@xfthelake
IT IS LOUD. Too loud for Merlin’s likings, and she grits her teeth whenever a bump causes the wheels to creak in spite of assurances of performance technology. Maybe it is the fact that her wrists (still healing) still protest the constant independency of movement, assisted by a readily aimed snarl at good intentions. It is a regrettable, if almost unbearable, fact that she has yet to recover to the point of any implication of optimizing the wheelchair’s specs, but stubbornness keeps her from seeking assistance.
Well, almost. She tells herself it is for other reasons entirely that she has searched for the address in the backlogs, under seventeen layers of firewalls (as promised).
Wondering more than idly if the very paranoia was the reason behind Nimue’s survival (or if status as begrudgingly merely staff), Merlin balls fist to knock on the door. No words describe the surge of panic at having to face the facts and its music once more--- but Merlin buries it behind a facade of professionalism, tone unwavering, gazing upwards at expected eye level from a glaikit chair.
❝ We need to TALK. ❞
