Then... If I should drift for too long during the process—
[ Admirable, the way Julius offers everything to him, the other man forthright where, were their positions only reversed, the Director isn't certain he would be. Tenuous, is Sion's willingness to place burden upon others, such that when Julius looks to him in surprise—expressive in a way the Director had never before glimpsed—his heart skips a beat, a pause passing between them like the nervous flick of a bird's wing.
Julius... you and I are by far more similar than you think.
Together, they are two fashioned by the hands of those men and women seeking to fulfill higher purposes, greater things.
And so too have they been built to deteriorate, their personhood threatened by the likes of the slow encroachment of madness, erosion brought about by pain, and flesh which only seems to cannibalize itself, resulting in--...
The weariness he glimpses, now, in Julius' face.
He will need to act swiftly, then: ]
—pull me back? [ Julius will realize the nature of Sion's request no sooner than the Director lapses into silence, golden eyes seeming to turn to lambent, liquid amber, streaking an after-image in the dark as all other functions of his body become limited (his breath going shallow; the arm about Julius' waist slackening, but not letting go) in order to provide energy enough for the scan. An analysis which takes visible shape (but only to the Director's eyes) as a holo-projection given life by a neural implant, the technology housed in the cortex of the brain.
Even when performing a basic scan, it an easy thing to become immersed in, the symphony of their data streams beautiful to Sion's (ever the romantic's) eyes. And so, when he focuses upon Julius--...
It feels a little like drowning (a beautiful death), because all that Julius is stretches before his eyes like a pane of stained glass, ornate and colored by both human and an organism which Sion cannot identify, its color (for which the Director hasn't a name) bleeding across h-shaped cames in elegant latticework to shade everything it touches in a different light.
Regenerative properties, cellular control...
The information is saved, stored away into Sion's neural database, to be called upon again on another day, but still, the Director hasn't surfaced back to himself.
(How much time has elapsed?)
'Pulling' Sion back, it seems, will be necessary. ]
no subject
[ Admirable, the way Julius offers everything to him, the other man forthright where, were their positions only reversed, the Director isn't certain he would be. Tenuous, is Sion's willingness to place burden upon others, such that when Julius looks to him in surprise—expressive in a way the Director had never before glimpsed—his heart skips a beat, a pause passing between them like the nervous flick of a bird's wing.
Julius... you and I are by far more similar than you think.
Together, they are two fashioned by the hands of those men and women seeking to fulfill higher purposes, greater things.
And so too have they been built to deteriorate, their personhood threatened by the likes of the slow encroachment of madness, erosion brought about by pain, and flesh which only seems to cannibalize itself, resulting in--...
The weariness he glimpses, now, in Julius' face.
He will need to act swiftly, then: ]
—pull me back? [ Julius will realize the nature of Sion's request no sooner than the Director lapses into silence, golden eyes seeming to turn to lambent, liquid amber, streaking an after-image in the dark as all other functions of his body become limited (his breath going shallow; the arm about Julius' waist slackening, but not letting go) in order to provide energy enough for the scan. An analysis which takes visible shape (but only to the Director's eyes) as a holo-projection given life by a neural implant, the technology housed in the cortex of the brain.
Even when performing a basic scan, it an easy thing to become immersed in, the symphony of their data streams beautiful to Sion's (ever the romantic's) eyes. And so, when he focuses upon Julius--...
It feels a little like drowning (a beautiful death), because all that Julius is stretches before his eyes like a pane of stained glass, ornate and colored by both human and an organism which Sion cannot identify, its color (for which the Director hasn't a name) bleeding across h-shaped cames in elegant latticework to shade everything it touches in a different light.
Regenerative properties, cellular control...
The information is saved, stored away into Sion's neural database, to be called upon again on another day, but still, the Director hasn't surfaced back to himself.
(How much time has elapsed?)
'Pulling' Sion back, it seems, will be necessary. ]