[ Alayne knows that she is, for the most part, no longer needed here. Like the tools that Isaac has left out in tidy rows on his table, she would play the part of instrument for him — narrow wrists and small hands but clever fingers at his beck and call. While being willfully wielded often held darker connotations for Alayne, she understands that Isaac is an exception. She could brandish him just as readily against her enemies (arguably with more ease and even fewer qualms) and in that reciprocation of vulnerability and control there was a kind of comfort, one born of understanding and shorn up by mutual care and adoration.
Tilting her head, she studies the unfamiliar planes of Ranger Hansen's suit as he turns. The light coming from the window catches the metal vertebrae of the clamp along his spine and she glances sideways at Isaac (to where the muted cyan glow of his RIG is visible from the nape of his neck all the way down his back). ]
Is it like a RIG? [ she asks Isaac, though the way her brow pinches suggests she doesn't think so. ] There is no light.
no subject
Tilting her head, she studies the unfamiliar planes of Ranger Hansen's suit as he turns. The light coming from the window catches the metal vertebrae of the clamp along his spine and she glances sideways at Isaac (to where the muted cyan glow of his RIG is visible from the nape of his neck all the way down his back). ]
Is it like a RIG? [ she asks Isaac, though the way her brow pinches suggests she doesn't think so. ] There is no light.