Abner doesn’t know what day-to-day living spaces look like, really. Nor does he know how wealthy people impress their business partners. He has never been either.
Abner’s own long legs remain stretched out in front of him. He’s still not sure if he’s allowed to move them or not, so he hasn’t. He’d like to. He’d like to take his socks off and bury his feet in the furs that his fingers are still lightly stroking. The sensation is calming, not that he’s particularly nervous at the moment. Just his normal, baseline distress at existing in general and not being good enough at it.
“Dots,” he corrects, gently. “And no, but: they never really figured out what they were. At the lab. They called it a plasma, but it can’t be officially classified. Sorry, I’m not a scientist.”
But he can feel them beginning to bloom (although bloom is far too pretty a word). They’re small at the moment: one on his shoulder, one on his back, and one behind his ear. They pulse under his skin with the promise of becoming horrible. The one behind his ear may suck in particular, but he can never tell which ones will stop swelling at a reasonable few inches and which ones won’t.
"So then, potentially, your dots are some byproduct of the virus' processes. Like carbon dioxide being exhaled from human lungs. Plasma is...a kind of matter, by Midgardian definitions, I believe." He's not a scientist, either, and while he has extensive knowledge of physics--enough to bend the laws thereof in his favor when the occasion calls for it--the was Asgard describes these things and the way humans describe these things do not always meet in the middle.
"Forgive me. I am curious, but I'm certainly not going to harm you or do anything against your will; you have my word on that." He imagines after extensive captivity on multiple fronts, being studied and hurt and used, anyone asking too many questions might be alarming.
"Are you allergic to anything? I was just going to make chamomile tea." It won't be long before he notices the growths, if he hasn't already, but he's trying to keep him calm and relaxed to give him a chance to heal.
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Abner’s own long legs remain stretched out in front of him. He’s still not sure if he’s allowed to move them or not, so he hasn’t. He’d like to. He’d like to take his socks off and bury his feet in the furs that his fingers are still lightly stroking. The sensation is calming, not that he’s particularly nervous at the moment. Just his normal, baseline distress at existing in general and not being good enough at it.
“Dots,” he corrects, gently. “And no, but: they never really figured out what they were. At the lab. They called it a plasma, but it can’t be officially classified. Sorry, I’m not a scientist.”
But he can feel them beginning to bloom (although bloom is far too pretty a word). They’re small at the moment: one on his shoulder, one on his back, and one behind his ear. They pulse under his skin with the promise of becoming horrible. The one behind his ear may suck in particular, but he can never tell which ones will stop swelling at a reasonable few inches and which ones won’t.
no subject
"Forgive me. I am curious, but I'm certainly not going to harm you or do anything against your will; you have my word on that." He imagines after extensive captivity on multiple fronts, being studied and hurt and used, anyone asking too many questions might be alarming.
"Are you allergic to anything? I was just going to make chamomile tea." It won't be long before he notices the growths, if he hasn't already, but he's trying to keep him calm and relaxed to give him a chance to heal.