K hates the script. Words rubbed in his face, dangled before him like a piece of bread before a starving man but that the price for reaching for is death. Words he had to learn the meaning of - not just the definition but the real, weighted, visceral meaning of - so he could say over and over and over again no, I do not have this. No, I do not want this. There is no soft animal in this body to love what it loves.
K needs the script. It is the constellation of who he is, a smattering of data points connected dot to dot to dot that when stepped back and viewed as a whole reveals him. A sounding board, the limits of sonar, the pieces of him they expect to find if they read between the lines long enough, hard enough, no more and no less.
K loves the script. It ends on hope, and maybe they programmed him to feel that way but he still feels that way, still thinks of it like others think of a middle name: something they don't reveal to just anyone for any reason, that exists nonetheless, fleshing out in a measurable way who he is. What he is.
He has never heard a human echo his lines back to him. The words were programmed into him from the beginning, and the only pieces of it the humans ever bother with are the prompts, directing him to which stanzas and lines he's to present today, which desert to walk on his knees repenting. It surprises him, and he looks across at Vrenille, studies him like he hasn't since he came in, the calculating, searching gaze that more than half of the sixty-three replicants he retired over the course of his activation saw from him.
And then, he nods. Then, he takes another draw on the cigarette in his hand, lets it out, and slouches down on the couch until his knee falling wide leans against Vrenille's and his neck is stable on the back cushion. Then, he closes his eyes and breathes.
no subject
K needs the script. It is the constellation of who he is, a smattering of data points connected dot to dot to dot that when stepped back and viewed as a whole reveals him. A sounding board, the limits of sonar, the pieces of him they expect to find if they read between the lines long enough, hard enough, no more and no less.
K loves the script. It ends on hope, and maybe they programmed him to feel that way but he still feels that way, still thinks of it like others think of a middle name: something they don't reveal to just anyone for any reason, that exists nonetheless, fleshing out in a measurable way who he is. What he is.
He has never heard a human echo his lines back to him. The words were programmed into him from the beginning, and the only pieces of it the humans ever bother with are the prompts, directing him to which stanzas and lines he's to present today, which desert to walk on his knees repenting. It surprises him, and he looks across at Vrenille, studies him like he hasn't since he came in, the calculating, searching gaze that more than half of the sixty-three replicants he retired over the course of his activation saw from him.
And then, he nods. Then, he takes another draw on the cigarette in his hand, lets it out, and slouches down on the couch until his knee falling wide leans against Vrenille's and his neck is stable on the back cushion. Then, he closes his eyes and breathes.