He's poured way too much of himself into his fight. So many lives lost, so many blind decisions made from faith or paranoia or an insistence to claw for whatever small crumb would keep them afloat. It's far too much to discard for his own personal rest. But he lost something in those decisions he convinces himself he had no choice but to make, and physically, he can't keep up anymore.
Which is why talk seems like his only shot at getting out of this. Saying something that might trigger an emotional response. Though as he stumbles back into the light cast down on the road, Miller can't help but consider himself lucky that this ambush of his isn't more aggressive.
He stares into the umbrella of darkness Altius retreats into. ]
No, you don't. Listen to me. We're dead. I didn't want to admit it, but all of us here have already died. Even now I refuse to let my family go on without me if there's any chance I could still do something for them... but I've been sure of that for some time now. There's nothing you or I can do to change or control that.
[Something changes in the shade once Miller has spoken. He stops his approach and his demeanor sharpens; the slits of his pupils narrow, and his expression becomes more grounded in a way, furrow in his brow. His voice similarly becomes more forceful, though it's still quiet.
The idea that he's already dead—that they all are—is unacceptable.]
[ He tenses, sensing that he's touched on something as he hoped he might.
Coming across sincerely is not a struggle, however... as it's an admission that he truly feels is real. ]
Just pay attention to the world around you. I've probably met a dozen people by now who remember their deaths in detail. The few of us who have "returned home" during their stay claim they have no recollection of this place while they're gone. We're constantly plagued by personal demons and memories that a computer intelligence gathering people from every conceivable place in time and space should have no way of invoking!
[ At least, not unless they pull magic into the equation and that's too outside of his wheelhouse to think about. Because most of all— ]
I could have died at any moment before I arrived here. The radiation was beating me down and it would have continued until there was nothing left. Am I really supposed to think that I'm alone in this? Me and these other dozen people?
Memories wouldn't be difficult to suppress, in the grand scheme of things, externally or internally. It might even be an easier process than reaching across to all these separate worlds to trap their living consciousnesses—pulling them from a particular moment in time and supposedly returning them unscathed as if nothing had ever happened...
He hates the thought of it. He almost hisses his response.]
For this to be some sort of twisted afterlife... [which he's hardly ever believed in,] more torment on top of everything we've already suffered?
[No. Death is supposed to be a refuge. It's supposed to be nothingness. An absence. If he's already dead—then there is nothing more he can do.
His hands curl at his sides as he realizes what that really means to him, past the grasp of the wish seed. He's no longer looking straight at Miller, scowling off at a distant street as wisps of shadow start to rise off of him, the shine of his hair underneath.]
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expiationlogs2025-03-11 10:18 am
no subject
He's poured way too much of himself into his fight. So many lives lost, so many blind decisions made from faith or paranoia or an insistence to claw for whatever small crumb would keep them afloat. It's far too much to discard for his own personal rest. But he lost something in those decisions he convinces himself he had no choice but to make, and physically, he can't keep up anymore.
Which is why talk seems like his only shot at getting out of this. Saying something that might trigger an emotional response. Though as he stumbles back into the light cast down on the road, Miller can't help but consider himself lucky that this ambush of his isn't more aggressive.
He stares into the umbrella of darkness Altius retreats into. ]
No, you don't. Listen to me. We're dead. I didn't want to admit it, but all of us here have already died. Even now I refuse to let my family go on without me if there's any chance I could still do something for them... but I've been sure of that for some time now. There's nothing you or I can do to change or control that.
no subject
The idea that he's already dead—that they all are—is unacceptable.]
What makes you so sure?
no subject
Coming across sincerely is not a struggle, however... as it's an admission that he truly feels is real. ]
Just pay attention to the world around you. I've probably met a dozen people by now who remember their deaths in detail. The few of us who have "returned home" during their stay claim they have no recollection of this place while they're gone. We're constantly plagued by personal demons and memories that a computer intelligence gathering people from every conceivable place in time and space should have no way of invoking!
[ At least, not unless they pull magic into the equation and that's too outside of his wheelhouse to think about. Because most of all— ]
I could have died at any moment before I arrived here. The radiation was beating me down and it would have continued until there was nothing left. Am I really supposed to think that I'm alone in this? Me and these other dozen people?
[ What makes the living Chosen so special? ]
no subject
Memories wouldn't be difficult to suppress, in the grand scheme of things, externally or internally. It might even be an easier process than reaching across to all these separate worlds to trap their living consciousnesses—pulling them from a particular moment in time and supposedly returning them unscathed as if nothing had ever happened...
He hates the thought of it. He almost hisses his response.]
For this to be some sort of twisted afterlife... [which he's hardly ever believed in,] more torment on top of everything we've already suffered?
[No. Death is supposed to be a refuge. It's supposed to be nothingness. An absence. If he's already dead—then there is nothing more he can do.
His hands curl at his sides as he realizes what that really means to him, past the grasp of the wish seed. He's no longer looking straight at Miller, scowling off at a distant street as wisps of shadow start to rise off of him, the shine of his hair underneath.]
I refuse.