(Redux) [Vignette] Have Fun, Kids

"I'll keep an eye on him. Have fun, kids."

She didn't wait for an answer, not that it was a question. Not that any of them would question it. They all saw what she saw: Monty lurching forward, as if in a stupor, and gripping, and squeezing-- well. She supposed everyone but Charlotte saw; Charlotte was being strangled. But that was all in the (albeit recent) past, and now the concern was ensuring that Monty wouldn't kill anybody, mostly himself.

He was out of sight already when she whipped out through the door and into the grossly out-of-place sunshine, but his footprints, heavy, hasty, lopsided, still pitted the soft ground. She knew where they were leading within the first couple, hiked up her cloak to avoid the mudstains, and hurried.

The trident was, as always, peculiarly ornamental. She'd take a great leap and call it 'tasteless': the blue in isolation would be a bit gaudy, but excusable, but between the odd material (almost greasy) and the winding pattern down the side, which put her in the mind of holiday bunting-- she'd be ashamed to be killed by it, frankly. May as well be brained with a novelty paperweight.

But she'd seen blood on those prongs before, so she kept her tone light. "Where'd you get that, anyhow?"

Monty was sweating. Cold sweating, judging by the whiteness of his skin, the tremor in his hand. He looked at her like he didn't expect to be seen, like nobody would notice him bursting out of his tent in the middle of the day with a six-foot novelty-paperweight trident. She looked back like he didn't do just that. It was several moments before the question processed. "Um," Monty said, "it was- it was a gift."

"A gift!" Absolving him of one crime, at least. "No kidding. Who goes around gifting *tridents* these d-- that *is* a trident, right? I'm hardly an expert in weaponry--"

"...Er, yes, I suppose it--"

"Wonderful. That's wonderful. Would you mind if I gave it a look? I've seen it around, obviously, but I don't think I've ever-- I mean, just to look at the craftsmanship-- you never know when one'll be asked to make a trident of one's own, you know--"

He didn't exactly give the trident. But she took it, busily, and sagged, and nearly dropped it. Six feet of solid metal, or more likely un-metal. (Given the greasiness.) "Son of a-- how strong *are* you?!"

"Eloise--"

"I guess that explains the strangling, huh?"

She could plot the confusion lifting, the pain roaring back, the reality of it all crashing down on him, all in a neat little graph. For a moment she tried to, before dismissing it as twee-- and insensitive, given the circumstances. She had already let the faux-casualness drop off her.

"Eloise," Monty said again, but the tone was bruised. "Give me back my--"

"So you can do what with it?"

"So I can--" He didn't finish. "Please, Eloise, I just need to be alone. For everyone's--"

"You need to be alone so you don't strangle anyone else?"

"No- no. Don't put words in my mouth." 'Yes' was scrawled in his pursed lips and darting eyes. "I just need to be. Please. I don't want to--"

"You don't want to hurt me." She smiled with just her top teeth.

"I--"

"Well, that's fine, because I'm not scared of you, Mr. Gewecke. Mr. *Manager.* So let's have a sit-down, and let's have a civil conversation about why, a few minutes ago, you attempted to strangle someone-- well, not 'why.' We all want to strangle Charlotte. Let's revise that to 'why' you went through with it, and what we're going to do about our gallant, dashing leader who strangles people. Does that sound good with you, Mr. Manager?"

"Does it--" He grimaced. "Can it wait?"

"Can a strangle-happy madman roam our streets any longer, menacing innocent women and children?" Shit. She was joking again. She didn't have to try to, anymore, it just spilled out of her. Unhelpfully. "No, I mean-- listen, Monty, /no./ What would you do if I snapped in the middle of a conversation? Say I grabbed a knife. Say I grabbed a gun. Say I just started whaling on someone. After I was pried off them-- after my *weapon* was taken away--" A waggle of the trident, there. "--assuming I'd calmed down a little-- what would you do? You know me. You know I'm not violent. So you'd--"

A long silence. He doesn't want to answer, she thought.

"--you'd have a serious discussion. And while I don't doubt you're capable of having a serious discussion with yourself, that's not very productive for the rest of us. This is non-negotiable, Monty."

"Give me my trident back," he said.

"No."

"You can't even lift it." His voice took on a plaintive quality.

"Then it's an excellent thing we have a seating area right in here." She swanned past him, dragging the trident behind her, and pushed open the door of his tent. "Let's."