[Once, many months ago now, she'd insisted very sternly on being included in the autopsy of her own limb once it was separated from her. She'd studied it with the same scientifically motivated rigor she does Mister Gecko's arm now—which is to say, by unfocusing her eyes and looking lightly past everything to some slightly less mortifying point in the middle distance.
Maybe if Richie doesn't keel over dead in the next forty-eight hours, or sprout a whole arm full of rolling eyeballs, or disappear as Rifters are wont to do, Wysteria will find herself considerably more ready to acknowledge the grotesque side effects of her (their) experiment more directly without the specter of guilt hanging so thickly over her. For now, Mister Dickerson may take his measurements and begin to wrap the limb without much in the way of interruption.
Or, it must be noted, assistance.
She does manage to scrape together a few further questions however. Maker forbid Wysteria de Foncé ever keep her mouth shut for long.]
And the period during which you possessed the lyrium. You mentioned seeing something when you first— [Came to? Reverted out of a trance? Both sound potentially ominous, so she skips straight to:] Do you recall it now?
[The touch of fabric onto eye almost has him flinch back. Discomfort, just like Dick had warned. Having something in your eye, multiplied a dozen times over, but not enough to have him say to stop. More to want it over with. Irritation spikes higher and higher at the questions, at how slow Dick's being in wrapping the arm, at how sick he's starting to feel. Wysteria only throws more questions on the pile, but the last - that catches. Distraction from the present moment, mind lurching back to try and grasp at what he'd seen where it was already slipping, melting into fog. Or it had always been fog from the start.]
It was high up. In the sky. [A place to start, but even as it's out of his mouth it feels off. He tries again.] Small. Underground. And moving.
[None of the words are right, but they're not wrong, either. Like he's trying to crack a safe, and somehow he's always one tick over on the dial, the sound of all the tumblers clicking into place right at his fingertips, but never landing.]
There were people, a lot of people. [He frowns, frustrated, and increasingly aware that it's nonsensical. Crazy.] I was all of them.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
even more eye stuff
Maybe if Richie doesn't keel over dead in the next forty-eight hours, or sprout a whole arm full of rolling eyeballs, or disappear as Rifters are wont to do, Wysteria will find herself considerably more ready to acknowledge the grotesque side effects of her (their) experiment more directly without the specter of guilt hanging so thickly over her. For now, Mister Dickerson may take his measurements and begin to wrap the limb without much in the way of interruption.
Or, it must be noted, assistance.
She does manage to scrape together a few further questions however. Maker forbid Wysteria de Foncé ever keep her mouth shut for long.]
And the period during which you possessed the lyrium. You mentioned seeing something when you first— [Came to? Reverted out of a trance? Both sound potentially ominous, so she skips straight to:] Do you recall it now?
no subject
It was high up. In the sky. [A place to start, but even as it's out of his mouth it feels off. He tries again.] Small. Underground. And moving.
[None of the words are right, but they're not wrong, either. Like he's trying to crack a safe, and somehow he's always one tick over on the dial, the sound of all the tumblers clicking into place right at his fingertips, but never landing.]
There were people, a lot of people. [He frowns, frustrated, and increasingly aware that it's nonsensical. Crazy.] I was all of them.