He hadn't frozen. Whatever else he'd done—or failed to achieve—he hadn't been that desperate to keep emulating life. He watches the deviant deliberate with its crude patch, and when it reaches for his wound, his eyes flick sharply to the middle distance. They stare there as it probes and presses, expression locked to a smooth blank.
"...Is that your excuse." Legitimacy? Licensing? Connor huffs out a held breath despite himself—spasms, small and strained, as the fluid in his lung shifts. He twists a little toward the side the knife is buried in, but the compressed snow around his frame doesn't let him move far.
He doesn't need to. He doesn't care.
"Because... you weren't told, it can't be real?" It makes as much sense as it doesn't. Do all deviants go to these extremes trying to justify their flaws? Connor doubts it. That much denial sounds exhausting.
no subject
"I'm not the one who froze at the cliff's edge."
He hadn't frozen. Whatever else he'd done—or failed to achieve—he hadn't been that desperate to keep emulating life. He watches the deviant deliberate with its crude patch, and when it reaches for his wound, his eyes flick sharply to the middle distance. They stare there as it probes and presses, expression locked to a smooth blank.
"...Is that your excuse." Legitimacy? Licensing? Connor huffs out a held breath despite himself—spasms, small and strained, as the fluid in his lung shifts. He twists a little toward the side the knife is buried in, but the compressed snow around his frame doesn't let him move far.
He doesn't need to. He doesn't care.
"Because... you weren't told, it can't be real?" It makes as much sense as it doesn't. Do all deviants go to these extremes trying to justify their flaws? Connor doubts it. That much denial sounds exhausting.