[ Ivor hadn't made the choice based on what he'd actually wanted. The idea of resisting seems pointless given their circumstances. Besides, there's only one real incentive he's grasping for in a situation like this, and the idea of killing is— well, it isn't a new one. People do too many reckless and crazy things in space, on the certified planets and even deeper in the backwater colonies that don't get much news until months or even years from the time it's happened has passed. They live on their own terms, just as Ivor has lived on his own for far too long to remember what it's like not to, and the idea of going home is a much easier one to swallow than lingering around and waiting for something else to come along.
At least, then, he knew he could go home.
The party itself is something that makes him think of rich socialites looking for a good time in the more expensive brothels, boring but simple enough that the point isn't missed. He's supposed to be having fun, and all he can really do is worry about home and Cae and the siren sickness that's slowly eating him from the inside out. He's never heard of America or the NFFA or the purge; he's never seen cities so clean and peaceful. And when Ronan speaks, it's only by happenstance that he hears him as he passes by, the question a reasonable one considering. His mouth thins, contemplating a reply even as he catches himself signing. ]
« I don't know. » [ But he pauses, knowing from life-long experience that most people don't understand. So, he digs out the phone they'd given him - rudimentary compared to the now useless comp band still curled around his wrist - to type out a response instead. ] I guess a couple months from now. No one is being very specific about it. [ And he just shrugs. ]
II
At least, then, he knew he could go home.
The party itself is something that makes him think of rich socialites looking for a good time in the more expensive brothels, boring but simple enough that the point isn't missed. He's supposed to be having fun, and all he can really do is worry about home and Cae and the siren sickness that's slowly eating him from the inside out. He's never heard of America or the NFFA or the purge; he's never seen cities so clean and peaceful. And when Ronan speaks, it's only by happenstance that he hears him as he passes by, the question a reasonable one considering. His mouth thins, contemplating a reply even as he catches himself signing. ]
« I don't know. » [ But he pauses, knowing from life-long experience that most people don't understand. So, he digs out the phone they'd given him - rudimentary compared to the now useless comp band still curled around his wrist - to type out a response instead. ] I guess a couple months from now. No one is being very specific about it. [ And he just shrugs. ]