He felt truly bad for a moment for causing Heather such pain, knowing his mood was affecting her as though they were twins and not just best friends. This whole situation was causing him to be sick and a wreck of great proportions, which was only going to worsen things for all three of them if he kept it up. Still he could not fight past the hopelessness and he couldn't swallow the horse pill of ultimate bad karma. There was no silver lining, hell there wasn't even a sun or moon. What hour was it? What day, month, year, millennium? How long had they been out? If they were this unscathed with bones around them, who was to say they didn't last longer than the usual week before starvation set in and killed them?<br/><br/>"Maybe you're right, I'm sorry..." Taking a step, he felt an odd sensation slither around his ankle like a cat might in passing affection, only it did not feel solid and was cold as death itself on a January day. Coiling and moving up and under the baggy jean pant leg, it caressed the pale calf, the knobby knee that was scuffed from rough play on carpet in his younger years, and to the sensitive thigh that despite belonging to one of the male persuasion, was near hairless and smooth, just thick enough to pinch a bit of fat between forefinger and thumb should one be so inclined. Unused to such a touch and not quite in the right state of mind to be any sort of rational, he took in the arctic burn and felt blood rush downward, seeking solace in a place often forgotten that began its shift into a more rigid state, straining against the thick denim and causing more pain for the way it had been tucked into his boxers in haste when he'd dressed. A heavy shudder racked his body and illicited a groan that was somewhere between the beginnings of pleasure and the swelling of pain.<br/><br/>Then the laughter drifted to his ears.<br/><br/><em>Her</em>.<br/><br/>The pen was now in a vice grip, held as one might a knife in offense, and he stumbled gracelessly back, tripping over himself and debris only to land in the middle of a ribcage, the marrow-less bone shattering cleanly upon impact and throwing up dust and bits of bleached bone to settle on him. "You heard that too?" It was directed at Marco though his eyes were everywhere but on him, Heather, or the sick display of fear in his lap. "I've heard that voice before. In a nightmare. Whoever it belongs to...<em>whatever</em>it belongs to... did all this. Has to be."