Freedom is a lot of things, so far. 'Uncertain,' predominantly, because they're still so far from the Capital Wasteland yet, and M7-97 doesn't know if he really does have it in him to get that far. 'Dingy' is another thing, compared to the gleaming bright fixtures and vivid lighting of the Institute. And cold, and wet, and smelly, and if he's honest with himself, a complete sensory hell on all fronts. He's rarely been to the surface before. He's not usually assigned to the resource-gathering squad; it's only happenstance that he'd been swapped in for one of the usuals at precisely the right time to make the connection that would change his life.
It's no wonder the coursers hate it up here, when he hears them talk about it amongst themselves. They don't actually talk to M7 about it. He's been told that he washed out of the courser program halfway through, during the psych eval. He wouldn't remember.
He doesn't remember, either, the first time he'd seen the reclamation chair. It's a mark of obedience, a badge of pride for the loyal synths, to remember their first thoughts about the chair. He doesn't remember standing in the doorway, face as white as his high-necked uniform, voice hoarse as he'd asked G5-19 if the grate at the base of it was for what he thought it was. And he hadn't known why he'd asked her, of all the other synths, because everyone knew she'd been put through it before. She'd remember less about it than anyone. But it had made him think she wouldn't judge him for the question, either. And she had been able to answer it.
"Easy cleanup," she confirms grimly, "for the fluids."
"Is there really that much blood?"
"Blood. Spinal fluid, where the needles go. Urine. But you'll never have to find out, M7. They trust you. You listen."
It should be a compliment. He can't quite take it as one. "How are you sure?" he asks, eyes fixated on the needles again, as if there really is any ambiguity about what those would do to an organic body. Her eyes are deep and haunted as she turns them on him again.
"They make me watch."
The beds in the safehouse are rickety, the frames even broken in places. He understands that these things can't be complained about, wouldn't dare even if beggars could be choosers, when Jane has already been kinder and more generous to him than any human he's ever known, and when their travels today have been exhausting enough to knock him out no matter how uncomfortable the bed. But the splintered board right in the middle of it digs into his back, stirring memories that should have been purged, data that can't be as easily deleted from his brain as Dr. Zimmer wants to believe.
He dreams of the pleading, the pain, the blood and worse, back arching off the dirty mattress as if he could possibly escape those foot-long spines. The blanket that had been a kind (if mildewy) concession to his inexperience with the cold surface weather now feels like the hands of the SRB loyalists holding him down, and he struggles desperately free from it, whimpering in his sleep only because the dream is one of those where screaming feels impossible no matter how hard he tries.
He's dazed as he wakes, panting, neckline and armpits of his ragged shirt soaked with sweat, a stitch in his side from where he's writhed nearly all the way out of the bed, and he stares at Jane as if unable to recognize her even after so many days of travel. Faced with the pistol even if only for a second, he puts his hands up in terrified pleading surrender before the recognition and the apology both soak in together, and they lower their hands in tandem.
"I'm not hurt," he says. "It was just--"
He doesn't actually have the words for it. Vehemently opposed as they are to the notion that synths can dream, none of the scientists have ever bothered to mention the concept where he could hear it.
Doe watches the man stumble to explain what had happened behind a pair of sunglasses that are unreasonable to be wearing at this hour, but it eventually clicks into place and she huffs out a relieved breath, reholstering her weapon.
"You had a nightmare," she says plainly. "It's okay, you can come sit with me."
Any tension she had been holding in her body is released as she turns and leads him onward to her lookout spot, bending to pick up the half-crushed cigarette she'd wasted in alarm. She smooths the paper with her fingers and fishes out a matchbook, then relights it as she reclaims her seat behind the rifle on a bench that could fit them both.
"You smoke?" she asks, a touch of humor in her voice as she does. She can say with somewhere around 80% confidence that this man has never touched a cigarette. "Terrible habit. Want one?"
The term is unfamiliar, but he's drawing a blank on a lot of this right now, as his heart rate gradually normalizes and his cooling sweat makes him shiver in the chilly room. The important thing is that Jane doesn't seem concerned--though that seems to be her normal; he hasn't seen much yet that's broken through that facade of humor, and beyond that, there's a whole wealth of things she seems to know that the Institute scientists don't. (Or wouldn't share with him, if they did.)
It's interesting enough to be distracting, anyway, and that's what he needs most right now. Rubbing at his arms to warm himself up, he nods silently and joins her on the bench, sitting stiffly as if still just a little afraid to let his back touch it.
"I don't really understand why you'd want to," he admits. "You're the only person I've ever met who thinks smoke inhalation is a positive."
But she certainly does enough of it that she must be getting something out of it, and never seems any the worse for the wear, so he takes the offered one and sizes it up warily before holding it out--in his hand, not his mouth--for her to light.
Her own cigarette is pinched between her lips as she watches him sit stiffly on the bench, then checks the scope to make sure nothing and noone has been heading down the path in her brief absence. With the coast clear, she turns to him again, shrugging off her oversized flannel and handing it to him.
"You haven't met a whole lot of people yet, bud," she scoffs, then reaches for his wrist, guiding his hand back to his own mouth. "In your mouth... you'll waste it," she instructs, then strikes another match, shielding the flame with her fingers as she holds it to his cigarette, "now, inhale."
He takes the flannel, but doesn't put it on yet; it's another expression of generosity that blindsides him a little from a human, because none of the ones he knows would ever have entertained the idea that a synth would have a problem with the ambient temperature, or that this would be a problem worth correcting even if they did become aware. Not that there was ever such a thing as weather to worry about, in the Institute. The temperature simply was what it was.
But she's right. He hasn't met very many people yet in this brave new world. And apparently, they like to scorch their own lungs out and express unexpected chivalry toward big burly labor robots.
He doesn't expect to have his wrist taken, and the warm contact feels like a little spark, startling but pleasant. The way she directs the cigarette into his own mouth is even more so, making his eyes widen a little as he processes it. His gaze focuses more on her fingers than on the flame, watching them move, and only when directed does he draw in a trusting breath.
The outcome is what one might expect. He has the presence of mind (she'd said that he would waste it; he doesn't want to be wasteful) to snatch the cigarette back out of his own mouth and hold it off to the side as he hacks the smoke back up, fist pressed to his mouth in a futile attempt to stifle it until he's done coughing.
"Shit," he says, as the coursers do, when he can talk again.
"Oof-- too big!" she laughs, clapping him on the back as if it'll help expell whatever's still in his lungs. "You're alright, bud, here--"
Her own cigarette is hanging from her lip as she reaches down into her pack and pulls out a can of purified water. She hands it to him to help calm his burning throat, still chuckling softly.
"It's fine if you don't want to finish it," she mutters casually, "First time I had one I don't even really know if I inhaled. I think I just held the smoke in my mouth for a bit like a jackass."
He looks momentarily stricken by the laughing, big wounded brown eyes turning to her as if in betrayal, but it doesn't take long for it to dawn on him that this is still friendliness, in its way. He doesn't really understand it, but the clap on the back is still unambiguously friendly, and she wouldn't be telling him that story, either, if she wanted to mock him. He doesn't think that's how it works.
Cigarette still in hand, burning but not as wasted as if he'd dropped it, he drinks the water down slowly until the sting feels soothed and hands the half-full can back.
"Why do you even do it?" he asks, envisioning this scenario and no more enlightened about the purpose than he was before. "If it's a terrible habit and it feels this unpleasant, what are these even for?"
Those eyes make her hesitate. Big and dark, like Barbara's were, catching the light and shining impossibly in the moonlight. Doe's gaze averts almost immediately. It's been a few years... does she even really remember what Barbara's eyes looked like anymore? Or does it even matter, if something can remind her of her so easily.
She plucks the cigarette from her mouth to ash it out the window, then takes a deep breath, lips sputtering on the exhale. A half shrug follows. "I dunno, it's calming to me," she says, bringing it to her lips again, "Reminds me to breathe."
"Because you'd...otherwise forget?" Even by synth standards, M7 has a reputation for taking things overly literally, though none of them in the Gen 3 quarters are known for being particularly great with metaphor. He's aware she's got to mean something else, or she'd be dead, but it's lost on him.
Still, if she says this is meant to be calming, he could sure as hell use that right now. He gives it another try, observing and carefully replicating her movements, taking a shallower and more cautious breath this time. It still burns, still makes him cough, but it's a smaller, surmountable cough this time, and he can understand now how it's done. He doesn't feel calmer yet, but maybe that'll come in a minute.
"You never seem like you need any help staying calm," he points out, with a soft undercurrent of admiration and envy together.
She laughs, endlessly amused by the display of innocence from such a large man. It's endearing, but escorts like these are always surface-level connections at best, even if synths like him make it really easy for her to be a bit more vulnerable with. It's the innocence that'll get you; kicking in those parental instincts... but it's best to not get attached. Best to not get attached to anyone anymore.
"Not exactly. Hard to explain. Makes you slow down. Like-- okay..."
She delicately places the cigarette on the window sill for a moment, balanced so that the embers hang off of the outer edge. Then, facing the man beside her, holds her hand on her belly.
"So there's a difference between breathing normally and this..." she demonstrates a slow, calming breathing technique, inhale and exhale. The same sort of breath she might take before firing a shot that required steadiness. Her shoulders visibly drop as she does.
"I'm not smoking every cigarette like that, but like... how you breathe does make a difference. Does that make more sense?" she asks, reaching for her cigarette again.
"Practice that sometime and you won't seem like you need any help, either," she huffs, then bobs her head, considering, "That, and compartmentalizing the shit out of everything. Don't worry about it."
M7 listens, quiet and rapt. It makes sense, explained that way; it still seems like something easier said than done and perhaps requiring more of Doe's cool je ne sais quoi than she thinks it does, but it costs him nothing to try it.
He takes in that hand on her stomach with curious dark eyes, gaze lingering in a way that might be prurient interest from someone else but is only for ease of imitation here, and rests his hand on his own to see if he can feel any difference when he tries. He can, though he doesn't know what to make of it--but somehow he does feel a little steadier as he exhales, as if some of that nervous jerky tension that's been winding his muscles tight since he woke up is being carried away on the cold breeze now.
Not all of it, but enough. Breathing in general feels like it's coming a little easier now. He looks back up at Doe with some wonderment. "It really does work."
His lips quirk almost imperceptibly, the kind of expressiveness he's begun unconsciously to pick up and practice only since coming to the surface. It's the kind of thing oddly more encouraged in the Gen 2s than the Gen 3s--the scientists pride themselves on being able to make polymer faces that can emote, but they don't want the flesh-and-blood ones getting ideas. "But I don't think anyone will be thinking I don't need help anytime soon."
Doe doesn't mind the way he looks at her; it's clear to her at least that it's curiousity alone, in a learning sort of way, and when he tries it himself there is something maternal in her that feels a tinge of pride. She smiles warmly at his astonishment, patting him encouragingly on the arm in response.
"Most people will tell you I'm a bullshitter. Hell-I'll tell you I'm a bullshitter. But there is real advice stowed awarly in this old noggin' of mine, if you're not put off by it. Scout's honor."
She shrugs at his next comment. The good thing about him being slower to adapt to facial expressions is that he has a great pokerface. "Maybe. I dunno. You've got that strong stoic thing going for you."
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It's no wonder the coursers hate it up here, when he hears them talk about it amongst themselves. They don't actually talk to M7 about it. He's been told that he washed out of the courser program halfway through, during the psych eval. He wouldn't remember.
He doesn't remember, either, the first time he'd seen the reclamation chair. It's a mark of obedience, a badge of pride for the loyal synths, to remember their first thoughts about the chair. He doesn't remember standing in the doorway, face as white as his high-necked uniform, voice hoarse as he'd asked G5-19 if the grate at the base of it was for what he thought it was. And he hadn't known why he'd asked her, of all the other synths, because everyone knew she'd been put through it before. She'd remember less about it than anyone. But it had made him think she wouldn't judge him for the question, either. And she had been able to answer it.
"Easy cleanup," she confirms grimly, "for the fluids."
"Is there really that much blood?"
"Blood. Spinal fluid, where the needles go. Urine. But you'll never have to find out, M7. They trust you. You listen."
It should be a compliment. He can't quite take it as one. "How are you sure?" he asks, eyes fixated on the needles again, as if there really is any ambiguity about what those would do to an organic body. Her eyes are deep and haunted as she turns them on him again.
"They make me watch."
The beds in the safehouse are rickety, the frames even broken in places. He understands that these things can't be complained about, wouldn't dare even if beggars could be choosers, when Jane has already been kinder and more generous to him than any human he's ever known, and when their travels today have been exhausting enough to knock him out no matter how uncomfortable the bed. But the splintered board right in the middle of it digs into his back, stirring memories that should have been purged, data that can't be as easily deleted from his brain as Dr. Zimmer wants to believe.
He dreams of the pleading, the pain, the blood and worse, back arching off the dirty mattress as if he could possibly escape those foot-long spines. The blanket that had been a kind (if mildewy) concession to his inexperience with the cold surface weather now feels like the hands of the SRB loyalists holding him down, and he struggles desperately free from it, whimpering in his sleep only because the dream is one of those where screaming feels impossible no matter how hard he tries.
He's dazed as he wakes, panting, neckline and armpits of his ragged shirt soaked with sweat, a stitch in his side from where he's writhed nearly all the way out of the bed, and he stares at Jane as if unable to recognize her even after so many days of travel. Faced with the pistol even if only for a second, he puts his hands up in terrified pleading surrender before the recognition and the apology both soak in together, and they lower their hands in tandem.
"I'm not hurt," he says. "It was just--"
He doesn't actually have the words for it. Vehemently opposed as they are to the notion that synths can dream, none of the scientists have ever bothered to mention the concept where he could hear it.
"It...wasn't actually real, I--"
no subject
"You had a nightmare," she says plainly. "It's okay, you can come sit with me."
Any tension she had been holding in her body is released as she turns and leads him onward to her lookout spot, bending to pick up the half-crushed cigarette she'd wasted in alarm. She smooths the paper with her fingers and fishes out a matchbook, then relights it as she reclaims her seat behind the rifle on a bench that could fit them both.
"You smoke?" she asks, a touch of humor in her voice as she does. She can say with somewhere around 80% confidence that this man has never touched a cigarette. "Terrible habit. Want one?"
no subject
It's interesting enough to be distracting, anyway, and that's what he needs most right now. Rubbing at his arms to warm himself up, he nods silently and joins her on the bench, sitting stiffly as if still just a little afraid to let his back touch it.
"I don't really understand why you'd want to," he admits. "You're the only person I've ever met who thinks smoke inhalation is a positive."
But she certainly does enough of it that she must be getting something out of it, and never seems any the worse for the wear, so he takes the offered one and sizes it up warily before holding it out--in his hand, not his mouth--for her to light.
no subject
"You haven't met a whole lot of people yet, bud," she scoffs, then reaches for his wrist, guiding his hand back to his own mouth. "In your mouth... you'll waste it," she instructs, then strikes another match, shielding the flame with her fingers as she holds it to his cigarette, "now, inhale."
no subject
But she's right. He hasn't met very many people yet in this brave new world. And apparently, they like to scorch their own lungs out and express unexpected chivalry toward big burly labor robots.
He doesn't expect to have his wrist taken, and the warm contact feels like a little spark, startling but pleasant. The way she directs the cigarette into his own mouth is even more so, making his eyes widen a little as he processes it. His gaze focuses more on her fingers than on the flame, watching them move, and only when directed does he draw in a trusting breath.
The outcome is what one might expect. He has the presence of mind (she'd said that he would waste it; he doesn't want to be wasteful) to snatch the cigarette back out of his own mouth and hold it off to the side as he hacks the smoke back up, fist pressed to his mouth in a futile attempt to stifle it until he's done coughing.
"Shit," he says, as the coursers do, when he can talk again.
no subject
Her own cigarette is hanging from her lip as she reaches down into her pack and pulls out a can of purified water. She hands it to him to help calm his burning throat, still chuckling softly.
"It's fine if you don't want to finish it," she mutters casually, "First time I had one I don't even really know if I inhaled. I think I just held the smoke in my mouth for a bit like a jackass."
no subject
Cigarette still in hand, burning but not as wasted as if he'd dropped it, he drinks the water down slowly until the sting feels soothed and hands the half-full can back.
"Why do you even do it?" he asks, envisioning this scenario and no more enlightened about the purpose than he was before. "If it's a terrible habit and it feels this unpleasant, what are these even for?"
no subject
She plucks the cigarette from her mouth to ash it out the window, then takes a deep breath, lips sputtering on the exhale. A half shrug follows. "I dunno, it's calming to me," she says, bringing it to her lips again, "Reminds me to breathe."
no subject
Still, if she says this is meant to be calming, he could sure as hell use that right now. He gives it another try, observing and carefully replicating her movements, taking a shallower and more cautious breath this time. It still burns, still makes him cough, but it's a smaller, surmountable cough this time, and he can understand now how it's done. He doesn't feel calmer yet, but maybe that'll come in a minute.
"You never seem like you need any help staying calm," he points out, with a soft undercurrent of admiration and envy together.
no subject
"Not exactly. Hard to explain. Makes you slow down. Like-- okay..."
She delicately places the cigarette on the window sill for a moment, balanced so that the embers hang off of the outer edge. Then, facing the man beside her, holds her hand on her belly.
"So there's a difference between breathing normally and this..." she demonstrates a slow, calming breathing technique, inhale and exhale. The same sort of breath she might take before firing a shot that required steadiness. Her shoulders visibly drop as she does.
"I'm not smoking every cigarette like that, but like... how you breathe does make a difference. Does that make more sense?" she asks, reaching for her cigarette again.
"Practice that sometime and you won't seem like you need any help, either," she huffs, then bobs her head, considering, "That, and compartmentalizing the shit out of everything. Don't worry about it."
no subject
He takes in that hand on her stomach with curious dark eyes, gaze lingering in a way that might be prurient interest from someone else but is only for ease of imitation here, and rests his hand on his own to see if he can feel any difference when he tries. He can, though he doesn't know what to make of it--but somehow he does feel a little steadier as he exhales, as if some of that nervous jerky tension that's been winding his muscles tight since he woke up is being carried away on the cold breeze now.
Not all of it, but enough. Breathing in general feels like it's coming a little easier now. He looks back up at Doe with some wonderment. "It really does work."
His lips quirk almost imperceptibly, the kind of expressiveness he's begun unconsciously to pick up and practice only since coming to the surface. It's the kind of thing oddly more encouraged in the Gen 2s than the Gen 3s--the scientists pride themselves on being able to make polymer faces that can emote, but they don't want the flesh-and-blood ones getting ideas. "But I don't think anyone will be thinking I don't need help anytime soon."
no subject
"Most people will tell you I'm a bullshitter. Hell-I'll tell you I'm a bullshitter. But there is real advice stowed awarly in this old noggin' of mine, if you're not put off by it. Scout's honor."
She shrugs at his next comment. The good thing about him being slower to adapt to facial expressions is that he has a great pokerface. "Maybe. I dunno. You've got that strong stoic thing going for you."