Quoted By:
>Whoa whoa whoa
>98, 100, 23 vs. DC 60 — Enhanced Success
Thing is, you have nothing to hide here. You're not a Friend, and there's not a chance in hell you belong to Casey. The only way you can bungle this now is— well, by bungling it. Falling flat on your face. Shoving your foot in your mouth. Not that <span class="mu-i">that's</span> ever happened before. You'll probably sign "your mom is a saltlicking whore" when you mean to sign "thank you," or something. At least your hands can't stutter. Right? They can't, right? Shit, you're scared to start. Teddy doesn't know how to sign, does he?
<span class="mu-i">You know how to sign.</span>
"Know" is a stretch. You know the common words. There's some people who get way too into it, start using it as their main language, but that never made any sense to you. You can just talk. Everybody understands, even if their accent is thick as shit. No offense, Teddy. Is it true there used to be lots of different languages?
<span class="mu-i">Yeah.</span>
Well, shit. Didn't that get annoying? You're sure lots of things suck these days, but you do think some logical changes were made post-Flood. Anyways. If you start signing, you're going to piss this guy off somehow, and he'll go and shoot you in the head. If Teddy starts signing, his intrinsic coolness will bleed through, and it'll be no problem.
<span class="mu-i">I don't think—</span>
Please?
<span class="mu-i">I'll start. But you have to take back over. I'm not having a whole conversation.</span>
Fine, as long as he hurries. The diving suit guy is— you can't see through his mask with these eyes, but you're sure he's frowning at you in there. Cussing you out under his breath. Whatever. Your arms dangle, warm and slack and quivering, like overripe water balloons; you can't move them anymore, or feel anything but their weight. Shit. You jitter your ankle and remind yourself, rationally, that you asked for this— you mean literally asked for this— and any primal fear-feelings are just that, primal, which is to say irrational. Civilized people in the modern day sometimes let their spooky brain ghost use their fingers. Thank god you don't have a face. If you had a face you'd be shot already.
Your hand pats you reassuringly on the thigh and rises into the air. It hasn't been that long, right? It feels like you've been standing here doing nothing for minutes and minutes, but the diving suit guy hasn't moved or spoken or slapped you or anything, so it hasn't been minutes. Your hands are saying stuff. "I AM ME. NOT A BUDDY. NOT HIS. ME." ("Buddy"? Oh. "Friend.")
"YOUR HEAD," the guy counters.
"YES. I AM NOT..." Teddy hesitates. "...WHAT I WAS. BUT I AM ME. ALL THE TIME. NOT HIS. CAN THEY MAKE BUDDIES THAT SAY WRONG THINGS?"
"SURE."
"...THAT TALK WITH HANDS?"
The guy spreads his own hands— not a sign, just a shrug. "MAYBE."
"WHAT ABOUT THIS?"
(1/2)
