[ Who else would I be, she says, and he thinks of Orsinov's mocking singsong voice— Sasha, back from the dead, just like you wanted!— but nothing about this feels muddled in the way of the Unknowing. This is not the place he's supposed to be, but it is a place, and Sasha is in it. ]
Sasha—
[ His eyes search her face, looking for anything incongruous, any sign that this is a trap, but he can't help the way he gravitates toward her. His free hand kind of... settles on her arm, awkwardly, hesitantly, and she seems warm and real enough under his touch. ]
What is— [ It comes out threaded with power, with the weight of compulsion, and he has to cut himself off. But he has to be sure, doesn't he? Surely she'll understand, if she's Sasha. His tone is gentle, for all that it still buzzes with that faint static. ] What's... the last thing you remember?
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Sasha—
[ His eyes search her face, looking for anything incongruous, any sign that this is a trap, but he can't help the way he gravitates toward her. His free hand kind of... settles on her arm, awkwardly, hesitantly, and she seems warm and real enough under his touch. ]
What is— [ It comes out threaded with power, with the weight of compulsion, and he has to cut himself off. But he has to be sure, doesn't he? Surely she'll understand, if she's Sasha. His tone is gentle, for all that it still buzzes with that faint static. ] What's... the last thing you remember?