep her voice down for her companions' ears only. They've been through the breach enough together that they can anticipate one another's thinking with some accuracy and by the look in those emerald-and-gold eyes, the man would know right away that she doesn't like staying here any longer than necessary. "But our exits are blocked and despite what the Reverend would like us to believe, he's not unarmed. Not sure if it's going to be the same in the Dream, but his real world counterpart had Lilith's skills. If this is pulled from memory, it's likely that he'd have them here, also. We need to wait for an opening."

There's another glance at the faceless angel guarding the doorway, feeling something tighten within her, a whipcrack of not just fury, but trepidation and no small measure of sorrow bleeding out of her. "The angel will protect the Reverend at all costs," she tells the entrepreneur softly, though she doesn't explain to her childhood friend how she knows this. Nausea at saying these whispered words out loud threatens to overwhelm her again, looking heartbroken enough to seem visibly sick. "I can either try and cause an accident when the man starts to preach, or you can use an illusion. It might be enough to pull the angel away from the door to engage the perceived threat, and then we can try and make a break for it."

Alexander is herded, moving like a man in a dream (and not a Dream, which USUALLY involves more running and screaming), but as they approach the pew, Zachary's voice reaches them, still kindly, and aimed straight at the investigator. "Not there, Alexander." His head comes up, and he stares at the man behind the podium. Who smiles, and holds out a hand. "I need you here, Alexander. They'll be fine on their own. We'll bring them home together, but first, there's the rest of the flock to tend to." Zachary looks out at the rest of the audience. "Shall we begin with confessions?"

"We will confess," the church says, in one voice, loud enough to cause a shiver through the floor.

Alexander takes a shuddering breath. Quietly, in a voice meant for both of them and no one else, he says, "When it moves, run for the door." Then he turns without looking at either of them, and walks towards the lectern, intending to take the position behind and to the right Zachary. Meanwhile, the angel stirs, its attention fixed on Alexander. When he takes a step, so does it, somehow giving the impression of a perfect mirror, despite their trajectories being entirely different. It is angling for the position behind Zachary and to his left.

With his face directed towards the Reverend, Byron's eyes shift between the man and the angelic being with the chaotic features. There's no nod given to Isabella, though she can probably tell that he's listening. That said, when Zachary speaks and calls forth Alexander, his keen eyes narrow a touch when he speaks in a casual conversational tone, "You don't have to listen, you know?" But with how distracted Alexander seems to be currently, Byron's isn't sure just how much free reign the investigator has at the moment.

Watching as Alexander moves to take his place in the appointed spot, there's this tightening of Thorne's muscles which keep him from just grabbing the other guy to sit the hell down. If anything, he shoots this look of frustration in Isabella's direction and there is that slow shake of his head expressing his own disbelief at what's about to go down.

Then the angel moves, all in time with Alexander's motions and here Byron's eyes narrow again, "How did he know that..." Out comes that exasperated breath, "Nevermind. He's giving us an opening, we don't want to waste this opportunity. That said, we need to find a way for him to get away from them. I can try and cause a distraction, but I don't think I can distract everyone."

Her agonized expression only intensifies when Alexander pushes away from the pew, to start going up the lectern. Isabella's unable to help it then. Byron's words filtering in her ear, she gives him a quick nod - a signal enough that she has heard him, and she agrees. But her hand reaches up before Alexander gets too far, in an attempt to grasp his wrist. Warm blood stains her skin, slickens her grip, but she hangs on stubbornly, every line of her tight with strain.

The angel stops from his ascent to the podium, but the young archaeologist ignores him. Byron might be starting to put two and two together, but there's no surprise on her features. And while she doesn't force him to look at her, her jaw works at the hinges, in an attempt to look for the words. With Zachary gazing at him expectantly, and the galling way he follows...

"I'm not leaving without you," she tells him quietly, from somewhere behind him, her fingers tightening into the cuff of Alexander's sleeve. "I know you're giving us a chance. I know you'll do what you have to do and we won't waste it. But I'm not leaving without you." Her eyes fall to the floor, her sideways bangs shadowing the look within them as her head tilts low. "I don't know how many times circumstances forced you back here, or how many times you had to do this alone, or how many times you had to return here with people who'd gladly take the out you're providing without looking back. But that's not happening today."

She glares hard at the floor. "You're not alone today." He might prefer that, for this, but it is what it is.

With that, she turns to Byron and nods. "Do what you can. I'll....improvise." Fuck me. A breath winds out of her. "Somehow."

Alexander doesn't have to listen. He looks at Byron like the younger man is speaking some strange, foreign language. And then he walks on.

Until Isabella grabs his wrist. Then he stops. The angel stops. They both turn in a smooth motion towards Isabella, and stare at her. At least one seems to be listening, something flickering in his eyes as she speaks to him. He hesitates, something like life coming back into his face.

From the lectern, Zachary looks - not angry, but perhaps a bit disappointed. "Alexander," he says, gently. "She's right. You aren't alone. You're with the people who understand your purpose. Who will never laugh at you, or be afraid of you, or look at you like you're a broken thing. We know what you are, Alexander. I know what you are. I found you. I put you on the path when you were lost. I gave you purpose. What was that purpose, Alexander?"

"...to protect the flock."

Zachary smiles. "Yes. And what are you protecting the flock from?"

"The wolves who prey on the innocent. Who obstruct the righteous. Who seduce the true from the path." Alexander's voice is fading - the angel is speaking instead, his voice like a great, deep drum. It draws a blade from its belt.

Zachary nods. "Exactly. And who is obstructing the service? Obstructing you as you rejoin your proper duties?" Alexander's eyes turn back to both Isabella and Byron. "Yes. Now. Your friends are not evil. I know that. But they've lost the path, Alexander. You need to help them. You need to help me help them. You will, won't you?"

Alexander freezes, visibly wavering between 'yes' and 'no'. The angel, on the other hand, has no such doubt in its heart. It begins to move without its mirror, striding forward, blade drawn.

No, Byron didn't have much more of a plan than run and once they are by the door something something. That's exactly what went through his mind when he rose from his own seat to, looking ready to make a straight line towards stage right. And then Isabella went and grabbed for Alexander's hand which was not a part of Byron's lack of a plan, but it does help to steer them in /a/ direction even if he's not completely sure if it's the correct direction.

He doesn't blame Isabella for doing what she did. If put in her place he might have done the same. What is disturbing and alarming to him is realizing just how much control the Reverend has over Clayton. Just watching Alexander respond to everything the other man says reminds Byron of the way a robot is programmed to do its masters bidding. But there was a way to get through such programming and that was by hacking. Well Alexander wasn't a robot and Byron wasn't a hacker, but he'll try his hand in breaking through to the other man in the hopes of stopping this madness. He doesn't have to wait for this puppet show to be finished to know in which direction that things are now going.

Thorne doesn't do this often at all, tapping into someone else's mind, because it tends to leave your own mind somewhat open. Despite his confidence in his own abilities, he knows how brightly Alexander's inner light shines, so that gives him the advantage more often than not and while he may have some reservations in doing this, his own mind isn't gentle. There's no knocking, it's more like a kicking in a door. Byron's own mental persona isn't as nice or friendly or warm as he might portray himself to be to those around him. There's this cold-bloodedness about him infused with a hint of paranoia and anger. He comes in as a feral form, possibly a wolf of sorts, but one hidden in mist that you can only see the glow of its yellow eyes.

His words are sharp and there's this feeling that if there's any single wrong move, the creature in the darkness might snap fanged jaws down in order to protect itself.

"Alexander. You don't have to listen to him. If you do, you put all of us in danger. You put /Isabella/ in danger. She's here right now trying to guide us all to safety. Trying to get us far away from this place. So we're going to need to you to cooperate or..." If anything, while he doesn't really want to do it, there's this sense of guilt and fear that he's trying to feed in with his words, "else Isabella's going to suffer the same fate as all of these helpless, hopeless and needy people. People who needed guidance and got... corrected, punished instead. So snap out of it. He can't control you anymore."

Her hand keeps gripping Alexander's wrist tightly, fear running black through her veins because she can hear Zachary and she knows what that means. The metallic ringing of the sword that the angel wields screeches through her senses like nails on a chalkboard and for a moment, she feels like she's drowning. Her expression is hopeful, almost pleading, as she looks up at Alexander's face. The indecision within it might as well be a blade slid between her ribs, but she can't help but hope, despite everything. She can't help it.

She doesn't know how to quit.

As Byron reaches out, her grip tightens on the investigator's wrist. "I love you," Isabella tells him simply, but there's nothing hopeless, or helpless, about her tone. Her gaze sharpens as she is suddenly reminded, her determination crowding out everything else. "And you love me. I accept you, and you accept me. I know..." Oh fuck me I can't believe I'm saying this in front of Byron, I'm never living this down for as long as I live. "...you're too old to believe that's sufficient by itself. But I'm not, when the circumstances call for it. The world hasn't taken that from me yet! So while it hasn't...if...if you won't snap the fuck out of it, I'm going to show you that I meant what I said!"

Her temper finally snaps, she pivots away from both men as she starts marching towards the intimidating angel with his wide-spanning wings and dangerous blade. Quick steps turn into a trot, before it turns into a full on run, barreling headfirst into the fray.

"If I have to kill you in order to save you, I will!"

Her hand snaps out, diving deep into the endless, churning chasms of her rarely used potential. She attempts to seize all of it, all at once. She throws the dice in the air as she mentally lashes out towards the lectern right by Zachary in an effort to RIP it off the floor, and swing it in a wide arc....and yes, she does mean to knock the Preacher off his feet with it, to buy them more time, but the final destination for it is right in front of her. She will attempt to launch it once it's airborne, right into the angel's face.

Under normal circumstances, Alexander's mental defenses are reasonably tough, although he's more likely to let an intrusion flow through his mind than toss up walls in its way. This time, though, Alexander is at war with himself, and the glimpse Byron receives of his mindscape is a void lit by churning, spinning stars with sharp, bleeding edges, tearing itself apart. But the kicking down of mental doors does snap Alexander out of his enthrallment - if that's what it was. His eyes focus on Byron. "I don't...want...to hurt her." A pause. "Or you." This voice is his own, separate from the angel of the void. He blinks, shakes his head. "I don't have to hurt you. It's not right."

He looks at Isabella's hand, holding his wrist, and he smiles at her, for just a moment. "I love you, too, Isa--" And then she's whirling away, and his eyes widen. "Isabella, don't!" It's too late as that lectern is ripped off the floor and flung into the icy aura of the approaching angel. Its wings flare with surprise as it takes a very large block of wood to the face. "ISABELLA!" Alexander whirls towards the angel, takes a step in that direction...

Then goes down to one knee as Zachary raises a hand and simply cuts open the back of his white t-shirt, and then the skin of his back, peeling a long, thin strip of skin right down as if it was barely an effort. "Alexander," the Reverend says, sounding sad. "Don't do this. You know I hate having to correct you. You're my friend. You must stay on the path."

Alexander growls through gritted teeth. "FUCK. Don't. Don't let him target you," he bites out. "He can...do a lot of damage. Try to keep him distracted and we can...head to the door..."

Of course, there's that angel in their way, and it just recovered from that smack up the head, and lunges at Isabella, slashing her upper arm with its wicked knife.

Luckily for Isabella, Byron is pre-occupied with his own thing even if he catches bits and pieces of what Reede says, hearing the word 'love' featured prominently among other similar verbal expressions. So consumed in his task to tear Alexander free from whatever grasp Zachary has on the investigator, he doesn't immediately realize when Isabella charges into battle towards the angel, tearing up the room around her. In echo to Alexander's own concerns, it has him calling out, "Isa--" His words are then halted, taking a very brief moment in the chaos to observe whether striking out against the angel mirrors damage on Alexander as well.

He then quickly send out a mental message Alexander's way. <<You good? Because right now, Bella's making herself a-->> But it's not Isabella who takes this mysterious lashing, but it's Alexander instead. In fact, if he didn't know better, he might have thought that the damage that Isabella dared to cause the angel was right now being reflected on Clayton, but it's Alexander's words that help focus his attention on Zachary. <<Got it.>>

This was a pretty sizable congregation. At this point, he's not quite certain at the Reverend's own mental abilities, but these numbers put the Reverend ahead of the trio. If he could try to tilt the tide in their favor, then perhaps they can get the upper hand. Breaking his link to Clayton, rather than fight on a single front in this war, he mentally tries to weaken the congregation's resolve, sowing the seeds of discord within the minds of a few, all while stating the group as a whole, "Do you see what is going on here? The way that this man tries to build you all up, but tears you down in the process. So much that you lose aspects of yourself. Bits and pieces that make all of you, all of /us/ who we are!" These were the minds so used to being manipulated by a good sermon, so as he speaks this he gestures dramatically, even directing their attention to Zachary when he tries to tear down this illusion of their benevolent benefactor in the minds of his people. "Look deep within yourselves. Are you truly happy now with how /this man/ made you suffer, warped you into a broken and pathetic version of yourselves. Do you truly feel whole under his guidance? Or do you feel like you constantly need to perfect yourself, to struggle and change just so you don't gain the eye of his ire? He rules with this twisted love and disgust intertwined together. Don't mistake his actions, his words for compassion. If he had true compassion, then he wouldn't dare hurt any of you." He's just trying to stir up trouble right there.

She is definitely making herself a target; it's a tactic that she's familiar with, if that gigantic snowball fight was any indication and sometimes, it even works. Either way, with what they've seen of the angel earlier in the field, however way they slice it, it's still a threat that needs dealing with. She's no powerful reader, and she's a far cry from where she was at the height of her talents as a mover. But she's in the thick of it now and there's no turning back - she has to make this count now that Byron's getting everyone's attention, attempting to wrest Zachary's control of his flock....something he will probably not take lightly. This has to get done.

Isabella hears Alexander scream her name somewhere behind her, and hope - that elusive, addictive drug - rages with the freeflow of adrenaline pouring into her system. Every sense feels lit with fire and her heart is in her throat, engaging something absurdly dangerous with nothing but body and brain. She is not a fearless creature, as was observed in the past - but it's very rare that she lets that get in the way of anything, especially when it's time to make absolutely certain that the people she cares about come back through the tear. She's already failed twice. She doesn't want to think about the same thing happening the third time. To lose either of her companions is utterly unacceptable.

This has to get done.

She doesn't even give herself time to feel any satisfaction when the lectern slams into the angel and its featureless face, and she twists her body sideways in an effort to lure it further and further away from the door. She backpedals at every swipe of the blade until the wicked tip of it opens skin and muscle anyway, blood flying in an arc and splattering over the wall at the slashing movement, and she grits her teeth to prevent herself from crying out. Green-gold eyes are wide and wild as she attempts to anticipate his movements. He's better than her in a fight, and of course he would be, she knows who this is...or at least, who he used to be.

Somewhere to the back, she hears Alexander's curse, and Zachary's taunt; scarlet fills her vision, the all-consuming white heat of her anger mercilessly immolating fear's unforgiving poison, burning it from her body until all that's left is a moment of breathless, heart-pounding clarity. She tries to gain some distance, extending a hand in an attempt to rip the blade from the angel's grasp, lightly-tanned mien a ferocious mask, her eyes backlit until they look like verdant coals. And if she's able to do that?

She knows precisely where this blade is going.

<<I'm fine,>> Alexander bites out through the mental link, his mental voice shadowed with pain, but also a certain sense of resignation and acceptance. At least that dangerous influence that Zachary had over him is gone, at least for the moment. And Byron's words give Zachary something else to deal with. Byron's also a practiced speaker, and a man used to selling - at this point, a man who actually has more practice than this version of Zachary has.

More than that, he's got something the preacher never did. Something the preacher needed Alexander for. Byron's abilities reach out with even longer fingers than his words, and slowly, he brings the congregation under his sway. They stand up, one by one, almost a dozen, then more than a dozen, eyes wide as they start to weep. Zachary's eyes widen, and he speaks with passion of his own. "This man is an outsider. A stranger. A serpent in our Garden. Do not let him fool you with talk of compassion. Who is it that fed you when you were hungry? Who gave you clothing when you were cold? Reggie," he extends a hand to a man who is wavering, "when you were in the throes of your addiction, who sat beside you and helped you through the withdrawal? Meg, who healed your wounds? The disease that ravaged you? What has this intruder done for you?"

The congregation becomes divided, their voices rising in chaos as they shout questions and support and anger. The angel's attention swings briefly to the wayward lambs - and then Isabella yanks his long knife right out of his hand. If flies to her own hand like divine providence, the hilt ice cold when it slaps into her palm. Alexander staggers to his feet, and uses the opportunity to attack the angel. The two grapple, one a negative copy of the other (minus the wings), but the angel is getting the upper hand, driving Alexander to his knees. "Run for the door," he calls out to the other two. "Get the hell out of here!"

Byron seems to have caught Zachary's attention when the man realizes that he is losing control over his flock one member at a time. Now, as a cutthroat man of business, Byron understands exactly how the Reverend operates. He's very much the same, always having that need to have his friends rally around him. To LIKE him. So he truly understand this fear of being cast aside for someone or something else. This works with business clients as well.

Sensing that panic and anger from the other man, afraid of losing that adoration, Byron starts out again, calling out the names that Zachary utters to try and make his point. "And what did /he/ have you do to earn that warmth, shelter and food, Reggie?" His eyes now turn to Meg, "There are those of us who know that we don't have to do it, but we work hard to ensure that our sick, our poor and our forgotten are fed and clothed and what do we ask for in return? We ask for them to come to us when they need help and guidance. In their weakest points, we extend a hand to them. We don't belittle them or make them believe that they are weak. Because you're not. I only want to give that same chance to all of you now. If you've ever felt afraid of what our dear Reverend thinks of you because of his berating or worse, then come with us and tear yourselves away from this toxic relationship, so he can't hurt any of you ever again with his cruel form of false kindness."

He's putting on the dramatics here even as he watches Isabella do her thing, obtaining that sword. In his mind, it's time to go, even more so after Alexander gets into a scuffle with his Celestial doppleganger. "Bella, I'll get Alexander. You just go!" As he says this, he's hoping that a few will follow his lead, causing some sort of chaos as he tries to reach for Clayton and drag him out of the angel's grasp if he has to.

The urge to cut off the head of the snake is very high, and red overtakes Isabella's vision completely, and becomes all the more so when the ice-cold hilt of the blade snaps into her hand. Dangerous eyes flick over towards Zachary as he attempts to get his flock under his control. "Alexander, g-- !"

...except he tackles the angel and they're grappling now, and he's telling them to go and her teeth grind together, because didn't she already tell him? She's not leaving without him. With Byron working the crowd and keeping the man occupied, she finds herself torn - would attacking Zachary bring the angel's attention to him or to her? Because the latter would be counterproductive; the aim is for all three of them to get out of there.

And then the investigator is brought to his knees, his deadly doppleganger standing over him and...

Bella, I'll get Alexander! You just go! Her expression goes from determined to utterly incredulous as the investor pries himself away from the chaos he has caused, to leap into the fray in an attempt to pull Alexander away from the angel's grasp.

That moment of indecision withers on the vine, and as her green-gold eyes find Zachary frantically trying to regain control of his congregation, her expression twists as a certain realization dawns on her now that people are calling her name, something that she already knows, but has managed to forget in the heat of the moment. It's easy to, in a fight, but the raging conflagration of her own ire abates when water splashes over it, another blond face floating past her mind's eye through the depths...

You can't kill a memory.

At least, not this kind. No matter how hard she tries. No matter how fervently she wishes for it. No matter how real, but ultimately transient the satisfaction of doing so would bring.

The blade spins at her psychic command, and as she pivots, she attempts to fire it in a straight shot through the back of the angel's neck before he could do more damage to Alexander, or even try and attack Byron. She directs her efforts to clearing a path.

If she's successful, she'll start backing up towards them.

"When all three of us get out of here," she breathes, eyeing her companions over her shoulder. "We're going to have to come up with a better system."

Dramatics work, especially with this audience. They've been primed for this, and Byron's voice reaches them. He doesn't need the boost of his mental abilities to know that he's bringing them under his influence - there have been so many darknesses, so many betrayals both small and large, that the idea of one person standing up and telling them this isn't right? It fires up something in these broken images, and one person shouts, "Amen!"

Zachary's eyes widen. "No," he says, quietly. Disbelievingly. "No. I am the Prophet of the Lord. You must heed my voice. I keep you to the path. I will lead God's Chosen to make a new world, without poverty or sorrow. You can't just...Alexander," his eyes snap to where angel and man grapple. "Alexander, help me!" Both man and angel's head turn towards the Reverend, his desperation cutting through their struggle. They're poised for a moment.

And in that moment, Isabella strikes. It's not the dead on shot she might have preferred, but Alexander sees the blade and tightens his hold on the angel, prevent it from jerking back too far, and the blade bites deep into the back and side of the angel's neck. It tilts its head back and screams, its wings extending in shock and pain. Alexander lets it go, rolls away, screams himself as that flayed flap of skin flops around on the floor. He reaches out for Byron as the other man grabs at him, staggers to his feet. "Run. Now."

He's not a witty man, Alexander. Not often, anyway. And the door is unguarded.

There's no smile on Byron's face even when he realizes just how much sway he holds over Zachary's flock. What they do see is his intensity, that dark piercing look within his eyes as casts his gaze on each and every face. He stood for all the wrongs done to them. Not even just beneath the Reverend's care, but throughout their entire lives. He also stood for freedom in a sense. Did he truly care what happened to these individuals? In a way, Byron does. There was this fire that burned within him, knowing just how much of an impact that he's making on this congregation. Even if this is a mere Dream.

When the Reverend pleads for Alexander's help, there's no biting remark from Thorne. Instead, he has work to do.

Isabella should have be close to reaching that door right now as Byron headed directly to where Clayton rests down upon his knees to drag him out from beneath the Angel's dark shadow. At that same time a steel blade drives itself into the back of the being's neck a mere seconds before Byron, himself reaches for Alexander. That wasn't his doing nor Alexanders... and Isabella had control of...

"I said that I'd handle this!" He snaps out at Isabella, but she knows whole heartedly that he doesn't say this out of anger, but concern. As he aids Alexander in running towards the exit themselves, he makes sure to toss out, "I wouldn't have expected anything different from a Reede."

The blade finds purchase, thanks to Alexander's help, and she's already leaping down the stage to rejoin them.

She's moving quickly, the urge to slap Zachary in the mouth filling her as he calls for Alexander, but with the way unencumbered, there's no time to waste. As the three of them start trying to make their way through the door, she turns her attention towards Byron as he snaps at her. "This way, the three of us get out faster," Isabella retorts in the midst of their run, blood drops dripping down her own fingers from the welling slice down her arm, and leaving her own garish trail on the road to what is hopefully freedom. That is all that she provides as an explanation, however. There isn't a lot of time.

As they approach the exit, her control snaps out again, in an effort to yank the door open with her mind, in case other encumbrances are lying in wait for them beyond.

"Argue later. Run now. Please." Because Zachary is crying out Alexander's name, and Alexander cannot stop moving forward, or he might look back at the disbelief and pain in the reverend's voice. He tries to focus on his companions instead. "You're cold," he mutters to Byron. "Sorry." The congregation is closing in on the lectern with fire in their eyes. Literal fire. He's backing away.

"No, not again. Alexander," Zachary calls, his voice ragged with betrayal, "Alexander, don't leave me here, again! Don't let them turn against me!"

The door flies open under Isabella's power, with a bang. It's dark on the other side, as dark as the void of the angel. They run, and Alexander reaches out with his other hand to try and grab Isabella by the wrist, although his bloodied hands are slippery.

Nothing stops them from running through. And when they do? They stumble into Byron's penthouse, and all that's behind them is an elevator. They're back in their winter attire, although Alexander and Isabella's wounds remain.

Byron really was cold to the touch, but he was shivering more on the inside which is why this weird surge of passion that he spewed out when giving his revolutionizing speech did its work to fire him up. Out of morbid curiosity, even as he's running, he turns to glance over his shoulder to observe the Reverend's fate. He'd told them to come with him, to freedom! Yet their was this strong need for revenge that even he understands. Calling out some good advice to the other man, Byron says, "I'd run if I were you. Apologize to all of them for making their lives miserable behind a veil of compassion." Does he care what happens to this Zachary? Absolutely not.

Once through the door and when they are back in his apartment, Thorne finds comfort in the many layers that he's wearing. The place is empty, the heat is still turned up and by the looks of it there are a pile of blankets on the couch where he may have sequestered himself at before their arrival. The physical exertion of running helps to warm him up some, though as he catches his breath, even that starts to fade.

Those far too dark eyes stare out at the pair, tension evident in the way his jaw is clenched. Taking in a heavy breath after a moment of silence, his gaze studying them from where he stands, he finally says, "There's a first aid kit in the bathroom. I'll pour ourselves a drink."

He's able to grab her wrist in their run, slipping once due to the blood in his fingers and hers pouring down from her wound, not like Isabella is doing much to resist getting out. She reaches out again to grasp his hand once she pushes herself to move faster, gripping tight once their limbs finally find purchase underneath all that crimson. With the doorway in sight, it only seems to spur her to move faster, gritting her teeth as she attempts to ignore the shards of pain shooting up her ankle at the healing hole in her foot. She perseveres, however; adrenaline and raging flight-or-fight responses spur amazing things out of a desperate human body.

Darkness eventually gives way to light, suddenly flooding her eyes when they stumble out of the Dream and into Byron's penthouse suite. She nearly collapses on her knees when she realizes they've made it, staggering forward and bracing her free hand on her knee, panting breathlessly. Her head is bent forward, her shoulders hunch - whatever aches and pains there are aren't registering yet.

"Everyone....alright...?" she asks, words somehow managing to find their way through the demands of her burning lungs. The heat that washes across her skin now that they're in safer confines is a salve on the chill that lingers in her blood. But her head does lift, to search Alexander's profile, and then Byron's face.

Zachary, in the brief glimpse of him before they run through the door, does not run. Certainly doesn't apologize - nor does the congregation give him the chance. They set upon him like wild beasts, reaching for him, their hands on fire as they paw at his shirt and pants.

Alexander staggers to a halt when he realizes that they're out of the Dream, releasing both companions like he'd been burned. The blood from his hands was gone, although he could feel the slow trickle and burn on his back that makes it clear that Zachary's blow remains. As does Isabella's wound, which he takes more seriously. He straightens up, ignoring the fire at his back. He doesn't look anyone in the eye, but he does say, "I'm fine. I'll get the kit. Isabella...Thorne, is there somewhere she can sit that won't..." he looks around the apartment with resignation, "stain?" He doesn't wait for an answer, though, but immediately retreats to go get the first aid.

"I'm fine." Byron says already standing at the bar now, "I'm more concerned about the both of you." There's so many questions in his mind right now that he could be asking Alexander about what they'd just experienced, but they were all still in recovery mode, so he refrains. "I'll turn down the heat if it gets too hot. I get a few complaints or wise comments from my guests." All of them friends.

He fills all three glasses up with some whiskey, something easy to burn away the fear that they'd just experienced. At what Alexander says, his head tilts to set his eyes on Isabella. Sending her to the bathtub to bleed all over is just rude. "Get some towels from bathroom while you're there. First shelf." He then has to ask, carrying all three glasses to set down on the island before walking towards Reede, his voice full of concern,"You alright?"

Concern simmers from underneath the fine lines of her face as she watches Alexander turn to head for the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit. With her winter jacket back on her, the wound she sustained in the Dream is presently out of view, though the telltale caking of blood on her fingers remain. She holds it off Byron's expensive upholstery as she eases down on a chair - not on one of the couches that dominate the living room, but where she could keep her arm off the rest and prevent blood from smearing everywhere. The fact that she's sitting down is an encouraging enough sign that she's not about to insist on haring off to bleed off the adrenaline in her system, at least.

With her childhood friend approaching her, she flashes him a quick smile, but like a burnt-out candle, it sputters out quickly. "It's just a scratch," Isabella tells him in easy assurance. "It's nothing to be worried about. What about you?" Her clean hand lifts in an effort to touch her fingertips lightly on his cheek, though it is barely felt - a light brush over the arch before it's falling to her lap again. "Are you alright?"

Alexander grunts at Byron's remark about the towels. But he heeds it. It takes him a little longer to return than it should, with a stack of towels, and the first aid kit. His hands are freshly washed. Scrubbed, even, until everywhere that isn't callous looks too pink. His expression is shut down, blank-faced as he returns, until he focuses in for a moment on Isabella and Byron. He moves to kneel down near Isabella. "I should take a look at your arm, Isabella." A sidelong glance to Byron. "Were you--do you have any wounds that I need to take a look at, Thorne?" Which is a more limited version of Isabella's question, of course. He keeps his eyes at about the level of their collarbones, and drops his gaze quickly to start opening the kit and preparing disinfectants.

"I'm fine." Byron repeats himself and does so for a third time when Alexander returns with the kit and towels. He sees the blood though, so while she might say it's just a scratch, he's sizing it up, determining whether it may need stitches or not. He's no medical sort, however. Taking a few of the towels from Alexander's grasp, he moves to set them down on the couch. If anything, they'll help soak up the blood at least.

"I poured us all some whiskey," He then hurries with, "I know you don't drink normally, Clayton, but I think we all deserve one." When he says this, he can't help but keep his gaze on the other man. All of the questions being asked silently within his mind. Eventually, without prying too hard, he inquires, "You get that Dream often?" Either that scenario, those people, that location. Anything about this weird religious cult. He then adds, almost absently, "Let me know if I can do anything else for either of you."

She watches the top of Alexander's bent head, before Isabella shifts. Long fingers move to unzip her jacket, and slowly peel off her jacket after draping the towels on the armrest to prevent any stains; she's still a guest, after all. She's forced to strip off the layer underneath that, also, so she could reveal the extent of the injury, visible now from her tanktop. Her jaw sets to keep her teeth from chattering, but he'd be able to see the thin slice that comes down from bicep and down to her inner elbow, and while it's bleeding, it doesn't seem worse than a flesh wound.

It's when Byron asks that question that has her looking up. And while it's too late to prevent him from asking it, she attempts to discourage any more by shaking her head silently at him in a signal while Alexander's not fully looking at them. "Could you get me some water, too, Ronnie?" she asks, quietly, her expression an imploring one.

Turning to Alexander, she keeps her voice low. "We should take a look at you, too. Your back. We should disinfect the wound, at least." Her uninjured hand moves, and if allowed, she'll attempt to touch her fingertips lightly on his shoulder. Her eyes drop down to the raw, pink flesh of his hands, her lips pressing together.

Alexander's hands still, at that question. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. He answers steadily. "Not that one, no. I've never had a Dream with Zachary in it, before. Nightmares, yes. But not," he swallows, "nothing so vivid." He waits patiently for her to take off her jacket, then hisses to himself with seeing the wound. "God, Isabella. I'm so fucking sorry." It doesn't stop him from treating the wound with quick, professional motions - he's an asshole about the disinfectant, like it doesn't occur to him to warn first, but that's all. And he definitely reaches out for that whiskey, and downs it as soon as the wound is treated, almost without thinking about it.

Another deep breath. He shakes his head at Isabella. "It'll keep. I'll work on it in a bit. It'll be a clean peel." He rubs at his face, then mutters, "Thank you. Both of you. And I'm sorry. You shouldn't have had to see any of that."

Not thinking much of the question, Byron does catch the shake of head that Isabella gives him, giving him more incentive to not press further. Not that he'd planned to. Or not at this moment at least. Still, with the three glasses of whiskey sitting on the island, he scoops up one of them for a drink as he returns to the kitchen to fill up a container of water. "For washing or drinking as well?" He asks, turning back to where the pair are situated.

For now, he'll let them both be, but once he hears what Alexander plans to do, even though that sounds incredibly painful and terribly messy, he offers, "If you need to do that here, the shower is all yours." He'd even offer up his assistance again, but that sounds like a very personal ordeal to handle.

After everything, the disinfectant barely registers, anyway, and if Isabella can't handle a bit of iodine or isopropryl, she has no business being an archaeologist. His vehement apology has her shaking her head once. "They did this to us," she reminds him softly, gently - it's not as if anyone has delved into the mystery as to whether Dreams can be controlled in some fashion, and really, tonight just gives her more incentive to start diving into that, but to even so much as accept that Alexander dragged them into his past willingly is something that is and will forever be beyond her. "And I'm the one who charged in, the wound is there in the first place because I engaged."

She casts a grateful look towards Byron. "Just drinking, for me," she says, testing the bandage applied.

It's only when she's bandaged up and her wound is shut that she reaches for the alcohol provided. It might dull the pain, but she knows enough about first aid to know that it thins the blood, and drinking it while she was being tended to would only make her bleed more profusely. Her jaw works, her mind tumbling through different responses, her self-doubt briefly visible, gun-shy and all too cognizant of her tremendous ability to make things worse. She honestly doesn't know how August does this. How does he always know what to say?

"...you're welcome," she says, finally. "And I mean that, Alexander."

Alexander blinks a couple of times at Byron's offer; it surprises him into looking at the man full on for a moment, before his eyes skitter away. He nods. "Thank you. The extra room would be appreciated. I'll clean up afterwards. And I suspect Isabella should sit and rest for a bit before we make our--before going home." He makes the bandage very neat and very tidy, then leans in and places the briefest of kisses on the gauze, always careful not to make her flinch.

He pulls back immediately, and tidies the supplies he used. Something like a smile - after it'd been strangled and slapped around a bit - surfaces at Isabella's response. "I know you do," he says, quietly. He takes a deep breath, and stands up, with a grimace of pain. "I should deal with this. It might be a while." He reaches for the first aid kit again. Thorne, thanks. Isabella, try to rest and stay warm for a bit, until I'm done?" He turns and walks carefully back towards the bathroom. "Won't take too long."

She watches Alexander leave and she moves only when he's vanished into the bathroom, to tend to his own hurts while his heart and mind flogged him mercilessly away from the rest. They've known one another for less than a year, but Isabella's statements about her attention are no exaggeration - she is always looking at him, knows deep in the marrow of her bones that is what is happening. Her eyes turn to her glass, feeling the heated pinpricks of stinging tears that threaten to form, though hers are stubborn too - it takes much, almost too much, to make them fall.

It isn't out of pity. Rather it is pain born from deep-seated rage that she isn't certain how to address, at watching him forced to relive the most horrifying aspects of his past, and the helpless acknowledgment that she can do so little against such monsters, no matter how hard she tries to help. It would never stop her from trying. She doesn't know when to quit. But to know that, and still do....

She takes a deep breath and drains all of the whisky after a solid swallow, and turns her bright but determined, resolute eyes towards Byron. "Ronnie," she begins. "Can I bum a cigarette off you?"

She hasn't touched one in eleven years. It's bad for diving, she intends for it to stay at just one, but...

"I think I could use one."