“…And you don’t expect to.” Which says a disconcerting amount about his galaxy, to her. She’s quiet for a long minute. Has another sip of her drink as if that’s going to help her think. It doesn’t, except in the way of briefly and forcefully clearing her head.
There are still people who carry out dangerous jobs back home. Still a select few who carry firearms in the course of their work. It’s rarely that they need to use them; rarer still for them to actually die violently. And it’s becoming more common to use explorer proxies for seriously hazardous tasks. Aside from accident or an ever-dwindling pool of medical conditions, people under two hundred just don’t die where Bryn’s from. Not since long before her birth.
It’s one thing to know that people lived shorter, harsher lives before the Traveler intervened. It’s entirely different to try and apply that to the man sitting across from her. No hiding how much that bothers her. The Ghost spins, peers at her curiously: measuring, recording, analyzing. He thinks – though perhaps it’s wishful - there’s a familiar sort of discontent beneath her ruminations.
“Heh.” The almost-laugh is directed at herself, from the rueful twist of her mouth. “Well, that’s…” she hesitates, seeking something that doesn’t suddenly sound arrogant or pitying or plain silly, and finishes inadequately, “a lot to take in.”
She looks back up at Han finally, tilting her head a little bit, her eyes intent on his face. “It doesn’t make you want to find a safer line of work?”
no subject
There are still people who carry out dangerous jobs back home. Still a select few who carry firearms in the course of their work. It’s rarely that they need to use them; rarer still for them to actually die violently. And it’s becoming more common to use explorer proxies for seriously hazardous tasks. Aside from accident or an ever-dwindling pool of medical conditions, people under two hundred just don’t die where Bryn’s from. Not since long before her birth.
It’s one thing to know that people lived shorter, harsher lives before the Traveler intervened. It’s entirely different to try and apply that to the man sitting across from her. No hiding how much that bothers her. The Ghost spins, peers at her curiously: measuring, recording, analyzing. He thinks – though perhaps it’s wishful - there’s a familiar sort of discontent beneath her ruminations.
“Heh.” The almost-laugh is directed at herself, from the rueful twist of her mouth. “Well, that’s…” she hesitates, seeking something that doesn’t suddenly sound arrogant or pitying or plain silly, and finishes inadequately, “a lot to take in.”
She looks back up at Han finally, tilting her head a little bit, her eyes intent on his face. “It doesn’t make you want to find a safer line of work?”