Work Text:
The room surrounds them in holograms, in the half-present imagery from the cloudhook Three Seagrass has borrowed her. Mahit reaches out one hand; her arm seems too long as she brushes fragments of words from the air.
“I can’t find the words,” she says. What she wants to say is that now Lsel Station may never have hers. That there is no place in this empire, this world, where she can compact herself to fit. She pulls her arm back, and curls in further.
“What ones were closest?” Three Seagrass stretches out then, as if to match Mahit in form.