Yeah, she heard all of that, alright. She watches Erin shed the weapons, the phone. Watches her stand there unprotected (that armour of hers she kept offering, gone too) and challenge her. Invite her to attack. Encourage her to do her worst.
The blood pumps in her ears, fresh and needy and eager for a fight she didn't get to leap into before she woke up back here. Two Hunters and that Stranger monstrosity just waiting for her to sink her teeth into. A part of her hungers for this, for a chance to take that out on Erin.
Another part of her is dissatisfied by the lack of Hunt in it. Too easy. No chase.
Another yet doesn't want to act at all. She denied the Hunt for months, gave in only for the sake of Jon and Basira (fuck, Basira, how can she long for two versions of the same person—) and maybe the world at large. (Maybe. Truth be told that didn't matter so much as they did.) She fought it for so long, why give in for anything less than that?
But she's not just that Daisy. Is she? Years on the boat. Years of a different life, a different suffering. How can she be both? Are those memories even really her, when that Daisy remembered none of what they went through here? They needed the Hunt, they always needed it, can she really keep denying that—
The noise that erupts from her is that of a distressed animal, somewhere between a snarl and a whine. Her nails dig into her scalp as she clutches her head as if it hurts, having all of this conflicting information tangling around itself up there.
What eventually comes of this moment of messy, ugly distress is a burst of motion and something almost as in-between as the woman beneath it all. No claws. No teeth. Just brute force strength shoving Erin back against the doors hard enough to dent and hoping the effect of the impact gives her the few inches she needs to get her forearm across at least Erin's collarbone if not her throat.
no subject
What. The. Fuck.
Yeah, she heard all of that, alright. She watches Erin shed the weapons, the phone. Watches her stand there unprotected (that armour of hers she kept offering, gone too) and challenge her. Invite her to attack. Encourage her to do her worst.
The blood pumps in her ears, fresh and needy and eager for a fight she didn't get to leap into before she woke up back here. Two Hunters and that Stranger monstrosity just waiting for her to sink her teeth into. A part of her hungers for this, for a chance to take that out on Erin.
Another part of her is dissatisfied by the lack of Hunt in it. Too easy. No chase.
Another yet doesn't want to act at all. She denied the Hunt for months, gave in only for the sake of Jon and Basira (fuck, Basira, how can she long for two versions of the same person—) and maybe the world at large. (Maybe. Truth be told that didn't matter so much as they did.) She fought it for so long, why give in for anything less than that?
But she's not just that Daisy. Is she? Years on the boat. Years of a different life, a different suffering. How can she be both? Are those memories even really her, when that Daisy remembered none of what they went through here? They needed the Hunt, they always needed it, can she really keep denying that—
The noise that erupts from her is that of a distressed animal, somewhere between a snarl and a whine. Her nails dig into her scalp as she clutches her head as if it hurts, having all of this conflicting information tangling around itself up there.
What eventually comes of this moment of messy, ugly distress is a burst of motion and something almost as in-between as the woman beneath it all. No claws. No teeth. Just brute force strength shoving Erin back against the doors hard enough to dent and hoping the effect of the impact gives her the few inches she needs to get her forearm across at least Erin's collarbone if not her throat.