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hadriel_logs2016-05-08 02:52 pm
circumitus) wrote in hadriel_logs2016-05-08 02:52 pm
Entry tags:
house call: part two [CLOSED]
Who: Rey and Nick Valentine.
What: Rey rearranges furniture. :)
Where: Rey's apartment (Spire Two, 301).
When: Shortly after the fireflies are gone.
Warnings: Destruction of innocent housing appliances, language, serious talk, the good stuff. Will update as needed.
Going in, Rey knew the risks. She has only herself to blame, even if she could very well pin it on the so-called gods for this. One could also argue that her decision was just -- by shutting a part of herself down, she was helping others. No longer did she have to contribute to the energy that their hosts feed off of. In a way, she should be free.
But she isn't. Not really. She is no more liberated than she was when she had been a soulless husk, unfeeling and unthinking, acting solely out of its nature. And that nature was to kill. Rey doesn't want to kill for anyone anymore, though. There is already enough blood on her hands over the last near century for her to reach this point.
So when that old monster had been reawakened, forcefully returned by the whims of the 'gods', what other choice did she have? By casting that which made her feel everything behind her heart's door, she gave up a large piece of what made Rey. But, even then--
"It was the right thing to do," she had told herself on more than one occasion. A reminder she gives herself now when she returns home from one of her patrols. The fireflies that had infested the city now appear to be gone, no longer forcing their influence on the people of Hadriel. Her hands ball into fists when the tiny residue of emotion that Bianca had inflicted upon her returns. It was but a tiny fraction of happiness, but even then it was too much. All of this is just too much. She had cracked the mask, inviting not only the good but also the bad along with it.
Comedy always did go hand in hand with tragedy, didn't it? Life is just one big joke, and she has always been the unassuming punchline in the middle of it all, and so stupid to think that she could maintain this visage for long. It didn't work in her favor before. Why should now be any different?
Her teeth grind as she enters the room. Nothing about this is right. Her thoughts, her feelings, even this room. It isn't hers. She's a broken toy living in a dollhouse, just playing her part in someone else's game.
Was this another one of their tricks? Rey can't tell when she begins moving things around her two-bedroom apartment. At first it's just little things. A portrait straightened here, the table and some chairs set there. She even decides to drag the couch to the opposite side of the living room. Because if this place is her own personal prison, then she may as well make it hers. It's small, simple, silly, foolish... but at least she can take some control over her environment and make something of it that belongs to her. Hers, and no one else.
Then something changes and it's just not enough. Even the smallest, most irrelevant details start to boil past the brim. None of these things are hers. These furnishings, the walls, the food... Once more she feels as though she is living someone else's life.
What more, she feels.
And in that moment, she hates it. Hates this playroom, these things, even though they're just things -- it all represents yet another borrowed life she's living here.
The boil begins to bubble over. Is she being compelled again? Is she possessed? She can't tell anymore. The forced happiness is gone; something else screams.
...It's her.
Taking one of the chairs, she hurls it into the wall, tearing down a portrait and renting cracks in the paint. She kicks, thrashes, throwing chairs, flipping a table, upturning a couch and sending the loveseat across the living area. Papers and books and various knickknacks and things scatter across the floor. Her blood rushes, her pulse races, her vision flashes red when she finds herself taking up a broken piece of a chair and sending objects from the kitchenette flying.
Before long, the entire apartment appears as though it had been ransacked by burglars. In the wake of destruction, Rey's adrenaline pumping through her veins breaks down. And she is tired. More so than she's ever been.
"Get out of my head," she mutters to herself, throwing down the chair piece and grabbing the sides of her skull, fingers digging into her hair. "GET OUT."
She flings her shoulder to the wall, and slides down to the floor, curling up within herself. Her emotions, her thoughts, all the wretched things that she's kept locked away.
The floodgates are opened, and she is to blame.
What: Rey rearranges furniture. :)
Where: Rey's apartment (Spire Two, 301).
When: Shortly after the fireflies are gone.
Warnings: Destruction of innocent housing appliances, language, serious talk, the good stuff. Will update as needed.
Going in, Rey knew the risks. She has only herself to blame, even if she could very well pin it on the so-called gods for this. One could also argue that her decision was just -- by shutting a part of herself down, she was helping others. No longer did she have to contribute to the energy that their hosts feed off of. In a way, she should be free.
But she isn't. Not really. She is no more liberated than she was when she had been a soulless husk, unfeeling and unthinking, acting solely out of its nature. And that nature was to kill. Rey doesn't want to kill for anyone anymore, though. There is already enough blood on her hands over the last near century for her to reach this point.
So when that old monster had been reawakened, forcefully returned by the whims of the 'gods', what other choice did she have? By casting that which made her feel everything behind her heart's door, she gave up a large piece of what made Rey. But, even then--
"It was the right thing to do," she had told herself on more than one occasion. A reminder she gives herself now when she returns home from one of her patrols. The fireflies that had infested the city now appear to be gone, no longer forcing their influence on the people of Hadriel. Her hands ball into fists when the tiny residue of emotion that Bianca had inflicted upon her returns. It was but a tiny fraction of happiness, but even then it was too much. All of this is just too much. She had cracked the mask, inviting not only the good but also the bad along with it.
Comedy always did go hand in hand with tragedy, didn't it? Life is just one big joke, and she has always been the unassuming punchline in the middle of it all, and so stupid to think that she could maintain this visage for long. It didn't work in her favor before. Why should now be any different?
Her teeth grind as she enters the room. Nothing about this is right. Her thoughts, her feelings, even this room. It isn't hers. She's a broken toy living in a dollhouse, just playing her part in someone else's game.
Was this another one of their tricks? Rey can't tell when she begins moving things around her two-bedroom apartment. At first it's just little things. A portrait straightened here, the table and some chairs set there. She even decides to drag the couch to the opposite side of the living room. Because if this place is her own personal prison, then she may as well make it hers. It's small, simple, silly, foolish... but at least she can take some control over her environment and make something of it that belongs to her. Hers, and no one else.
Then something changes and it's just not enough. Even the smallest, most irrelevant details start to boil past the brim. None of these things are hers. These furnishings, the walls, the food... Once more she feels as though she is living someone else's life.
What more, she feels.
And in that moment, she hates it. Hates this playroom, these things, even though they're just things -- it all represents yet another borrowed life she's living here.
The boil begins to bubble over. Is she being compelled again? Is she possessed? She can't tell anymore. The forced happiness is gone; something else screams.
...It's her.
Taking one of the chairs, she hurls it into the wall, tearing down a portrait and renting cracks in the paint. She kicks, thrashes, throwing chairs, flipping a table, upturning a couch and sending the loveseat across the living area. Papers and books and various knickknacks and things scatter across the floor. Her blood rushes, her pulse races, her vision flashes red when she finds herself taking up a broken piece of a chair and sending objects from the kitchenette flying.
Before long, the entire apartment appears as though it had been ransacked by burglars. In the wake of destruction, Rey's adrenaline pumping through her veins breaks down. And she is tired. More so than she's ever been.
"Get out of my head," she mutters to herself, throwing down the chair piece and grabbing the sides of her skull, fingers digging into her hair. "GET OUT."
She flings her shoulder to the wall, and slides down to the floor, curling up within herself. Her emotions, her thoughts, all the wretched things that she's kept locked away.
The floodgates are opened, and she is to blame.
no subject
He's sitting on his couch, forcing a needle through one side and out the other to reinforce the fabric when he hears the commotion below his apartment. It's just a thud or two at first, nothing alarming enough to investigate; that's followed by a series of crashes, ones powerful enough to rattle the floor beneath him. That gets him on his feet.
He doesn't even take the time to put on his coat as he bolts out the door -- he just grabs his hat and goes, speeding down the spiral staircase to the apartment directly below his. He can't help but be concerned when it comes to Rey, especially given how she's been acting as of late. She shut out her humanity, sure... but he knows she can't keep that up forever, not unless she gives it up permanently, deciding that it's just better to be an unfeeling machine. And he does hope, for the sake of everything that makes her her, that that isn't an option.
He stops at her door, debating the urge to barge right in. She won't want to be disturbed -- she never does -- but he can't just ignore this. It could be the gods, it could be a monster, it could be her turning on herself or losing her damn mind; it could be anything, but it's definitely trouble.
Steeling himself, he calls to her first. "Rey? It's Nick." Open the door is implied in his stern tone.
no subject
Realizing her own folly, Rey tucks her legs close to her chest; her fingernails claw into her own scalp. As if, by curling within herself, it'll somehow make everything around her disappear. This room, all this mess, Nick, everything.
"GO AWAY," she seethes through her teeth, recoiling. She'd also be an idiot to think that Nick would actually adhere to her demands. She knows he's not going to leave at her command, simply because she wouldn't if she was in his shoes. Not too long ago, she had been in that position -- with Maketh.
Once more, her hypocrisy rings true. At least Rey has never claimed to be a saint, or even a good person.
Heat simmers in the room and it doesn't take long for her to notice the veins pulsing under her arms. She pulls her hands from her head, gaping at her hands that are turning a darker shade of red. The glowing veins underneath her skin wrap around the tips of her fingers to her forearms, consuming the surrounding atmosphere with an oppressive hotness.
"Nonononono, don't do this..." Rey mutters to herself, curving her fingers as though that would somehow stop the blood from glowing through her heated veins. Waves undulate the air around her skin.
Deep breaths. She inhales, exhales, and the veins fade away into a dull red, no longer pulsing or glowing or radiating intense heat. But that still doesn't mean the room isn't several degrees hotter now, or that she isn't a danger to others -- or to Nick, for that matter.
no subject
Well, part of it, at least. "Open the door, Rey," he insists, wondering why his internal thermometer is climbing -- it's picking up a significant increase in temperature nearby. He just ran diagnostics on all his systems and calibrated a few of them, so he knows it's not him. It takes it a moment, but it pinpoints the source: it's on the other side of the door.
And that's a cause for immediate concern. "You've got ten seconds."
He gives her three before he tries the knob: locked. It didn't sound like she's by the door when she answered him, which is good because he's about to kick it open. It might take a few blows, but it's amazing what strength worry will instill in even a machine.
no subject
Before she even has the chance to say anything, she's startled by a banging on her door.
"Stop!" Rey yells, though she's already accepted the futility of her situation. And that's that Nick Valentine is going to be busting down that door whether she likes it or not.
Fuck.
no subject
Maybe not for the door, though. Though the apartments probably aren't fireproof, they are study -- it takes several kicks in the end, but the lock finally breaks and the door swings open. He holds his bare arm before his face protectively, just in case there's something nasty waiting on the other side. He isn't sure what he'd expected -- a fire, maybe, given the fact his thermometer jumped a few notches up the scale only seconds before, or maybe some new kind of terror unleashed by the gods, something that had broken through her emotional barricade and caused her walls to crumble in the worst way. He doesn't realize his guess is partially right as he spots her, curled along the wall. No fire, no monster: just Rey.
Somehow, that doesn't assuage his concerns at all. He stays on the alert as he makes his way over to her, dropping to one knee as he tries to make eye contact, to figure out just what's wrong and what -- if anything -- he can do. "Rey."
no subject
Jaw clenched, Rey ducks her head as soon as the door bursts ajar, climbing even further within herself the moment Nick is attempting to reach out. While there may be no immediate threat of a scuffle or flame, Rey would very well argue against there being no monster in the room.
She can't bring herself to look at him for several seconds; it's easier to hide in the darkness behind her lids and pretend that nothing exists. But it won't make Nick go away, and it sure as hell won't fix her door.
Eventually, she does open her eyes. She doesn't turn her gaze to Nick but towards the open doorway. "Why'd you have to go and do something like that?" Her voice is strained; her throat hitches. She has to hold herself together, though. Can't fall apart now. Not ever. And not here.
no subject
She's not the trouble herself, despite what she thinks... but she is in it. Though he scans her for injuries, he already knows the greatest wounds are within, that the monster she's fighting is one he can't even see.
He casts a glance toward the door as she finally speaks; his eyes are there and back again in the span of a second, returning to her. "It wasn't gonna open itself."
no subject
"Well, you just broke it down for nothing," she scoffs in a pitiable endeavor to bury herself under her actual emotions. It's a little hard to when her voice cracks and her shoulders shake from the leftover stress of... everything. Even harder, considering the wrecked state of her apartment.
Rey still doesn't meet his gaze, and instead focuses her attention towards the open space where her door used to be. If she could feign contempt, it'll be better. She can fight the ever-present meltdown looming on the horizon.
no subject
"All right. I broke it down because you weren't going to let me in." There's a pause, then, under his breath: "You still aren't letting me in."
no subject
That's the part that scares her, emerging from the stifling depths that she had been hammering down: She could be alone. Rey had spent plenty of time alone to know just how frightening it can be. Even more terrifying is the fact that she's used to it.
Hugging her legs, she draws her face over her knees and sighs a long, shuddering sigh.
"Don't want to fight, okay...? Tired of fighting. Just tired. Sorry. For everything."
She can't hold up her guise long enough to even challenge Nick. Chances are he'll just see right through it, anyway.
no subject
Though he's not expecting a full answer, he gives her a nudge anyway. He might not be able to help her, but he's found some folks find what they're looking for themselves just by talking it out.
"What happened?"
no subject
She slides her head up to rest her chin on her knees this time, finally making eye contact with Nick. When she does, there's no more fight left in her. Not to argue against his philosophies or even recount the events leading up to her trashing her own apartment. She's exhausted all those efforts. The cold, emotionless disposition dissolved into a weary, subjugated version of Rey.
"Have been such a bitch to you since we met. You've been nothing but kind, even when you were being treated like shit, and you don't deserve that, Nick." Truth be told, she doesn't deserve someone like him, either, but she knows he would have his differing opinion on the matter. She can't control who he decides is worth hanging around with any more than she can make him leave, she slowly figures out.
no subject
"I probably don't deserve to be stuck in this city either, but here I am." He offers her a reassuring smile with his attempt at levity before continuing. "But... I appreciate what you're saying. It'd have been easer to write you off, be as unkind as the world can be when you dug me up and gave me that look at said you were regretting it."
His smile fades as he looks down at his bare, metal hand, flexing his skeletal fingers before bringing his eyes back to hers. She may look more authentic than he ever will with his torn skin and exposed wiring, yet here he is, lecturing her on basic human compassion. The world is funny sometimes.
"It's not about what's easy, though. It's about doing what's right-- what's needed. And what you don't need is to be treated as anything less than human. No one deserves that."
no subject
"Don't regret it now," she admits. Her feelings are different. It's strange that she even has feelings on the matter, but there it is, and she thinks it's worth mentioning. After all the shit she's said to Nick, he at least has a right to know that things have changed. She has changed.
Her shoulders tuck inward as Nick speaks, her lips drawing a thin line. She nods.
Nick is right. He's been right. And it's just taken every stubborn metal bone in her body to concede to this fact.
"Am not very good at trying to be human." There is something to be said about the human-looking one struggling more so with being a person than the one that appears more machine. Such is Rey's life, though. An ongoing joke.
no subject
"Guess you'd better keep practicing, then," he notes. "You'll get the hang of it, so long as you don't try shutting everything out again."
no subject
While Rey is trying to better herself in some ways, there are still things that don't change. Quite a few of them are for the worst.
"Have you ever hurt someone you love, Nick?"
no subject
It's just one more reason to never trust the gods in Hadriel, no matter how benevolent they seem. They can control how a person feels, so even when their intentions are supposedly good, it boils down to the fact that those powerful beings are still using the people they've collected in the city. They're not better than the mere mortals; in many ways, they're far worse.
Given his line of work -- the original Nick's line of work -- he knows a lot about genuine monsters. As much of a danger as Rey might be, Nick can't bring himself to see her as a monster, not when they're so similar, and not when the real ones are still painfully fresh on his mind. As a machine, his memories don't fade the same way those of a flesh-and-blood human might.
And that's why he hesitates as she poses her question. He's had his fair share of cases gone wrong, times where the outcome shed more blood than he'd have liked. Some people do the unexpected; others will go no way but the hard way. He's had to fire on people he trusted, wound more than a handful of folks with words he knew would be disappointing, at the very best.
Even then, the worst he's done was doing nothing at all. He'd followed orders, done what he'd felt was right, and in the end, he was watching them bury his -- no, the original Nick's -- fiancé. Those memories aren't his, but... he can't help that they feel so real to him, real enough that he lives every day with the weight of a dead man's sins.
It's his turn to be avoidant, his brow knitting as he pushes down guilt; he's at a long time to wrestle with it, and he expects he'll have even more time yet. "Haven't we all?"
no subject
"Not like that," she says flatly, low and dark. "Am talking about a very specific hurt, the type that can't be mended or undone with an apology. 'For each man kills the thing he loves... yet each man does not die.'"
The very nature of those words are burrowed into Rey's memory. Words that she's been so often been encouraged to forget, and yet can't.
Won't.
Because history is an eternal cycle, often repeating itself. She'll keep on hurting those close to her if she continues to do the same thing, expecting different results. That's the very definition of insanity, after all. And she had spent enough time being insane to realize this.
no subject
That doesn't mean he can ignore those old memories, though. They might not be his, but they certainly feel like they are.
"I've done plenty I'm not proud of," he admits. "Me, and Nick Valentine. It's the sort of life he led, and the sort of world I was brought into."
no subject
Everyone has regrets, and most of the time it changes them, much in the way that they had molded Rey into the thing she has become now.
"In spite of all of that," she adds, "you're still a good person."
Not a machine, not a tool, but an actual living and thinking goddamned person. Because that's what Nick is, more so than she could ever hope to be, and sometimes wishes she could strive for.
The muscles in Rey's shoulders unwind. She doesn't shake as she had been before. Her breathing is even. Something warps in her temperament, though. Neither that of a machine or a woman, but another thing entirely. The scared, angry, happy, sad creature that she was is washed away in the blink of an eye, replacing it with something else. A stranger, and yet someone also vaguely familiar, because she has always been there.
"I killed my mother," is what she says at last. Even the way she speaks has altered, distorting the façade she wears around so many people, and only so few so rarely have ever seen. If one wasn't mistaken, it would almost seem as though she sounds human for a change. "I killed the first person who ever loved me. Even though I was a lost cause, a defect, something that should have been disposed of... she saw something in me that she thought was worth loving and saving in spite of all of that. And it got her killed. Because I was, I am, a defect. It should have been me to die, not her. A lot of people would still be alive if that's how things had gone."
What she unveils to Nick is her own greatest regret. The one thing she would give anything just to scrub clean and start over. She would have gone through with the termination that had been planned for her, accepted her fate as a broken thing that had no business existing anymore, if it ever had that right to begin with. To Rey, this is her most naked truth.
Honesty is a two-way street. If she expects Nick to be open with her about anything, then she has to be open to opening up as well. That's how this is supposed to work, isn't it?
...Hell if she knows.
no subject
There's also nothing that could have prepared him for what she says, or how she says it; his surprise shows as he leans back on his foot, his mouth pulling into a thin frown as he studies her. He'd wanted her to open up, to help him see eye-to-eye with her; he'd wanted the truth, and here it is: the true Rey, the one who's been hiding beneath the robotic personality and cold demeanor. He watches it happen before his eyes -- she shifts, changes, her voice becoming more... human than he's ever heard it. From the moment he met her, he'd noticed she had an odd way of speaking in that she didn't really refer to herself, as though leaving all those self pronouns like I and me out of her speech would keep who she is and who she'd been separate, keep them safe. He realizes now it was just another wall to hide behind.
And down that wall comes with the rest. He gives her a sympathetic look and slides off his knee to the floor, taking a seat beside her and leaning against the wall.
"You telling me this because you think I'm a good person?" he asks finally, casting a look at her from the side. "Or are you still hoping to chase me off?"
Or maybe she thinks he ought to know. No matter her answer, he's grateful in that moment to see the real her -- to know she was indeed in there somewhere, and that she isn't all metal and no soul.
no subject
"Neither." She swallows, her jaw tightening, and she wonders if she's going to regret saying all of this to Nick, sooner rather than later. For now, she just shakes her head. "Not that I don't think the former, or that I haven't attempted the latter. But if I wanted to chase you off, I'd have told you something far worse."
Implying that matricide isn't the worst thing she's ever done? Yes, yes she is. Just because it's not the worst thing doesn't mean it isn't the thing she would most want to take back, more so than anything she has done in her entire, long existence.
Rey glances to Nick, sitting beside her now rather than in front of her like he was a barrier, and there's some comfort to be found in that. "You're the one who was talking about being let in. So, I'm opening the door, and my only house rule is that this can't be one-sided. It's up to you whether you want to step through or not."
Though she has a feeling that she knows what his answer is going to be.
no subject
What she's saying makes sense, though. It's a two-way street: he can't expect her to be honest with him if he's not going to be honest with her. Maybe all he'd wanted was for her to embrace what humanity she has been offered -- more than him in some ways, and less in others -- but now that the door is open, he can't just close it at his convenience. That's not how it works.
She'd opened the door, and now he has to step through it. To him, it feels a little like accepting a partnership, albeit a partnership in crime given the subject matter.
His eyes trail to his metal hand again, the bare skeleton reminding him that he cannot change what he is -- both for better and for worse. "Whether or not I'm a person is debatable... and for as much as I preach about it, I'm not always kind."
His nose wrinkles as he processes old memories, ones who make him who he is, but that he wishes, sometimes, he could be rid of. "There's a man I want dead. What he did, he did two hundred years ago, and he didn't even do to me, but I just can't let it go."
He sighs. "When it comes right to it, I'm a machine looking for revenge on a guy who might not be alive anymore, and if he is, maybe he won't remember what he did, or what he took from me -- from Nick. It doesn't matter, because when I find him, I'm putting him down like the dog he is."
no subject
Rey is both curious and, admittedly, a little sad at Nick's admission that he himself doesn't think himself to be a person, when he has been one more than she ever has been. She considers him to be better person than many who call themselves human.
What gets to her more is his claim that he isn't always kind; soured by his desire for revenge on someone who didn't even wrong him personally, but the man who owns his memories. Rey can relate, in a way, as she carries with her the burdens of eight different women. Women who had suffered more hardships than most could even imagine. The only problem is that Rey has no way of tracking down the people who had wronged those women, thus the prospect of retribution is hardly on the table.
Only at Nick's position do the similarities draw the line.
"No one ever is completely kind. Never really pegged you for much of a saint, anyway," she points out. "And wanting justness, no matter whose it belongs to, doesn't make you unkind. It just shows how connected you are to the man whose memories you have."
She hesitates to bring up her own position on the subject matter, scratching her forehead in thought.
"Have been on the other end of someone's need for revenge. She has every right to it, too -- I'd taken away someone she deeply cared about. I don't hold it against her for wanting to put her ghost to rest. Neither would I think lesser of you for wanting the same."
In fact, Rey had practically offered that revenge up on a silver platter, though things obviously didn't end the way she had expected.
no subject
Rey's right: Nick is undeniably connected to the original Nick Valentine... and there's nothing he can do about it, aside from getting his memory wiped. That's not an option in his mind, as his memories -- Nick's memories, his personality, his morals -- make the synth who he is, allow him a modicum of humanity that other machines in his world are lacking. It's because of the original Nick that the synth version hasn't been destroyed just for being what he is, that he can work as a detective and be treated as though he were a real person. It's due to Nick that he has anything at all.
And ultimately, that's as much of a bane as it is a boon. Because of Nick, the synthetic Valentine has both everything and nothing. He's ust a copy of a man long dead; he has no personality of his own, no background, no thoughts or rationale or even behavior that wasn't lifted from someone else.
"I sometimes think about finding him," he continues, his eyes narrowing as he flexes those skeletal fingers again, "and about what I'll say. What I'll do. And I wonder if any of those things will even be for me. If this thirst for vengeance is mine, or if it's just something else that isn't. All that kindness I give folks comes from Nick's personality. Everything that drives me is his. Hell, even my name comes from him."
He's not a worthwhile prototype for the Institute, seeing how he was dumped in the trash and left on his own. He's not a human with his metal parts and bare hand. He's not entirely a machine, given he has a real mind downloaded to the hardware in his skull. He's not Nick Valentine. So just what is he?
no subject
"Nick is dead." Rey couldn't be any more blunt when she says this, but it's true. Two hundred years is a pretty good indicator that the original Nick is long gone and forgotten, save for this remnant keeping his legacy alive. "The things you do now and the kindness that you give don't belong to him. Your personality may be his, but the things you do are yours. You could have easily just decided not to do anything with what you've got, but instead you're putting it to use by doing some good."
Rey should be taking her own advice, she knows. But she isn't as much in conflict with her previous selves in the way that Nick is. She's made her peace with who and what she is, even put that knowledge to some good use herself. In fact, she wouldn't be here without those memories.
Nick, it seems, has differing opinions on the matter. And that's why she can't stay silent while she listens to him talk about himself this way.
"I couldn't give less of a shit who this guy is, or was -- you're the Nick that I know, the one that I'm fairly certain I can trust. That belongs to you as well. Not him."
Birds of a feather and all that.
no subject
While he can't help feeling like he owes the real Nick his entire existence, it does help to have someone else reassure him of his place in the world. It's even better that she's someone knows what it's like to be something not quite human, who has dealt with her own ghosts and struggled with her own identity in a way closer to him than anyone else he's ever met. They're not exactly the same, no... but they are definitely kindred in a way he can't possibly hope to be with other people.
"You know, for someone I've been trying to help, you're pretty good at this yourself," he says finally. "Looks like I'm the one who needed a talking to this time around."
A single laugh escapes him as he notes how the tables have turned on him. He even recalls what he told her only couple of weeks prior. "Guess I'm not alone in this, am I?"
no subject
It feels good to be able to help; she can see why someone like Nick would do it. More often than not, it's difficult for her to relate to other people to even know how to help them. Nick is different, though, in that he isn't that much different. Not from her, anyway. And there is solace in this, buried under the guilt that someone who actually knows what she's going through, to some extent, even exists.
The corner of her lip twitches, but she neither smiles nor laughs in the way Nick does. It's too much effort for her. "No, suppose you're not."
Just as Rey isn't alone in it anymore, either.
She hesitates, before including, "You know, I don't really think there's much to debate, about whether or not you're a person. I've seen how machines only pretending to be human act, and you're far more... You're not anything like them."
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"You're not wrong, I know," he adds. "It's just that I'm the only one I've met like me, back in the Commonwealth. I suspect I'm a prototype of some sort. Hopefully one-of-a-kind so that there aren't more synths running around as confused as I was when I woke up. Still, it makes for a lonely life at times. It's... it's nice to have someone to talk to about this sort of thing."
For all he knows, there might be another synth out there with the original Nick's personality. He might not be the only copy. But that's the nature of machines. They're far easier to make than people, more expendable. Nothing he has is his own, and there's not much he can do about it except try to accept that fact and make something for himself. He just hasn't figured out what yet.
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The sacrifices she endures for people. Seriously.
She makes a sound that's almost like a laugh, but not really. "Six years ago, I woke up in a morgue with a complete memory wipe. And I've never met anyone like me since then, either -- not even my own brother. So, I know how that all goes."
Perhaps she hadn't been wandering as aimlessly for so long as Nick has, trying to find a place in the world, but it's just one more thing that she can relate to with him. One more thing he doesn't have to feel so alone about, despite their dissimilarities.
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Which, given the state of her apartment, it's a good thing he'd been concerned enough to keep an eye on her. He pauses as he takes a look around, letting the silence between them hang as his eyes trail across her apartment, the scene a complete and utter wreck. "I know I didn't mention it earlier, since it didn't seem pertinent at the time, but it looks like you've been redecorating."
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The subject of the state she had left her once humble abode, however, swings her attention as well. She brings a hand over her face and sighs. When Rey is in emotional turmoil, she throws shit. It's what she does.
"Well, you didn't really give me time to clean up. Not that you're one to talk." She glances towards the opening where her door had once been. "Going to have to fix that now."
At least she doesn't sound annoyed. She could always be annoyed.
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That does bring something else to mind, however. "My thermometer picked up some unusual readings while I was out there waiting for you to decide whether or not you wanted to let me in. I thought the gods might've sent something after us again, or that the apartment was on fire."
He pauses there, letting his questions go unsaid for now.
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"What, you mean the fact that it's practically ninety degrees in here right now?"
She isn't bothered by the heat, mind you. And she doubts that Nick is, too. But she isn't surprised to hear about his thermometer concerns.
"Yes," she confirms. "That was me. Had a little mishap, but it's under control now."
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And more, he doesn't want her to be alone. She doesn't need to be alone, not when she's still working things out. She might find another place with a roommate, but having her in the same spire as him has been convenient, to say the least.
"Well, if you need a place to stay for a while, I know a guy with an extra room. Lives right above you, I hear."
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"Suppose I'll have to have a word with this guy. Wouldn't want to be intruding on him or anything."
Smartass.
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Smartass synthetics need to stick together. Birds of a feather, indeed.
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"Hey. You're almost making me feel sorry for him."
Truth be told, Rey never really did care for living by herself, anyway, so it doesn't take much convincing on Nick's part.
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He says that with a smile as he gets to his feet, offering her a hand up -- not that she needs it, but the gesture is in his nature.
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What Nick presents is a simple gesture, one that is expected from a lot of good-natured people like him. And, coming from someone like her, she would have declined said gesture and gotten up on her own because she could.
It isn't about what she can do, though. It's about accepting something that she so seldom allows herself to. About changing her patterns.
With that, she accepts his offer, able to push herself up onto her feet just fine without Nick's help. But again, it's the gesture that's appreciated.
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And Nick fully intends to do that. As dark a place as the city can be, he's excited by the prospect of helping out someone a little like him, and being helped by her in return. Maybe he'll believe what she said one day: that he's more of a person than he realizes or cares to admit. She is, too -- he will argue that until his skeleton rusts.
He leads the way up to his apartment, leaving the door to hers broken, ajar, hopefully to never close on him again.