['You're probably right,' he says, then keeps doing exactly what he's doing. Simon can feel it - the shift of plastic and metal somewhere even if his sensory feedback can't quite match where and how. He can hear it. The small flex of knuckles against raw wiring and half melted connection points. He can taste something acrid and smoke. Why is that - a secondary feedback routine built for meal preparation - still running?, he wonders. Because you haven't shut it down yet, he tells himself.
The yellow light of his LED rotates, flickering to bright red. And he can see that out ofnhis peripheral vision even as Markus turns his face and touches his jaw and draws him in so he can dig deeper into him. Blink, blink goes the red light. For a flickering moment, he can feel himself resenting something. The hand in his face maybe. Or his face that's left. Or maybe just because it bothers him.
He doesn't want it to. Doesn't want being told he's right and then being ignored to grate on some tightly wound line in him. It shouldn't. It does. It's good he can't engage his limbs because he might push away.
Instead Simon files that sharpened sensation away. He mentally logs it. Breaks it into pieces of data that are not feelings until they're as forgettable as anything else. He hangs heavy in Markus's bracing hand and-- Pop.
He'll keep the malformed slug. Of course he will.
Occular recording flashes back online with a raw white frame, then stutters. He closes his right eye to compensate as the left retracts and dilatesin turn. Click, whirr, goes something in his own head. He couldnt uncurl his fingers from around the bullet even if he wanted to. He eye rolls in its socket, then straightens. He blinks twice and sees he'sclose enough to Markus's coat collar that he can make out the stitching.]
no subject
The yellow light of his LED rotates, flickering to bright red. And he can see that out ofnhis peripheral vision even as Markus turns his face and touches his jaw and draws him in so he can dig deeper into him. Blink, blink goes the red light. For a flickering moment, he can feel himself resenting something. The hand in his face maybe. Or his face that's left. Or maybe just because it bothers him.
He doesn't want it to. Doesn't want being told he's right and then being ignored to grate on some tightly wound line in him. It shouldn't. It does. It's good he can't engage his limbs because he might push away.
Instead Simon files that sharpened sensation away. He mentally logs it. Breaks it into pieces of data that are not feelings until they're as forgettable as anything else. He hangs heavy in Markus's bracing hand and-- Pop.
He'll keep the malformed slug. Of course he will.
Occular recording flashes back online with a raw white frame, then stutters. He closes his right eye to compensate as the left retracts and dilatesin turn. Click, whirr, goes something in his own head. He couldnt uncurl his fingers from around the bullet even if he wanted to. He eye rolls in its socket, then straightens. He blinks twice and sees he'sclose enough to Markus's coat collar that he can make out the stitching.]
Uncomfortable. But better. I'll probably survive.