Whether she's right or not, there's a hint of a chill running through her. It's not the deflection that gets her, leading her to a path that might otherwise be the definition of protesting too much. (Testing, testing, he's just protesting that this talk might not be the best thing.) No, the chill comes from the unbearable ordeal of being seen. It's astounding what invisible eyes can notice when she's—let's say accidentally laid herself so bare before them. She lets the chill pass through her as she takes a long-awaited drag.
"Sorry," she says instead. It's simple, but sincere. She doesn't turn her head upward to blow the smoke in that direction, up towards the bricks blocking her view of the sky. "We got this holiday back home for our dads, and it's coming up again. Couple weeks, probably, even if this place doesn't give a shit about Earth holidays. But, like, me and my dad, we got in the shit with each other constantly," and she's glossing over a handful of years of altercations that are now entering their second decade living rent free in Anna's head.
"I guess I get a little weird about stuff like this every year around this time. 's been on my mind lately, is all." And while yes, she's trying to deflect herself, because she's still not sure how far into the heart of danger she's walked or if she's accidentally ended up on a different expedition entirely, that leaden weight inside her comes out on every word. "But you grow up trained to be your daddy's perfect little lockstep toy soldier and tell me if that shit leaves you easy, yeah?"
She's made all of this about herself, her own misery. Taken control of the conversation after taking too many assumptions as truth. Or maybe Gus is the one who can still guide it however he wants, or maybe they can both just walk away once they're done smoking. "Anyway, sorry, dude. I really did just kind of rub my ass on all of that for no reason. And not in a slutty way, either. There's probably nicer ways to find out my tragic backstory." That's something else that has to be a joke.
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"Sorry," she says instead. It's simple, but sincere. She doesn't turn her head upward to blow the smoke in that direction, up towards the bricks blocking her view of the sky. "We got this holiday back home for our dads, and it's coming up again. Couple weeks, probably, even if this place doesn't give a shit about Earth holidays. But, like, me and my dad, we got in the shit with each other constantly," and she's glossing over a handful of years of altercations that are now entering their second decade living rent free in Anna's head.
"I guess I get a little weird about stuff like this every year around this time. 's been on my mind lately, is all." And while yes, she's trying to deflect herself, because she's still not sure how far into the heart of danger she's walked or if she's accidentally ended up on a different expedition entirely, that leaden weight inside her comes out on every word. "But you grow up trained to be your daddy's perfect little lockstep toy soldier and tell me if that shit leaves you easy, yeah?"
She's made all of this about herself, her own misery. Taken control of the conversation after taking too many assumptions as truth. Or maybe Gus is the one who can still guide it however he wants, or maybe they can both just walk away once they're done smoking. "Anyway, sorry, dude. I really did just kind of rub my ass on all of that for no reason. And not in a slutty way, either. There's probably nicer ways to find out my tragic backstory." That's something else that has to be a joke.