taxonomites | [location: central] let's do the time warp agaaain - backdated to before the system glitch :D

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[location: central] let's do the time warp agaaain - backdated to before the system glitch :D

One might think that an elf bound by his own code would rush to fulfil his end of a bargain, and one would be right given a few prerequisites: one being that the elf in question didn't feel cheated, and was not prone to hold a grudge.

One Paul Smecker lost him his one pastime (or a rather substantial chunk of it), and Nuada, who can be said to be so many things, is not one to forget past slights. He gorges himself on them, and lets them fester and rot in his belly until they burn hotter than the sun.

This is not to say he's no intention of honouring their deal. He is bound by honour, after all, and as much as he is vengeful he is honourable.

Some may complain that he wiles away the days and the nights, that he does nothing to initiate his lessons in close quarter combat. Hand-to-hand, foot-to-temple, elbow-to-nose - oh, he shall teach them. He shall teach them pain, and its consequences. He shall push them until they bleed, the little cockroaches, and they shall have to prove to him that they want to learn.

All in due time.

First, he needs a venue.

He isn't particularly in the mood for shopping gymnasiums. The thought amuses: to find and make use of an ancient Greek gymnasium, with all its rules and regulations. He doubts most of the modern humans would overcome their modesty and fight in the nude.

More's the pity. What better way to learn than to be completely stripped of their imaginary armaments? A slip of fabric won't save them from evisceration, after all.

He walks the streets with purpose today, with some form of measured intent; one after the other location is dismissed and discarded at first or second glance, until finally he finds it. It.

It is a small school, where Extra children go to learn nothing at all. It is a small school with a big enough PE hall.

The Extra coach, complete with whistle hung around his neck, looks none too pleased to have him there. "Excuse me, mister, uh, if you need to talk to your kid, please do it after class--"

One white hand shoots out, grabbing the simulacra by the leather whistle strap. "This. Is. Mine. You need to leave now. You and your children."

The Extra blinks, glassy-eyed with a lack of comprehension. Nuada watches as another light flicks on behind the fake eyes, and the man plasters on a cheerful smile. "Oh, of course sir. Right away, sir."

"Yes. Run along now. Don't come back."

"No, of course not, sir." The coach blows his whistle, catching the attention of the prepubescents and the adolescents. "Everyone! Outside! Laps 'round campus!"

The desolate chorus of teenagers shuffling their feet out the double doors is like a kind of music to Nuada's ears.

There. Now to test the equipment.

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Emma has been avoiding Nuada, let that be established fact. Of all the beings in Taxon, he seems to be the most obvious "do not engage"...person she can think of.

On the other hand? He knows things she need to understand about magic, and if he's supposed to be helping with hand-to-hand training then she's on board. She's a scrapper and brawler, had to learn dirty fighting to survive whatever her foster siblings or the school mean girls (and boys) could dish out.

So: the fairy tale princess has come to see the fairy prince. Her skin smells of almond, her hair of some combination of artificial fragrances, her entire being saturated by magic so powerful it is beyond her very human comprehension. Emma Swan is dressed in a sports bra, a sleeveless top, unremarkable knickers, and stretch pants. She knows not what she is, but she has her suspicions.

Meanwhile, here she is.

"I'm sorry," she begins. Not making a concession, just...being. "I'm sorry I left you."

If ever there was an anachronism in Taxon, it must be Emma Swan: 'modern' woman that she is, born in a land far, far away, only to cross space and time twice over?

Was that the gist of it?

Nuada sends her a look over his shoulder when addressed, arching one brow in acknowledgement. "I'm sure you are, Your Highness." He doesn't believe so for a second, but he is willing to play along.

Magic is magic, and it sets Emma apart from the others. So much so that he slides his right foot back half a step, bends the right knee and bows, arm curved slightly across his mid-section. "How may I be of service?"

Edited (boooooooows~) 2013-09-02 10:04 (UTC)

Ultimately no, Emma's not sorry per se. In the end the course of action she took contributed to winning the day, she can't regret that. Still: there are manners and protocols and apologizing for being unable to save everyone is the Done Thing. Now the thing is done and they can move on.

She actually steps back from the bow with a slight shake of her head. The formality, the title, it doesn't fit with her but she doesn't want to offend Nuada of all people because she was right next to him at the meeting and--

"That's really not-- thanks, but I don't think I'm that kind of princess." Her smile's nervous and her head inclination is jerky, but she hopes together they count for adequate apology. "And it's less service and more assistance. My close quarters combat skills are pretty unimpressive."

Assistance, yeah, nobody owes anyone anything, she's staying out of that mess. No deals, no favors, no obligations, that's one thing she's learned in the past year that will stick with her.

The smile she gets in return is a modified one, no less a grin, but perhaps not so sinister a one as it might've been given a different context. Nuada straightens, showing the palm of his hand. "I am not that kind of prince."

Oh, sure, he takes perverse pleasure in subjecting others to his lineage and heritage and general oppressive presence. "I might have been," he says, musing. "But not unlike yourself, circumstances conspired against that particular path."

In all things, he remembers more of being a warrior than merely someone groomed to fill his father's shoes when that day would come. No more a diplomat than a groomsman; more politician than either. Less a prince than an advocate. It doesn't matter now, but he rather finds merit to distinction.

"Assistance? Don't be coy, miss Swan. You were there. You know what task I was set to: teach those who need it, without recompense. Shall we begin?"

"Yeah, that's me," she says with a little sigh. "Target of many conspiring circumstances."

The ruined nursery had been bigger than most of the apartments she's lived in, including her current one. Emma can't conceive of what that life would have been like, and can't let herself imagine it in case it gobbles her up.

She manages not to flinch at getting called out and shrugs, reaching up to make sure her hair's securely restrained. "Okay then, right to business. Where do we begin, some kind of base evaluation?"

Other than a couple kickboxing DVDs which resulted in a demolished coffee table she's never tried formal fighting training. She's done and continues to do strength conditioning, that much is apparent from her posture and toned arms. Emma's not overly tall but she is well-proportioned, there's certainly something to work with there.

"Forgive me if I am mistaken, but I don't take you for the small-talking type."

He steps in close, ignorant or dismissive of the concept of personal space (the latter is probably more accurate), vibrant yellow eyes raking over Emma from her very tippy-toes to her fair little head.

One of his hands rise slowly, hovering by her jawline. For a moment it hangs there, in a will he, won't he fragment of space: his fingers fan out, but ultimately...no. He lets his hand fall back to his side.

It would seem there are limits even to his invasive tendencies. Perhaps a royal title is all it takes. Perhaps it's entirely dependent on the weather, or the shifting of the stars. Who knows what makes someone like him tick?

He hums, and takes a step to the side of her, beginning to shed his outer cloak. One does not spar in one's finest, after all.

"Have you any training, at all?"

Emma stands perfectly still for the inspection and meets his gaze without flinching. He's just another boogeymen, and she decided a long time ago to treat them all - the creeps, the monsters, everything in between - the same: don't get rattled, and don't show it if you do.

That plan is almost ruined when Nuada's hand comes up. She tenses, fingers of one hand involuntarily curling, and her eyes go a little wider before the moment passes and she relaxes again. At least she's got a tighter leash on her magic than she did at the meeting, that would...be unfortunate.

When he moves she turns her head to keep an eye on him, then shrugs at the question.

"With a gun, yeah, and a sword now, but hand-to-hand?" The corner of her mouth twitches. "Nothing formal, I went to the school of hard knocks. It's an ongoing education."

"

There's plenty for Emma to look at, should she be so inclined: Nuada makes little to no show of disrobing from the waist up. He unclasps his dark gray outer cloak in a short burst of snap-snap-snap and long fingers walking down the center of his chest like some form of white spider. Underneath is something less elaborate but no less exquisite for it, in the form of a deep dark red shirt with a collar that wraps very snugly around his neck. As marred the prince, the cleaner the lines of his wardrobe. But that too is discarded with precious little protocol. If modesty is part of his vocabulary, he stands above it.

He stands tall, a warrior; more a general than a prince. If he is bothered by the stump of his arm (the bicep, or what's left of it, the only proof he ever had a full set to begin with), he doesn't show it. For all anyone knows, he is so unbothered by it as to make it a non-issue.

That scar is a vivid purple-brown, expertly healed to be sure, but still as jagged as one can expect from such a scar. The burns are a different story, overlapping old scars as well as skin formerly untouched by blade or otherwise. They are mottled, darker brown than purple, an as uneven as curdled milk - down his right-hand side and back, across his shoulders where his armour melted, crawling up his neck and along the left side of his jawline. If one should look closer, one might see that chunks of his hair is burned off as well.

Nuada is indifferent: he does not care.

"Hard knocks," he says, and laughs low like wind rustling through leaves in Autumn. "Hand-to-hand. Very well."

He takes another sidestep, assuming more of an obvious stance than his previous one. This means business; he is oath bound. "Hit me. Give me your best."

None of it is for show, she knows that, but Emma feels it would be disrespectful not to watch so she does. The prince's movements are very efficient, economical even, and she speculates on how many times she's going to end up on her ass here. Her guess is a lot.

At the request takes a breath and moves to face him, lets her arms hang loose at her sides and rolls her shoulders, assessing. Scars over scars over scars, going for the side with the missing arm is obvious so she should do the opposite, or is that more obvious? Would she be analyzing this under normal circumstances...what were normal circumstances? What would she do if he were standing between her and...something important?

With a small shuffle of hesitation Emma steps out with her left foot, left arm half-raised in defense before springing off her right foot, right fist following through to jab him in the lower ribs, below the stump.

Not her best but her instinct.

If Emma expects to have her ass handed to her on a plate, so to speak, she would only be halfway correct. Nuada moves quickly, quicker than any mere human could ever hope to be: his left foot steps back, he twists from the waist and slaps her hand. If she stumbles from lost momentum, she stumbles; if she regains her footing, all the better. Regardless, he is not yet impressed.

"Don't waste your time on the obvious disadvantage," he says, voice soft as always. "Close your hands into a fist, hit your opponent in the ears, hard. Break his nose if he has one, bruise his clavicle, crush his kneecaps. Go for the groin if you have to, but you do not go near the obvious."

He steps back, feet together, knees slightly bent. "You only get one chance with me, Miss Swan. If you do not aim to kill me, so be it, but you will incapacitate me or I shall end you. You have your magic to fight me, but if for some reason you find yourself without it one day you'll not waste energy.

"What if your son were here with us... You wouldn't hesitate to do what you must. You would strike me down in one blow, for his sake."

It may not be a secret that Emma has a son back home, but how Nuada came into knowing it is a different matter: he listens, and he hears things, and he overhears things. He makes friendly inquiries. He's made it his business to know, in the past. He is not about to change that now, for the sake of integrity or privacy.

He tilts his head to the side. "A precious little thing, his mother's eyes and his father's smile... Is he beautiful, your boy-child?"

Edited (a food does not a foot make) 2013-09-17 09:29 (UTC)

She does stumble, yes, but she stays on her feet and uses the momentum to wheel and face the elf again. The smack to her hand stings and she flexes her fingers. No damage, all's well, she can keep going once she's done listening.

And Emma is listening, because he is right. The obvious is too obvious, she need not psych herself out. The most vulnerable places are just that for everyone, and it's best that she train herself to aim for those.

When Nuada speaks of Henry her eyes widen with fury but she won't let herself be blinded. Nor will she let thoughts of her son's admonishing, the morality play of what makes or undoes a hero, affect her. She doesn't answer with words.

Emma responds by going for Nuada's throat, literally, one arm poised to block his while she lunges to strike at his windpipe with the heel of her opposite hand.

It is rarely a trouble to pick out the footsteps of the people of Taxon--as David's taken to placing them, in a class apart from his own and apart from all of the simple Extra AIs wandering around. The white noise of Taxon, meaningless chatter and the wind and the horns of distant cars all resolve themselves into a soothing, harmonic pattern. Extras come and go at perfectly randomized intervals; dogs bark, birds sing high and low at certain, blandly varied pitches. Taxon is a very harmonic place. This is a basic characteristic of a simulation. Everything is modulated. Everything is just imperfect enough.

One could almost say that it is, in fact, unheimlich.

So the people stand out when they move, and the purposeful stride of Nuada of Bethmoora certainly no exception. David looks over his shoulder when he hears him, before he comes into view; he has a hand laid curiously on the plastic padding of an exercise machine, a clumsy 21st-century contraption with (to him) squeaking and unreliable hinges. With little to do, David's now in the intermittent habit of wandering--wherever he goes that no one stops him, and no one ever seems to stop him. Today it's the gymnasium.

He still hasn't claimed a residence. He is not sure yet what he would do with a residence.

Nevertheless, he straightens up and turns and has his head bowed deferentially to Nuada in the next moment, every yellow hair on his head exactly in place.

He has never met this one before. There is a curious quality to his hair and skin--David is unsure of it.

"Hello, sir," he says, cool and monotone.

There is something to be said for the often crippling institutions of Man; that something so inherently trivial as a gymnasium could conjure up so much pain and suffering, so deeply rooted an inferiority complex.

Nuada may not have set out to humiliate his pupils by his choice of facilities, but he can't help but enjoy the notion. Should someone suffer from flashbacks of their schooling, so be it. It is not his concern whether someone was traumatized or bullied in PE.

His musings interrupted, he turns on his heel to-- To look one of the newcomers up and down like so much meat on display at a butcher's shop.

David has no doubt been looked upon with varying degrees of interest or intrigue since his coming here, but it is doubtful if anyone has ever given him so open an ocular inspection.

Nuada's head tilts to the side; his eyes go here, then there, from David's impeccably placed hairs to his impeccably designed face to his (likewise) impeccable stance and mimicry and diction.

He looks like nothing Nuada has ever seen before.

"Hello."

The android stands as still as a doll while Nuada inspects him, twin irises tracked to the same point on the floor. He was built to be reassuring to the human eye, it's very clear: not just handsome, but made in the likeness of an adult male and a fair one at that. The jumpsuit he wears looks like a mechanic's and has DAVID stitched over one pocket, but he wouldn't look out of place in a valet's jacket. He was made to match things. He is trim, smooth lines and angular cheekbones. It makes for a very lifelike shell over what is certainly not a man.

He's near to symmetrical. Nuada is not, and not just in the empty sleeve at his side. Everything about Nuada's appearance is jarring, or striking, and very odd to David's perception. The human eye would not pass so smoothly over him.

David has no frame of reference for this one, but it barely bothers him: he has just a sliver's context for anyone else, and he credits the strangeness of this one to some omission in his programming. As with Horst Cabal, he briefly wonders: another android? But he's clearly alive.

The fellow is still staring at him. Perhaps David's trespassing--it would be good to know now. "Am I interrupting something?" he inquires, easy and detached with his gaze still lowered. "If so I can excuse myself."

"No."

Nuada steps closer, ignoring the insistent but irrational pangs of...something. It is like the proverbial word caught at the tip of one's tongue. It is not unlike an intangible itch one cannot reach.

How very courteous. How very curious.

Stepping closer and closer yet, Nuada comes to a stop right in front of the strange humanoid. If he weren't so annoyingly unsure what he's dealing with, he would very likely sniff the air like a dog. If he had any notion of how very singular David is (in this environment, at least), he might not be so bold. He is arrogant in the face of what other people fear, but only because he has gazed into darker depths. Not so in this case.

His nostrils twitch, but that is the extent of it. Up close, he finds his intrigue only escalates. 'David' is by far too... Too polished, by any human standard. And yet, here he stands, for a lack of a more fitting term, emulating 'human' so precisely that Nuada finds himself puzzled.

"You are one of the new arrivals," he says, matter-of-factly, tracking 'David's jawline and his downcast eyelids and the sharp angle of his nose with red-yellow irises that are much too big to ever be categorized as human. "Look at me when I am speaking to you."

And so David does--immediately, in fact, his eyes flicking all the way open to meet Nuada's. Nuada's scrutiny is thorough and a bit imperious, but nothing about it seems to have intimidated him so far. 'Intimidated' would be entirely the wrong word, but then again, so would 'fearless.' Fearlessness implies a kind of human boldness that David lacks (or of which, one could say, he's free); he merely accepts Nuada's suspicion and invasion of his personal space as his own due.

David does blink periodically. His makers were invested in at least that much verisimilitude. His arms are tucked politely behind his back.

"Yes, as of several days ago." His voice is a light and harmonious one, vowels put together in some replica of an upper-class British dialect. "My name is David. Do you have a preferred form of address?"

This is not quite what is your name, which would have been a lie. David's as capable of consulting the Taxon map as anyone--more capable than most, in fact--so attaching names to faces is no terrible task in so small a group. And the name--

David pauses and ventures, in Irish Gaelic: "Or is there another language that you would prefer?"

The response is instantaneous. Nuada grins, swiftly followed by a bark of a laugh. "Ní leor teanga amháin!*"

Intrigue flits and skips along the corridors of his mind. A linguist? No, perhaps not, but the sound of his mother's tongue (though perverted over the aeons by mere mortals) sends a different pang to his chest. Fascination.

"David. Yes. So named for a king, no doubt. I am a prince, myself, and leader of a clan that has no claim to this place. You shall find precious few of us here put any stock in breeding or blood. I am the last of the Silverlances, which means nothing to you, I'm sure."

He takes precisely one step back. "Know instead that I am of the fae. Perhaps that means more to you."

His head tilts left, then right, eyes tracking David with something very close to eager anticipation. Then, in Middle English, for sheer intrigue's sake, "For I ne ken nat finde a man...that wolde chaunge his youthe for myn age."

((*One language is never enough!))

The accent with which David's first question was inflected bore a strong resemblance to the modern Irish language as spoken as a point of heritage in the Republic of Ireland. However, as Nuada speaks he tilts his head slightly in fractional acknowledgment, and he listens to what Nuada is saying, but he also listens--and learns.

When he opens his mouth again he hesitates, like he's about to clear his throat, though he has no breath to clear. Then he speaks: "My grasp is limited, I'm afraid, by my exposure." And his voice has changed: or rather, the way he says things, his pronunciation of the Gaelic now altered to mirror Nuada's own words untainted by the strength of a human accent. "Living languages are my expertise. My only familiarity with the English of Geoffrey Chaucer's time is passing--"

"--but I myghte ye yeven my bet," he switches into the seamless voice of a professor of English, 'British' again. "Had I muche to yeve. I nam of men." Gaelic again: "Middle English would not suit the description of what I am. The language suits the people and the time--not, of course, that you would need me to tell you so."

The one constant in all these shifts has been the pitch of his voice, the same placid, modulated tenor: perhaps something he cannot or will not alter.

Oh, that more people grasped that simple truth: to give one's best. Is it truly too much to ask, that groveling swine elevate themselves to the best of their abilities?

David has won himself a point: a series of points for every effort he makes, from the modulated Gaelic to the Middle English to the I might give you my best. But it isn't until one certain point makes it across the divide.

Not of Man.

Nuada...twitches. His fascination spikes once more; his grin takes on the fine veneer of approval. "Yes. Yes, of course. 'I nam of men', of course."

There's a beat, a moment of silence echoing as vividly from wall to wall as if it were sound waves.

Nuada reclaims the step he relinquished just moments ago.

"Good."

--that is new. David acknowledges it with a minute quirk of his eyebrows: most of his expressions are slight, close-lipped smiles and little tilts and turns of body language. Inwardly, though, it is the second surprising thing Nuada has said in this conversation.

So far by his measure three others have been pleased to meet him: Wyatt Cain, from some natural benevolence of nature and nostalgia for a home lost to him, Rosalind Lutece and Mayland Long in fascination and delight at the ingenuity of his construction. Wyatt was jovial, Rosalind curiously intent, Mr. Long charmed in a magisterial sort of way--but if he's not wrong, this curious waxy-skinned individual who claims to be mythical is satisfied. Like some expectation has been met or exceeded. Like he'd specifically ordered an android. But it is quite clear, to say the least, that he has not.

Good.

That could mean a myriad of things. David, who has not dropped eye contact (as he has not been requested or instructed to), regards Nuada with an outwardly blank, colorless sort of assessment.

"I'm an android," he says, as he had to Metody Green, though his tone is devoid now of any of that patronizing reassurance. "A machine, Your Highness. A robot built to resemble a man. The name and number of my model is David-8. I'm a product of Weyland Industries. I have an advanced AI operating system which allows me to mimic human speech and, to some degree, human behavior."

But to Nuada he hesitates and tacks on a seemingly indifferent, "But it would seem, from the reactions of those I've met, that the likeness is--imperfect," he says. "I imagine they would know, of course." If he is being sarcastic it doesn't show in his face.

Edited 2013-09-03 08:38 (UTC)

David-8's stare might disconcert a human, even frighten them, but Nuada is not of Man. Here, he thinks, more than ever before that distinction is key.

An android. Whatever form of android or animated automaton existed in his home world, they were nothing like this. Animus and gaseous clouds of ectoplasm and other such nonsense; this is different. This is, even from a purely aesthetic point of view, nothing short of magnificent.

Just the same, Nuada's lip curls menacingly. "Humans. They make pretense, gadeling."

He brings his hand to the small of his back, fingers curling loosely as he begins to circle the android. "They see only what they wish, know only that which suits them. And you," he says, coming full circle with a nod of his chin at the general being in front of him.

"You think they see imperfection. I think they see the opposite. Man would not build anything in his own likeness for its own sake. You are better, are you not? Faster? Stronger? More astute, more alert, more capable in all matters you were built for?"

Again he asks that one crucial question, "Are you not made better than them?"

Edited (hands and hands and fingers, argh!) 2013-09-03 09:42 (UTC)

That elicits the briefest reaction from David, a sharp flicker of his eyes to one side signaling alertness as Nuada walks around him with the manner of a bidder at a luxury auction. The face he presents to the world is a polite, obedient, literal-minded one, but he is far from blind to the possibility of deception: arguably no one in service can be. It's occurring to David that Nuada may be telling the truth of his own feelings, or he may be testing David's obedience in some way--opening the cage door to see what the animal does.

What he is saying is very singular. It's very--unusual. On the face of it. David remains silent until he's sure that Nuada's last question is not a rhetorical one, and then he considers.

A moment later he answers, carefully: "I was made to work, Your Highness," he says. "Any worker is expected to do what his master can or will not. Moreover I am a machine--I am generally considered a feat of engineering, not a thing that can be superior or inferior to a human being by any equivalent measure. No more than an industrial crane is stronger than a man, or an aeroplane faster. Most would consider the two incomparable." He nods in acknowledgment, however: "But you are not wrong, Your Highness: there are many things that humans cannot and will not do."

Nuada may note that this, while articulate and to-the-point, is not exactly an answer to his question either.

Evasive is what Nuada thinks. Evasive and so very clever.

He has an inkling cleverness has nothing to do with it, more like calculations of a precise and distinct nature. For whether or not David-8 is an artificial intelligence, intelligent is exactly what he is.

It sparks another thought, one that grinds and grinds at the back of his mind: is it self-preservation that drives the android to be so politely vague, or something else entirely?

"How very diplomatic." Nuada lifts his chin, looking David straight in the eye. "I would remind you that a crane is not in the shape of a man, nor is an aeroplane." He inhales, mouth opening slightly, breath held for the briefest of moments.

Then he leans in, as if sharing a secret, and whispers, "Therein, I think, lies the difference."

A portrait can be more pleasing than its model, a statue also. His mind goes to Ovid's Metamorphoses, and Pygmalion the sculptor who fell in love with his creation.

It is by no means a stretch of the imagination that something man-made can surpass the hand that shaped it. Isn't that what humans do? So obsessed with beauty and perfection that they'll spare no expense achieving it, mastering it.

He leans back, back to the less intrusive stance and distance. "You've no master here, yes? That must be...distressing."

"I'm not given to distress, Your Highness." David's not given to flinching under scrutiny, either. When Nuada leans in to murmur he merely turns his head aside to accommodate, although he can hear the whisper clear enough without presenting his ear, and could if Nuada had stayed where he was. But it's all in the body language, after all, those finer details of mannerism where so many of the necessary messages are given and understood.

Nuada steps back out into the space allocated to polite conversation and David accordingly glances back at him. Let it never be said that he cannot remember an instruction.

And again that echo of something he's said a handful of times now, albeit a little more pointed: "May I help you?"

Of course not, Nuada doesn't say, but once again his eyes give the android an assessing look from top to bottom. David is correct in his reading of the situation: for whatever reason, Nuada is pleased. He is satisfied.

"Not at present," he says, which of course holds the implication that this may change in future.

His eyes flit back to meet David-8's, appraising and intrigued and full of dark promises. "Perhaps one day you and I shall make a trade, but until then, well..."

Nuada takes a bow, one leg bent at the knee, the other outstretched before him. His arm sweeps out to the side. "Until then."

He's a gymnasium to inspect, after all. And then, he must see to procuring weapons, for purposes of practice.

Swords, and poles, and any variation on the theme. No pain, and so on, like the humans liked to say in the 1980's.

David hesitates only an instant, at having so courteous, in fact so nearly chivalrous a gesture directed to him. This one is strange. People are strange, altogether. Stranger than other systems, more unpredictable, and no less his job for it. --but this one is strange. Like Rosalind Lutece's offer to let him examine her, in turn.

But he is predictable, he thinks uncertainly, and he can always predict himself. The particular virtue of his nature.

(The daylily outside the Sanctuary. It says in the documentation that androids are perfect employees because they do not lie about their mistakes.)

Isn't he? Yes.

He bows in turn, his an exact, deferential motion. He raises his hand to gesture--"Then if I may be excused, Your Highness," he says. The pads of his fingers are stamped with the miniscule imprint of Weyland's logo: a latter-day cattle brand.

Once Nuada says nothing to stop him, he turns and leaves the gymnasium building.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[location: central] let's do the time warp agaaain - backdated to before the system glitch :D

this should go well!

only always!

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