“Hey,” Sheppard says, warm and slow, like death isn’t seconds away. “Close your eyes, touch the floor, and ask the fields to stop, maybe.” He gives Rush the smile that’ll never come when he poses for pictures.
Young’s ability to ignore the (admittedly gratuitous) academic barbed-wire masquerading as Nick Rush’s current personality was (endearingly) impressive.
What did they want from him anyway, this fraternitas sanitas that razed civilizations to the ground with a wink and a smile and obligatorily cheeky commentary?