[ He takes notes of the names, memorizes them like he's going to have to hold on to them carefully--and he is. Shiro, the one with the scar. Bucky, the one with the metal arm. That's all their fault.
And Eddie's right. Eddie, as usual, is absolutely right: they had not only wanted it, but they felt so good doing it. Like it was right. Like they were showing the world how much they were sick and tired of running. 'Fuck you, everyone! Have a sickle! have some claws!'
Richie thinks he's going to be sick, and he presses his lips into a thin line to try to will the nausea away. It only half works. ]
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And Eddie's right. Eddie, as usual, is absolutely right: they had not only wanted it, but they felt so good doing it. Like it was right. Like they were showing the world how much they were sick and tired of running. 'Fuck you, everyone! Have a sickle! have some claws!'
Richie thinks he's going to be sick, and he presses his lips into a thin line to try to will the nausea away. It only half works. ]
None of them were. We're the bad guys, Eddie. Us.