[Ben stares at her crying, the acrid scent of them stinging his nose and making him want to do something, anything. It's a visceral part of him that needs no thought and no logic; in another lifetime it would be all he needed, it'd be all he listened to and acted upon.

But Manticore hardwired logic into him and another part of him understands with unwavering certainty that this will pass; that she's overwhelmed, not sad, and his hands stay where they are folded in his lap, even when he leans forward towards her.]

Anya.

[His voice is low, insistent. A gentle push for attention, not a persistent shoving or pulling. His eyes are steady, nearly unblinking, as he waits for her to meet them, continuing only when she does.]

Why not? [He has to grope to find the words, caught between his straightforward soldier mask and the easy, sweeping metaphor of the storyteller in him. It's the disconnect he can never quite reconcile.] The stories... this is what they are for.

Take one thing, one aspect, one person - take the truth of them and build on it to create something that may not be, but might be. To explain something that cannot be explained. To show us how to be it, or how to understand where it came from.