Julien feels his heart sinking and is pretty sure that's as obvious as an open book. This is like with Reira, but it's worse, and he thinks it's just as automatic so it's not even like he can cast blame. Nothing that's his is really his, is it? Not his body, traded over piece by piece in Keye to make him more useful, then remade for him, then reworked so he better fits an aesthetic he's had no say in. Not his sense of self, which got switched over to that of some kind of many-thousands-of-years-old angel and then back. Not the powers the Earthmind gave him or the roles he took on in Keye, and not what he thinks or feels.

He was better as a broken angel, miserable in a lot of ways but still keenly aware of the good and the joy in the world and all the little ways those could be caused, and beholden to no one and nothing. It's enough that he could cry, but that would be such a breach of decorum the thought freezes the breath in his lungs.

Julien squares his shoulders and exhales carefully, like if he just does it right it won't cut up the inside of his chest. Various spectral eyes close and reopen in different places around him, checking in all directions; who's looking at him, who might be taking note? "Of course I'm scared. You can't help doing that, am I right? The mind reading thing."