The silence is beyond tolerance; the air is stiff and silent and the cadence of uneven breathing in triplicate will drive him mad. When Asadi speaks, it is bleak but not the utterly hopeless collapse it was, and the plurality is, potentially, promising.
"Unacceptable," he snaps, and he finds he cannot confront the immediacy of that judgment and so he backs to lean against the table, fingers curling over edges, the heels of palms wrapped over wood in an even, bracing press.
Having accomplished that buffer, the space between words and consideration, he continues with a leveling off of pitch and inflection.
Reassurances are not what he would regard as a skillset he possesses, but the necessity of their function is inescapable, and undeniable. He claws for that instinct for consolation, knowing its inadequacy.
The snap of past context layered over present is earsplitting and utterly silent.
"You continue," says Rush, quiet and even and unequivocal. "You live. I could refer to a number of vague platitudes, but I doubt you'd find them very constructive." He suspects that Asadi may, like him, find such aphorisms to be contemptibly short-sighted, and infinitely unhelpful.
He shrugs slightly, a fluid lift of both shoulders. "It took me roughly twenty seconds to decide that you were both interesting and pure dead brilliant. This was prior to any knowledge of technological advantages." With a shadow of his former composure as her arm had fractured under his hands, he inclines his head. "You're gonna be fine."
no subject
"Unacceptable," he snaps, and he finds he cannot confront the immediacy of that judgment and so he backs to lean against the table, fingers curling over edges, the heels of palms wrapped over wood in an even, bracing press.
Having accomplished that buffer, the space between words and consideration, he continues with a leveling off of pitch and inflection.
Reassurances are not what he would regard as a skillset he possesses, but the necessity of their function is inescapable, and undeniable. He claws for that instinct for consolation, knowing its inadequacy.
The snap of past context layered over present is earsplitting and utterly silent.
"You continue," says Rush, quiet and even and unequivocal. "You live. I could refer to a number of vague platitudes, but I doubt you'd find them very constructive." He suspects that Asadi may, like him, find such aphorisms to be contemptibly short-sighted, and infinitely unhelpful.
He shrugs slightly, a fluid lift of both shoulders. "It took me roughly twenty seconds to decide that you were both interesting and pure dead brilliant. This was prior to any knowledge of technological advantages." With a shadow of his former composure as her arm had fractured under his hands, he inclines his head. "You're gonna be fine."