Seems like an aversion to sleeping as they should was a common, running trend here in Mathias. Were Five a better friend, he might even offer some unsolicited advice on getting some rest. But he isn't.
A snort, jaw clenched and working as the gears turn in that brain of his. Did he really get this wrong?
Shit, he's so sure that this is the right thread to follow - because that's whaat he's always done. Perhaps relied on an ability that was only half-baked, even before he got here. Maybe, his appetite was bigger the bite and for all his purported smarts, he doesn't quite learn because a part of him wants this to be the solution.
Because it would be in his hands then. His to succeed or fail at.
But are the risks too great? He already doesn't know where and when this is, as Doc astutely pointed out. He's risking getting stuck in a 1964 without a breadcrumb trail back, and for what? A 25% or less chance?
(Better than no chance, is the petty thought.)
"Maybe," he concedes. Complacency was a dangerous thing though, and he hoped to ensure a lack of it, acting in extremes as he always had. "Maybe the more information, the better."
He heaves another long suffered sigh, coughs the last of it as his ribs constrict. How many more weeks of this?
Hands on his hips, and he stares at the notebook he had set aside on the chair at one point or the next, quiet for a long time. "...You said there were more people here. Need any supplies?"
He is, after all, not limited to the same spatial confines most people are. It isn't a direct answer to saying he won't do it. But this - this broke away some thread of madness that's festered too long, like riding out the last waves of a bad high.
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A snort, jaw clenched and working as the gears turn in that brain of his. Did he really get this wrong?
Shit, he's so sure that this is the right thread to follow - because that's whaat he's always done. Perhaps relied on an ability that was only half-baked, even before he got here. Maybe, his appetite was bigger the bite and for all his purported smarts, he doesn't quite learn because a part of him wants this to be the solution.
Because it would be in his hands then. His to succeed or fail at.
But are the risks too great? He already doesn't know where and when this is, as Doc astutely pointed out. He's risking getting stuck in a 1964 without a breadcrumb trail back, and for what? A 25% or less chance?
(Better than no chance, is the petty thought.)
"Maybe," he concedes. Complacency was a dangerous thing though, and he hoped to ensure a lack of it, acting in extremes as he always had. "Maybe the more information, the better."
He heaves another long suffered sigh, coughs the last of it as his ribs constrict. How many more weeks of this?
Hands on his hips, and he stares at the notebook he had set aside on the chair at one point or the next, quiet for a long time. "...You said there were more people here. Need any supplies?"
He is, after all, not limited to the same spatial confines most people are. It isn't a direct answer to saying he won't do it. But this - this broke away some thread of madness that's festered too long, like riding out the last waves of a bad high.