[If he could interpret her thoughts, he'd wonder why his request didn't sound reasonable. Because it was. Steeped in cautionary logic.
She could talk to him through the device, couldn't she? She didn't need to be in his room to monitor him like he was two-year-old with no idea what the hell the floor was for and that the tiny things you found could choke you.
Not like there's too many places he could run to if he could get out. Where would he go in the end, anyway? They can't even get out of this city. They're trapped animals. Most everywhere else is dead and this place is going to follow it (it will all become shadow and ash and bone soon, don't you see?).
She was wrong, too, about riding things out yourself. Being alone, after all, has its merits. Means you can't hurt anybody. It's like that saying, isn't it? If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? And does it even matter if it does? No one's around to care and no one will miss its existence either way. It doesn't matter if the tree lives or dies, and it can't hurt anyone no matter what happens to it in the course of its tragically short or infinitely long lifetime. Nothing it does, bad or good, will matter because it may as well not exist.
He pauses then, breathes in, tries to focus on something else besides her and the voices telling him to—(let go, accept death you're dying anyway, run, don't trust anybody)—do things.]
Well, I don't know shit.
[See? That's the problem. He's not sure what is real or what isn't, and not having some semblance of control over himself—he can't even master his own thoughts right now—is nothing good. All it is is an a dangerous invitation that leads to nothing but misfortune from his experience. He knows what he believes right now, but he has no proof. He can't tell her to go look out her window, to look up at the sky and see that it's raining down fire. All he feels is the type of dread that builds before a storm.]
[action]
She could talk to him through the device, couldn't she? She didn't need to be in his room to monitor him like he was two-year-old with no idea what the hell the floor was for and that the tiny things you found could choke you.
Not like there's too many places he could run to if he could get out. Where would he go in the end, anyway? They can't even get out of this city. They're trapped animals. Most everywhere else is dead and this place is going to follow it (it will all become shadow and ash and bone soon, don't you see?).
She was wrong, too, about riding things out yourself. Being alone, after all, has its merits. Means you can't hurt anybody. It's like that saying, isn't it? If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? And does it even matter if it does? No one's around to care and no one will miss its existence either way. It doesn't matter if the tree lives or dies, and it can't hurt anyone no matter what happens to it in the course of its tragically short or infinitely long lifetime. Nothing it does, bad or good, will matter because it may as well not exist.
He pauses then, breathes in, tries to focus on something else besides her and the voices telling him to—(let go, accept death you're dying anyway, run, don't trust anybody)—do things.]
Well, I don't know shit.
[See? That's the problem. He's not sure what is real or what isn't, and not having some semblance of control over himself—he can't even master his own thoughts right now—is nothing good. All it is is an a dangerous invitation that leads to nothing but misfortune from his experience. He knows what he believes right now, but he has no proof. He can't tell her to go look out her window, to look up at the sky and see that it's raining down fire. All he feels is the type of dread that builds before a storm.]