Irene doesn't scream; there isn't enough air or time and even while she's gasping in shock and fear she's thinking that calling attention to this little scene is the last thing she wants. No distractions, that's important, just her and Milla and the phone and she has a chance, maybe, of getting out of this alive and intact. No one else can intrude and no one else can help her.
She's alive right now, almost painfully so, and she realises the full implications of that. From the impression she's given so far, Milla doesn't hesitate. She might play, but that's alright; as long as there's a game at work, Irene knows what she's doing. She's got her foot in the door and there is a lot to be afraid of, but there always is.
Her hands are up in a gesture of surrender or perhaps a last ditch tada, difficult to tell because of the way her lips twist upwards for a moment- a response not unlike raising a shield, automatic by now. Her breathing is loud in the silence she allows before her response. Her eyes slip to the phone again and again. The first few times are accidental, nervous. After that, she decides to go with it, flatter Milla with her own fear.
"A story," she says, eyes fixing on Milla's now as she reins herself in and settles to the role, shaking loose curls of hair out of her eyes. She casts around for the best story she knows and realises it's pointless; it's all in the telling. There's one she tells best and never tells at all. "How about mine?"
(Her voice, she thinks with rigid coiled-spring calm, narrating again, has always sounded good when husky; she doesn't like being choked or grabbed by the throat, but it's more attractive than guns and knives, a prettier picture, and she can work with it).
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She's alive right now, almost painfully so, and she realises the full implications of that. From the impression she's given so far, Milla doesn't hesitate. She might play, but that's alright; as long as there's a game at work, Irene knows what she's doing. She's got her foot in the door and there is a lot to be afraid of, but there always is.
Her hands are up in a gesture of surrender or perhaps a last ditch tada, difficult to tell because of the way her lips twist upwards for a moment- a response not unlike raising a shield, automatic by now. Her breathing is loud in the silence she allows before her response. Her eyes slip to the phone again and again. The first few times are accidental, nervous. After that, she decides to go with it, flatter Milla with her own fear.
"A story," she says, eyes fixing on Milla's now as she reins herself in and settles to the role, shaking loose curls of hair out of her eyes. She casts around for the best story she knows and realises it's pointless; it's all in the telling. There's one she tells best and never tells at all. "How about mine?"
(Her voice, she thinks with rigid coiled-spring calm, narrating again, has always sounded good when husky; she doesn't like being choked or grabbed by the throat, but it's more attractive than guns and knives, a prettier picture, and she can work with it).