𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐈𝐀 - TMR, Gally ¹

𝟢𝟣𝟫，𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐭, 𝐲'𝐚𝐥𝐥

"I also saw a girl. Raven-haired, blue eyes," she describes fast. Some kind of excitement hits her. They might get more answers if they compare each other's memories like this. "She said everything was going to change. And that I'm not here for the test, but a punishment."

His eyes wide. "So it is a test! Not for you, but for the rest. Why would it be a punishment for you, though?"

"How am I supposed to know?" She shrugs. "Well, if that pain during the Changing and these wrists aren't punishing enough..." But she doesn't finish her sentence when a strange feeling hits her. "Anyway. Good talk."

He nods in agreement.

"I'm still expecting an apology, though."

"For what?"

"Oh, well. I don't know... maybe accusing me of being a spy, sending me in the Slammer on purpose, telling me to get stung... not sure."

"You might as well apologize for ruining my shirt, making half of my clothes pink, and beating me up."

"You wish."

"I'm not apologizing as long as you don't apologize."

She crosses her arms. "Then no one apologizes. Because I won't unless you do. First."

"Never," he says.

Her eyes narrow. "Alright. No problems solved after all, then."

"We can satisfy Jeff by being a little nicer."

"No apology, no being nicer." Joan gets up. She knocks on the door again, giving a yell at Jeff, but no one opens.

"You for sure have your needs," he mutters under his breath.

"Yes." She moves toward the window. "Ha. I'll fit through this. You won't."

"That window can't be opened," he says, as if she hadn't already seen that.

She takes a spoon off the table. Probably one she got fed with when she lay here. "I've noticed that, you idiot. The glass is not that thick. If I just..." Crack, the spoon against the glass. "See?"

"No one's gonna be happy with you giving the Bricknicks more to repair."

"Wow, you almost sound like you don't want me to leave." A fake gasp, then she's back to hitting the glass.

He ignores her comment. "Doesn't that hurt your wrist? Not that I care."

It definitely hurts. "You don't care, so you won't mind me not sharing that either, right?" With a final smash, the glass shatters into pieces and she can see the twilight better now, instead of the dirty window.

"You're crazy." He groans. Joan ignores him, slides everything off the table, and gets on top of it. With, in her opinion, smooth movements, she climbs out of the window.

And slips, falling right on her back with a wince.

"I'm alright!" She yells. "Now just considering if I will save you or let you suffer."

Some kind of grunt on the other side of the wall.

"Here. I have a great idea."

"I don't think any of your ideas are great, but alright."

"You apologize, and I'll open the door," she suggests, smirking.

He's hesitating. Considers it for a few seconds, though he hates apologizing and admitting he's wrong. "And you will apologize, too."

"No. I have apologized for your shirt already, and I had all the right to beat you up, because you beat me up, too! So what's it gonna be?"

"What about my pink clothes?"

"Well, just wear pink. Might make you look a little better."

"I'm not wearing pink."

"Then you won't. I don't care. Just tell me if you agree with the deal."

"I'm not wearing pink!" He repeats.

Rolling her eyes, she sighs. "Then you won't. Get fucking shirtless, nobody cares about your looks, Gally. Do you need me to open the door or not?"

"Did you just—"

"Do you need me to open the door or not?"

"Yes."

"I miss two words."

"Yes, please."

"Another one."

"No."

"Yes."

"I'm not apologizing!"

"Alright. Good night, Gally."

"Wait!" His eyes appear. "Just open the damn door, woman! One single 'sorry' won't change a thing."

"One single what?"

"Sorry," he repeats. "A sorry won't help."

"Well, I think you did just say sorry in some way, so fine." She makes a little sprint toward the door.

In front of the wooden thing is a table, indeed. Quite a heavy one. Groaning and puffing, she starts pulling it out of the way.

"You alright?"

"Cute you care," she breathes.

"You didn't answer."

A sniff. "Well, one of my wrists is broken and the other one is burned, along with the hand, but yeah, pretty great to pull this table away with those."

"You shouldn't be moving your wrists this much. Breaking down a window, slamming against a door, pulling heavy—"

"Yeah, but you'd like to escape from there, won't you?" She snaps. "I'm helping you. Just be patient."

"There's not a lot of difference between my bed and this one."

"Your point?"

"We can spare you the pain by just letting me sleep here. Only for tonight and only because I'll get blamed if your wrists will never properly recover."

Joan thinks about it. During that, she realizes no one will blame him for the wrists because it's her fault, but alright, if he says so.

"Okay," she says.

"Good thing to agree on."

"Oh, stop saying that all the time," she spats out. An audible laugh comes from inside the room. "Good night, then."

"Will you bring me—"

"Nope. Good night."