[Walking away from this conversation isn't a choice he's able to make, so he's silent through the abrupt stop and the dead air while Richie reboots. (His patience for putting up with bullshit has limits—Boxer doesn't have the highest opinion of himself, but he's got at least enough self worth not to put up with being a punching bag for a near-stranger. As understandable as Richie's outburst is for a guy in his position, where he's taking it out could use some work.) But Richie's not a total jerk, he's just drunk and adjusting, and he walks himself back with enough remorse to earn a second shot at that question.
He finds his ground by starting out sarcastic, but the sharper edge on his voice evens back out to one that's warily wry.]
I'll consider that a compliment, I think.
[Far as he can tell, whatever proxy the Transistor generates for him is pretty indistinguishable from the real thing at a glance. Feels pretty solid, too. Which is nice, because he gets to have passing conversations with people without going through the inevitable personal-question what are yous that follow. Maybe if there was an easier way to answer it, it'd be less of a hurdle. But as it stands, he'd just as well avoid the whole thing if he's got a way to dodge it.
Kind of past that now, though. Maybe not as helpfully as Richie was hoping—]
Still working out just what this thing can do. Burns out for a while if I press my luck. [Hence, occasionally getting stranded as it's convenient for my threads.] Nice to be me again, though. For a while.
[A beat. Rueful, but not biting, this time—] Or...the old me, I guess.
[Richie does snort at the return fire.] Yeah, keep up whatever spa treatments you've got going. Take a couple protein shakes, hit the gym, and we'll get you full human in six weeks or less. Bodybuilding for the sword-bound.
[If only things were that simple.
As far as Richie's concerned, it seemed like the advent of the fantastical hasn't gone to solving many problems. If anything, it's made things worse. Most of the people here were slopping around in the shitter for one reason or another, and more often than not it was something outlandish that punted them in the porcelain bowl. Living a charmless life might not guarantee anything got fixed either, but fuck. You at least had some agency. What was a guy like this going to do? Run errands for a witch until she saw fit to set him free?
He doesn't get the full story, but the ire is gone from Wally's voice. That's a start. Richie sniffs and has to wipe his nose with a free sleeve. He quickens the pace. It's mighty chilly out here.]
So you were human to begin with. And then...you pissed in a wizard's garden? Filched a cursed sword from some angry mummy's tomb? [His only references for this kind of thing were children's fairy tales and Sandra. He's tempted to ask if it was the same guys that did it but that's probably edging on loose-lipped, and he doesn't do loose-lipped when it matters. That's Sandy's story to tell, not his.] Can you only turn human in moonlight, or what?
[Comfort in knowing you can keep your trash mouth shut, Richie. Even if he and Sandra hashed it out already—wouldn't do a ton for his cautious show of confidence here to hear that Richie's the type to gossip. He watches the alleyways pass them steadily by as Richie hurries himself up. Ready to interject if they take a wrong turn or hit the right door. Simply, and too surface-casual for the content—]
Took a hit. Got myself killed. [A little simpler than Richie's propositions. If mostly just to start. The rest, as they say—] When I came to, inside—
[A beat, and the flashing light in the Transistor holds steady for a second or so. Well—]
Think you get the picture. [Now that he's dragging it around. The wry tip to his voice had settled to a steady constant. But here, it kicks up to noticeable again. Anyway, to get toward that last point—] Maybe our benefactors figured I'd be more good to them if I could get myself around.
[...Even if it's only now and then. Kind of a recent development.]
Can't say I can complain about the upgrade. ...Temperamental or not.
[He'd gone about resigning himself to much less, back in Cloudbank. But, y'know. It's definitely not exactly a fix, either. Still takes some getting used to.]
[That's the most sober he'd sounded all night. One note of fright, dash of shock. How? Why? Then waking inside the sword.] Why the...Jesus. Was it this thing that did it? Did it suck the soul out of you?
[Suddenly, it seems too heavy to hold. Much to close. Richie pulls it back and takes a second look at the gleaming lines, gold inlaid in green glass. Just what was this thing?]
...I just. Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, that's...fucking unreal is what it is. How are you not going bananas in there? Can you see from it?
[And the Orbiters had seen fit to give him a little pick me up. Not enough to fix the real issue. Of course not, that would be far too sensible a miracle. But then the dead should stay resting, shouldn't they?
And what shell was it that got to walk around with the living? Something made of wire and rubber, or an illusion? Physical phantom of the man he used to be. They say that all your perceptions of reality stem from that grey loaf that lies ticking between your ears. Didn't he know it? Things could reach in and tweak a nerve and suddenly you're seeing things, hearing things, masterful illusions but real ones, stroke and touch it baby, see if you can tell the difference.
Makes him wonder if everyone's seeing the same guy he is.]
Yeah, real generous of them, I guess. But with all the miracles they're pulling why wouldn't they just go all the way?
[There's an odd moment, as the gravity of his situation seems to sink in on Richie's end, where he regrets his honesty. But really, he's missing his proper body and stuck as a spectator in a sword. Figured the getting-offed part wasn't much of a reach. All things considered. After a moment—]
Good question. I'm not so sure. [Dryly. Sure, he's wondered. Royce had asked him, if he hadn't wondered. He's seen Sybil locked up in one of those pods on the station so—so it must be possible. So it's hard not to wonder. And here he is. But he's never been a clear cut case. His Trace has been listed as non recoverable from the start. So maybe there just isn't enough there to save. Or...maybe the effort was more than they were willing to spend on him without paying out his dues out, first.
He hasn't pried into it. Maybe in part because it feels like looking a gift horse in the mouth to find the catch. Admitting it's too good to be true. But also...because his priorities don't tend to settle on himself. He'd been willing to try to live with much less, and that hasn't changed. So he can be okay, he thinks. Tries to think. As long as Red is okay.]
I can see you. If I look up. Don't think I was really supposed to wind up like this, though. [in the quiet, empty place he woke up in. Inside. (Himself. Or...a copy of himself. Some snapshot of himself as he'd been when the Transistor had killed him. Would he be able to tell the difference? Is there a difference? Between the real thing and some overactive Trace data that thinks itself a person.) Usually the Trace just...goes quiet. Gets filed away, somewhere. Far away from him.] ...Might not be an "all the way." Not anymore. Better me than the alternative.
[Better him than Red. Even then, he hadn't managed to protect her. She'd lost her voice, he hadn't been able to stop it. But the Transistor is a tool of creation, as much as anything else. So it's not all that impossible to imagine it can construct something to bridge the gap, if it could be persuaded to. The ins and outs of how it all works are still a loud mystery to him. So maybe not the best thing to discuss while half the conversation is half-sober at best.]
[The alternative. He's not sure what that's supposed to be hinting at. The broadness of the shock, the impetus of his imprisonment casts a long shadow over the rest of his thoughts. Even so Richie has a pause for that single word.
The alternative, the other. Option B over Option A. Better me than blank.
Thickly and on an oblique, the answer slots into place. Better me than the other guy. Someone else's gut got to stay in a smooth curve where Wally's took a split down the middle. If the guy hadn't started out with musing on how there might not be an "all the way" it might have dawned on Richie quicker — he'd been half caught in wondering what would have been left behind.
Maybe that's why he never gave a name. Maybe he didn't have one anymore. Speculation on speculation, all built on specks and dust.]
Sounds like it. [Richie huffs. They're pulling up close on their destination now, and there are the occasional passerby even at this late hour. He keeps his voice low. Wouldn't do to have funny glances coming their way. Although he might be able to pass it off as practice. Picking up a new voice, cousin, gimme some feedback will ya?] I take it it's not the time, but...that's all up to you. Sounds like a shit package you got delivered, and I know that isn't the kind of thing you want to be prying open in company.
But...if there's anything I can do...[He halts at a crosswalk. Waits for a couple to pass and a late-night carriage.] You know, you go poof and get stuck out in the sticks again, you can holler for me. I won't mind.
[He keeps obligingly quiet while they pass the locals. More than willing to keep from drawing more attention than necessary. Fending off the questions isn't a problem he's looking to drop on Richie's head, not at this time of night. And they're almost home free.
Richie's alright, he figures. He's not in much place to judge about a little foot-in-mouth. And the offer—much as the edge of sympathy in it sits uncomfortably on him—isn't one he has to give. He laughs, once. Dryly.]
Hoping I get the hang of it sooner rather than later. [Wishful thinking, maybe. Sounds like he knows it.] But I'll keep it in mind.
[He doesn't have regrets about what he chose to sacrifice and why. He just...has to deal with the aftermath. Part of that, probably, is having a plan for when things go off book.
That's then. For now—]
Should be coming up, on the left. [The room he's sharing, while they're in town. The rest of the inhabitants ought to be asleep, but he can walk Richie through leaving him inside somewhere sensible. But before he does—] Thanks. For the lift.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He finds his ground by starting out sarcastic, but the sharper edge on his voice evens back out to one that's warily wry.]
I'll consider that a compliment, I think.
[Far as he can tell, whatever proxy the Transistor generates for him is pretty indistinguishable from the real thing at a glance. Feels pretty solid, too. Which is nice, because he gets to have passing conversations with people without going through the inevitable personal-question what are yous that follow. Maybe if there was an easier way to answer it, it'd be less of a hurdle. But as it stands, he'd just as well avoid the whole thing if he's got a way to dodge it.
Kind of past that now, though. Maybe not as helpfully as Richie was hoping—]
Still working out just what this thing can do. Burns out for a while if I press my luck. [Hence, occasionally getting stranded as it's convenient for my threads.] Nice to be me again, though. For a while.
[A beat. Rueful, but not biting, this time—] Or...the old me, I guess.
[Or something close enough.]
no subject
[If only things were that simple.
As far as Richie's concerned, it seemed like the advent of the fantastical hasn't gone to solving many problems. If anything, it's made things worse. Most of the people here were slopping around in the shitter for one reason or another, and more often than not it was something outlandish that punted them in the porcelain bowl. Living a charmless life might not guarantee anything got fixed either, but fuck. You at least had some agency. What was a guy like this going to do? Run errands for a witch until she saw fit to set him free?
He doesn't get the full story, but the ire is gone from Wally's voice. That's a start. Richie sniffs and has to wipe his nose with a free sleeve. He quickens the pace. It's mighty chilly out here.]
So you were human to begin with. And then...you pissed in a wizard's garden? Filched a cursed sword from some angry mummy's tomb? [His only references for this kind of thing were children's fairy tales and Sandra. He's tempted to ask if it was the same guys that did it but that's probably edging on loose-lipped, and he doesn't do loose-lipped when it matters. That's Sandy's story to tell, not his.] Can you only turn human in moonlight, or what?
no subject
Took a hit. Got myself killed. [A little simpler than Richie's propositions. If mostly just to start. The rest, as they say—] When I came to, inside—
[A beat, and the flashing light in the Transistor holds steady for a second or so. Well—]
Think you get the picture. [Now that he's dragging it around. The wry tip to his voice had settled to a steady constant. But here, it kicks up to noticeable again. Anyway, to get toward that last point—] Maybe our benefactors figured I'd be more good to them if I could get myself around.
[...Even if it's only now and then. Kind of a recent development.]
Can't say I can complain about the upgrade. ...Temperamental or not.
[He'd gone about resigning himself to much less, back in Cloudbank. But, y'know. It's definitely not exactly a fix, either. Still takes some getting used to.]
no subject
Killed?
[That's the most sober he'd sounded all night. One note of fright, dash of shock. How? Why? Then waking inside the sword.] Why the...Jesus. Was it this thing that did it? Did it suck the soul out of you?
[Suddenly, it seems too heavy to hold. Much to close. Richie pulls it back and takes a second look at the gleaming lines, gold inlaid in green glass. Just what was this thing?]
...I just. Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, that's...fucking unreal is what it is. How are you not going bananas in there? Can you see from it?
[And the Orbiters had seen fit to give him a little pick me up. Not enough to fix the real issue. Of course not, that would be far too sensible a miracle. But then the dead should stay resting, shouldn't they?
And what shell was it that got to walk around with the living? Something made of wire and rubber, or an illusion? Physical phantom of the man he used to be. They say that all your perceptions of reality stem from that grey loaf that lies ticking between your ears. Didn't he know it? Things could reach in and tweak a nerve and suddenly you're seeing things, hearing things, masterful illusions but real ones, stroke and touch it baby, see if you can tell the difference.
Makes him wonder if everyone's seeing the same guy he is.]
Yeah, real generous of them, I guess. But with all the miracles they're pulling why wouldn't they just go all the way?
no subject
Good question. I'm not so sure. [Dryly. Sure, he's wondered. Royce had asked him, if he hadn't wondered. He's seen Sybil locked up in one of those pods on the station so—so it must be possible. So it's hard not to wonder. And here he is. But he's never been a clear cut case. His Trace has been listed as non recoverable from the start. So maybe there just isn't enough there to save. Or...maybe the effort was more than they were willing to spend on him without paying out his dues out, first.
He hasn't pried into it. Maybe in part because it feels like looking a gift horse in the mouth to find the catch. Admitting it's too good to be true. But also...because his priorities don't tend to settle on himself. He'd been willing to try to live with much less, and that hasn't changed. So he can be okay, he thinks. Tries to think. As long as Red is okay.]
I can see you. If I look up. Don't think I was really supposed to wind up like this, though. [in the quiet, empty place he woke up in. Inside. (Himself. Or...a copy of himself. Some snapshot of himself as he'd been when the Transistor had killed him. Would he be able to tell the difference? Is there a difference? Between the real thing and some overactive Trace data that thinks itself a person.) Usually the Trace just...goes quiet. Gets filed away, somewhere. Far away from him.] ...Might not be an "all the way." Not anymore. Better me than the alternative.
[Better him than Red. Even then, he hadn't managed to protect her. She'd lost her voice, he hadn't been able to stop it. But the Transistor is a tool of creation, as much as anything else. So it's not all that impossible to imagine it can construct something to bridge the gap, if it could be persuaded to. The ins and outs of how it all works are still a loud mystery to him. So maybe not the best thing to discuss while half the conversation is half-sober at best.]
...Like I said, long story.
no subject
The alternative, the other. Option B over Option A. Better me than blank.
Thickly and on an oblique, the answer slots into place. Better me than the other guy. Someone else's gut got to stay in a smooth curve where Wally's took a split down the middle. If the guy hadn't started out with musing on how there might not be an "all the way" it might have dawned on Richie quicker — he'd been half caught in wondering what would have been left behind.
Maybe that's why he never gave a name. Maybe he didn't have one anymore. Speculation on speculation, all built on specks and dust.]
Sounds like it. [Richie huffs. They're pulling up close on their destination now, and there are the occasional passerby even at this late hour. He keeps his voice low. Wouldn't do to have funny glances coming their way. Although he might be able to pass it off as practice. Picking up a new voice, cousin, gimme some feedback will ya?] I take it it's not the time, but...that's all up to you. Sounds like a shit package you got delivered, and I know that isn't the kind of thing you want to be prying open in company.
But...if there's anything I can do...[He halts at a crosswalk. Waits for a couple to pass and a late-night carriage.] You know, you go poof and get stuck out in the sticks again, you can holler for me. I won't mind.
no subject
Richie's alright, he figures. He's not in much place to judge about a little foot-in-mouth. And the offer—much as the edge of sympathy in it sits uncomfortably on him—isn't one he has to give. He laughs, once. Dryly.]
Hoping I get the hang of it sooner rather than later. [Wishful thinking, maybe.
Sounds like he knows it.] But I'll keep it in mind.
[He doesn't have regrets about what he chose to sacrifice and why. He just...has to deal with the aftermath. Part of that, probably, is having a plan for when things go off book.
That's then. For now—]
Should be coming up, on the left. [The room he's sharing, while they're in town. The rest of the inhabitants ought to be asleep, but he can walk Richie through leaving him inside somewhere sensible. But before he does—] Thanks. For the lift.