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[center][h2] Matthew Mearls [/h2][/center]

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Míra sighed, and reached for the key.

It was about fifteen minutes of awkward, scratch-filled, anti-graffiti oriented silence before she spoke again.

She paused mid keyscratch, before shaking her head and slumping back against the back of the shop counter, handing the keys limply back to Matthew - for what little they were worth now.

"I can't stop thinking about how many people we lost." Her voice cracked, just a tiny bit.

Míra shook her head - not quite in disbelief, not quite in sadness, but not quite not both.

"I'm going back home today, I took New Year's and a couple days off - drinking, and the hangover, I told them." She started rubbing the bridge of her nose with fingernail-bitten hands. 

"But I stayed here last night, and the talk from the people coordinating this is just..." Míra trailed off, like her heart was an engine stalling, before blinking herself out of the reverie, "... it's heartbreaking, man. We took a lot of fucking losses. A lot of fucking losses."

She rested her head in her hand, leaning on her knee for support. Her other hand idly grabbed a piece of broken tile from the floor and chucked it halfheartedly at the far end of the checkout area of whatever godforsaken store they were occupying.

"This is so fucked."

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[@gentlemanvaultboy]