The distance stretches across the room, framing a yawning space into which he does not dare refuses to step. Cam lingers in the doorway arms resting with deceptive unconcern upon the gun strapped to the front of his jacket. The very picture of apparent ease. The stance belies the minutes in which he’d all but paced the corridor, hesitant to round the corner and enter the room proper. Paranoia, part of him accuses, but he rationalizes it to himself as due caution. Disaster stalks ever in their wake, and he’d give anything for something resembling a routine mission. He lies to himself; he wouldn’t give this up for anything less than the world itself.
He watches, gaze sharp, not distrustful of her, but of the specimens she examines. If only Daniel had omitted the tiny detail from his report. The one sentence that prompted Landry to send an additional team, complete with scientists, to further investigate bugs. Why did it have to be bugs. At last, he remarks, casual as he can manage, ❛ Y’know, last time I stared at bugs in a glass cage, things didn’t go too well. You’re certain — absolutely certain — they’re harmless? They’re not going to, say, rapidly multiply? break out of their cage? decide they have a hankering for human flesh? display a ridiculous aptitude for hunting? Just, for example... ❜
// @memoryfaded.