“Like?” Anne asked. She wanted to get a read on his headspace before figuring out a fuller response. And anyway, there were a lot of things he could want to talk to her about.
“I believe in the goodness of people,” he said, voice baritone.
She really had to bite her tongue when he said that. The goodness of people? Galactic Man wasn’t good; didn’t have a single good bone in his goddamned body. Her father wasn’t a good man, leaving her like he did. The Killer’s Gallery wasn’t filled with good people. It’s not like David, or The Exxterminator, or any of the rest of them had believed in her inner goodness.
“Or maybe I don’t believe. Maybe it’s that I want to believe, evidence to the contrary.” Prometheus sat in a chair in his garage, and the whole scene made Anne feel deeply uncomfortable. She’d expected him to yell at her, or to confront her with evidence. But he seemed so…
Sitting in his garage — which was essentially the room of a man with too much times on his hands, filled as it was with superhero gadgetry, scientific experimentation, some cars and computers — he looked incredibly small.
He looked small compared to everything here: small compared to the Prometheus suit, compared to the cars and all the equipment he’d set up. Small compared to his dreams.
Small compared to his hopes.