Setsuna lost herself in the running. Labyrinth always pushed them to their physical utmost and the satisfaction of striving always fed her and even afterwards, it felt good to be praised for something so simple, so easy, as her physicality. People didn't expect it of the quiet girl with pale skin and dark eyes and darker hair, for some reason, and they were always happily surprised how serious and capable a worker she turned out to be. It was ... so much nicer to get compliments from people who genuinely meant them, than the uncaring approval of Moebius' servitors and charts.
Nothing here was trustworthy. It was just another set of benchmarks and proclamations about doing what's best, instead of what's caring or what's needed. A set of lines to walk in and a promise of pain if you wiggled one foot out of unprovided turn instead. They were bad at it, though; incompetence made them less predictable than the efficient malevolence she'd been raised to believe in, instead. It was getting to her - both the unease, the paranoia, and the nagging certainty that she sort of held them in contempt for not being able to really torture her with either properly.
She didn't like the kind of person who'd had those thoughts, and she'd thought she put them behind her. On the treadmill, at least, she could outrun them for a while.
And then she realizes the other person in the room with her is asking her a question. She nearly trips, then pulls the dead man's switch loose instead, slowing and stepping off. "Uh -"
She eyes the other girl up, quickly - her stocky, solid frame and relatively similar lack of visible overexertion despite how long they've both been at this - and then fumbles back to having words again. "Sure? How much were you thinking, to start ...?"
1f
Nothing here was trustworthy. It was just another set of benchmarks and proclamations about doing what's best, instead of what's caring or what's needed. A set of lines to walk in and a promise of pain if you wiggled one foot out of unprovided turn instead. They were bad at it, though; incompetence made them less predictable than the efficient malevolence she'd been raised to believe in, instead. It was getting to her - both the unease, the paranoia, and the nagging certainty that she sort of held them in contempt for not being able to really torture her with either properly.
She didn't like the kind of person who'd had those thoughts, and she'd thought she put them behind her. On the treadmill, at least, she could outrun them for a while.
And then she realizes the other person in the room with her is asking her a question. She nearly trips, then pulls the dead man's switch loose instead, slowing and stepping off. "Uh -"
She eyes the other girl up, quickly - her stocky, solid frame and relatively similar lack of visible overexertion despite how long they've both been at this - and then fumbles back to having words again. "Sure? How much were you thinking, to start ...?"