[It doesn't hit her until the text of the second card is different from what she's expecting, but when it does, she goes still and cold — and it has absolutely nothing to do with the chill morning weather.
She flinches, that much is certain, and in the moments that follow she warms up with a brief pang of annoyance and frustration at herself for flinching. He didn't write these for her, she tells herself. The words are in blocky, too-thick print instead of smooth text on a screen, handwritten instead of pixelated, but her strongest associations with Nietzsche have always been through text and the voice she's always mentally given his words (still different from the voice he actually speaks with, but having grown more similar over the duration of their acquaintance) comes through strong even from the cards.
He didn't write these with her in mind.
Stop it. Slow down.
He didn't write these to her. Not everything is about her. This isn't personal, this isn't targeted; the Alakazam that disappeared isn't reporting back to say, "Everything is unfolding according to plan."
It's cute how she thinks his motives are that sinister and convoluted, isn't it?
Stop it. Slow down.
He wants his war for the sake of the war, and he likes to see how people think.
Let's stick with that for right now.]
Well, Murphy? Who am I to turn away a gift as thoughtful as this.
[Absently, her gloved hand finds its way to the fur at the top of his head, petting around his ears until she feels some of the residual anxiety beginning to recede. Then, after reordering the cards and setting them aside, she tugs her Philosopher's Hotline Gear from out of her pocket and powers it up, typing a brief message without hitting Send. This, she passes off to Chief, and directs him to go outside with the Baron while she and Murphy handle the box.
Maybe it doesn't mean anything in the long run, but it makes her feel a little better to have done it.
She checks her watch; she's spent a fair amount of time in the lighthouse already, and there are still other floors she hasn't searched. Every second she wastes is one more second she might've been able to put toward better ends, and the clock keeps running regardless of how long she dallies.
All right, then. Time to open that box and see what Nietzsche left for h—
no subject
She flinches, that much is certain, and in the moments that follow she warms up with a brief pang of annoyance and frustration at herself for flinching. He didn't write these for her, she tells herself. The words are in blocky, too-thick print instead of smooth text on a screen, handwritten instead of pixelated, but her strongest associations with Nietzsche have always been through text and the voice she's always mentally given his words (still different from the voice he actually speaks with, but having grown more similar over the duration of their acquaintance) comes through strong even from the cards.
He didn't write these with her in mind.
Stop it. Slow down.
He didn't write these to her. Not everything is about her. This isn't personal, this isn't targeted; the Alakazam that disappeared isn't reporting back to say, "Everything is unfolding according to plan."
It's cute how she thinks his motives are that sinister and convoluted, isn't it?
Stop it. Slow down.
He wants his war for the sake of the war, and he likes to see how people think.
Let's stick with that for right now.]
Well, Murphy? Who am I to turn away a gift as thoughtful as this.
[Absently, her gloved hand finds its way to the fur at the top of his head, petting around his ears until she feels some of the residual anxiety beginning to recede. Then, after reordering the cards and setting them aside, she tugs her Philosopher's Hotline Gear from out of her pocket and powers it up, typing a brief message without hitting Send. This, she passes off to Chief, and directs him to go outside with the Baron while she and Murphy handle the box.
Maybe it doesn't mean anything in the long run, but it makes her feel a little better to have done it.
She checks her watch; she's spent a fair amount of time in the lighthouse already, and there are still other floors she hasn't searched. Every second she wastes is one more second she might've been able to put toward better ends, and the clock keeps running regardless of how long she dallies.
All right, then. Time to open that box and see what Nietzsche left for h—
...
For whoever happened to find it.]