At least the mental network, paltry as it is, could work as quickly as her thoughts could pin the words down in the text boxes. It's so much faster compared to the slow drudge of fingers on pencils, no matter how quick she could try to scribble a short message, always limited by the speed of ink or lead on paper.
And yet there was even a lag, a delay in those text messages. Even in this world, Allison was already a muted, suppressed version of herself — a percentage of herself — and he can't even imagine how much more pronounced it must've been in Dallas. She was, in some ways, the most existentially, terrifyingly powerful of the Academy... and there she'd been, cut horrendously down to size. No superpowers at all. Disabled, black, female. In the nineteen sixties.
She hated the beginning of this conversation, of hearing how Luther had been brought low. And he hates this. Hates it. This hurts. His heart aches in his chest, like a low and bruising pain, like he's been punched right in the ribcage.
They had all done what they had to, to get by. Blending into the world as much they could, in the best ways they knew how, and biding their time. Waiting.
"You shouldn't have been alone." He hadn't even known he was going to say it until he's saying it; there's a catch in his throat and he's still staring at the ceiling because now he can't stand to glance to the side. Like a fire burning in the bed beside him; it hurts to look at her.
"I'm sorry. I should've looked for you harder, for longer. I didn't even think of asking Jack for a favour and having him look for you until Five came by and said everyone was alive— if I'd just done it sooner—"
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And yet there was even a lag, a delay in those text messages. Even in this world, Allison was already a muted, suppressed version of herself — a percentage of herself — and he can't even imagine how much more pronounced it must've been in Dallas. She was, in some ways, the most existentially, terrifyingly powerful of the Academy... and there she'd been, cut horrendously down to size. No superpowers at all. Disabled, black, female. In the nineteen sixties.
She hated the beginning of this conversation, of hearing how Luther had been brought low.
And he hates this. Hates it. This hurts. His heart aches in his chest, like a low and bruising pain, like he's been punched right in the ribcage.
They had all done what they had to, to get by. Blending into the world as much they could, in the best ways they knew how, and biding their time. Waiting.
"You shouldn't have been alone." He hadn't even known he was going to say it until he's saying it; there's a catch in his throat and he's still staring at the ceiling because now he can't stand to glance to the side. Like a fire burning in the bed beside him; it hurts to look at her.
"I'm sorry. I should've looked for you harder, for longer. I didn't even think of asking Jack for a favour and having him look for you until Five came by and said everyone was alive— if I'd just done it sooner—"