Better to go quick in that case. Yes. Miles absolutely agrees. He would have fought just as desperately for each painful second he could still draw in breath, much like they've been fighting for their lives from the moment they'd been born. And when the inevitable finally sank in ... Miles hadn't had to deal with that with his death, but he had stared it in the face as Naismith had died. The same impulse, translated sideways. God. It hurts just to contemplate, these literal and figurative deaths for both of them.
"Where's the brilliant ploy this time," he mumbles to himself. "The last minute bolt out of the blue we always had before." Born of his own brilliance, or a well-timed opportunity, or just sheer damned luck. The longer one holds out, the greater the chances of seizing just that opportunity. But there comes a point when they just can't exert their will on the outside world and expect it to change. That moment - that horrible event horizon of despair - they both know it intimately now.
His head is swimming. He has to do something to combat this horrifying sense of powerlessness rising up to choke him. It makes him want to just stride out that door and start organizing guerillas, or laying down everything he knows about the future for his grandfather, or - or something. Something grand. Something idiotic. Anything. He does get up to pace now, even though the floor sways dangerously under his feet.
"You came back, didn't you?" he says, turning back sharply. Grant him some relief from this awful topic or he really will just give up and go mad. "You said you were there a year."
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"Where's the brilliant ploy this time," he mumbles to himself. "The last minute bolt out of the blue we always had before." Born of his own brilliance, or a well-timed opportunity, or just sheer damned luck. The longer one holds out, the greater the chances of seizing just that opportunity. But there comes a point when they just can't exert their will on the outside world and expect it to change. That moment - that horrible event horizon of despair - they both know it intimately now.
His head is swimming. He has to do something to combat this horrifying sense of powerlessness rising up to choke him. It makes him want to just stride out that door and start organizing guerillas, or laying down everything he knows about the future for his grandfather, or - or something. Something grand. Something idiotic. Anything. He does get up to pace now, even though the floor sways dangerously under his feet.
"You came back, didn't you?" he says, turning back sharply. Grant him some relief from this awful topic or he really will just give up and go mad. "You said you were there a year."