To New York. [ The flattest look Andyr can muster is settled on him, because what Steve just said may as well have been "i'm going to make unicorns fly out of my ass and then disappear in a puff of neon green smoke to the tune of the harry potter soundtrack" for all the likelihood that's associated with it. ] You'll take me... to New York City.
[ and to alaska, and to gaza, apparently. they'll just go skipping right the fuck out into outer space, or out hapsburg's front door while all the guards that've tased him over the last six years and all the doctors that've cut into his body and rearranged his insides for fun wave him bye bye and throw flowers. and yet, there's a part of andyr that wants to believe it. maybe if he was still seventeen. if he still thought all he had to do was hide well enough, he could have a normal life. but the world proved him wrong in that in the worst ways possible, and the kind of promises steve's making are the kinds people break. instead, he snorts, looking down to the hem of his pants again, as he picks at the threading. ]
No, it's not. Not freedom, not living. It's not even being cattle or lab rats, because at least they get animal cruelty laws. [ it's still fucked up to kick a puppy. not to kick a Mouse. another long moment has andyr silent, looking past his hands, through the floor, the level under it, the space outside the ship, unfocused, before he speaks up again, quiet. ]
I don't wanna go to Alaska or Gaza. [ for the entirety of what he tells him, andyr's voice is soft and even, but hollowed. there's anger there, somewhere, but it comes out cold and detached. like this is something that's gone through his head a million times in a million different ways already. ] I want to burn the entire fucking city to the ground. I want to listen to them scream. All the shitstains that put us there, all the assholes that didn't lift a fucking finger to stop it, all the peaceful protesters that thought holding up fucking signs and printing off clever slogans on t-shirts did me any fucking favors. I want them to look at me like I'm the monster under the goddamn bed, and I want them to die.
[ what he wants right now, at least. what he'd wanted when he was on that lab table, when he had chains on his wrists and legs, when he was being stripped down and twisted one way and the other and had needles and blades and fingers and tubes shoved into him wherever anyone pleased. what he'll want if he does get out, he doesn't know. he's done a lot of fucked up things to people in the houses, and while saying it feels like something soothing, he's not sure he really could. maybe. but he doubts he'd have the chance to figure out. leaning to the side, he turns away from steve, crawling further into the weirdly shaped bed, towards the back of it. ]
no subject
[ and to alaska, and to gaza, apparently. they'll just go skipping right the fuck out into outer space, or out hapsburg's front door while all the guards that've tased him over the last six years and all the doctors that've cut into his body and rearranged his insides for fun wave him bye bye and throw flowers. and yet, there's a part of andyr that wants to believe it. maybe if he was still seventeen. if he still thought all he had to do was hide well enough, he could have a normal life. but the world proved him wrong in that in the worst ways possible, and the kind of promises steve's making are the kinds people break. instead, he snorts, looking down to the hem of his pants again, as he picks at the threading. ]
No, it's not. Not freedom, not living. It's not even being cattle or lab rats, because at least they get animal cruelty laws. [ it's still fucked up to kick a puppy. not to kick a Mouse. another long moment has andyr silent, looking past his hands, through the floor, the level under it, the space outside the ship, unfocused, before he speaks up again, quiet. ]
I don't wanna go to Alaska or Gaza. [ for the entirety of what he tells him, andyr's voice is soft and even, but hollowed. there's anger there, somewhere, but it comes out cold and detached. like this is something that's gone through his head a million times in a million different ways already. ] I want to burn the entire fucking city to the ground. I want to listen to them scream. All the shitstains that put us there, all the assholes that didn't lift a fucking finger to stop it, all the peaceful protesters that thought holding up fucking signs and printing off clever slogans on t-shirts did me any fucking favors. I want them to look at me like I'm the monster under the goddamn bed, and I want them to die.
[ what he wants right now, at least. what he'd wanted when he was on that lab table, when he had chains on his wrists and legs, when he was being stripped down and twisted one way and the other and had needles and blades and fingers and tubes shoved into him wherever anyone pleased. what he'll want if he does get out, he doesn't know. he's done a lot of fucked up things to people in the houses, and while saying it feels like something soothing, he's not sure he really could. maybe. but he doubts he'd have the chance to figure out. leaning to the side, he turns away from steve, crawling further into the weirdly shaped bed, towards the back of it. ]
And I wanna take a nap.