[ The absence of Jinx jars Silco too — just a little, not yet aware of how absent she is, still able to attribute it to death and life. Perhaps more accurate to say what unnerves him is being alone with Vi. When there wasn't Jinx between them there was Vander, and though he never visited her himself in prison the messages he organized to have sent to her on the occasions of her misbehaviour were another connection, a strange sort of long distance relationship to have: tracking her, keeping tabs.
Here and now, the hatred comes off her in waves; he responds with disinterest. She was a threat, and has been since he decided to make Jinx his own, since he decided to move in on Vander's control of the lanes. But it's never been particularly personal. She isn't him, isn't Vander, even with those miners' gloves at her belt. Something in her posture recalls him too, though of course there's no physical resemblance to the man Silco had known at the age she is now. If anything, she looks a little like her mother, who he remembers as a comrade in arms, a very long time ago.
Truly, Vi doesn't know just how much he's taken from her.
Still, she clearly knows enough to bear grudges, jaw shifting just like Jinx's when she didn't get her way. While he could do with a cane or the walking stick he tends to only ever use in private, he suspects that the support she would offer would be personal physicality, and that is simply unacceptable.]
I can walk.
[Terse, unthankful. It's willpower alone that he can walk, though it helps that his body feels simply easier than it did during his last days in the undercity, joints no longer grinding hateful pain, other little weaknesses the Zaun toxins had inflicted upon him over the years eased. Eased but not cured — one glance at his face would tell that tale, and he rubs over the ruined skin of his eye socket to reaffirm the old wound.
Then, as if to emphasize his statement, he starts to walk. Up the beach, though he doesn't know where he's going beyond away from the water that rebirthed him again. It's slow, and rigid with effort, including the effort to make that slowness seem like deliberation, to keep the mask in place. If she dares pity him for a moment he'll have to have her killed.]
no subject
Here and now, the hatred comes off her in waves; he responds with disinterest. She was a threat, and has been since he decided to make Jinx his own, since he decided to move in on Vander's control of the lanes. But it's never been particularly personal. She isn't him, isn't Vander, even with those miners' gloves at her belt. Something in her posture recalls him too, though of course there's no physical resemblance to the man Silco had known at the age she is now. If anything, she looks a little like her mother, who he remembers as a comrade in arms, a very long time ago.
Truly, Vi doesn't know just how much he's taken from her.
Still, she clearly knows enough to bear grudges, jaw shifting just like Jinx's when she didn't get her way. While he could do with a cane or the walking stick he tends to only ever use in private, he suspects that the support she would offer would be personal physicality, and that is simply unacceptable.]
I can walk.
[Terse, unthankful. It's willpower alone that he can walk, though it helps that his body feels simply easier than it did during his last days in the undercity, joints no longer grinding hateful pain, other little weaknesses the Zaun toxins had inflicted upon him over the years eased. Eased but not cured — one glance at his face would tell that tale, and he rubs over the ruined skin of his eye socket to reaffirm the old wound.
Then, as if to emphasize his statement, he starts to walk. Up the beach, though he doesn't know where he's going beyond away from the water that rebirthed him again. It's slow, and rigid with effort, including the effort to make that slowness seem like deliberation, to keep the mask in place. If she dares pity him for a moment he'll have to have her killed.]