[ 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.
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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.