it's not your fault that you're always wrong
Jack isn't one for shrines.
Not one for praying either.
In fact, were it not for the fact that he'd literally helped to put this thing back together, he might not even know that this shrine to the Voice exists. But he did and it does, and here he stands now.
It's the dead of night, the sky ablaze with stars, though the moon is nothing more than a silver grin overhead. Jack ducks into the shrine, plonks a string of black pearls onto the altar (and as offerings go it ain't cheap, don't come at him), and steps back.
He says nothing. He's not one to lay his terms out to thin air, thanks.
Not one for praying either.
In fact, were it not for the fact that he'd literally helped to put this thing back together, he might not even know that this shrine to the Voice exists. But he did and it does, and here he stands now.
It's the dead of night, the sky ablaze with stars, though the moon is nothing more than a silver grin overhead. Jack ducks into the shrine, plonks a string of black pearls onto the altar (and as offerings go it ain't cheap, don't come at him), and steps back.
He says nothing. He's not one to lay his terms out to thin air, thanks.