Here he is, still hurt nonetheless. K turns the cigarette between his fingertips, studying it. It does help, a little, to receive that acknowledgement even if he wonders then at the way some instinct in him, some reflex, rears up immediately to absolve the humans around him from any fault. Is that him? Is that how he feels? Or is it the programming, keeping humans safe from him and what he might do if he did blame them?
He doesn't look up, and only barely manages not to say it, not right now.
"When I was in jail over my first deadline," he says instead, "V begged me to sign with him, for three days straight. Give him this chance. Let him help, it could be different than what I thought, we could make it something else together. He was from a nomad culture, and I think it actually hurt him to see me confined even though the only part I minded was the guards, and even they were... predictable." He draws a lungful of smoke, holds it.
Lets it out slowly while he speaks. "I went in, then, knowing that the city would be forced to do something with me eventually. Assign me to someone - like they did, after he was gone. Inject me with something to take away my choice, like they did when I missed quota. Or just get rid of me. I knew that. I accepted it. I watched it done in Los Angeles, with the rebel replicants we did manage to bring in alive. But V begged me, and it was hurting him, hurting Jesus, hurting you and Sara. So I tried." Here, finally, gently as though it has sharp edges that cut under too much pressure, as if it's something lodged so deep that any movement aches: "He didn't want to go, not for a moment, but V is still gone. There's no together with only one."
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He doesn't look up, and only barely manages not to say it, not right now.
"When I was in jail over my first deadline," he says instead, "V begged me to sign with him, for three days straight. Give him this chance. Let him help, it could be different than what I thought, we could make it something else together. He was from a nomad culture, and I think it actually hurt him to see me confined even though the only part I minded was the guards, and even they were... predictable." He draws a lungful of smoke, holds it.
Lets it out slowly while he speaks. "I went in, then, knowing that the city would be forced to do something with me eventually. Assign me to someone - like they did, after he was gone. Inject me with something to take away my choice, like they did when I missed quota. Or just get rid of me. I knew that. I accepted it. I watched it done in Los Angeles, with the rebel replicants we did manage to bring in alive. But V begged me, and it was hurting him, hurting Jesus, hurting you and Sara. So I tried." Here, finally, gently as though it has sharp edges that cut under too much pressure, as if it's something lodged so deep that any movement aches: "He didn't want to go, not for a moment, but V is still gone. There's no together with only one."