[ When Luther and all the others return from their stint in the City, it's... a lot to wrestle with. It's an extra decade of muddled memories to sift through, of the ones that did make it through (not all of the memories did, or at least not all of them with such clarity). He's reeling from memories of how much worse he could have been. Was. Had been. Cocky and smiling on all the magazine covers, in the City, like nothing could ever touch him.
And then his communicator lights up. Mostly messages from Diego and Ben, and his employer at Joe's Movers — goddamnit, he'll have to go talk to them, explain the usual imPort conundrum — but then an unexpected name appears. 'VANYA' pops up on his communicator, and Luther can't help but wonder: why is Vanya texting him? She never texts him.
Luther starts reading.
And he reads.
And feels it like a deep gut punch, a knife under his ribs. Like a well-aimed missile, squarely hitting its mark, the bomb blast going off. Not even Diego gets such good digs in, because Luther expects knives out from Diego. He doesn't expect such teeth from Vanya. Has never built up a thick skin in preparation for what she, the smallest and most inconsequential and the most dangerous and most frightening, Number Seven, might have to say. It catches him wrong-footed, off-guard, his vulnerable side exposed, and as a result he's been ripped open.
The fury rises up a second later. ]
I didn't want t
I was trying to protect you
I don't know what you think it was like, but the moon was absolutely fucking nothing to be jealous of. It almost drove me insane
Being alone isn't all it
Did you know, when you've been alone long enough, you start hallucinating? People. Voices. Or just visuals. I researched it, afterwards. It's the mind going fucking loony from all the monotony, the lack of interaction. It starts making things up to fill the gaps. Just to try to think and see and hear something new for once. I put you in that tank for one night but try four years
I haven't told anyone. Guess I still haven't.
I am never telling you.
[ A furious litany of texts, Luther exorcising all his kneejerk reactions, then mass-deleting them a second later. One and Seven are so strangely alike in this: they won't send it if they think there's a chance the other person might ever actually see it. So, in the end, it's just: ]
february 1st, 1/2
And then his communicator lights up. Mostly messages from Diego and Ben, and his employer at Joe's Movers — goddamnit, he'll have to go talk to them, explain the usual imPort conundrum — but then an unexpected name appears. 'VANYA' pops up on his communicator, and Luther can't help but wonder: why is Vanya texting him? She never texts him.
Luther starts reading.
And he reads.
And feels it like a deep gut punch, a knife under his ribs. Like a well-aimed missile, squarely hitting its mark, the bomb blast going off. Not even Diego gets such good digs in, because Luther expects knives out from Diego. He doesn't expect such teeth from Vanya. Has never built up a thick skin in preparation for what she, the smallest and most inconsequential and the most dangerous and most frightening, Number Seven, might have to say. It catches him wrong-footed, off-guard, his vulnerable side exposed, and as a result he's been ripped open.
The fury rises up a second later. ]
I didn't want t
I was trying to protect you
I don't know what you think it was like, but the moon was absolutely fucking nothing to be jealous of. It almost drove me insane
Being alone isn't all it
Did you know, when you've been alone long enough, you start hallucinating? People. Voices. Or just visuals. I researched it, afterwards. It's the mind going fucking loony from all the monotony, the lack of interaction. It starts making things up to fill the gaps. Just to try to think and see and hear something new for once. I put you in that tank for one night but try four years
I haven't told anyone. Guess I still haven't.
I am never telling you.
[ A furious litany of texts, Luther exorcising all his kneejerk reactions, then mass-deleting them a second later. One and Seven are so strangely alike in this: they won't send it if they think there's a chance the other person might ever actually see it. So, in the end, it's just: ]
Uh. Vanya?