Bellamy isn't an expert. What he has to compare this sensation to is the handful of minds he's grown familiar with: Rhys, Lexa, Clint, the Darkling. Beyond that, it's glancing contact with the rest of the Nest. They're all different, but it hadn't felt quite as unsettling as this particular man's mind does. The static reminds him of the radio, clutched in his sweaty hands in Mount Weather, praying for Raven's voice to seep through the crackling feedback.
The Soldier. It's not comforting. He thinks briefly of the Darkling, uncertain if this man has a similar relationship with that kind of title, but he drops the book, turns fully toward the window. ]
(The soldier) [ Questioning, cautious. This time, Bellamy's uncertainty is verbalized. ] (What do I call you?)
[ They're difficult questions, not that Bellamy has any way of knowing that. He's trying hard not to dig in, to keep his own thoughts as separate as possible. But he can't help the absorption, the mingling of awareness that has him moving forward, drawn by the jumbling mess of pain. It dredges up the Mountain, Bellamy's blood running cold thinking of shackles, metal collar dragging at his neck as latex-gloved hands poked and prodded. Harvest, they'd said, and he'd fought, but it hadn't been enough then. It's difficult to divide the memory of that moment from the bleed of the man outside the window. Had they put him into a cage or into a chair? They'd been underground, but what had the harvest chamber looked like? Bellamy shakes his head hard, treading towards the door, as if he means to ask these questions in person rather than wait to hear an answer in his head. ]
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Bellamy isn't an expert. What he has to compare this sensation to is the handful of minds he's grown familiar with: Rhys, Lexa, Clint, the Darkling. Beyond that, it's glancing contact with the rest of the Nest. They're all different, but it hadn't felt quite as unsettling as this particular man's mind does. The static reminds him of the radio, clutched in his sweaty hands in Mount Weather, praying for Raven's voice to seep through the crackling feedback.
The Soldier. It's not comforting. He thinks briefly of the Darkling, uncertain if this man has a similar relationship with that kind of title, but he drops the book, turns fully toward the window. ]
( The soldier ) [ Questioning, cautious. This time, Bellamy's uncertainty is verbalized. ] ( What do I call you? )
[ They're difficult questions, not that Bellamy has any way of knowing that. He's trying hard not to dig in, to keep his own thoughts as separate as possible. But he can't help the absorption, the mingling of awareness that has him moving forward, drawn by the jumbling mess of pain. It dredges up the Mountain, Bellamy's blood running cold thinking of shackles, metal collar dragging at his neck as latex-gloved hands poked and prodded. Harvest, they'd said, and he'd fought, but it hadn't been enough then. It's difficult to divide the memory of that moment from the bleed of the man outside the window. Had they put him into a cage or into a chair? They'd been underground, but what had the harvest chamber looked like? Bellamy shakes his head hard, treading towards the door, as if he means to ask these questions in person rather than wait to hear an answer in his head. ]