He waits for some part of this to stick in his ribs like a blade. It doesn't.
He watches the Director go down and waits for the knifecut of relief, of victory, of vindication.
There's only the raw, dull acknowledgment that this isn't real, and that it might not ever be real. His dreams tend to be a lot less linear than this. If he could take a guess, he'd hazard that this was the Director - or at least, his consciousness, transposed across space and time.
He watches the man suffocate and drown.
And he thinks: fine.
What he did was unforgivable. But if he remembers feeling the way that Maine must have, once, then it's worth...something.
no subject
He watches the Director go down and waits for the knifecut of relief, of victory, of vindication.
There's only the raw, dull acknowledgment that this isn't real, and that it might not ever be real. His dreams tend to be a lot less linear than this. If he could take a guess, he'd hazard that this was the Director - or at least, his consciousness, transposed across space and time.
He watches the man suffocate and drown.
And he thinks: fine.
What he did was unforgivable. But if he remembers feeling the way that Maine must have, once, then it's worth...something.
Something is enough.