[ Each of his hesitations prior to now have been nearly imperceptible, subtle to a degree that their articulation is only apparent because she’s looking for their specific markers -- the draw of breath, the twitch of hands, the erroneous stalling tactics of human communication. Yet this time, she need not study him like some relic to discern the moment of hesitation, for it is overt, clear.
(A sense of self, then, for this dog. How useless that trait in a weapon.)
He leads the way and she turns, watching the whisper of hair and cloth as it sways in the circulated air, tracing the veins and lines of the implant at his nape. How long, she wonders, before she plunges a knife into him and ends his pathetic existence?
Would it be a mercy if she did, or vengeful?
Such thoughts can wait for another time, she supposes, when more data is available to compile. It’s the emptiness of the walls, she suspects, that inspire this introspection now. Every hallway and tile they cross is as barren as a bleached tomb, and the very clap of their footsteps feels an affront to the sterile silence of the Kennel.
His room has a similar sense of clinical coldness, its corners impeccable, its walls gleaming like freshly laid snow. She pays it little mind, warily regarding the threshold (chokepoint, good place to attack here, but he doesn’t--) for a moment before allowing the door to close behind her. They will share many such cages like this, contained and unto themselves, and it would serve Sui Feng to abandon any sense of her own hesitation sooner rather than later.
(But it’s not, for even a moment, hesitation out of fear. While she’s certain it would be a grueling fight, she’s also without pause about the prospect of fighting against him with her own hands, because indeed, weapons really aren't needed.) ]
I don’t care for weapons. [ Plainly said, she steps around him to inspect the uniforms, leaning in slightly to get a better look at the guns but impassive to them, if mildly affronted. ] Tools that have a propensity to backfire are liabilities.
[ Him, firearms--she offers no further detail to distinguish which she might mean, but it’s most likely both.
Sui Feng pushes through the clothes with a stiff hand, trying to limit as much skin contact with the materials as possible, delving deeper into this small little trove of personality. The books she glances over with disregard, amused at their apparent subjects (not that she shows it), stalling only upon the discovery of the straight jacket.
To this she glances back to him and the straight jacket to indicate where her attentions are directed, chin canted in question once more. ]
I assume this is sentimental rather than functional?
shhh i'm sorry for the wait!!
(A sense of self, then, for this dog. How useless that trait in a weapon.)
He leads the way and she turns, watching the whisper of hair and cloth as it sways in the circulated air, tracing the veins and lines of the implant at his nape. How long, she wonders, before she plunges a knife into him and ends his pathetic existence?
Would it be a mercy if she did, or vengeful?
Such thoughts can wait for another time, she supposes, when more data is available to compile. It’s the emptiness of the walls, she suspects, that inspire this introspection now. Every hallway and tile they cross is as barren as a bleached tomb, and the very clap of their footsteps feels an affront to the sterile silence of the Kennel.
His room has a similar sense of clinical coldness, its corners impeccable, its walls gleaming like freshly laid snow. She pays it little mind, warily regarding the threshold (chokepoint, good place to attack here, but he doesn’t--) for a moment before allowing the door to close behind her. They will share many such cages like this, contained and unto themselves, and it would serve Sui Feng to abandon any sense of her own hesitation sooner rather than later.
(But it’s not, for even a moment, hesitation out of fear. While she’s certain it would be a grueling fight, she’s also without pause about the prospect of fighting against him with her own hands, because indeed, weapons really aren't needed.) ]
I don’t care for weapons. [ Plainly said, she steps around him to inspect the uniforms, leaning in slightly to get a better look at the guns but impassive to them, if mildly affronted. ] Tools that have a propensity to backfire are liabilities.
[ Him, firearms--she offers no further detail to distinguish which she might mean, but it’s most likely both.
Sui Feng pushes through the clothes with a stiff hand, trying to limit as much skin contact with the materials as possible, delving deeper into this small little trove of personality. The books she glances over with disregard, amused at their apparent subjects (not that she shows it), stalling only upon the discovery of the straight jacket.
To this she glances back to him and the straight jacket to indicate where her attentions are directed, chin canted in question once more. ]
I assume this is sentimental rather than functional?