As a death was announced again, Nikita felt as if she couldn’t let this go by.
Daryl was dead. Guess whose fault it is - mine.
He’d drown in a pool of his own blood and Nikita didn’t even know who is killing who. She’s failed again again again it’s all punishing me ever further -
Frail and weak hands tug at dark strands. Her own hair. She wishes she could rip them off and wail as loudly as she can - it’s her fault after all. She’s the why Daryl is dead. Or why everybody else was dead, but her weak feelings and her memory can’t forget the boy with hair as golden as the wheats found in the most serene and secluded plains. The embodiment of childish innocence and purity. She had told him it was all too dangerous to call yourself an Investigator in this town - especially when being this small and defenseless!
A sob bubbles up in her throat and she lets herself lean against the wall of her entrance and slowly, crumble down.
“God, I’m so worthless.” It’s your fault it’s your fault it’s your fault for his death! You should be dead like thirteen years ago, Lehane.
The Lookout realizes that everybody is left alone in this planet at some point.