Bored is the wrong word. Bored is a lie, but Allison doesn't think it's one on purpose. It's probably not even a wrong description for the time in question. But like his earlier answer, it's skewed sideways, rather than taking this head-on. It slides from being ruthlessly honest. About the moon. About him. About their Father.

Every muscle in Luther's body reads that he'd rather be anywhere other than right now, and in that Allison's shivers on the edge of questioning whether she should stop, but he keeps answering, too. He doesn't say it the way she would, but she doesn't hold that against him. He never did. Maybe never would. Their father was an asshole, unquestionably. Who'd sent him almost to his death, alone. Barely made sure he didn't die. And then sent him to, and left him, on the moon. Abandoned. Ignored. Given him a mission that hadn't even mattered.

And it had what? Slowly driven him mad? For three years?
And he hadn't bothered to even check on him, for documented problems?

(And she just hadn't noticed at all when she saw him in the house? She'd thought he seemed fine, if distant? Still himself. And if distant, they had their owns reasons for that, too, which had gummed everything up right along with it?)

She wants to ask more, specifically, about her, why her, why then, but she knows this is the wrong place, the wrong time. She can't even be arrogant about it still being her. She hates their father too much. Everything he put Luther through, the stack of which never seems to stop growing. It fills her blood, rushed in her ears, with no one to hurt for these suns, and pushes out any part of her that gives too much of a damn about whether she mattered at all the decade after she left.


She chooses, instead, something else. Just as troubling. As confusing originally.
It was so dark. It never looked that dark in the documentaries.

She should have known better.

You never can believe what people put on the screen entirely.