Re: Dream: Janus/Atticus
Awake, Atticus wouldn't feel guilt for having the letters. Asleep, he didn't feel guilt for having the letters. Was his passion. He spent more time looking for letters than anything else. Strongly believed people had a right to know about first-hand exchanges. Had started with letters written by writers, and had extended to letters written by common people. Atticus didn't have many things he felt strongly about. Felt strongly about this. Made writers full, real people. Kept people alive in a tangible way. Was the ephemera of immortality.
"Wouldn't allow a woman on the front lines." He repeated it without heat. Was just true. Unarguable. Janus hadn't died before the war. Simple. Was obviously a sales tactic, being able to change how he looked. More appealing as a salesman, being able to be whoever a customer felt comfortable with. Understood it. Wasn't surprised when the man turned into the woman. Was almost expecting it in a subconscious way.
The shrug was habit. Lazy, ineffective habit. Could be said for many of Atticus' tics and quirks.
"Can't call them." Was contradictory to what had just happened, but Atticus didn't have an understanding that he could call them. "She's more agreeable." That was true enough. The little girl, dark circles under her eyes and the occasional flecks of blood visible on her dark lips, was sweet. She was helpful.
The cigarette was just what the doctor didn't order, and Atticus savored that first inhale. His lungs hurt, and it made him cough violently. The burn lingered at the back of his throat after his exhale, and his grin went sleepy and pleased. Loved smoking. No vaping for him. No. Good old burning smoke.
"Angry about it? The timing?" Atticus would be angry. Wouldn't do anything about it, but would be angry.