Q. " what do you make of this ? "
it's a trick question. he asks, she idles, and the topic grows more stale by the second. hers isn't an opinion he seeks because his own is lacking. she's met the shine of feline eyes and turned away with the mild disregard of someone too tired to play the game. can shrug free of his expectations unlike most.. not rise to the needling of a man with too much and not enough to do. " looks like it's below your pay grade. "
it looked like the start of a riot that wouldn't end well for civilians clustered together, arguing with armed guards and itchy trigger fingers. " missions further north. " away from this sector and the memories that say she should have a steeper regard than she does. her, a tag along, lightning is four paces out from the ledge he looms over before she's stopped to glance back. trace the cut of broad shoulders.. pale hair whipped with all the fanfare of the long, sweeping duster beneath it. @riphalos is amused. a cat watching the mice skitter in the other room, unaware that something so much larger than themselves is waiting to see an outcome already predetermined.
" what does it matter ? " maybe she knows. maybe she'd stared overlong at a familiar crown of hair.. wore recognition on her shell and allowed a predator to catch a whiff. this isn't her home, but a transplant can still harbor roots. it can toy with attachment and suffer the chains that comes with that. " they either fall in line or they don't. " the latter is what hangs in the air. a swaying noose to fit a dozen necks. some day, their hands would help fit it... but today isn't that day.
