Re: Log: Seven/Liam S. The sound made when he pressed the key was much quieter than he'd expected of the old machine. L. Was that supposed to be an indication of superior craftsmanship? O. Or maybe just that this one had been maintained with particular care? A. His finger hesitated between each strike against the keys. Something had his throat in a vice grip, and there was a moment's trembling in his hand before he came down on the last letter. N.
The name stared up at him in dark ink, and he stared back. If this was a sinking ship then that name was a lifeline, something to tether his desperate grasp to a different man. One who would know him, and would not have to ask why he'd come. And suddenly that lifeline had charred to ash, been washed away by the brine that filled his mouth and clouded his eyes, and the absence hurt him terribly. More than the distance. More than the question.
"Here," came his answer, voice low and rough as he reached into his jacket and presented Liam with the Gatorade. "Should drink that. Might help your head." He spoke not to the man in his periphery, and not to the typewriter before him, but to the floor. Like it wasn't so bad if he didn't have to look, but that was a lie.