[ As he's released he shuffles a little in place, righting his shirt as discreetly as possible, and lifts his chin to meet the Boxer's stare with his own. It's not defiant, not exactly, but it is intense and unblinking. Vigilant. Receptive, maybe unsettlingly so, as if to say "you had something to say, so... say it."
But the thing Boxer says startles a laugh out of him, a short, clipped sound, mostly humorless. ]
Was it that—but, no, I'm, hah. I'm not that optimistic. But I am a little. Surprised. At how quick you took to it, the both of you. Made it your own. I'd say it's become something else now, altogether. Something else entirely.
[ He casts it one more wistful glance. Maybe it's true that in a sense the Transistor goes where the Transistor wants. How disappointing. He'd be lying if he said that didn't sting some. ]
[Yes, it was that obvious. C'mon, Royce. Who do you think you're kidding.
He tells himself, braced and ready to bristle, that he doesn't want to hear it. But despite his established distaste for Royce's droning lectures—his better sense mostly tells him to hear them out. Not out of any real respect for the man, or his work. But there's a needs must sort of element to it. Had been, in their approach in Fairview. To the Cradle, where his recollection fails. Royce had the most experience, with the thing. Before. But seems even he doesn't seem to recognize it, now.
What does that mean? (Does it matter?)
His expression knits, quietly. But he doesn't acknowledge it. Doesn't address it. Not the time. Instead, his shoulders square, as Royce casts another wistful glance back at the Transistor. Heels dug in.]
Didn't exactly leave us much choice.
["Us." Him. And Red. Though he's under no illusions as to which one of them really mattered in that little confrontation. Which starts to get him back to the crux of this one.]
[ The way the Transistor still pulses light, seamlessly aligned with the cadence of the Boxer voice. His reluctance to relinquish it, to suffer Royce laying so much as a covetous eye on it. Quick on the uptake, Royce—and while he's used to being wrong almost as much as he's right, he's generally no fool.
Generally. To be fair, he really should've seen this sooner.
He takes a couple steps back. At first it might seem like caution. ]
You're still there.
[ It's not caution. He's just moving back so he can take in the whole that is the sword and the man, together. ]
[As if he'd be happy to relinquish it given Royce's track record. No matter what his relationship with it happened to be. It's not worth risking what happened to Cloudbank all over again. No matter how slim the chances might be. That he can't relinquish it—without, y'know...resigning himself to the company at hand—is just...some convincing icing on the cake. So to speak.
Still, stubbornly, he doesn't confirm or deny it. Makes a point of appearing to ignore the last few things that came out of Royce's mouth at all. (But there's the smallest shift in his jaw. A tighter thing held in the set of his shoulders, in the crease between his brows. The tension in his knuckles and the set of his eyes. Still, he doesn't say a word about it.) Until—]
Listen. [He matches the step Royce took away from him. Keeping the distance between them even. Expression flinty. He's not here to talk about him.]
[ Now. Now Royce appears defiant. Just a little, and apparently less in response to the prospect of getting is ass handed to him than the forcible separation from the Transistor leaning tantalizingly against the wall. ]
That won't be a problem. Cloudbank is more important than... well, all of us. More than all of us. If our hosts aren't lying, then, why, I—we'll do it. We might actually manage it. We'll bring it back.
[ He half-turns; the Boxer is between him and the door, so it's not as if he's got anywhere to go. But something about his demeanor does seem ever so slightly peevish. ]
But here I would've thought you'd want to figure this out. You. Your body. In there. I'd help you. You know. I'd be more than willing try and help the both of you. No... hard feelings.
[He snorts in a derisive way when Royce has the stones to play friendly. No hard feelings, like this is all one big misunderstanding. His fingers twitch closed into a fist. In and out at his side as Royce speaks. Like he's thinking again about swinging it. He bites down on his temper. Wrangles it back.]
Generous of you. [Sarcastic, and not without bitterness. If he's moved by the offer or shaken by the reminder of where he stands, he doesn't much let it show. (It's not that he isn't interested in the theoretical end result. Just that he doesn't trust Bracket any further than he can throw him. And he's still working his way around to letting himself wonder if this isn't the end for him, after all.)] We'll see about that.
[If this is as far as he goes—he'll be okay. No matter how Royce happens to feel about it, there are still plenty of hard feelings to be had. He doesn't just get to decide to write it all off as spilled milk. (And him—he's not worth it. Letting Royce get his hands on the Transistor again.) He backsteps, turns on a heel to pick the Transistor up away from the wall to sling it up onto a shoulder.]
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11/2017 | BOXER (el nysa tdm)
( continued from here. )
[ As he's released he shuffles a little in place, righting his shirt as discreetly as possible, and lifts his chin to meet the Boxer's stare with his own. It's not defiant, not exactly, but it is intense and unblinking. Vigilant. Receptive, maybe unsettlingly so, as if to say "you had something to say, so... say it."
But the thing Boxer says startles a laugh out of him, a short, clipped sound, mostly humorless. ]
Was it that—but, no, I'm, hah. I'm not that optimistic. But I am a little. Surprised. At how quick you took to it, the both of you. Made it your own. I'd say it's become something else now, altogether. Something else entirely.
[ He casts it one more wistful glance. Maybe it's true that in a sense the Transistor goes where the Transistor wants. How disappointing. He'd be lying if he said that didn't sting some. ]
no subject
He tells himself, braced and ready to bristle, that he doesn't want to hear it. But despite his established distaste for Royce's droning lectures—his better sense mostly tells him to hear them out. Not out of any real respect for the man, or his work. But there's a needs must sort of element to it. Had been, in their approach in Fairview. To the Cradle, where his recollection fails. Royce had the most experience, with the thing. Before. But seems even he doesn't seem to recognize it, now.
What does that mean? (Does it matter?)
His expression knits, quietly. But he doesn't acknowledge it. Doesn't address it. Not the time. Instead, his shoulders square, as Royce casts another wistful glance back at the Transistor. Heels dug in.]
Didn't exactly leave us much choice.
["Us." Him. And Red. Though he's under no illusions as to which one of them really mattered in that little confrontation. Which starts to get him back to the crux of this one.]
no subject
Generally. To be fair, he really should've seen this sooner.
He takes a couple steps back. At first it might seem like caution. ]
You're still there.
[ It's not caution. He's just moving back so he can take in the whole that is the sword and the man, together. ]
Inside it.
[ How? ]
no subject
Still, stubbornly, he doesn't confirm or deny it. Makes a point of appearing to ignore the last few things that came out of Royce's mouth at all. (But there's the smallest shift in his jaw. A tighter thing held in the set of his shoulders, in the crease between his brows. The tension in his knuckles and the set of his eyes. Still, he doesn't say a word about it.) Until—]
Listen. [He matches the step Royce took away from him. Keeping the distance between them even. Expression flinty. He's not here to talk about him.]
Red. You stay the hell away from her. From us.
[First things (finally) first.]
no subject
That won't be a problem. Cloudbank is more important than... well, all of us. More than all of us. If our hosts aren't lying, then, why, I—we'll do it. We might actually manage it. We'll bring it back.
[ He half-turns; the Boxer is between him and the door, so it's not as if he's got anywhere to go. But something about his demeanor does seem ever so slightly peevish. ]
But here I would've thought you'd want to figure this out. You. Your body. In there. I'd help you. You know. I'd be more than willing try and help the both of you. No... hard feelings.
no subject
Generous of you. [Sarcastic, and not without bitterness. If he's moved by the offer or shaken by the reminder of where he stands, he doesn't much let it show. (It's not that he isn't interested in the theoretical end result. Just that he doesn't trust Bracket any further than he can throw him. And he's still working his way around to letting himself wonder if this isn't the end for him, after all.)] We'll see about that.
[If this is as far as he goes—he'll be okay. No matter how Royce happens to feel about it, there are still plenty of hard feelings to be had. He doesn't just get to decide to write it all off as spilled milk. (And him—he's not worth it. Letting Royce get his hands on the Transistor again.) He backsteps, turns on a heel to pick the Transistor up away from the wall to sling it up onto a shoulder.]
Goodbye, Royce.
[Good luck with all that.]