Just Your Monster, Cheerleader


claire3_icon.gif eileen_icon.gif huruma_icon.gif sylar_icon.gif

Scene Title Just Your Monster, Cheerleader
Synopsis It was bound to happen sometime, Sylar makes a play for Claire's ability, while Eileen and Huruma have to try and stop him.
Date December 08, 2009

Mandritsara, MLF Bunker

A healthy body is a beautiful thing. Gabriel lies in the dark and appreciates it in the Teo-given way he is able, eyes narrowed to slits as he spends his downtime being only very privately creepy. None of them will be able to detect it, the ghost like presence that moves from warm body to warm body, nestled in one young soldier as he moves down the hallway, having passed by Tau previously and carrying on the parasite of the serial killer's ghost without any kind of manifestation that would give him away. Gabriel had avoided Dajan.

It's when he snags on Claire Bennet that his heart jolts sideways in his chest, as if somehow the regenerator would be able to tell. She isn't. Psychological. He follows her for as long as she's going to the outdoors— he turns over on his cot, manages to wrench his consciousness away just in time, to catch on someone coming down the stairs opposite, steering aside to permit her passage.

By the time Gabriel has navigated his own way back, and it takes longer than he wants it to despite cramped confines, it's a cooler sundown than when Bennet emerged topside. At a brisk pace, unthinking, the kind of sedate, unstoppable rhythm sharks take on when they eat away distance, Gabriel moves through the damp cement honeycomb, not really meeting eyes of those he passes as he heads for the stairwell angling up.

He never opens the hatch, only dissolves himself into shadow too black to completely fit in with the natural darknesses of the hallway, and squeezes himself between the gaps like so much ink. The wraith smooths along the ground, as if detecting a scent, quiet.

There has been too much downtime in Claire's mind and it's unfortunately allowed her mind to wander back home. To her mom and dad… to Magnes in another part of the world. So Claire is feeling rather homesick for the first time since she started this insane suicide mission. Back home when she feeling down, she would step out on the roof and look at the stars.. or the skyline. Without that here, she's forced to be happy with going topside.

Outside in the fresh… or somewhat fresh air, Claire moves through the darkness looking for a place to rest herself. She finds a seat in the form of a crumpled wall blown out by an explosion. Leaning against the wall, she tilts her head back to look up, fingers combing hair out of her eyes. But there is only disappointment to be found, a sigh escapes her at her misfortune. "Great.. more rain." She murmurs softly to herself, as a drop touches her cheek, though she does catch a patch of starry sky through the clouds.

"Your life is hard." Caustic sarcasm, redeemed only by the sliver of good humour that runs through it, too. Not to brag — no foot steps heralded the sound of Sylar's voice from several feet now behind her, his feet settling soundless on the packed earth. His hand is up to scratch at his jaw - shockingly clean shaven from when he'd managed to negotiate a razor from someone several hours ago - before hands tuck back into the pockets of his worn jacket.

He lets his gaze creep up for a few moments to regard the sky, squinting against the ever present pitterpatter of raindrops making quick work of them both. "Sunshine all the time makes a desert, you know."

Much like a rabbit when it knows it's in the presence of a predator, Claire goes perfectly still, breath catching and holding for a long moment.. her heart skips a beat and starts to race in her chest. Her stomach roils with fear, something he does a good job of invoking in her. Swallowing, Claire pushes away from the wall slowly to stand, "Gabriel." She offers politely in greeting, managing to keep her emotions out of her voice, though the tone is caution.

"It might make a desert, but rain all the day make it rather gloomy." Blue eyes narrow a bit in the dark, trying to get a look at the man who stalker much of her high school life. "Plus, it… would be nice to see some stars."

His name gets a subtle reaction, chin lifting up as he regards her, standing far away enough so that he doesn't necessarily tower. Then, he lifts a hand, which for those who knew him back when he had telekinesis is never a particularly good sign. However, the immediate space around him darkens just a fraction when light is drawn into his calm. It glistens, there, a dusky glow of gold with a center of white, and without a sound, it splits apart. The individual points of light float free of his palm and come to hang, wavering only slightly, as a map of galaxy between them.

"For all intents and purposes," he states, flatly. "I know a woman who can change the weather. I never took her power, so we'll have to make do." They wink in and out, settling into a stabilised stillness with just a pause of concentration. "I didn't take this one either - not the way you would think I take them."

It's a calm voice and demeanor, over a thrumming anticipation, an anxiety that a leashed dog would know better than a man standing and talking to a young woman. "It probably won't save me from that painting."

Shoulders twitch from built up tension as the hand comes up, Claire is reading herself to flee if need be… She's trying to give him a chance. Magnes trusts him… but then… he trusts to easily sometimes. Her eyes focus on the points of lights between them, a brow slowly lifting at the display. "I know someone that can as well." She murmurs with just as flat a tone. "But.. I guess this will do."

Her eyes latch onto him again, when he mentions the painting. "It's only one path, you know that." Claire starts slowly, "It might not even happen, it's a warning of what could happen." Her words don't sound all that sure even to herself, but it's not hard to figure where he's going with it. "Just like that picture of me and Candy… I doubt I'd go after her like that." Her head gives a small jerk in the direction of the mentioned painting.

"Peter Petrelli killed one hundred and fifty thousand people instantly. Come on, Claire, don't be so negative. Anything's possible." The makeshift stars wink out, one by one, neglected by the serial killer as he focuses his gaze on the woman in front of him. "Anyone can paint a future. It takes special people to paint the future. But maybe you're right." Gabriel lets his heavy head tip a little to the side, an affect of uncertainty. "I could leave it up to slim chance. Hope the planets align. Think happy thoughts."

Claire's back suddenly goes rigid around the time he lifts his hand, and a slight gesture of his fingers sending her stumbling back into the blasted wall. She's not caught there. Not yet. "You don't mind if I take out a little insurance, right, Claire?"

Eyes go wide as her back goes rigid and she is sent stumbling back against the wall, hands moving out to catch herself from hitting it too hard. By now the blood thunders in her ears as the beat of her heart kicks it up a notch, her breathing quick, and her brain screaming at her to flee.

"No." She hisses out the word. "Just like then, I'm not letting you have it." Her boots scrape on the sand and bits of crumbled brick, the ex-cheerleader tries to angle herself for an escape down the stairs, but her eyes stay on the predator. "Magnes trusts you, even though he read those damn comics, but he hasn't lived with your stalking. Her words heavy with disgust, for past acts and what he wants to do now. "Besides.. with those grenades.. it's useless to have it. The painting could still happen."

"Could," Gabriel agrees, very blandly. "But this? This isn't going to cost you a thing. I can see it already. God," and he lets out a bark of laughter, relief and release in it, shoulders slack, "you have no idea how long I've waited for this. You have no idea how much I couldn't stop if I tried, painting be damned." A knife is taken from his pocket, switched open. No telekinesis, no sawing line. He has what he has to use.

The once cheerleader suddenly goes sprawling, legs kicking out from under her to land hard on the ground. His hand turns, and she does too in a herkyjerky flip onto her back, as he circles around, eyes twin points of bright, focused brown. In the same way Huruma had been pinned to the table, Claire's limbs refuse to work for her.

His shadow falls upon her. "You know what's hilarious? Magnes will understand. Eventually, he'll get past this. He'll know I backslid, that I had no choice. It's makes too much sense."

"I knew it." There is so much anger in those words as Claire's jaw tightens against it. She looks like she would say more, but her feet fly out from under her and with a cry of surprise, hits the ground hard, cracking her head hard enough to see stars, her vision swimming slightly. It takes her a moment for her rattles brain to focus, the pain already gone.

Her head lifts and falls quickly with her fear, her eyes watch him move, helpless. "I knew you couldn't change, Sylar." She growls out, the words full of tension as she tries to move to flee. "You have been.. and always will be a monster." By the time end of that sentence that last word is half shouted.

"He won't forgive you." She continues after a moment of struggling, the words gasped from her effort to get free, "But somehow I don't think you'll care. Do you care about anyone but yourself?" She doesn't sound like she believe it.

He moves a hand, and it's almost painful, when puppetry winds steely stiffness up the back of her neck, presses her skull hard back into rubble, and seals off her jaw against words as her teeth forcibly clamp together. "Just your monster, cheerleader," Gabriel corrects, although his voice has gone flat, a harsh edge in it. There's the rustle of heavy fabric as he comes to crouch down next to her, rain falling just a little harder, getting in eyes and the harshly sealed line of her mouth.

"Your careful tabs kept on me these past few years have totally made you qualified to judge," is sarcastic agreement. "I'm not dying in Madagascar. It's nothing personal."

One knee comes to brace against her stomach, weight ruthlessly heavy against her smaller frame as he leans, and sets the blade against her brow. It slips in like butter, almost a searing sensation rather than cutting as he begins to carefully cut a familiar line across skin and bone, belatedly bleeding in its wake.

A voice can be very small and still contain a wide breadth of emotion. It's not volume that gives it its power, but intensity and feeling — and the voice that cuts through the undercurrent of pattering rain is somehow simultaneously soft and sharp, barely registering in Gabriel's ears with the swiftness of a razor sharper than the one he wields between his fingers.

"Sylar." Just his name. That's all. A terse, breathless accusation spoken from somewhere along the treeline. Eileen comes into view a moment later, pale skin like the petals of a wilting lily in the damp and curls of dark brown hair plastered in inky ringlets to her cheeks and brow. The rifle in her hands lowers, light glancing off the metal barrel and the dog tags glittering silver around her bared throat.

"What are you doing?"

There is not much she can do at this point, her mouth clamped shut, her body unable to move, Claire can only watch as he comes closer to her. Blue eyes glare at him with hatred as she works hard to breath around the heavy weight on her chest. Her breath sharp and loud as it's forced in and out of her nose.

When the knife sinks into her skull, Claire makes a noise deep in her throat, no matter how brave she acts, she's scared of death just like any other person. So the noises she utters are not from the sharp pain, it from sheer terror.

The arrival of Eileen behind him is noted.. At first she she's relieved as she sees the rifle, but then Claire actually realizes the danger that the woman is in…. still there is nothing she can do.. She can only plead silently for her to flee.

The scent of panic in the air is never an unfamiliar one to Huruma; when it happens to be someone that she knows, it tends to come as something more striking. Something that needs her attention as soon as possible, no matter who it may be. When that scent of panic is in tandem with the most familiar of emotions- the rawness of a fellow predator- you would follow it too. In this case, Eileen was there to alert. Behind the short figure of lily white, with the steely sheen of rifle held out- comes her shadow. What seems for all purposes her shadow. save for the illumination of two pale eyes set in its skull. What is he doing, indeed.

Sylar's mind is immediately met with the emotional effects of another- bigger- predator skulking in for what he had tackled to the ground. Nervousness- wariness- a purer sense of being threatened without a sound nor word.

Gabriel's head lifts at the sound of his name, eyes widening for a moment when there's another factor he wasn't listening for drawn into it. The knife lifts up, and almost slickly, the gash he'd put into the girl's head sealing up almost instantly— which gets a nose wrinkle from Gabriel, as much as its met with silent approval. Eileen, however, is not. He stays crouched over what could be accurately assessed has his kill, healing blood making greasy smears on the knife in his hand.

He glances past Eileen, towards the looming silhouette behind her. Doesn't move an inch. "Taking what I want. Walk away," is growled between teeth he shows in a sneer. If he had hackles to raise, he would - as it happens, he watches them as if expecting an attack, breathing higher in his chest.

No attack comes, not in the form of a gunshot or even a whirlwind of pummeling wing beats. There are birds in the trees, but they're watching, sheltered from the wet by leaves of varying sizes, some as large as the spread of Eileen's hands, others swollen with rainwater, fronds like elephant ears rippling with leathery movement in the breeze. Backed by Huruma, she shifts her rifle from her front to her back, using the fingers of her splinted wrist to adjust the strap as she steps forward, booted feet crackling over loose chunks of rubble and damp kindling.

She shows him her palms in a gesture he should not mistake for surrender, because she's closing the distance between them at a creep at the same time. "Sylar," she says again, voice losing some of its earlier acuity in favour of something gentler. "Stop."

His back straightens a little more, as if perhaps he is about to unwind from his crouch, to listen to the woman in front of him. Tension crackles as much as wind blows serenely through the dusky jungle, and Gabriel can feel her under him, breathing strained and ribs creaking above where he has his knee buried into her midsection, all bruises set to vanish as soon as he leaves it be. Long fingers work around the hilt of his knife, head angling to the side before he flips the weapon once in his hand, once again.

"Can't." …isn't quite the same as no, but spoken with as much severity and challenge. Hard enough this time to bruise, Gabriel goes to bring the knife back down to Claire's skull, point burying into her temple with a numbing flash of concussing pain.

At the start, Huruma was right behind Eileen. As the younger woman moves forward, Huruma follows for only a few steps before hiking her speed and moving around her. The movement is quick, and comes just as Gabriel brings the knife back down into Claire's skull.

There is a loud snarl- which is all the other forewarning that he would hope to have; Huruma moves forward with a new burst of speed, lips peeling back and a fresh assault whitewashing the other predator's brain. It was that threat at first- he chose to disregard it- and now the drowning, overwhelming sheet of pure terror jets through him. Every vessel that had been wired with excitement, longing, desire for the ability at his fingertips- is now thrumming wildly with the fear thrust into him by the giant shadow- eyes white and teeth flashing- rushing towards where he has pinned Claire to the ground.

"Huruma, no!" Eileen lacked volume before, but she possesses it in abundance now. Her scream is hoarse, ripped from her throat with enough force to startle the birds from their perches in the trees. They explode into flight, showering the jungle below in a fine spray of water droplets shed from flicked wings and quivering tail feathers. The sound rivals the clap of thunder in the distance that accompanies it, and in the moments that follow spreads vibrations through the sopping earth beneath their feet and the air between them.

Huruma's legs are longer — they carry her further, faster, and it does not help that the squelching mud slows Eileen down, though she is never more than a few paces behind the older woman as she springs after her, either to assist or intervene. It isn't yet clear which.

Laying there watching, eyes darting from person to person,Claire is helpless… She can only watch the play for her life unfolding above her still form, knowing that her life is in the hands of the other women. She swallows back a whimper as her looks back down at her and starts digging that point into her head again.

Gabriel's been shot enough to be familiar with the sensation of a bullet impacting flesh and tearing through bone and muscle. He almost lost an arm to it. The sudden slam of wall-crawling panic is next to equal in its severity, and like a thread that's cut, his control over Claire simply vanishes. The knife is dropped as his head snaps up, going as still and frozen as a deer caught in the passage of a truck bearing down on it.

Too scared to flee, even, the other predator is easy prey when he only raises his hands in defense, no shimmer of ability as his heart pounds hard enough to make his blood roar in his ears.

Claire is sharp enough to know that if she is given an opportunity such as this one, to get away- she must take it as soon as it presents itself to her. Birds take to the sky, crying out- rolling thunder peals across the darkened sky- there is the telltale flicker of lightning in the distance, almost like a prelude to Gabriel's emotional power outage.

It is all so very cinematic in its structure, and Huruma's actions as she draws overtop of him do not disappoint. The closer she gets, the worse that the terrorism becomes- until the point where long fingers snake around defensive wrists, prying them to either side in what now is some poorly mocked crucifixion.

And what about his monsters?

The moment the soft skin of Huruma's palms move to wrap over his forearms, the terror disappears- and it is promptly and surely taken over by a feeling of naked elation- a calming euphoria- that blossoms hot and buttery from deep inside.

As soon as her body is let loose, Claire whole body jerks, proof that she never stop fighting against his control. There is no time to be surprised, Claire rolls away from Sylar til she can sit and then heels catching in the rain wet mud, slipping too much for her to get to her feet yet. She is forced to scrambled almost crab like away from him till her back thumps against a wall roughly far away from the fight. Then she sits there with her heart and mind racing, panting trying to catch her breath and suppress the fear.

The slowly increasing rain pelts Claire's face, mixing with the lines of blood that oozed from now healed cuts, sliding into her eyes forcing her to blink. She gives her head a shake, and wipes the back of her wrists over her eyes to clear them so that she can see what's happening.

Lightning rends the sky in two, bathing the jungle and all its serrated edges in a white glow that exaggerates the features belonging to the assembly gathered under the yawning canopy. Below ground, where it's dank but dry, someone is going to notice that all of Team Bravo minus its infirm are mysteriously absent — but not yet. Over the roar of the building wind buffeting against the hatch and the higher breeze whistling shrill in the empty trees, it is impossible for anyone to hear the sounds of what's transpiring mere meters above their heads.

Eileen's rifle is thrown from her shoulder and bounces off the scattered debris miraculously without discharging. She'd launched herself at Huruma when she'd gone after Dajan too, but this is different — this is personal. When the giantess' hands close around Gabriel's wrists and spread his arms wide, her reaction is immediate, visceral, and it happens before her head can rationalize the motions her body is already going through. She slams her full weight — all ninety-odd pounds of it — into Huruma's middle, shoulder first, and hooks nails into the fabric of her clothes, finding purchase there as her momentum continues to carry her forward and, hopefully, into the mud, dragging the much larger woman down with her.

Fear is almost like suffocation, owning him, ice caught in his chest and splitting his nerves apart in frazzled ends. By the time Huruma's hands are closing around his wrists, Gabriel can only hope unconsciousness takes him swiftly, shaking like a leaf until— warm happiness makes him go nearly slack. Eyes dazed and Claire utterly forgotten, for as much as he'd been his whole world for a few moments there.

Good questions, about Gabriel's monsters. Another good one would be: when was the last time he felt even a fraction of this?

Bliss has him ignoring, too, Eileen's sudden tackle of the woman holding his arms stretched, and the most Gabriel is compelled to do is go along with momentum, a smile writing on his face. He's preoccupied, as the near-nighttime setting begins to light up with those same stars he'd tried to charm Claire with, swirling like dust motes this time, settling on skin, hair, catching in the rain.


Perhaps it is Eileen's sheer force of will- or the slick mud underneath all of them- that starts the world tilting for the trio still locked in a series of grips. The darkness around them gives a shift when Eileen rams into Huruma, latching on like a fierce little raptor; dark, sinewy hands stay constricted around Gabriel's arms, dragging him bodily along when mud slips and squashes underfoot. The two monsters go down into the deep layer of wet mud below, Eileen in tow if she hasn't chosen to release her grip on Huruma's clothing.

Huruma is literally nose-to-nose with her quarry, leering back into his eyes until the little Polack bullet sends everything with the force of gravity. By the time they are sprawled in muck and quite covered in it, Huruma is still figuratively clawed into the man now below her. The fact she is straddling his torso is one thing- the fact that she is still dosing him heavily with artificial smiles is another entirely.

The motes in the air are all but ignored- she knows they are there in the corners of her vision; as long as they remain motes of light, she treats them as decor.

Recovered enough to know that the danger isn't completely gone, Claire presses mud covered hands to the wall behind her and starts making her way to her feet. Even as she feet slip in the mud, threatening to throw her down again, her eyes don't leave the fight. On her feet again, Claire watches them for only a few moment's more before she scrambles off for the way in, intent on getting help to stop the fight and safety in numbers for herself.

There is nothing artificial about the fury pulling Eileen's face gaunt, or the swelling sensation that fills the cavity of her chest. In her peripheral vision there are flickers of urban sprawl flashing in and out of being between the trees. The smell of wet pavement fills her nostrils, fuels her breath, and for an instant she isn't in Madagascar anymore — she's back in Midtown, face reflected in the barrel of Allen Rickham's chest, all curled lip and flashing teeth.

But only for an instant.

Jarred back into reality, she tightens her grip on Huruma's clothes but does not pitch her weight forward or attempt to knock her off the man she's straddling, and not because he's giving them both the impression of enjoying it. Instead, she bristles, shoulders hunched and pulls at the front of Huruma's shirt to get her attention if she doesn't already have it.

She's not sure that she does. "Get off of him."

Motes blink out in time for light to run in ripples up his arms, along Huruma's, dying out before the flashes of opaque blue, red, orange light, lacking the concentration to give off anything but compulsive little tricks of photokinesis. Mud clots densely with his hair, sticks to clothing and spatters up the side of his face, which is open with an almost heartbreaking amount of happiness, utterly misplaced. His fingers twitch slackly at his hands, calm, sedate blinks squinting against falling rain.

"It's okay," he tells Eileen, voice sloggish, none of that tension, predatory anger and anticipation shaken from him in place of joy as substanceless as the lights he emits. "It's fine. I don't mind." Laughter trickles out of his throat, spills out from a smile. "I don't even mind dying. You can tell the cheerleader."

The look that Huruma now fixes onto Eileen is not murderous, but it is not entirely friendly either. Almost accusing, in a way. You should have shot him and maybe we would not be in this mess. Her grip pushes Gabriel's hands into the ground to either side of his head. He speaks for himself in the end, Huruma's hands relocating themselves while she peers intently at Eileen; they find his face like barely a week before, when they first reached the commune. Hands on the sides of his face, sturdy in grip, thumbs drawing the mud from his browline.

"He is fine." He needed sedation- and Huruma gave it to him. Claire got away, and now all that precedes further issues …are the alerted calls now trickling from near the bunker entrance.

"Touch him again," Eileen says, and with Claire gone she has no qualms about articulating exactly what she's feeling, words rough and coarse in contrast with the ones that are bubbling up smooth from the raw joy that radiates from Gabriel's center, "and I will put a bullet in your head the next time you rest it on your pillow."

This is coming from someone who went after Emile Danko with only a handgun and a pastor for back-up. She's probably bluffing, but there's no way for Huruma to be entirely sure. The rage exuding from her rain-soaked frame in hot, potent waves suggests that she might not be. "If you want something to pet, get a fucking cat."

His eyes hood a little as his face is grasped, sleepier, content blinks as mud is smoothed away. Hands rest exactly where they've been placed before awkwardness sets in and he lets them settle comfier on either side of Huruma's thighs, where she's perched on his torso. Not so much that breathing is strained— if Gabriel cared enough, straddling valium happiness even as Eileen's words ring sharp above his head.

Fingers grope at the slick ground, and it's more a token gesture of desiring to be let up; a catch of breathless laughter hitches breathing, near drunken in the fact it has no discernible source. Then, all at once, he dissolves into smokey ink, Huruma landing an inch or so downwards into the muck as the phase form pools merrily around them both in a joyous spiral.

Part of Gabriel's happiness begins to leak off into Eileen- but only long enough so that there is a chance it may show her what's going on. Possibly even to influence a natural simmering down. This is no big deal for Huruma- or Gabriel, it looks like. As he gropes at the ground, Huruma tilts her head to look directly at him again; there is a tensing in her spine in preparation to move, but- poof- Gabriel alights into the air in the form of that inky ghost. The empath lets out a slight breath, one hand resting on her leg and the other touching at the air like a spider feeling out with spindly legs. Huruma glances for a moment past the shadow's dance towards Eileen, and then back again.

"What would you'ave done…? Walked t'him wit'open arms, begging peace…?" With his knife already in Claire's head? Huruma's voice is low but soft, more that of one addressing a delicate topic.

"You could have dissuaded him without doing what you did," Eileen bites off, snappish and brusque. Some of the anger has begun to recede, draining away with the dissolution of adrenaline in her body. There's some regret, too — perhaps for the threat she made if not the driving blow she delivered to Huruma's middle in an attempt to knock the wind from her. Her skin, still damp and slick with mud, soaks up some of the excess energy, though it doesn't get very far. Just enough to understand that, no, Gabriel isn't hurting — that what she's doing to him makes him feel good.

Somehow that makes it worse, and it does not take her very long at all to understand why. "Giving someone something they can't have otherwise— it's sick. He's an addict. You can see that."

Swirl, swirl, twirl. Apparently, in a shadow form, he still has feelings, ones Huruma can toy with all she likes, and as sense-stealing as blind happiness can be, he can hear too, and Huruma can probably sense that quaver of irritation, hurt pride, and perhaps even stranger, what passes as love. Emotions sprung from history, incomprehensible out of context, although some are obvious. No one wants to be called an addict.

But sometimes it's not so bad to be understood, even if you don't want to be. There's the sound of approach, too, foot steps of men with guns coming to see what the fuss is, searching eyes probably not expecting to find two mud spattered women sitting in the dirt with a swatch of darkness moving like a playful kitten among them, before settling in a contended pool a couple of feet away. Slowly, leisurely, it reforms into solidity, solid flesh taking its time to come into being.

"I can see that, yes. But because I interfered, Claire is alive." And Sylar is not immortal. If it is one thing that Huruma is familiar with… She replies very simply to Eileen, lifting herself to her feet; she is also trying to keep an eye on Gabriel as he moves, mostly to try and make sure that he at least stays calm for now. She watches him dance with a hint of curiosity, somehow seeming to understand that weird little feeling that makes him do so. Huruma can hear the MLF men coming nearer, but she does not draw her gaze from Gabriel until it seems like he might be inclined to calm down on his own- and if that takes a while, so be it.

"…He is resilient as well, I also know that much." As is Claire, though she is less forgiving. In other words, Huruma sounds like she thinks he will be fine, come time for it.

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