[ He would not be the first one to call her that, and neither would he be wrong. While not on conspiracy theory levels of paranoid, Parker does have a stride of it. Again, a construct from the life she has led for the better part of her life. But on the other hand, she is neither so blind to deny the truth. But she has seen none, not one backed by evidence or anything concrete. Everything is vague, floating in space like the Station. It does not sit well with her. She has been dismissed, over and over, and she is tired, but she hasn't given up on it yet.
She is, she feels, the vocal minority, but it is a place she sit well and comfortable. Maybe she does it more aggressively because it is the only comfort of familiarity she feels in a strange place, displaced, unbelonging. ]
That's what it takes? You've been told you can't go back, so you just sit down and nod your head? [ A vague gesture to him. ] One shitty situation to the other, so you just accept it? [ Parker has never been good at accepting that sort of thing. Her heels will always dig in. Fire spirit, and all that, stubborn and annoying and a nuisance.
She stares at him at his question again. It's another long silence that welcomes him in response. She thumbs her small lip scar, a discreet line over her upper lip, left side. Something that has long been there. Parker stares out the window as she does, as if mulling her words, or thoughts, or his (words, not thoughts, she has her guard always up, her barrier always muffling others and pushing them out). Finally, it comes in the form of a stale, monotone voice: ]
no subject
She is, she feels, the vocal minority, but it is a place she sit well and comfortable. Maybe she does it more aggressively because it is the only comfort of familiarity she feels in a strange place, displaced, unbelonging. ]
That's what it takes? You've been told you can't go back, so you just sit down and nod your head? [ A vague gesture to him. ] One shitty situation to the other, so you just accept it? [ Parker has never been good at accepting that sort of thing. Her heels will always dig in. Fire spirit, and all that, stubborn and annoying and a nuisance.
She stares at him at his question again. It's another long silence that welcomes him in response. She thumbs her small lip scar, a discreet line over her upper lip, left side. Something that has long been there. Parker stares out the window as she does, as if mulling her words, or thoughts, or his (words, not thoughts, she has her guard always up, her barrier always muffling others and pushing them out). Finally, it comes in the form of a stale, monotone voice: ]
I don't think you need to know.