[ Carver’s jaw works. Two contradictory ideas war inside him: that he ought to eat his fill to save his strength for when things turn, or that the food’s been poisoned and he ought to throw it aside. Meridian had them on full rations for the first time in a long time, but they earned that right. They fought for it.
No one fought for this. It’s only pageantry and it nags at Carver’s soul that he can’t see the endgame. He gives the other man a narrow-eyed once-over, assessing. Calm and centered, at least on the outside. And he holds himself with a certain expectation, almost, unlike Carver’s brittle edged paranoia.
Interesting. Maybe. ]
It’s a trick, [ he says after a moment, when he remembers he ought to. ] Only question is what kind.
no subject
No one fought for this. It’s only pageantry and it nags at Carver’s soul that he can’t see the endgame. He gives the other man a narrow-eyed once-over, assessing. Calm and centered, at least on the outside. And he holds himself with a certain expectation, almost, unlike Carver’s brittle edged paranoia.
Interesting. Maybe. ]
It’s a trick, [ he says after a moment, when he remembers he ought to. ] Only question is what kind.