Phoenix didn't answer immediately. He didn't look back, either, not when he knew he'd just see more of the chains looping around him quick as a reflex, locks clanking into place. He could hear himself shiver, the long, slow shivers of skin trying to crawl off of bones - it ratted the metal, producing a faint afterthought of a noise, like a distant tree full of iron sparrows.
"We really can't stop asking questions, can we?" he returned rhetorically, tired and strained, hooking his fingers in the links running down from his shoulder. They didn't shift or pull like he thought a real chain would have; they barely even bent. He tightened his hand, as if he could somehow steady himself that simply, and forced himself to breathe. He railed against the thought of capitulating again, saying something he'd never wanted to just because of the implicit threat of being restrained. What was more, he couldn't be completely open with everyone in the Instiute. That was as dangerous as it was impossible.
I'm going to lie, and people are going to lie to me. I can't keep panicking every time I see these. He swallowed - God, what he wouldn't give for a glass of water right now - feeling bit by bit as he settled. His brain ached like a deep bruise from the effort, but the locks never even flickered.
Returning to the bed was difficult - walking with the locks was different in a way he couldn't articulate, an act of will imposed upon the stubborn assumption that what he was doing should be impossible. As he sat down on the edge of the bed, he turned the flashlight off and let it drop to the sheets, but he did not lay back down. He knew that the bonds would melt and re-form to anything - a chest pressed to his, hands on his back - just as they had for the mattress. But he didn't want to lay beside Miles like this, metal snaking into every unguarded space and fissure between them like a particularly cruel metaphor. "You probably know enough, between what I've told you and what you've seen," he said at length, in the safe invisibility bringing up a hand to touch his eyelids lightly. They still stung. "If you really want to see, go look for yourself. I won't stop you."
Re: Inside M92
"We really can't stop asking questions, can we?" he returned rhetorically, tired and strained, hooking his fingers in the links running down from his shoulder. They didn't shift or pull like he thought a real chain would have; they barely even bent. He tightened his hand, as if he could somehow steady himself that simply, and forced himself to breathe. He railed against the thought of capitulating again, saying something he'd never wanted to just because of the implicit threat of being restrained. What was more, he couldn't be completely open with everyone in the Instiute. That was as dangerous as it was impossible.
I'm going to lie, and people are going to lie to me. I can't keep panicking every time I see these. He swallowed - God, what he wouldn't give for a glass of water right now - feeling bit by bit as he settled. His brain ached like a deep bruise from the effort, but the locks never even flickered.
Returning to the bed was difficult - walking with the locks was different in a way he couldn't articulate, an act of will imposed upon the stubborn assumption that what he was doing should be impossible. As he sat down on the edge of the bed, he turned the flashlight off and let it drop to the sheets, but he did not lay back down. He knew that the bonds would melt and re-form to anything - a chest pressed to his, hands on his back - just as they had for the mattress. But he didn't want to lay beside Miles like this, metal snaking into every unguarded space and fissure between them like a particularly cruel metaphor. "You probably know enough, between what I've told you and what you've seen," he said at length, in the safe invisibility bringing up a hand to touch his eyelids lightly. They still stung. "If you really want to see, go look for yourself. I won't stop you."