Tidus is watching Roland, hoping on some show of support. But he gets maybe what he deserves, if still some of what he asked: submission, but with nothing more than the man's back, and Tidus feels the weight of what it signifies. It's one way of tempering his mood, guilt pressing down his panic to a less erratic state, and his head hangs eventually by the time that Inigo speaks to smooth the atmosphere.
He doesn't know if he should speak, but he knows - that he can't keep silent. If he's going to go down this road, then he has to stick to his game. And if this all comes crashing down...
"It's not the illusions," he says plainly, not yet looking at her, not looking at anyone, "and it's nothing to do with voidstorms. We... we didn't choose to come here. We're--"
The letters. He has a note, his notebook, and he brings out his left hand, makes appear in it from a light gold dust the standard one that all passengers get, worn around the edges, though mostly bent. He opens it up, pulling out a folded sheet of paper, a message printed on it. He holds onto it though, holding back, reconsidering his approach.
"Every month, the train stops at platforms and picks up people: people from anywhere, everywhere. We don't choose it, we don't have training - we don't know anything about the void 'til we're there. We're just shoved into groups and we're stuck on the train until a mission comes along. We've been doing this for months--and we don't know how to stop it. We don't know how to get home or who'll even help us." Now he looks over at Anan, his desperation contained, but his brow is hard, and he grips the book tightly.
"Look, I can tell you every place we've been to, there was a report on us -- I just need you to believe me. All we want is help, someone to help us - stop this train," he shakes his head, "--or just find out what it's trying to do. Please. I promise I'm not lying."
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He doesn't know if he should speak, but he knows - that he can't keep silent. If he's going to go down this road, then he has to stick to his game. And if this all comes crashing down...
"It's not the illusions," he says plainly, not yet looking at her, not looking at anyone, "and it's nothing to do with voidstorms. We... we didn't choose to come here. We're--"
The letters. He has a note, his notebook, and he brings out his left hand, makes appear in it from a light gold dust the standard one that all passengers get, worn around the edges, though mostly bent. He opens it up, pulling out a folded sheet of paper, a message printed on it. He holds onto it though, holding back, reconsidering his approach.
"Every month, the train stops at platforms and picks up people: people from anywhere, everywhere. We don't choose it, we don't have training - we don't know anything about the void 'til we're there. We're just shoved into groups and we're stuck on the train until a mission comes along. We've been doing this for months--and we don't know how to stop it. We don't know how to get home or who'll even help us." Now he looks over at Anan, his desperation contained, but his brow is hard, and he grips the book tightly.
"Look, I can tell you every place we've been to, there was a report on us -- I just need you to believe me. All we want is help, someone to help us - stop this train," he shakes his head, "--or just find out what it's trying to do. Please. I promise I'm not lying."