[Yu's panic crashes into Chatterclock's sense of wrongness and rapidly ratchets his (their) anxiety up to a dangerous level, that point just below boiling where tiny bubbles shudder loose. The Marlboro does not belong here. Even without Yu's recognition, Chatterclock can sense it: the presence of death, here, so close it's almost touching them.
Strangely, it's the flare of Yu's pain that grounds him. It's sharp, hot against the fear, something real and human and important. Yu is alive, he's trying so hard to stay that way; Chatterclock needs to calm down. Needs to help him.
He's needed. Yu needs him.
He settles back into the lines and wires of the here and now, each step Yu pounds into the stone, the exact distance between his heel and the closest questing vine. Sinks into focus like this moment, this line between life and death, is all he knows. All they know.]
Yes.
[He says it with conviction all the way down, resounding and solid. They have a plan. They have power. They know what to do to get out of here, and they will do it.
Yu won't get hurt. Chatterclock promised.
Chatterclock calls on the knowledge of age, of wear and weakness and decay, and weaves it through Yu's building storm-flash spell until they're one and the same, skeins of magic layered so closely they twine. For a moment, he imagines his hand on Yu's arm, lifting and steadying his aim, supporting the weight of his blade together.
We got this, bro.
Without losing sight of the Marlboro behind them, he pinpoints the weakest section of ceiling and rings it in unflinching clockwork gold.]
Right there. On my mark.
[He lets go of the fear--it's still there, he's just full of other things, calculations and open senses and the rush of power--and counts as easy as breathing. The slightly staggered rhythm of Yu's footfalls. The crunch of roots punching and dragging their way through rock. Like this, it almost feels slow, this danger waltz.
They pass beneath the weak point in the ceiling and Chatterclock's signal isn't even a word, is barely a thought--now!]
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Strangely, it's the flare of Yu's pain that grounds him. It's sharp, hot against the fear, something real and human and important. Yu is alive, he's trying so hard to stay that way; Chatterclock needs to calm down. Needs to help him.
He's needed. Yu needs him.
He settles back into the lines and wires of the here and now, each step Yu pounds into the stone, the exact distance between his heel and the closest questing vine. Sinks into focus like this moment, this line between life and death, is all he knows. All they know.]
Yes.
[He says it with conviction all the way down, resounding and solid. They have a plan. They have power. They know what to do to get out of here, and they will do it.
Yu won't get hurt. Chatterclock promised.
Chatterclock calls on the knowledge of age, of wear and weakness and decay, and weaves it through Yu's building storm-flash spell until they're one and the same, skeins of magic layered so closely they twine. For a moment, he imagines his hand on Yu's arm, lifting and steadying his aim, supporting the weight of his blade together.
We got this, bro.
Without losing sight of the Marlboro behind them, he pinpoints the weakest section of ceiling and rings it in unflinching clockwork gold.]
Right there. On my mark.
[He lets go of the fear--it's still there, he's just full of other things, calculations and open senses and the rush of power--and counts as easy as breathing. The slightly staggered rhythm of Yu's footfalls. The crunch of roots punching and dragging their way through rock. Like this, it almost feels slow, this danger waltz.
They pass beneath the weak point in the ceiling and Chatterclock's signal isn't even a word, is barely a thought--now!]