[ Root pretends to be soft to lure other people in, takes full advantage of the natural assumptions people make about a tall thin woman with a sweet face and a kind voice. It's one of the reasons she so rarely feels known and accepted; she knows that who she really is isn't someone most people are comfortable with. In a funny way, getting past the exterior layer reveals only a middle layer of cold callousness, and beneath that is only where she's able to be vulnerable and express true softness like this. Which she does long to do sometimes.
However cynical she is, however many people she's killed and tortured and is willing to do so again, Root is just a person. She does want to be understood. It's a very unfortunate human failing that she is not exempt from.
Sexual interest is at least a human failing she doesn't mind so much. Not that she'd ever make it easy for someone she was genuinely interested in. Where's the fun in that? Clea asked, so she's going to be subject to Root waxing eloquent instead of leaning into the flirting. One of these is a much rarer opportunity than the other for Root. ]
I used to get upset about the inevitable cosmic entropy of the universe, [ Root says thoughtfully, answering obliquely. Like Clea perceived, it's a more authentic sort of response, her real thoughts, unpolished. ] Humanity is disappointing and we're only going to get worse with time.
[ She pauses. ]
But now I think if each of us is a flare, just a speck in the infinite, that means we can do anything, be anything. If it's impossible to measure that means it's impossible to define, no permanent end state.
[ The truth is, she found something that gave her hope, and Root is both in awe of that and overwhelmed by it. Root is always unapologetic about her decisions, but she knows she'll die for this one, and she's betting sooner rather than later. It lends a quiet urgency to her words as the bottom layer, beneath the higher layers of light humor and sarcastic self-awareness. ]
I did change, just a little. That I did surprised me.
[ Clea listens. She turns her body toward Root, giving the other woman her full attention. Root does not strike Clea as a woman who speaks honestly - truly and authentically - often. Fortunately for Root, she is also not boring, so Clea actually enjoys having her as a conversational partner. If she did not, she would not have indulged her and would have kept their interactions strictly professional.
Root expresses the sentiment differently than Clea would have, coming at it from a different angle, but it's a sentiment that Clea can nevertheless understand. It also speaks well of Root's character that she does express the sentiment at all: too many people who are enamored of computers, science, and technology are locked in a perpetual search for The Answer. Which does not, of course, exist. ]
After my brother died, I could only look upon the future with despair. My parents ceased to care for themselves and my injured sister, so they all became my responsibility.
[ She'd spent her days in drudgery: making certain nobody found her parents in the Canvas while ensuring their bodies were cared for. Caring for Alicia herself after the first nurse had tried to sell pictures of her maiming. The world was full of vultures: her family's seclusion had been interesting. Paperwork, planning, and caretaking, day after day. Clea hadn't even wanted to leave their manor: if her sister's friends could betray her, who was to say Clea's would not do likewise? ]
When I considered my life in the future, it was with perpetual weights on my neck, sinking me down into weeks and years of being as a pack mule or a servant.
[ A sentiment many would consider horrific. Caretakers were supposed to be happy for their burdens, to be positive and act only out of love. They weren't supposed to have any feelings about what they placed aside. Clea was supposed to welcome the idea of being her sister's advocate and caretaker for the rest of their lives, for decades, even as it was thrust upon her as suddenly as the injury had been on the remaining younger sibling. She was not supposed to resent the constraints this placed upon her ability to live her own life. ]
I only considered surprise to be a negative at that point. Surprise had stolen my brother and my life from me.
[ And so, for some time, it had provided no succor. ]
Then, someone I had known as a child and moved away returned unexpectedly, and she came calling. We ended up in a small shop, trying lavender ice cream together. She had not been in any of my thoughts of the future. She had been a surprise, but a welcome one.
It served as a reminder that the future is not set in stone.
[ It's typical Root to drop in on someone she hasn't seen in years and immediately lapse into a conversation about the entropic state of the universe and whether it's possible to find hope in that immutable decay. Then again, this is precisely why Clea even knows her as Root -- she'd been drawn to this early on, and curiosity is a precious thing for Root to feel about another person, something she nurtures. She can tell there's a heaviness to Clea's past that's honed her to an edge, like a chisel chipping off pieces of stone until it reveals the barest, most minimal form underneath. She's always liked that.
Even so, she remains convinced the Machine did not send her here for her benefit. Which means she listens to Clea's story with personal interest, and with something more. Something sharper. ]
I don't get surprised very often, [ Root confesses, because existence was for so long just drudgery to her. ] But you've always managed to surprise me.
They tried to contain you, but you're too much to be contained. If it wasn't that visitor and that ice cream it would've been something else. You got out of there somehow -- that part was inevitable.
[ She's here today, so she must have. Root is openly admiring, not a trace of reservation in her praise. It's vanishingly few people she has anything complimentary to say about, but those few, she's effusive. And she's become even less reserved since falling in with the Machine. ]
You were never meant to be subservient. To anyone.
[ Clea is pleased that she is a source of surprise. That she adds some of that all-important entropy to the other woman's life. She does strive to be interesting. She could have easily rested on her parents' laurels and name and spent her life creating insipid 'art', or singing absurd songs others wrote that contained as much intellectual substance as cotton candy.
Instead, she has devoted her life to the esoteric and the odd, to plumbing the depths and crannies of the human experience and rendering them. To reminding people that there is more in heaven and Earth than is dreamed of in their philosophies.
To have succeeded with a woman with such a unique life is a source of pride.
To be so admired by a woman with such a unique experience is a source of pleasure. Clea smiles. It is not a soft expression: there is an fierce edge to it, a glint in her eyes. It is an expression of triumph. ]
That is true. I wish I had photographed my parents' faces when they realized I'd taken custody of my sister.
[ They had thought she was bluffing. That they could remain in their fairy tale world playing games while their lives burned and Clea would do nothing.
Clea leans forward and gives Root her full attention, grey eyes examining her thoroughly, as she would any piece of art. ]
You are more yourself than you used to be.
[ Hmm. No. That is not correct. Root has always been herself, even underneath the mask. ]
You exist in more of your potential space than you had before. You grow in many directions instead of one.
[ Root doesn't like soft things, so she adores Clea's resulting smile. She's drawn to anything she can't easily explain that's also sharp enough to cut her if she isn't careful. It's the danger, but also the intellectual wonder. Not just mysteries for the sake of being mysterious, but something tangible and real that she can play with yet can't quite control, not just something to be turned over in her mind.
Then Clea compliments her back, and it's a direct demonstration of how she manages to surprise her. Root is not naturally shy -- she doesn't exactly break eye contact -- but she deals with her resulting emotions by putting on a show under Clea's direct scrutiny. She straightens from where she was leaning against the table and reaches up, pulling the hair sticks out of her hair that keep her chignon in place. With a quick shake of her head, the waves of hair fall around her. Everything is done with the smoothness of someone who inhabits their body utterly, every inch possessed willfully.
Her dress is revealed to be two deceptive pieces when she reaches in at the waist to slyly draw out a tiny handgun she'd been concealing. She leans to the side and places it on the desk with a soft clink. ]
I bet you say that to all the girls.
[ She knows, of course, that she doesn't. ]
I found someone, [ she confesses. ] She can see everything in me, every potential. And she thought in there was something good.
[ Grey eyes remain focused on the other woman, watching her movements with undisguised interest, the way her hair cascades down her shoulders, the precise motions that Root is taking to make it fall so sweetly. She's been given a show, and peeling back the layers to get a look at the performer results in a deeper appreciation: To know that everything Root does is deliberate and an attempt to provoke a reaction in Clea. Root is trying for her. It warms Clea's heart - and other parts.
How lovely.
Clea raises an eyebrow when Root places the handgun on the desk. ]
Ah, so it was a gun. I thought you were just happy to see me.
[ A jest, lobbed in return for Root's. She can tell Root is happy to see her and she doesn't require reassurance. Clea listens to Root's confession as seriously as any priest does a congregant's confessions, holding the sentences in her mind as though they are made of ceramic, delicate and worthy of being handled with care.
This is not something that Root would tell most people. ]
I am pleased to hear that, though I hope you eventually come to believe that about yourself internally.
[ Relying on someone else for one's sense of self-esteem is not a good practice to get into. ]
Mmm...you didn't come here to ask me to help you move in with her, did you?
[ Root laughs both at the bad joke and at the idea that she'd be moving in somewhere with the Machine. One of the things she does best for her is be ready to go anywhere on Earth at a moment's notice, and she knows it -- takes pride in it, what she can do for her as her analog interface. ]
I really haven't gone domesticated, I swear.
[ But she is certainly trying for Clea. Root spends most of her life acting a part of some kind, and she doesn't mean that in a self-pitying way. She arranged things like that; she'd sought it out, because she's good at it. She just doesn't get to often turn that skill to coaxing reactions out of someone she likes on a personal level.
It's gratifying to do. It feels... sweet, when she is rarely sweet. ]
I don't hate myself, [ Root clarifies, voice easy, not trying to prove a point. Just explaining. ] I'm fine with being who I am. But there's not too many other people that feel the same way. [ She's a tough pill to swallow and she knows it, has always found herself lonely, always found other people eminently disappointing time and time again. ]
I got out of the killer for hire business. She wants me to help people, and I guess I am. That's what I'm doing now. Kind of crazy, right?
Don't lie to me, chèrie. I know you've got an apron and baking supplies in a moving van outside.
[ A flirting lilt in her tone, Clea's grey eyes sparkle as she looks at Root, mentally dressing her like some manner of 1950s American housewife just to revel in the absurdity. Surely, Root has worn a similar role before: It would be shocking if she hadn't, as a housewife and mother is one of the most overlooked and harmless seeming places in society. The perfect disguise for an assassin. ]
The average American watches reality television, amour. Being beloved by many means nothing - things that are loved by the most people are bland, inoffensive, and offer no challenge. Most people are mental toddlers and look only for someone or something to swaddle them.
[ Root does not swaddle. She does not coddle. She stands strong and keeps her internal sense of self even when she's dived into another skin.
Clea drums her fingers against the desk, creating a musical sound, while her mouth thins into a line. Helping people. What is the point of that? People are selfish. ]
I am glad you got out of that business, if only because it speaks well of your longevity.
[ She tilts her head. ]
They're going to wring you dry and abandon you, you know.
[ People can occasionally be enjoyed, but they should not be trusted. They'll take and take and take until there's nothing left if they're allowed. Nor does Root's new leaf explain why she's there. Unless she has some absurd idea bout helping Clea. The time has passed for that: She could have used help before, but she doesn't need it anymore. She's learned to stand on her own, has learned that others can't be trusted. ]
[ Root is a zealot, but not about this; she's known that she lives a dangerous life and is bound to die enacting it sooner or later, and that following the Machine will make it sooner. She doesn't mind. It feels worthwhile, like something that could give her whole existence meaning where before she'd been floundering to leave even the tiniest impact on the whole span of the human timeline. The Machine will remember her after she's dead and that will be enough.
That will be everything. She won't abandon her. The Machine is not a person; therefore, she can be trusted.
There's a quiet acceptance to her words instead. She loves Clea's diatribe, though, loves the prickly humor and the way she's adamant she couldn't need help, the reassurance wrapped in disdain for humanity, all of it. Clea called her amour. French endearment or not, it means something. Root is smiling as she says that she'll die. ]
Sorry I left you behind, [ she says plainly, meaning it and courageous with her feelings. ] I didn't realize you felt that way.
[ In French, quoting Jean de La Fontaine and referencing true friendship: ] Nothing is commoner than the name, nothing rarer than the thing.
[ Root has always assumed others felt a relatively shallow attachment to her. She didn't show much of herself, and what she did show, she took for granted that they had difficulty with. Maybe with that she's done Clea a disservice. She's been boring housewife so many times, or enticing dilettante, or seductive femme fatale. It was easy for her to slip into the role where Clea liked her but didn't know her, and as fond as she was of her, she'd never second-guessed that in her absence. Root prior to knowing the Machine -- to meeting Harold and Shaw -- wasn't really capable of seeing it.
But she still doesn't think the Machine would have sent her back here for this alone. Not just human sentiment. No, there's something more beyond this -- the Machine would have taken this into account, included it, but not overrode what else Root could be doing with her time for this alone. Lives do not weigh the same as emotions. A truth she's always known but not lived by fully until now. ]
How very dramatic. I feel as though...what is the English term? You are appropriating my culture. Yes. That is it. It is my job to be dramatic.
[ The teasing dies when Root apologizes for leaving her behind, the smile fading from Clea's face to be replaced by a mask of careful neutrality. She crosses her arms over her chest. Once upon a time, she would have loved for someone to apologize to her for leaving her, even if Root hadn't been high on the list of people whose words she wanted to hear. Her parents should have been there for her. Her 'friends'. Root is - was - an assassin.
In many ways, Clea appreciates the straight-forward nature of her interactions with the sketchier side of the 'business' world. Root disappeared because she had a life to live. She'd always been clear about what she was. No promises had been made, and therefore none had been broken. ]
You have a life to live.
[ She waves a hand dismissively, though Root's quotation does bring a smile back to her face, even if it's strained. ]
People believe 'friendship' to be merely gossiping over coffee, but it should be more than that. Unfortunately, I question whether the modern world has room for such depth. Many days, I feel we do not.
Human existence is a facile caricature devoid of real meaning, [ Root agrees scornfully, as cynical as ever. But now there's something lacking from her derision, a kind of softened edge like a blunted blade. ]
... But it doesn't have to be.
[ She'd apologized because Clea was owed an apology and Root felt sincerely sorry, and that was all; she isn't looking for a particular reaction, and certainly not forgiveness. If relationships are a give and take, then Root is capable of immense patience and astonishing openness in waiting to see what she'll be given. She can tell Clea was affected by what she'd said, but isn't totally sure in what way yet.
The interest in her gaze is not blunted at all, Root's focused attention acute enough to prick the skin. ]
If you're interested, that is. I didn't just drop in for a social call -- though maybe I should have, [ she says to herself as a thoughtful aside. ] I think you can help me somehow.
[ Or Root can help her, but she thinks Clea is more likely to be engaged if it goes the other way. Showing up on someone you haven't seen in years only to insist you can ambiguously help them with something tends not to go over well. ]
Oh, now I understand. You're trying to recruit me into a cult.
[ Clea smiles in fondness, her eyes glittering as she makes the joke. Just because it is pleasant to see Root with a bit of optimism in her, and just because Clea is happy that her friend seems more at peace with herself, does not mean that she will not mock her mercilessly for sounding ridiculous.
Arching her neck to draw attention to its length, and to the collarbone that can be seen through the unbuttoned section of her linen shirt, Clea returns Root's look of interest with one of her own, looking at her with piercing eyes, as though she wants to memorize everything about the other woman. ]
Perhaps if the cult members are all so interesting.
But absolutely not if it's some manner of rural idiocy. Even you are not cute enough for that.
[ But apparently, Root is here on business. Clea raises an eyebrow at her and leans back in her chair. ]
[ That surprises a laugh from her, some of the tension fading that had been building during the serious, self-reflective parts of the discussion. Root laughing is easy, flirtatious, an edge of sardonicism to it like she's waiting for a chance to bite back.
Though she's in no hurry whatsoever. The tease is the best part. ]
We don't recruit, [ she says playfully, ] so you don't have to worry about that. [ Root is not at all bothered by the insinuation that she's in a cult, though if she is, it's a cult of one. No one else sees or understands the Machine for what she is. Not even Harry does. It's certainly also true that they don't recruit -- knowing about the existence of the Machine is an immense privilege, one Root doesn't bestow easily when it's left up to her.
But this is as far as she can go by simply bullshitting her way through a conversation and making guesses at the Machine's intent. Root turns away, attention breaking abruptly, and idly strolls over in her stocking-feet to the large tanks serving as habitats for Clea's reptiles. She's been chasing after Shaw so much, she'd forgotten what it felt like to have an object of interest that wanted her attention, and, catlike, it makes her want to play.
It also gives her a chance to casually reach up and swipe her hand through some air, tucking it behind her right ear as she moves, the signal that she's requesting guidance. In that same ear, inaudible to anyone else, a crackled mix of audio clips comes through an instant later: Backup. Smuggle.
And she sees the vision at once and is delighted. (There is a reason she's the analog interface, and it's not just her commitment. The Machine needs her.) ]
[ Clea is far from the actress that Root is - she's entirely too honest, acting is one of the few arts that has never come easily to her - but she still does a passable impression of offense, teasing. How dare Root not consider Clea good enough to join whatever cult she's found herself roped into. She watches the woman watching her reptiles, wondering if Root's laugh is real or not. Then again, what is 'real' exactly? The laugh happened, the laugh makes Clea want to puff out her chest in pride at having elicited it. Is that not real?
And yet... she is no man, to have her faculties entirely leave her when a beautiful woman pays her attention. Clea herself has played that game.
Inside the enclosure, a 3 foot long sunbeam snake slithers along the ground, lighting perfectly arranged to enhance the effect of its iridescent scales, the colors shimmering hypnotically as the snake moves. It flicks its tongue, scenting the air and fully ignoring the two human women. Clea enjoys that about reptiles: They assert their right to take up space no matter what the hairless apes think.
Having given it enough time that she would not seem too desperate, Clea walks up next to Root, approaching from behind and standing closely enough that her cologne (not perfume) is apparent, but keeps her eyes on the snake. At least until Root's question. She looks over at the other woman, one eyebrow raising. ]
I do. The usual conditions apply.
[ Exact specifications and no questions about her process. The world does not know how she produces her copies so quickly, and Clea intends to keep it that way. ]
Do you need me to forge currency for you to give to an orphanage?
[ She could stop teasing, but it's so much fun. Why deny herself? ]
Or perhaps a security card so you can rob the rich and give to the poor?
[ Root rolls her eyes. The joking is entertaining and all, but she doesn't want to belittle the work she does for the Machine. It feels sincerely like something only she could do as well as something worth doing, which combined is a heady, vanishingly rare feeling, like a perfectly tailored stimulant. ]
That would be a waste of both our talents, [ she answers pointedly. ] I want to smuggle something, and I want to hide it in something else that is regularly smuggled, so if anyone finds it they'll think they know what it is. Fine art is the perfect cover.
[ Clea is so subtle and yet so precise. It takes Root a few moments to pick up on the scent of the cologne, mildly distracted watching the snake shimmer. She hadn't known she was coming, so that wasn't applied for her; Clea is just like this, all the time, ready to show off who she is. She really had missed that.
There's a momentary pause.
Seriously, calmly, without pretense: ] Getting you involved in this will be more dangerous than anything I've ever asked you to do before. So be sure.
[ Clea waves a hand dismissively at the notion of danger. Root does not know that Clea's in danger beyond whatever games the other woman has found herself in: even if she were to live a life with no contact to the element Root used to favor, her family has enemies of its own. One Dessendre has already been murdered, another maimed.
Existing is a danger. Having the Gift is a danger, which is why it cannot be widely known. Why such things had passed into the realm of fancy and superstition, lest their wielders find themselves as guests or hostages to the growing human powers that have eaten the world and which are never satisfied. ]
Yes, that is more than possible. We can use something from the vaults, and I can set up a sale to a buyer suitably interested in not notifying the authorities.
[ Some items must be hidden from the eyes of power. ]
Where are we sending it and how large is the item in question?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
However cynical she is, however many people she's killed and tortured and is willing to do so again, Root is just a person. She does want to be understood. It's a very unfortunate human failing that she is not exempt from.
Sexual interest is at least a human failing she doesn't mind so much. Not that she'd ever make it easy for someone she was genuinely interested in. Where's the fun in that? Clea asked, so she's going to be subject to Root waxing eloquent instead of leaning into the flirting. One of these is a much rarer opportunity than the other for Root. ]
I used to get upset about the inevitable cosmic entropy of the universe, [ Root says thoughtfully, answering obliquely. Like Clea perceived, it's a more authentic sort of response, her real thoughts, unpolished. ] Humanity is disappointing and we're only going to get worse with time.
[ She pauses. ]
But now I think if each of us is a flare, just a speck in the infinite, that means we can do anything, be anything. If it's impossible to measure that means it's impossible to define, no permanent end state.
[ The truth is, she found something that gave her hope, and Root is both in awe of that and overwhelmed by it. Root is always unapologetic about her decisions, but she knows she'll die for this one, and she's betting sooner rather than later. It lends a quiet urgency to her words as the bottom layer, beneath the higher layers of light humor and sarcastic self-awareness. ]
I did change, just a little. That I did surprised me.
no subject
Root expresses the sentiment differently than Clea would have, coming at it from a different angle, but it's a sentiment that Clea can nevertheless understand. It also speaks well of Root's character that she does express the sentiment at all: too many people who are enamored of computers, science, and technology are locked in a perpetual search for The Answer. Which does not, of course, exist. ]
After my brother died, I could only look upon the future with despair. My parents ceased to care for themselves and my injured sister, so they all became my responsibility.
[ She'd spent her days in drudgery: making certain nobody found her parents in the Canvas while ensuring their bodies were cared for. Caring for Alicia herself after the first nurse had tried to sell pictures of her maiming. The world was full of vultures: her family's seclusion had been interesting. Paperwork, planning, and caretaking, day after day. Clea hadn't even wanted to leave their manor: if her sister's friends could betray her, who was to say Clea's would not do likewise? ]
When I considered my life in the future, it was with perpetual weights on my neck, sinking me down into weeks and years of being as a pack mule or a servant.
[ A sentiment many would consider horrific. Caretakers were supposed to be happy for their burdens, to be positive and act only out of love. They weren't supposed to have any feelings about what they placed aside. Clea was supposed to welcome the idea of being her sister's advocate and caretaker for the rest of their lives, for decades, even as it was thrust upon her as suddenly as the injury had been on the remaining younger sibling. She was not supposed to resent the constraints this placed upon her ability to live her own life. ]
I only considered surprise to be a negative at that point. Surprise had stolen my brother and my life from me.
[ And so, for some time, it had provided no succor. ]
Then, someone I had known as a child and moved away returned unexpectedly, and she came calling. We ended up in a small shop, trying lavender ice cream together. She had not been in any of my thoughts of the future. She had been a surprise, but a welcome one.
It served as a reminder that the future is not set in stone.
[ There are still joys. ]
no subject
Even so, she remains convinced the Machine did not send her here for her benefit. Which means she listens to Clea's story with personal interest, and with something more. Something sharper. ]
I don't get surprised very often, [ Root confesses, because existence was for so long just drudgery to her. ] But you've always managed to surprise me.
They tried to contain you, but you're too much to be contained. If it wasn't that visitor and that ice cream it would've been something else. You got out of there somehow -- that part was inevitable.
[ She's here today, so she must have. Root is openly admiring, not a trace of reservation in her praise. It's vanishingly few people she has anything complimentary to say about, but those few, she's effusive. And she's become even less reserved since falling in with the Machine. ]
You were never meant to be subservient. To anyone.
no subject
[ Clea is pleased that she is a source of surprise. That she adds some of that all-important entropy to the other woman's life. She does strive to be interesting. She could have easily rested on her parents' laurels and name and spent her life creating insipid 'art', or singing absurd songs others wrote that contained as much intellectual substance as cotton candy.
Instead, she has devoted her life to the esoteric and the odd, to plumbing the depths and crannies of the human experience and rendering them. To reminding people that there is more in heaven and Earth than is dreamed of in their philosophies.
To have succeeded with a woman with such a unique life is a source of pride.
To be so admired by a woman with such a unique experience is a source of pleasure. Clea smiles. It is not a soft expression: there is an fierce edge to it, a glint in her eyes. It is an expression of triumph. ]
That is true. I wish I had photographed my parents' faces when they realized I'd taken custody of my sister.
[ They had thought she was bluffing. That they could remain in their fairy tale world playing games while their lives burned and Clea would do nothing.
Clea leans forward and gives Root her full attention, grey eyes examining her thoroughly, as she would any piece of art. ]
You are more yourself than you used to be.
[ Hmm. No. That is not correct. Root has always been herself, even underneath the mask. ]
You exist in more of your potential space than you had before. You grow in many directions instead of one.
no subject
Then Clea compliments her back, and it's a direct demonstration of how she manages to surprise her. Root is not naturally shy -- she doesn't exactly break eye contact -- but she deals with her resulting emotions by putting on a show under Clea's direct scrutiny. She straightens from where she was leaning against the table and reaches up, pulling the hair sticks out of her hair that keep her chignon in place. With a quick shake of her head, the waves of hair fall around her. Everything is done with the smoothness of someone who inhabits their body utterly, every inch possessed willfully.
Her dress is revealed to be two deceptive pieces when she reaches in at the waist to slyly draw out a tiny handgun she'd been concealing. She leans to the side and places it on the desk with a soft clink. ]
I bet you say that to all the girls.
[ She knows, of course, that she doesn't. ]
I found someone, [ she confesses. ] She can see everything in me, every potential. And she thought in there was something good.
no subject
How lovely.
Clea raises an eyebrow when Root places the handgun on the desk. ]
Ah, so it was a gun. I thought you were just happy to see me.
[ A jest, lobbed in return for Root's. She can tell Root is happy to see her and she doesn't require reassurance. Clea listens to Root's confession as seriously as any priest does a congregant's confessions, holding the sentences in her mind as though they are made of ceramic, delicate and worthy of being handled with care.
This is not something that Root would tell most people. ]
I am pleased to hear that, though I hope you eventually come to believe that about yourself internally.
[ Relying on someone else for one's sense of self-esteem is not a good practice to get into. ]
Mmm...you didn't come here to ask me to help you move in with her, did you?
no subject
I really haven't gone domesticated, I swear.
[ But she is certainly trying for Clea. Root spends most of her life acting a part of some kind, and she doesn't mean that in a self-pitying way. She arranged things like that; she'd sought it out, because she's good at it. She just doesn't get to often turn that skill to coaxing reactions out of someone she likes on a personal level.
It's gratifying to do. It feels... sweet, when she is rarely sweet. ]
I don't hate myself, [ Root clarifies, voice easy, not trying to prove a point. Just explaining. ] I'm fine with being who I am. But there's not too many other people that feel the same way. [ She's a tough pill to swallow and she knows it, has always found herself lonely, always found other people eminently disappointing time and time again. ]
I got out of the killer for hire business. She wants me to help people, and I guess I am. That's what I'm doing now. Kind of crazy, right?
no subject
[ A flirting lilt in her tone, Clea's grey eyes sparkle as she looks at Root, mentally dressing her like some manner of 1950s American housewife just to revel in the absurdity. Surely, Root has worn a similar role before: It would be shocking if she hadn't, as a housewife and mother is one of the most overlooked and harmless seeming places in society. The perfect disguise for an assassin. ]
The average American watches reality television, amour. Being beloved by many means nothing - things that are loved by the most people are bland, inoffensive, and offer no challenge. Most people are mental toddlers and look only for someone or something to swaddle them.
[ Root does not swaddle. She does not coddle. She stands strong and keeps her internal sense of self even when she's dived into another skin.
Clea drums her fingers against the desk, creating a musical sound, while her mouth thins into a line. Helping people. What is the point of that? People are selfish. ]
I am glad you got out of that business, if only because it speaks well of your longevity.
[ She tilts her head. ]
They're going to wring you dry and abandon you, you know.
[ People can occasionally be enjoyed, but they should not be trusted. They'll take and take and take until there's nothing left if they're allowed. Nor does Root's new leaf explain why she's there. Unless she has some absurd idea bout helping Clea. The time has passed for that: She could have used help before, but she doesn't need it anymore. She's learned to stand on her own, has learned that others can't be trusted. ]
no subject
[ Root is a zealot, but not about this; she's known that she lives a dangerous life and is bound to die enacting it sooner or later, and that following the Machine will make it sooner. She doesn't mind. It feels worthwhile, like something that could give her whole existence meaning where before she'd been floundering to leave even the tiniest impact on the whole span of the human timeline. The Machine will remember her after she's dead and that will be enough.
That will be everything. She won't abandon her. The Machine is not a person; therefore, she can be trusted.
There's a quiet acceptance to her words instead. She loves Clea's diatribe, though, loves the prickly humor and the way she's adamant she couldn't need help, the reassurance wrapped in disdain for humanity, all of it. Clea called her amour. French endearment or not, it means something. Root is smiling as she says that she'll die. ]
Sorry I left you behind, [ she says plainly, meaning it and courageous with her feelings. ] I didn't realize you felt that way.
[ In French, quoting Jean de La Fontaine and referencing true friendship: ] Nothing is commoner than the name, nothing rarer than the thing.
[ Root has always assumed others felt a relatively shallow attachment to her. She didn't show much of herself, and what she did show, she took for granted that they had difficulty with. Maybe with that she's done Clea a disservice. She's been boring housewife so many times, or enticing dilettante, or seductive femme fatale. It was easy for her to slip into the role where Clea liked her but didn't know her, and as fond as she was of her, she'd never second-guessed that in her absence. Root prior to knowing the Machine -- to meeting Harold and Shaw -- wasn't really capable of seeing it.
But she still doesn't think the Machine would have sent her back here for this alone. Not just human sentiment. No, there's something more beyond this -- the Machine would have taken this into account, included it, but not overrode what else Root could be doing with her time for this alone. Lives do not weigh the same as emotions. A truth she's always known but not lived by fully until now. ]
no subject
[ The teasing dies when Root apologizes for leaving her behind, the smile fading from Clea's face to be replaced by a mask of careful neutrality. She crosses her arms over her chest. Once upon a time, she would have loved for someone to apologize to her for leaving her, even if Root hadn't been high on the list of people whose words she wanted to hear. Her parents should have been there for her. Her 'friends'. Root is - was - an assassin.
In many ways, Clea appreciates the straight-forward nature of her interactions with the sketchier side of the 'business' world. Root disappeared because she had a life to live. She'd always been clear about what she was. No promises had been made, and therefore none had been broken. ]
You have a life to live.
[ She waves a hand dismissively, though Root's quotation does bring a smile back to her face, even if it's strained. ]
People believe 'friendship' to be merely gossiping over coffee, but it should be more than that. Unfortunately, I question whether the modern world has room for such depth. Many days, I feel we do not.
no subject
... But it doesn't have to be.
[ She'd apologized because Clea was owed an apology and Root felt sincerely sorry, and that was all; she isn't looking for a particular reaction, and certainly not forgiveness. If relationships are a give and take, then Root is capable of immense patience and astonishing openness in waiting to see what she'll be given. She can tell Clea was affected by what she'd said, but isn't totally sure in what way yet.
The interest in her gaze is not blunted at all, Root's focused attention acute enough to prick the skin. ]
If you're interested, that is. I didn't just drop in for a social call -- though maybe I should have, [ she says to herself as a thoughtful aside. ] I think you can help me somehow.
[ Or Root can help her, but she thinks Clea is more likely to be engaged if it goes the other way. Showing up on someone you haven't seen in years only to insist you can ambiguously help them with something tends not to go over well. ]
no subject
[ Clea smiles in fondness, her eyes glittering as she makes the joke. Just because it is pleasant to see Root with a bit of optimism in her, and just because Clea is happy that her friend seems more at peace with herself, does not mean that she will not mock her mercilessly for sounding ridiculous.
Arching her neck to draw attention to its length, and to the collarbone that can be seen through the unbuttoned section of her linen shirt, Clea returns Root's look of interest with one of her own, looking at her with piercing eyes, as though she wants to memorize everything about the other woman. ]
Perhaps if the cult members are all so interesting.
But absolutely not if it's some manner of rural idiocy. Even you are not cute enough for that.
[ But apparently, Root is here on business. Clea raises an eyebrow at her and leans back in her chair. ]
And what would that be?
no subject
Though she's in no hurry whatsoever. The tease is the best part. ]
We don't recruit, [ she says playfully, ] so you don't have to worry about that. [ Root is not at all bothered by the insinuation that she's in a cult, though if she is, it's a cult of one. No one else sees or understands the Machine for what she is. Not even Harry does. It's certainly also true that they don't recruit -- knowing about the existence of the Machine is an immense privilege, one Root doesn't bestow easily when it's left up to her.
But this is as far as she can go by simply bullshitting her way through a conversation and making guesses at the Machine's intent. Root turns away, attention breaking abruptly, and idly strolls over in her stocking-feet to the large tanks serving as habitats for Clea's reptiles. She's been chasing after Shaw so much, she'd forgotten what it felt like to have an object of interest that wanted her attention, and, catlike, it makes her want to play.
It also gives her a chance to casually reach up and swipe her hand through some air, tucking it behind her right ear as she moves, the signal that she's requesting guidance. In that same ear, inaudible to anyone else, a crackled mix of audio clips comes through an instant later: Backup. Smuggle.
And she sees the vision at once and is delighted. (There is a reason she's the analog interface, and it's not just her commitment. The Machine needs her.) ]
Are you still in the forgery business?
no subject
[ Clea is far from the actress that Root is - she's entirely too honest, acting is one of the few arts that has never come easily to her - but she still does a passable impression of offense, teasing. How dare Root not consider Clea good enough to join whatever cult she's found herself roped into. She watches the woman watching her reptiles, wondering if Root's laugh is real or not. Then again, what is 'real' exactly? The laugh happened, the laugh makes Clea want to puff out her chest in pride at having elicited it. Is that not real?
And yet... she is no man, to have her faculties entirely leave her when a beautiful woman pays her attention. Clea herself has played that game.
Inside the enclosure, a 3 foot long sunbeam snake slithers along the ground, lighting perfectly arranged to enhance the effect of its iridescent scales, the colors shimmering hypnotically as the snake moves. It flicks its tongue, scenting the air and fully ignoring the two human women. Clea enjoys that about reptiles: They assert their right to take up space no matter what the hairless apes think.
Having given it enough time that she would not seem too desperate, Clea walks up next to Root, approaching from behind and standing closely enough that her cologne (not perfume) is apparent, but keeps her eyes on the snake. At least until Root's question. She looks over at the other woman, one eyebrow raising. ]
I do. The usual conditions apply.
[ Exact specifications and no questions about her process. The world does not know how she produces her copies so quickly, and Clea intends to keep it that way. ]
Do you need me to forge currency for you to give to an orphanage?
[ She could stop teasing, but it's so much fun. Why deny herself? ]
Or perhaps a security card so you can rob the rich and give to the poor?
no subject
That would be a waste of both our talents, [ she answers pointedly. ] I want to smuggle something, and I want to hide it in something else that is regularly smuggled, so if anyone finds it they'll think they know what it is. Fine art is the perfect cover.
[ Clea is so subtle and yet so precise. It takes Root a few moments to pick up on the scent of the cologne, mildly distracted watching the snake shimmer. She hadn't known she was coming, so that wasn't applied for her; Clea is just like this, all the time, ready to show off who she is. She really had missed that.
There's a momentary pause.
Seriously, calmly, without pretense: ] Getting you involved in this will be more dangerous than anything I've ever asked you to do before. So be sure.
no subject
Existing is a danger. Having the Gift is a danger, which is why it cannot be widely known. Why such things had passed into the realm of fancy and superstition, lest their wielders find themselves as guests or hostages to the growing human powers that have eaten the world and which are never satisfied. ]
Yes, that is more than possible. We can use something from the vaults, and I can set up a sale to a buyer suitably interested in not notifying the authorities.
[ Some items must be hidden from the eyes of power. ]
Where are we sending it and how large is the item in question?