Everything else she's said before replays through his thoughts, an automatic response, just a result of a life built around memory and forcing himself to remember. She was moved -- taken, he again supplies in his own words -- as an orphan to some military installation in the middle of nowhere. Miserably cold, she'd said, and Wash imagines something much like this one but less strangely beautiful, all bitter steel surrounded by ice and snow. They were trying to make the perfect soldier. Weren't they always trying to make the perfect soldier.
He thinks again of the Spartans, kidnapped, augmented, molded into machines more than people. One agent in the right place, at the right time, with the right skills. Wash looks at her, watches her, studies her expression, but she gives away nothing, of course she doesn't, she's just as practiced at this as he is, probably a lot more. It doesn't take him that long to fit together the pieces, regardless.
That's what she lost. ]
Sounds like a few things I might know of. [ Not humorless, but dry. There's always a war, and it seems like there's more they can add to that. There's always people with ideas. Always perfect soldiers. Always augmentations and alterations. A pause, distinctive, and he gestures vaguely with a tip of his head. ] Has any of this been helping?
[ He means the sparring, and the training, he's seen her here more often than most other people because he spends so much time here himself. If she's lost whatever advantages her alterations have given her, maybe it was just some function of whatever brought them here, maybe she just needed some time for everything to build back, again, with practice, with training, with focus.
Maybe. It's only maybe. He's sure she knows that, too. ]
it's ok because i did the same sobs
Everything else she's said before replays through his thoughts, an automatic response, just a result of a life built around memory and forcing himself to remember. She was moved -- taken, he again supplies in his own words -- as an orphan to some military installation in the middle of nowhere. Miserably cold, she'd said, and Wash imagines something much like this one but less strangely beautiful, all bitter steel surrounded by ice and snow. They were trying to make the perfect soldier. Weren't they always trying to make the perfect soldier.
He thinks again of the Spartans, kidnapped, augmented, molded into machines more than people. One agent in the right place, at the right time, with the right skills. Wash looks at her, watches her, studies her expression, but she gives away nothing, of course she doesn't, she's just as practiced at this as he is, probably a lot more. It doesn't take him that long to fit together the pieces, regardless.
That's what she lost. ]
Sounds like a few things I might know of. [ Not humorless, but dry. There's always a war, and it seems like there's more they can add to that. There's always people with ideas. Always perfect soldiers. Always augmentations and alterations. A pause, distinctive, and he gestures vaguely with a tip of his head. ] Has any of this been helping?
[ He means the sparring, and the training, he's seen her here more often than most other people because he spends so much time here himself. If she's lost whatever advantages her alterations have given her, maybe it was just some function of whatever brought them here, maybe she just needed some time for everything to build back, again, with practice, with training, with focus.
Maybe. It's only maybe. He's sure she knows that, too. ]