"Oh... alright." Arc felt a little disappointed that she didn't want anything to eat. He believed himself to be a decent cook, for all the experience he'd had. Of course he had only ever cooked for himself, but it seemed to be pretty good by his standards. He watched her head out, his eyes staring at the blank space where she once was before hesitantly turning away. He limped into the main area where he prepared his food and pulled out some dehydrated meat. Hardly anything grew anymore, as the soil was not nurturing and the weather was inhospitable. But inside his plane home, where he could control the environment, he had managed to grow a few things. Mostly vegetables, though sometimes he had blueberries. He also grew herbs, both medicinal and culinary. Arc started a fire in a small metal compartment over which sat a metal grate, where he could place pots for cooking or meats for grilling. Soon the entire plan smelled of potatoes and rosemary and meat.<br/><br/>His thoughts began to wander as he sat, stirring his simple soup, his eyes absently locked upon the simmering water.<i>'She's going to leave. She's deciding right now to move on. You just had to go and say something stupid.' </i>Arc's inner voice was always personally verbally abusive. Ever since the fall, when he thought to himself, it was never kind. It was cold or demeaning. He should have done more. He should have said more. He shouldn't have gone this way or that. It was all he could do to shut it up sometimes, and many times he couldn't even do that. That morning it was particularly loud, drawing up every instance it could from recent history that supported its hateful accusations. Of course it could only draw from Arc's personal experiences, but that was plenty. His mind was very good at twisting even the better moments into nasty ones, and it was inescapable. No amount of running could put any distance between them, and only powerful drugs did anything to dull the sharp jabs of his own mind.<br/><br/>"No," he said aloud finally, shaking his head as if he could loose the grip of his abusive mind. He busied his hands in an effort to pry loose the fingers that gripped his soul and squeezed it till it bled, and when that didn't work, he moved on to stronger tactics. For only a moment, he threw his hand among the flames, just long enough to sting. Pain, it seemed, was sometimes his only means of control.