a little place called trust

"You tripped over Wessex," Isla repeats, a smile very much audible in her voice. "I can see how that might cause quite a nasty break, yes. I'm glad you're feeling better. Or at least, I didn't notice you limping when we were walking around." Only there's no real time for small-talk any more - not the kind that revolves around places outside of the operating room, anyway, and Isla is consumed by what she sees. "Well I do feel privileged," she murmurs, sounding awed and distracted - and if only Nate could see, he'd notice that she's strangely illuminated by what counts, these days, as his brain. "It's like nothing I could have imagined. It's better," she whispers, trying to take a closer look. Whilst the shape is the same as any brain (obviously, for it to fit into a skull), the think-tank of the Ascended is a beautiful circuitry of fibre optics, protected by a membrane that Isla thinks would be gooey to the touch (it's a medical term). "Nate, could you... Would you be able to recite a multiplication table for me? Your choice of number." Isla the flesh is weak