[ The cosmonaut couldn't be more heavy-handed with the signalling if he tried, at least in the presence of a creature adapted to catch the slightest twitch of a single facial muscle, a blink too fast or too slow: like zebras on the savanna, their lives in Yezhov's—and Stalin's—Russia depended on their ability to read the whims of potential predators.
But even in his immense stress and the feeling of... separation from his own body that started days ago when they first pounded on his door, the way the cosmonaut makes direct, lasting eye contact with him the moment the back of his head is facing the glass and winks at him shakes him up a little more than it should. Even here, of all places, he is not immune to the man's charm. He looks great for someone who only crashed down to earth a few days ago, and he certainly doesn't have any of the loss of muscle tone that is to be expected of cosmonauts going on longer trips; if anything, the shirt they've given him is a size too small, which Vasiliy tries, mostly out of a sense of respect for the man, not to fixate on. He'll think about it later.
Veshnyakov's intention seems to be to indicate to him that it's one-way glass; Vasiliy, truth be told, had assumed as much by virtue of their confinement. Of course they're being surveilled. He blinks once, holding eye contact, deliberate. ]
I will close my eyes and imagine the best painting I can.
[ Vasiliy inclines his head in the direction of the dim alcove where two freshly made twin beds have been set up, one on either side of the doorless room, the clean-pressed sheets looking like something right out of a hospital. ]
I think we both count as guests, you're just the guest of honor. Do you mind if I invite myself to sit down?
[ There are probably listening devices here regardless of whether or not they're partly out of sight from the men behind the one-way glass—there's nowhere they can go to really have a conversation unless they're standing in front of a flushing toilet, but then their keepers will want to know why they're in the bathroom together when a toilet is being flushed. It's engineered to leave no possibility for even a modicum of privacy, but the beds are positioned in such a way to at least allow the illusion of it—they'll make it a little harder for their captors to read facial expressions, at least, and the constant feeling of being watched and the endless supply of adrenaline infusing every tissue in his body for days on end have left him exhausted. ]
no subject
But even in his immense stress and the feeling of... separation from his own body that started days ago when they first pounded on his door, the way the cosmonaut makes direct, lasting eye contact with him the moment the back of his head is facing the glass and winks at him shakes him up a little more than it should. Even here, of all places, he is not immune to the man's charm. He looks great for someone who only crashed down to earth a few days ago, and he certainly doesn't have any of the loss of muscle tone that is to be expected of cosmonauts going on longer trips; if anything, the shirt they've given him is a size too small, which Vasiliy tries, mostly out of a sense of respect for the man, not to fixate on. He'll think about it later.
Veshnyakov's intention seems to be to indicate to him that it's one-way glass; Vasiliy, truth be told, had assumed as much by virtue of their confinement. Of course they're being surveilled. He blinks once, holding eye contact, deliberate. ]
I will close my eyes and imagine the best painting I can.
[ Vasiliy inclines his head in the direction of the dim alcove where two freshly made twin beds have been set up, one on either side of the doorless room, the clean-pressed sheets looking like something right out of a hospital. ]
I think we both count as guests, you're just the guest of honor. Do you mind if I invite myself to sit down?
[ There are probably listening devices here regardless of whether or not they're partly out of sight from the men behind the one-way glass—there's nowhere they can go to really have a conversation unless they're standing in front of a flushing toilet, but then their keepers will want to know why they're in the bathroom together when a toilet is being flushed. It's engineered to leave no possibility for even a modicum of privacy, but the beds are positioned in such a way to at least allow the illusion of it—they'll make it a little harder for their captors to read facial expressions, at least, and the constant feeling of being watched and the endless supply of adrenaline infusing every tissue in his body for days on end have left him exhausted. ]