[ likewise, even with senses diluted from the journey they’ve all been through here, dextera still carries something of god within him. if he were to close his eyes and listen, he would be able hear the howl of the tower in his memories; he can still imagine the urgent writhing of the souls in its shadow—but even without it looming over them here, people and once-people alike have their ego. everyone who can think is capable of distortion, and it’s something that prickles his skin whether he wants it or not.
but since he doesn’t want it, he ignores it and lets the awareness of something wrong sink back under the surface. things are easier if he bears his own problems and nobody else’s. ]
…
[ he breathes slowly in the face of that not unkind consideration for his theory. his jaw is tense, as his whole body is, but he’s not any more nervous than usual with the civility of the conversation. then the question comes, and his brow furrows.
it’s not the first time he’s been asked his name here, and he’s sure it won’t be the last when his fellow captives are, if not friendly, curious. that doesn’t make the question less difficult for him to answer—he’s claimed an appellation that was given to him, but he knows it’s not his name. he’s aware it’s like a lab rat proclaiming itself by the mark on its ear.
still, it’s something, and so he drags his thumb through the dirt to spell it. the muscles in his face twitch with repression. he withdraws his hand from the ‘a’ in ‘dextera,’ and then looks at makoto for acknowledgment.
a little quirk of his head could be the same question, returned. ]
no subject
but since he doesn’t want it, he ignores it and lets the awareness of something wrong sink back under the surface. things are easier if he bears his own problems and nobody else’s. ]
…
[ he breathes slowly in the face of that not unkind consideration for his theory. his jaw is tense, as his whole body is, but he’s not any more nervous than usual with the civility of the conversation. then the question comes, and his brow furrows.
it’s not the first time he’s been asked his name here, and he’s sure it won’t be the last when his fellow captives are, if not friendly, curious. that doesn’t make the question less difficult for him to answer—he’s claimed an appellation that was given to him, but he knows it’s not his name. he’s aware it’s like a lab rat proclaiming itself by the mark on its ear.
still, it’s something, and so he drags his thumb through the dirt to spell it. the muscles in his face twitch with repression. he withdraws his hand from the ‘a’ in ‘dextera,’ and then looks at makoto for acknowledgment.
a little quirk of his head could be the same question, returned. ]