it's a comforting thing that rings with something like an old memory, the sensation of someone there, even when they can't be immediately seen. it requires a strange kind of trust, faith, some might call it.
with all of the insane things he's witnessed here, Ben has no difficulty putting his belief in what seems so completely impossible.
Ben jerks with a sudden shock — something rigid clatters a few feet away, 'Christ Almighty,' he breathes harshly to himself. ) Don't worry, you already have my attention. ( Ben's voice is...just a few degrees more tense. a subtle thing.
but Ben can be heard relaxing back down with a thoughtful sound, one that doesn't become entirely swallowed by the ambient static between them. ) Last time I wrote my name on a mirror, I was certainly communicating with someone here. I wasn't entirely sure he was in the same world as myself. Haven't...seen him since.
( and that feeling is nearly gutting.
Ben's head tilts down over his walkie talkie, a nonverbal shift that speaks volumes: focus on the information. as if regarding an examination table, Ben looks over the jigsaw pieces this stranger lays out: the environment responds. how sentient is it? as little as a flower that shuts itself up in the night, or as much as a human? more?
and then, an odd, almost uncomfortable feeling weights down into Ben's stomach: were they...chosen, to be brought here? )
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it's a comforting thing that rings with something like an old memory, the sensation of someone there, even when they can't be immediately seen. it requires a strange kind of trust, faith, some might call it.
with all of the insane things he's witnessed here, Ben has no difficulty putting his belief in what seems so completely impossible.
Ben jerks with a sudden shock — something rigid clatters a few feet away, 'Christ Almighty,' he breathes harshly to himself. ) Don't worry, you already have my attention. ( Ben's voice is...just a few degrees more tense. a subtle thing.
but Ben can be heard relaxing back down with a thoughtful sound, one that doesn't become entirely swallowed by the ambient static between them. ) Last time I wrote my name on a mirror, I was certainly communicating with someone here. I wasn't entirely sure he was in the same world as myself. Haven't...seen him since.
( and that feeling is nearly gutting.
Ben's head tilts down over his walkie talkie, a nonverbal shift that speaks volumes: focus on the information. as if regarding an examination table, Ben looks over the jigsaw pieces this stranger lays out: the environment responds. how sentient is it? as little as a flower that shuts itself up in the night, or as much as a human? more?
and then, an odd, almost uncomfortable feeling weights down into Ben's stomach: were they...chosen, to be brought here? )