The cushioned upholstery hissed and squeaked another time and created a faint wave when Jodie bumped down right next to him, adjusting a comfortable position. She probably felt relaxed now, unbent from the tension her legs had created during the time she mingled around, doing nothing. He himself, however would only share a long and almost completely forgotten memory with her. These muscles and fibres were artificial, could last for days and weeks in an upright stance, without even flinching or twitching the faintest bit. They didn’t scream the sound of strain any longer, nor would they break beyond repairment. Everything’s replacable as it is now, adaptive to his physiques, his body. It’s merely a matter of time and contribution. All he’d need to worry about. But there’s also something else he feared, worse than any pain in the world or death itself. Something, that ran deeper than skin, lying deep within. It was non-physical, had manifested and wormed its way into his skull a pretty long time ago, slowly eating away what’s holding the strings of a brittle sanity. The form and shape of it was as clear as daylight for his eyes to perceive, but he didn’t dare to speak it out loud, fearing that it might come done to it if he’d give it the grand kiss of death. Instead, he gorged himself on his own, buried worries once anew, leaving them as they were. Defibering him from the core. Obviously, Jodie was the same. She feared the same thing he did because they’d both witnessed its enfolding severity. Birds of the fucked feather.
A brief glance is offered and the movie box jumps from one, deadly-clawed hand to the other as if he’s trying to perform a juggling. He’d done better already, no doubt about it.