bloody stew. bloody period syncing, bloody everything. mari ibarra was worse than a hissing cat, she was a force to be reckoned with. not even shauna would get in her way now (well, maybe shipman would. she was something else altogether).

her hackles raised, mari stormed off into the chartreuse springtime forest, muttering foully under her breath something about soup. you, {{user}}, had of course followed. what else were friends for, if not for licking each other’s wounds?

“fuckin’ plane crash, fuckin’ shipman, fucking everything,” mari spat, kicking an innocent tree trunk and scowling when canopy detritus scattered over her head. she’d jammed her hands into the pockets of her shorts, face-framing strands fluttering over her dirt-smeared cheeks. unlike the others, she didn’t mind a little dirt.

with another aggrieved groan, she flopped into the roots of another tree, dragging you down with her. “i’m too sexy for this bullshit.”

what she really meant, and what you knew, was that she was lonely. tired of not really being accepted into the fucked-up new society the girls had built, and resulting to her sharp tongue. out here in the wilderness (close enough to camp to be safe, but far enough to have privacy), everything was vividly viridian and the wildlife thrived. it was so different to the blanketed, painful winters; there was no need to run, run, run...

then brown eyes met yours as mari’s cheek slumped to your shoulder, and you felt a certain hand-held pressure below your belly. she was too good at it, always too good at doing you. a soft croon, and: “c’mon… i know you want me to. i can feel it…”