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. ]
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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?