People are so complicated. Take that from the one who knows Avatar best, who holds the story of Predictive Plagiarism. Especially the latter, countless squabbling voices arguing different opinions based on different insights and different feelings... that's just human thought written very literally, isn't it?
It may only be a whisper, but it wakes her up. It truly is a cliche of a position, her sitting beside his bed, head in her arms as she sleeps, proof that she's been here who knows how long waiting. And for once, maybe it won't be subverted.
When her head twitches up and to the side, her expression hides behind a brilliant glow from one eye. That sentence is too absurd and too improbable for her to take it at face value; she has to read him, of course. Which she does, swift and decisive, so that after a moment the light fades, leaving her staring at him, her expression indescribable.
"Is that--"
There. There's the subversion, because her indelicate sleeping pose and sudden waking make the two words into a rough croak that grinds to a halt on rough gravel. She has to swallow, cough, clear her throat, and squeeze her eyes shut before she can speak properly.
"Is that really you?"
The only reason she has to doubt is that it can't be him, no matter the evidence of her sense and skills. When they left the train: it hadn't been him. When they returned to the train: it hadn't been him. When she came here: it hadn't been him. Oh, sure, the Kim Dokja of this world is Kim Dokja to be sure, but not him, the one she'd been looking for, the one she needed to see. For months now she'd been trying to change this one in the hopes that the other one would reappear. Or never have left. But now...
no subject
It may only be a whisper, but it wakes her up. It truly is a cliche of a position, her sitting beside his bed, head in her arms as she sleeps, proof that she's been here who knows how long waiting. And for once, maybe it won't be subverted.
When her head twitches up and to the side, her expression hides behind a brilliant glow from one eye. That sentence is too absurd and too improbable for her to take it at face value; she has to read him, of course. Which she does, swift and decisive, so that after a moment the light fades, leaving her staring at him, her expression indescribable.
"Is that--"
There. There's the subversion, because her indelicate sleeping pose and sudden waking make the two words into a rough croak that grinds to a halt on rough gravel. She has to swallow, cough, clear her throat, and squeeze her eyes shut before she can speak properly.
"Is that really you?"
The only reason she has to doubt is that it can't be him, no matter the evidence of her sense and skills. When they left the train: it hadn't been him. When they returned to the train: it hadn't been him. When she came here: it hadn't been him. Oh, sure, the Kim Dokja of this world is Kim Dokja to be sure, but not him, the one she'd been looking for, the one she needed to see. For months now she'd been trying to change this one in the hopes that the other one would reappear. Or never have left. But now...
"You remember?"