[ He senses the other man moving from his spot in the passenger area - because where else is he supposed to put him, he isn't even supposed to put him anywhere except in the ground - and his hands tighten around the controls uselessly. The fact that he doesn't know what he's doing is a foregone conclusion at this point; what's left is not what but perhaps, why. It's been two years and Anakin Skywalker supposedly died a fiery death on Mustafar - and before that, too, in other ways. His supposedly dead lover shouldn't merit any kind of attention now, perhaps aside from a none-too-swift execution; he's no one. Anakin is dead. This person is a stranger.
He couldn't convince himself of that even if he had Sidious sitting right opposite him, twisting his mind accordingly.
Claude is here. Claude is here. As ridiculous as the thought may be, he's in hyperspace right now because he couldn't think of anywhere safer to bring him. As the other man enters the cockpit, he can sense the remains of his body reacting as much as they ever can these days; his skin prickling along ruined or half-dead nerves, his chest muscles working to expand around his lung implants; he'd be hyperventilating, he thinks, if he'd been capable. Instead, he just sits. If he doesn't kill people, that's all he does these days, isn't it, so that suits.
When Claude leans into his personal space, he has to fight not to lean back against him. ]
You aren't nobody. [ He wishes for the first time that his voice wasn't so harsh. ] Claude. You have changed your name but not your face.
[ The voice is almost inhuman. Like it's something else sitting inside the metal hull. Claude is about to lean back and be done with it, that was his resistance, that was his handful of credits paid, but the man in front of him says, you aren't nobody. Which sounds borderline like a threat.
Then, he says, Claude.
Claude feels himself stiffen, his entire body going rigid, his breathing speeding up, getting shallow and laboured. Claude isn't dead, evidently, Claude is sitting right here, but except with a few exceptions, he can currently count two, he's known as Cyne Billet now. He's a mediator and a spokesperson. He's no one the Empire needs to take into account, unthreatening and unimportant. Whatever he once was, it might not be gone, but it's past. Very much past.
Claude, the man says. You've changed your name but not your face. ]
Think you owe me an explanation. We can't work together on uneven ground like this, you knowing who I am and me knowing kriffing nothing. [ His voice takes on some edge there, so he halts himself, he breathes. Breathe. ] Who are you?
[ Jaw tightening, Claude grabs the seat in front of him, fingers digging into the hard material of the cushioning that's there for support, not comfort. We hold other things for comfort, granted that we haven't lost them. The evenness is gone from his voice, at the question, it shakes and it cracks and he's tired of only waiting for death. ]
We can't work together says Claude, making assumptions that are understandable, perhaps, because he doesn't know Darth Vader and Darth Vader, in turn, barely knows himself.
How weak are they truly, his Master and he? How many lies has he been told this time? ]
I thought... [ His voice stumbles. He pauses, lets his breathing run for another cycle before he tries again. He must. He woke up alive after Mustafar and he will see this through as well. That is what Claude is owed, at the very least. ] He told me you died.
[ Feeling it in the air, the way Anakin could make the temperatures sizzle, the molecyles boil when he was aroused, this man makes the tension expand exponentially. Like an explosion of tightness and invisible fingers clawing at your throat, at your chest, weight, strength. Force-wielder, then. Claude thought their days were numbered, he thought that was the whole agenda to which Anakin lost in the end. Swallowing again, he runs his palms flat over the back of the seat in front of him, like a caress or a way to tether himself, yeah, here's something tangible. Something that's not as fuzzy as war ethics and the morality of the battlefield. Something not hidden. Something not lost. He feels endlessly frustrated. If this man isn't with them, but not against him either, who does he work for, what is his goal? Are they just moving forward aimlessly right now or what?
Claude doesn't have time for that. He works for a resistance movement that is probably desperately looking for him as they speak. Using precious energy and resources on locating him, although they live by a code of 'leave behind what can't be salvaged'. One thing is the codes, though, another is the reality of human attachment, bonds of trust and debt. Love.
Even lost things aren't truly left behind in love, are they?
He told me you died, the man says, then, after a brief pause, the mechanisms that assists his breathing, sounds like, carrying that same inhuman, metallic quality. Claude lets both hands drop to his thighs, smoothening over the fabric of his trousers, the kind of clothes he used not to wear on Paris, but Paris is in shambles and there's not really anything left of the old days. Maybe he should've stayed a royal. Maybe his abdication wasn't of any help, at the end of the day. At the end of the whole kriffing era. I might as well have, he wants to reply, but gets a grip after a moment. ]
You're not with us. [ Voice tired now, just -- tired. He touches the kyber again, through his shirt. Looks past the breadth of the other man's shoulders and into the silent path they're following through hyperspace. ] So why would you care?
[ Why would you care asks Claude, who clearly hasn't stopped caring about causes greater than himself, not even now. To be fighting back against Sidious' Empire is, for most people, akin to suicide, if not right away then eventually, once the system inevitably catches up to you. He's seen many hunted down like this, not necessarily quickly but always relentlessly, the way his Master gets, a character trait somehow imprinted upon his constructions. All his constructions. Vader glances down at his gloved hands. Why would you care?
It's not that he wouldn't. It's that caring feels impossible now, like he might as well stop breathing and let himself fade into nothing instead, like that might be easier, it might be at least doable. Caring? Caring means...
He glances sideways slowly, turning his head enough to glimpse the other man out of the corner of his vision. Claude's tinted in red now, like everything else. The only thing that consistently looks as it should is his lightsaber. He isn't meant to be looking at anything else. His opinion is not needed - his care, even less so - and something about that reality, that fact of his current half-existence is very nearly impossible to give up.
Why would you care?
It's easier not to, so why indeed? ]
I used to be with you.
[ The words are flat because of his vocoder, too sharp, too mechanical. He hates his voice, all of a sudden. He's had no opinions on that, either. Not on the rest of his body modifications, either, nothing beyond whatever he might observe, then disregard. He's had no opinions on his actions, no opinions on the trail of death he's left in his wake, nothing. Oh, but the problem is that when he starts caring, he can't stop with just Claude, can he? He can't.
There's a long, long fall to the ground from there. ]
[ The voice says, I used to be with you, the faintest stress on you, because the rest is mechanical murmur and the clinking of plates, the creaking of screws. Claude grabs Anakin's kyber crystal through his shirt now, hard, an unyielding hold, like he's afraid what's gonna happen to it if he lets go. To him, if he does. What does that even mean? I used to be with you, who is this man, an old friend, an ally? Someone from Paris. His life doesn't go any further back than that. Breathing slow and even, mostly because he hasn't got lung capacity enough for more stress, he stares straight ahead and doesn't register anything. It's not like it isn't there, Claude just doesn't -- can't see it properly like this. And it makes him kriffing furious. He's so tired of getting dragged around, from planet to planet, from plan to plan, from attempt to attempt to attempt where nothing matters, because everything he does inevitably ends up in halves. Because he is.
His knuckles look white when he looks down at his hand, fingers tight and trembling around the kyber. ]
You're making a mockery of the people who used to be with me...
[ Releasing a breath at the same time as he releases his hard grasp on the crystal, Claude gets to his feet in one hard movement, not the way he used to move, when nothing weighed him down but a loincloth. He can't remember the last time he was just partially naked, he sleeps in everything these days, always ready to flee or hide or run. Always ready.
For what? Yeah, you tell him. You tell him.
He turns after one step, two. Looks at the cloaked figure, the man who doesn't seem to be anything but an armour. The man who isn't with them, but used to be with him, and Claude somewhere deep in the endless pit of his stomach feels that should probably mean something. Feels that once, too long ago to think about now, it would have. ]
[ Claude gets up and moves and he loses sight of his face like that, his own range of motion too restricted to turn his head any further. Smiling faintly and humourlessly at the other man's remark - a mockery is a suitable word - he inclines his head before he turns the seat to look at him fully. Claude's watching him with an expression on his face that he can't recognise; either his mask isn't translating the details correctly which is at least semi-likable or Claude's gained (or lost) nuances along the way. They've all lost something, it seems, in the wake of the war and the birth of the new world order.
His hands clench. Un-clench.
I am Darth Vader he could say, and you belong to me. Surely, if he wanted to, he could keep him, make certain that he stays safe. His Master might not even begrudge him that small concession, considering the rocky foundation of his apprenticeship. He could keep him, yes, and Claude would never go anywhere without him, he'd never be in any sort of danger, except perhaps the obvious one.
When people own you, what are you?
What?
The thought of turning Claude into that, of stripping that last bit of resistance from him is intolerable because he knows Claude, what matters and what doesn't, they used to speak of these things at length when the world was warmer and softer and full of sunlit patches. He closes his eyes, reaching for whatever little small bit of courage he might have left. ]
I do. [ He looks at Claude. Tints of red. Too little nuance. But all the same, he looks. ] It's me. This - behind this. [ He can't say it. Instead he gestures uselessly towards his mask an adds, fighting with his own tone of voice, trying to make it softer and failing: ] Do you understand?
[ Do you understand, asks the man with metal in his facade, metal seeping all the way into his voice and Claude doesn't, he doesn't understand anything. How can he know? This man, when he didn't know... the people who used to be with him. When he didn't know Anakin and Anakin is gone, Anakin is gone. He stares a long moment at the expressionless steel of the man's mask, made to scare and intimidate and cower. Except, Claude feels no fear and no intimidation and no need to hide away which in itself is a mystery. He has everything to lose. Just like he's already lost everything once before.
It's me.
Behind this.
And in that moment, he feels all air escape him, his lungs clamping shut and his eyes widening and his hairs standing on end down his arms, shivers down his spine. For the first time, ironically, Claude looks at the man in front of him, who's turned towards him completely now, and feels an overwhelming surge of fear.
The kyber around his neck feels heavy enough to drag him to the ground. Swallowing hard, he grabs the headrest of the nearest chair and clings to it, his knees feeling weak and crumbling beneath him. The muscles in his upper arm flex beneath his shirt from the strength with which he's holding on. He stares. And stares. ]
Anakin?
[ The worst realization isn't even that he doesn't want to believe it. The worst realization is that he doesn't kriffing dare. Hope. ]
[ He can sense Claude's feelings change, from confusion and frustration to something blanker, first, something that doesn't quite know itself, and then -
Vader stares right back at him as the other man clings to the nearest chair, fingers digging in, his knuckles a bony white. It comes afterwards, then, that name, the name he still carries somewhere within his chest despite himself. It's been only two years and he might have pledged himself to Sidious but then, Claude died and it didn't matter, none of it did. He'd been so certain that nothing ever would again until he'd seen him in that cell, looking prepared for the worst (to be tortured and executed by Vader's hand and yes, that is the worst, there is nothing beyond it, nothing). He can sense the kyber calling out to him, clearer now, with the same purpose as always. There's something about it that's always been knife-like and sharp. Cold. Made for change. Sometimes, change is hard.
Sometimes, it's awful. ]
Yes. [ Pause. ] No. I don't know.
[ He looks down. The blue swirls of hyperspace reflect in the durasteel of his boots as the shuttle hurtles along. ]
I was.
[ That, at least, he can say without getting lost, trying to put the words together. He doesn't look up, feeling ridiculously small despite the suit or perhaps, indeed, because of it. Even after two years, he still isn't used to the clumsy nature of it, the stiffness of his joints. He can feel a well of emotion building beneath the surface at the thought alone, of Claude speaking that name to him when there ought to be nothing left to respond but the by-now-familiar anger won't come. It never did around him.
Instead, his left eye is tearing up, what little it still can. ]
The Empire's watch dog? That would still be Anakin, Anakin who was the Jedi Order's watch dog first. He's just exchanged one master with another, if so. If so. Turning around fully, coming face to face with the other man in his metallic suit and his dead mask and his cloak, Claude's mouth sets, a stubborn, insistent line, unlike any expression he's made since he got the news, exaggerated obviously, of Anakin's death. He wanted to change the world, once. Now he just wants the world to change for him, for them.
Come on, have some kriffing pity on them.
On Anakin who was proud and arrogant and self-conscious and the thing that weighed the most about him was his metaphorical balls. Anakin whose balls are still of steel, along with the rest of him, because here Claude is, where he has been taken, where he has been led. Anakin who holds every potential to lead, as much as he holds every potential to be led astray. Meaning, he holds every option in his hand, but works for people who don't want him to use his free will, not now, not ever. Claude vividly remembers having had this very conversation with him before, long ago. But not longer than that. They both still remember, that much is clear. They still remember. They still --
His eyes are brimming over with tears and he breathes in, air stuck in his throat, thick and wet. Then, without saying a single word, he walks up to the man in the pilot's seat, stops right in front of him, Anakin still on eye-level with him, sitting down. In how many ways has he grown since they last saw each other? In how many ways has he shrunk?
Wiping at his left cheek with the fingers of the corresponding hand, Claude reaches up with his right hand and touches his palm to the side of Anakin's helmet. He doesn't try to remove it himself, he hasn't been given permission and everything else aside, he won't just be a new master, giving new orders. He wants to be his support.
That's different. ]
Can you take it off for me? I want to -- [ Voice breaking, he has to wait half a second before continuing, correcting himself easily. ] -- I need to see you.
[ He doesn't look up, not even as Claude approaches but he can feel the mood changing regardless, the storm of emotions rising across the space between them. A part of him wants to revel in them, the potential darkness lingering like a promise in every moment of sadness or grief; when harnessed correctly, there's always potential, destructive transformation there, capable of breaking things, of leaving them to burn and turn to ashes. But he hasn't been a Sith for very long, nor has he been a very studious apprentice and consequently, the urge to simply fall to the ground on his knees and slam his head into the floor is greater. He stays where he is, curling his hands against his knees and squeezing hard enough that the joints creak, sensors sending spikes of pain into his nervous system.
When he finally looks up at Claude behind the mask because he has to, because at some point, the sense of proximity becomes too pronounced to ignore, what remains of his heart breaks from recognition. It's not just the way he looks - so familiar, this close up - but also, the way he's crying. Anguish is the most painful feeling in the world, he thinks. Useless. Devoid of power.
At this moment, they look at each other and they're once more perfectly in sync.
He looks at Claude for a long moment before he rises to his feet, towering above him by too many inches. He can't feel the echoes of Claude's fingers against his helmet, of course, but he can imagine. There will be spots there, now, damp and completely unique to him, the man he thought he'd lost.
Bits of treasure, undeserved. ]
This way, then.
[ He steps around him and heads for the back of the modified shuttle without pausing to see if Claude truly follows along. He doesn't want to believe anything.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He couldn't convince himself of that even if he had Sidious sitting right opposite him, twisting his mind accordingly.
Claude is here. Claude is here. As ridiculous as the thought may be, he's in hyperspace right now because he couldn't think of anywhere safer to bring him. As the other man enters the cockpit, he can sense the remains of his body reacting as much as they ever can these days; his skin prickling along ruined or half-dead nerves, his chest muscles working to expand around his lung implants; he'd be hyperventilating, he thinks, if he'd been capable. Instead, he just sits. If he doesn't kill people, that's all he does these days, isn't it, so that suits.
When Claude leans into his personal space, he has to fight not to lean back against him. ]
You aren't nobody. [ He wishes for the first time that his voice wasn't so harsh. ] Claude. You have changed your name but not your face.
no subject
Then, he says, Claude.
Claude feels himself stiffen, his entire body going rigid, his breathing speeding up, getting shallow and laboured. Claude isn't dead, evidently, Claude is sitting right here, but except with a few exceptions, he can currently count two, he's known as Cyne Billet now. He's a mediator and a spokesperson. He's no one the Empire needs to take into account, unthreatening and unimportant. Whatever he once was, it might not be gone, but it's past. Very much past.
Claude, the man says. You've changed your name but not your face. ]
Think you owe me an explanation. We can't work together on uneven ground like this, you knowing who I am and me knowing kriffing nothing. [ His voice takes on some edge there, so he halts himself, he breathes. Breathe. ] Who are you?
[ Jaw tightening, Claude grabs the seat in front of him, fingers digging into the hard material of the cushioning that's there for support, not comfort. We hold other things for comfort, granted that we haven't lost them. The evenness is gone from his voice, at the question, it shakes and it cracks and he's tired of only waiting for death. ]
no subject
We can't work together says Claude, making assumptions that are understandable, perhaps, because he doesn't know Darth Vader and Darth Vader, in turn, barely knows himself.
How weak are they truly, his Master and he? How many lies has he been told this time? ]
I am not with your people.
[ Not anymore, no, after what he did. Padmé. Bail Organa. Others, people of no importance, compared to the man behind him who'll have no reason at all to treat him any less as an enemy than the rest. Claude's voice has given out. He sounds like he's barely breathing. Telling him the truth suddenly feels insurmountable. ]
I thought... [ His voice stumbles. He pauses, lets his breathing run for another cycle before he tries again. He must. He woke up alive after Mustafar and he will see this through as well. That is what Claude is owed, at the very least. ] He told me you died.
no subject
Claude doesn't have time for that. He works for a resistance movement that is probably desperately looking for him as they speak. Using precious energy and resources on locating him, although they live by a code of 'leave behind what can't be salvaged'. One thing is the codes, though, another is the reality of human attachment, bonds of trust and debt. Love.
Even lost things aren't truly left behind in love, are they?
He told me you died, the man says, then, after a brief pause, the mechanisms that assists his breathing, sounds like, carrying that same inhuman, metallic quality. Claude lets both hands drop to his thighs, smoothening over the fabric of his trousers, the kind of clothes he used not to wear on Paris, but Paris is in shambles and there's not really anything left of the old days. Maybe he should've stayed a royal. Maybe his abdication wasn't of any help, at the end of the day. At the end of the whole kriffing era. I might as well have, he wants to reply, but gets a grip after a moment. ]
You're not with us. [ Voice tired now, just -- tired. He touches the kyber again, through his shirt. Looks past the breadth of the other man's shoulders and into the silent path they're following through hyperspace. ] So why would you care?
no subject
It's not that he wouldn't. It's that caring feels impossible now, like he might as well stop breathing and let himself fade into nothing instead, like that might be easier, it might be at least doable. Caring? Caring means...
He glances sideways slowly, turning his head enough to glimpse the other man out of the corner of his vision. Claude's tinted in red now, like everything else. The only thing that consistently looks as it should is his lightsaber. He isn't meant to be looking at anything else. His opinion is not needed - his care, even less so - and something about that reality, that fact of his current half-existence is very nearly impossible to give up.
Why would you care?
It's easier not to, so why indeed? ]
I used to be with you.
[ The words are flat because of his vocoder, too sharp, too mechanical. He hates his voice, all of a sudden. He's had no opinions on that, either. Not on the rest of his body modifications, either, nothing beyond whatever he might observe, then disregard. He's had no opinions on his actions, no opinions on the trail of death he's left in his wake, nothing. Oh, but the problem is that when he starts caring, he can't stop with just Claude, can he? He can't.
There's a long, long fall to the ground from there. ]
no subject
His knuckles look white when he looks down at his hand, fingers tight and trembling around the kyber. ]
You're making a mockery of the people who used to be with me...
[ Releasing a breath at the same time as he releases his hard grasp on the crystal, Claude gets to his feet in one hard movement, not the way he used to move, when nothing weighed him down but a loincloth. He can't remember the last time he was just partially naked, he sleeps in everything these days, always ready to flee or hide or run. Always ready.
For what? Yeah, you tell him. You tell him.
He turns after one step, two. Looks at the cloaked figure, the man who doesn't seem to be anything but an armour. The man who isn't with them, but used to be with him, and Claude somewhere deep in the endless pit of his stomach feels that should probably mean something. Feels that once, too long ago to think about now, it would have. ]
... I hope you know that.
no subject
His hands clench. Un-clench.
I am Darth Vader he could say, and you belong to me. Surely, if he wanted to, he could keep him, make certain that he stays safe. His Master might not even begrudge him that small concession, considering the rocky foundation of his apprenticeship. He could keep him, yes, and Claude would never go anywhere without him, he'd never be in any sort of danger, except perhaps the obvious one.
When people own you, what are you?
What?
The thought of turning Claude into that, of stripping that last bit of resistance from him is intolerable because he knows Claude, what matters and what doesn't, they used to speak of these things at length when the world was warmer and softer and full of sunlit patches. He closes his eyes, reaching for whatever little small bit of courage he might have left. ]
I do. [ He looks at Claude. Tints of red. Too little nuance. But all the same, he looks. ] It's me. This - behind this. [ He can't say it. Instead he gestures uselessly towards his mask an adds, fighting with his own tone of voice, trying to make it softer and failing: ] Do you understand?
no subject
It's me.
Behind this.
And in that moment, he feels all air escape him, his lungs clamping shut and his eyes widening and his hairs standing on end down his arms, shivers down his spine. For the first time, ironically, Claude looks at the man in front of him, who's turned towards him completely now, and feels an overwhelming surge of fear.
The kyber around his neck feels heavy enough to drag him to the ground. Swallowing hard, he grabs the headrest of the nearest chair and clings to it, his knees feeling weak and crumbling beneath him. The muscles in his upper arm flex beneath his shirt from the strength with which he's holding on. He stares. And stares. ]
Anakin?
[ The worst realization isn't even that he doesn't want to believe it. The worst realization is that he doesn't kriffing dare. Hope. ]
no subject
Vader stares right back at him as the other man clings to the nearest chair, fingers digging in, his knuckles a bony white. It comes afterwards, then, that name, the name he still carries somewhere within his chest despite himself. It's been only two years and he might have pledged himself to Sidious but then, Claude died and it didn't matter, none of it did. He'd been so certain that nothing ever would again until he'd seen him in that cell, looking prepared for the worst (to be tortured and executed by Vader's hand and yes, that is the worst, there is nothing beyond it, nothing). He can sense the kyber calling out to him, clearer now, with the same purpose as always. There's something about it that's always been knife-like and sharp. Cold. Made for change. Sometimes, change is hard.
Sometimes, it's awful. ]
Yes. [ Pause. ] No. I don't know.
[ He looks down. The blue swirls of hyperspace reflect in the durasteel of his boots as the shuttle hurtles along. ]
I was.
[ That, at least, he can say without getting lost, trying to put the words together. He doesn't look up, feeling ridiculously small despite the suit or perhaps, indeed, because of it. Even after two years, he still isn't used to the clumsy nature of it, the stiffness of his joints. He can feel a well of emotion building beneath the surface at the thought alone, of Claude speaking that name to him when there ought to be nothing left to respond but the by-now-familiar anger won't come. It never did around him.
Instead, his left eye is tearing up, what little it still can. ]
no subject
Who is he now, then? If not Anakin.
The Empire's watch dog? That would still be Anakin, Anakin who was the Jedi Order's watch dog first. He's just exchanged one master with another, if so. If so. Turning around fully, coming face to face with the other man in his metallic suit and his dead mask and his cloak, Claude's mouth sets, a stubborn, insistent line, unlike any expression he's made since he got the news, exaggerated obviously, of Anakin's death. He wanted to change the world, once. Now he just wants the world to change for him, for them.
Come on, have some kriffing pity on them.
On Anakin who was proud and arrogant and self-conscious and the thing that weighed the most about him was his metaphorical balls. Anakin whose balls are still of steel, along with the rest of him, because here Claude is, where he has been taken, where he has been led. Anakin who holds every potential to lead, as much as he holds every potential to be led astray. Meaning, he holds every option in his hand, but works for people who don't want him to use his free will, not now, not ever. Claude vividly remembers having had this very conversation with him before, long ago. But not longer than that. They both still remember, that much is clear. They still remember. They still --
His eyes are brimming over with tears and he breathes in, air stuck in his throat, thick and wet. Then, without saying a single word, he walks up to the man in the pilot's seat, stops right in front of him, Anakin still on eye-level with him, sitting down. In how many ways has he grown since they last saw each other? In how many ways has he shrunk?
Wiping at his left cheek with the fingers of the corresponding hand, Claude reaches up with his right hand and touches his palm to the side of Anakin's helmet. He doesn't try to remove it himself, he hasn't been given permission and everything else aside, he won't just be a new master, giving new orders. He wants to be his support.
That's different. ]
Can you take it off for me? I want to -- [ Voice breaking, he has to wait half a second before continuing, correcting himself easily. ] -- I need to see you.
no subject
When he finally looks up at Claude behind the mask because he has to, because at some point, the sense of proximity becomes too pronounced to ignore, what remains of his heart breaks from recognition. It's not just the way he looks - so familiar, this close up - but also, the way he's crying. Anguish is the most painful feeling in the world, he thinks. Useless. Devoid of power.
At this moment, they look at each other and they're once more perfectly in sync.
He looks at Claude for a long moment before he rises to his feet, towering above him by too many inches. He can't feel the echoes of Claude's fingers against his helmet, of course, but he can imagine. There will be spots there, now, damp and completely unique to him, the man he thought he'd lost.
Bits of treasure, undeserved. ]
This way, then.
[ He steps around him and heads for the back of the modified shuttle without pausing to see if Claude truly follows along. He doesn't want to believe anything.
After all - then, he'd have to hope.
And after that? ]