He's visibly relieved—that the words register, that Volk reacts. He'd half-expected it all to be brushed off. William slumps a little in his seat, closes his eyes a moment. “Like I said,” he says, letting out a slow breath, eyes opening, “I didn't believe it because I didn't feel different.”
Not in the literal sense—not because he had to keep on eating and crapping and breathing—but because nothing within him had shifted or altered. Death had transformed nothing. “And I hated how—I hated that it wasn't fitting. It should've been ugly.”
And it should've been impossible.
“You're on borrowed time.” A quick glance to Volk—quick, uncertain. “Me, I don't know.” He'd gone back. Gotten out of the park. Resolved to fix things and started to work at it. But he's seen the man he becomes, doesn't know how or when their paths are supposed to diverge.
OH AHAHAAH well don't mind me over here galaxy braining
Not in the literal sense—not because he had to keep on eating and crapping and breathing—but because nothing within him had shifted or altered. Death had transformed nothing. “And I hated how—I hated that it wasn't fitting. It should've been ugly.”
And it should've been impossible.
“You're on borrowed time.” A quick glance to Volk—quick, uncertain. “Me, I don't know.” He'd gone back. Gotten out of the park. Resolved to fix things and started to work at it. But he's seen the man he becomes, doesn't know how or when their paths are supposed to diverge.