[ The proximity leaves a prickling against Blake's skin, nerves still raw from the torture endured, body eager to remain at high alert while he's still in recovery. He squeezes his hands into fists once, twice, then rubs his palms against the knees of his pants to wick away the clamminess. ]
That portal — the one that brings people here — doesn't care who. Or what.
[ And he only says the latter to illustrate more than just his concerns over the man sitting next to him. All around are beings different from them in surprising, fantastical ways. The wildlife differs just as the terrain only vaguely resembles that of the deserts of Earth.
It's strange to think the most familiar thing to Blake at the moment is Jonathan Crane. And the reverse is true, although he doubts the man knows or would concede to such considering Blake's a no-name in the midst of the thousands of GCPD officers. Maybe if his name were Gordon this conversation would be going differently.
Distant thoughts. He lets them go and glances over, inspecting more judiciously. The doctor seems so young. Blake had only ever seen moired images in newspapers and out-of-context clips in news reports. For the longest time, Crane was the PD's go-to for expert witness testimony. Too bad Blake knows the reasons, otherwise he'd be much more accommodating. ]
There's more at work here than you— than you or I'd guess.
[ His refusal to preclude himself is a gesture in some way, a warning in another; certainly his terrible appearance speaks to some trauma. The dark circles stand out against naturally pale skin, parked like out-of-place visitors below his eyes. His hands shake no matter how studious he is about stilling them. When he coughs — as he does now — it's dry and he hunches from the pain of it. Broken bones, a dozen stitched wounds hidden beneath his clothes, who knows how many proverbial open wounds, and yet he's still not satisfied to leave this man to find this out on his own. ]
no subject
That portal — the one that brings people here — doesn't care who. Or what.
[ And he only says the latter to illustrate more than just his concerns over the man sitting next to him. All around are beings different from them in surprising, fantastical ways. The wildlife differs just as the terrain only vaguely resembles that of the deserts of Earth.
It's strange to think the most familiar thing to Blake at the moment is Jonathan Crane. And the reverse is true, although he doubts the man knows or would concede to such considering Blake's a no-name in the midst of the thousands of GCPD officers. Maybe if his name were Gordon this conversation would be going differently.
Distant thoughts. He lets them go and glances over, inspecting more judiciously. The doctor seems so young. Blake had only ever seen moired images in newspapers and out-of-context clips in news reports. For the longest time, Crane was the PD's go-to for expert witness testimony. Too bad Blake knows the reasons, otherwise he'd be much more accommodating. ]
There's more at work here than you— than you or I'd guess.
[ His refusal to preclude himself is a gesture in some way, a warning in another; certainly his terrible appearance speaks to some trauma. The dark circles stand out against naturally pale skin, parked like out-of-place visitors below his eyes. His hands shake no matter how studious he is about stilling them. When he coughs — as he does now — it's dry and he hunches from the pain of it. Broken bones, a dozen stitched wounds hidden beneath his clothes, who knows how many proverbial open wounds, and yet he's still not satisfied to leave this man to find this out on his own. ]