Home is here. Home is people. It's not a lie, to Winter.
He looks over his shoulder at the model. He has a visceral desire to put as much space between it and him as possible. But--
"The others," he rasps, fighting panic that wants to pull him in two different directions despite the ache everywhere. "There's more. Still in there." How much time is on the clock? Is there time to get them out, too? To get them to trust someone's giant hands?
no subject
He looks over his shoulder at the model. He has a visceral desire to put as much space between it and him as possible. But--
"The others," he rasps, fighting panic that wants to pull him in two different directions despite the ache everywhere. "There's more. Still in there." How much time is on the clock? Is there time to get them out, too? To get them to trust someone's giant hands?