There's so much she's missing. So many pieces to wrap her mind around, so many factors that affect how he sees the world, how his world saw him.
Her touch is light, but insistent. And when she's sure he won't fight her on that, she lets her hands slip back down into her lap, searching his features quietly.
"Nothing about where you come from is easy. But it's like I told you. You don't have to stick by those rules anymore. No one here sees you as... as they did."
When her hands fall away, he doesn't move from where she left him, still watchful, still braced for something he can't even name but that he expects will happen anyway.
Los Angeles was terrible, it was dying, but it was home; the rules he was subject to there were exacting, were harsh, but there were rules. He thinks he could like the comparative freedom, perhaps, if it didn't feel like trying to balance on a high wire without a net - and isn't that a traitorous thought, too?
"Not no one," he adds after a moment, gesturing at the black mark down his throat, at the mess that is his head. "I'm trying," he promises, a faint note of something like desperation woven through.
She knows what it's like. To seek comfort in something terrible, but familiar. The League, destructive as it was to her soul, to the person she used to be, was home for six years. Familiar. Structured. But eventually, it had all become too much.
He reminds her of the mark that signifies his standing here, arbitrary as it is. She frowns at it, gaze lingering there for a moment.
"I know you are," she concedes quietly. "But you're not alone, okay? This... this place is a mess, but it can be better than it was at home. It will be."
He is, patently, not alone; she came to find him, even angry, even hurting both physically and emotionally. Even willing to threaten him into never trying this again. And things had been better, briefly, and aimed at an upward trend at least for a bit.
He'd been warned about the ways the city, the program have of knocking its subjects down a rung. Nothing could have prepared him for this though.
He nods, even if he can't quite smile yet. He hears her. He acknowledges her. He'll do his level best to believe her.
"Will you -" He stops, licks his lips, tries again. "Can we talk about something good?"
Sara's anger may run hot, easily ignited by something that might seem trivial. But she cares deeply about the few people in her life she lets in. And K's a part of that now. She's not sure how it happened, when it happened, but it's not so easily shaken.
She studies him curiously, anticipating a request, already half agreeing to whatever the hell it is - if it'll help. If it'll cushion the below. When it actually lands, she sputters out a soft laugh, smiling down at her hands.
"That I can do," she replies, lifting her gaze to his again. "You hungry?" She slips off the bed, reclaiming the backpack she'd brought and digging around in it for a lump wrapped in foil. "Barry made... I dunno what this is. Banana bread, maybe."
Normally the answer to this question is a resounding yes; the one thing he never tries to defend about Los Angeles is the food or the drink, not in comparison to here, and he is voracious after a lifetime of grubs being the only protein in his life, of artifically flavored fruits and vegetables that no longer taste anything like the foods they're modeled after he's discovered only after coming here. He is eager to try anything and everything, and enjoys even the simplest of things.
He still nods, he still agrees that he is, but it's rote; his stomach is as unsettled as the rest of him and he honestly has no idea how this is going to go, but he'll try. For Sara, he'll try, and even he can recognize that under normal circumstances he would be enthusiastically agreeing.
"I've never had banana bread," he offers, moving to the edge of the bed himself, scrubbing his hands down his face and through his hair in hopes it will clear his mind a bit more. "The cookies were amazing." Not an uncommon review, from him.
She's seen his eyes light up at the simplest things - a mixed drink, a piece of fresh fruit, a random appetizer they serve at the bar. She's gotten into the habit of mixing up small tastes of this and that at the bar - a shot with a spice he's never tried or a juice they've just gotten in.
There's not much light in his eyes now, though. Not after that thing had gone and snuffed it out. Still, he's trying, like he said he would, and at the very least he has to be starving from everything he's just been though.
She toes off her boots, unwraps the tin foil and perches back onto the edge of the bed next to him, crossing her legs underneath herself and offering it out for him to break off a piece. "It's good. There's chocolate chips in it." She grabs a piece for herself, munching on it thoughtfully, trying hard not to keep looking over him, keep checking to make sure he's not crumbling.
"I think pretty much everything he makes is amazing. But I'm shit in the kitchen." She offers a small smile. "Do you have a favorite food?"
He does fix the contents of the package with, it must be said, a slightly confounded look. He's not sure what he would have expected banana bread to look like, but as he accepts it he points out, "It doesn't look like a banana at all." He has it on good authority now that he's seen a real one, in person.
He's still going to eat it. He's going to try anyway. But he smells it, and he looks it over, and he watches the piece Sara took as she chews on it, and he crinkles the foil thoughtfully when she asks him that. Does he have a favorite food?
"Those little - sour octopus gummies Scratch has." It's the only place he's encountered them, so that's his association for them. "And bacon. No, strawberries."
That little wrinkle in his brow gets a look of concern from her, but when he explains his confusion, she blurts out a genuine laugh. "I mean... it looks like bread?" She shrugs. "It's just... it's got bananas baked into it."
She hadn't expected to have to explain the concept of banana bread to him, still smiling as she breaks off another piece and munches on it. Watching his expression curiously when he takes a bite, she nods at his list.
"They make maple bacon donuts. Sweet and salty. They're really good. Though I'd actually kill for some of those sour gummies right now."
He's cautious about it, taking a very small bite in anticipation of not being able to get or keep the food down; to his pleasant surprise, though, it's easier once he gets going. That he likes the taste, the texture, the burst of sweetness from the chocolate chips almost goes without saying and he picks up another, more normal size piece before he bothers answering.
"They'll be there when we go back, no need to kill anyone," he points out, but there's a lighter note; he's kidding, too. "I've heard of doughnuts. I haven't tried any yet, though. I used to have a whole list." And now that he actually has access to some of the things on that list, he's been wholly distracted by all the things he never imagined to put on it.
She's satisfied, at least, that he's able to keep it down. He needs something to keep him going besides cigarettes and nightmares, and if there's anything that can bring some kind of light into his life right now, she's glad for it.
His joke is surprising, welcome, though a lot of things about him are surprising. She gives him a smile, munching on another piece. "Used to?"
"There was a blackout in 2022 that wiped out most of the digital data in the world - including cultural contributions like music and movies, but some survived, and there were physical copies then. VHS tapes, records, film reels," K explains, perhaps unwittingly also explaining why he likes listening to music from 1966 and Joi displayed a lot of retro clothing in the memory. It doesn't occur to him as odd, personally. "I liked watching them but they had a lot of food in them I'd never seen and we could never have reproduced anyway. Olivier salad, spaghetti with meatballs, charlotte russe, milkshakes, boiled eggs, cannolis, sole meunière, bologna, steak and frites."
She's seen the memory, she knows where that last one comes from anyway. He takes another bite of banana bread and takes his time chewing it, too, before he speaks again. "But then I came here and I realized there's no point in having a list. There's so much I've never even heard of, let alone thought to want to try."
She listens curiously, toying with the piece of tin foil in her lap, imagining a world where whole pieces of history, culture were just... lost. Removed in chunks, along with the taste of food and drink.
"Some of that stuff I don't even think I've had," she concedes. What the hell even goes in a charlotte russe? But with all the conveniences of her own world - delivery, melting pots of culture, fast food, convenience stores - she can't imagine a world where you could conjure up a food you'd want to try and not be able to go out and get it.
"You can still have a list. Make sure you've tried the stuff you've always wanted to, on top of everything else." She chews thoughtfully a moment. "What were your favorites? From the movies you watched?
"I just don't want to get too focused on a list when there's... Toast with jelly, and corn on the cob, and cranberry juice." All things that rate five stars in K's book, things that are easy to focus on now that there's someone else here to talk with him about it rather than focusing on the menace still lurking in the back of his thoughts.
He actually leans forward a bit toward her, relaxing into the conversation, his answer ready to that question.
"Turkish delight," he answers immediately. "Or couscous. But I always thought a candy good enough to distract you from finding your family must be particularly delicious, so. Turkish delight. Have you ever had it?"
"God, you really do like all of it, don't you?" she chuckles. Cranberry juice was only ever good with vodka, in her opinion, but she's not here to judge. "There's so much more, though. Pizza, my god. Tell me you've had pizza."
She reaches out to brush a crumb of banana bread off the front of his shirt, brow furrowing as she remembers the flash of blood there - the bullet she'd buried into his chest - before she blinks it away, glancing back up at him.
"From the Narnia movie? God, I forgot about those." She chuckles, shaking her head. "I've had it a few times in Istanbul. It's good. Sweet, chewy. I like the ones with chopped nuts in them the best."
"I haven't had pizza," he regrets to inform her - and it is a regret if she's saying that's her critical food for him to have had. He's still while she reaches towards him, glancing down, but he doesn't stop her or pull away.
He does nod to confirm - "The book," though - before getting distracted by her answer.
Disbelief flickers across her features - God, he hasn't lived until he's had a bite of pizza - and she gets to her feet immediately, grabbing her phone where she left it by the nightstand and tapping away at it to put in an order.
"I know it's a book," she chuckles, eyes trained on her phone a moment before she returns her attention to him. "Yeah. International assassin, remember?" Another few clicks and she tucks her phone back into her pocket. "The League was based up in the Himalayas, but I got sent all over the place."
K watches her get up, at first concerned that he said something, but she hasn't changed significantly that he can tell. She doesn't collect more of her things to leave, so he relaxes again.
And shakes his head.
"You never said international," just so they're clear. But more importantly: "I rarely left Los Angeles, let alone California. Never what used to be the United States. What was it like?"
It's a push and pull between them - tension and release, still learning the triggers, the things that set them both off, cause them to withdraw or open up at the drop of a hat.
She doesn't go far, at least, reclaiming her spot next to him at the edge of the bed, shifting a little further towards the middle to try and get comfortable.
"Oh. I guess I don't like to talk about it much." It's the understatement of the century, but he's seen it first hand now. Not much use in hiding it. "It's beautiful. Colorful, bright. Really busy, but that's true of any major city. It's right on the peninsula, so there's water all around." She leans back on both her hands. "Where have you been, besides LA? You ever go up north?"
The look he gives her is empathetic; he understands and he doesn't want to push, not when it doesn't matter right now so much as it's new information.
He tries to imagine what she's telling him and smiles faintly, an expression that vanishes when he thinks of California.
"For cases. There are protein farms a few hours flight outside the biome, but not much else. People can't live outside the megapolises anymore so it's a popular place for rogue replicants to hide."
That's how easy the push and pull is. A smile one moment, a flicker of darkness another. But that's the nature of who they are, it seems. Shrouded in that darkness and trying, stubbornly to find the light. Even if neither of them believe they deserve it.
Her brow furrows, trying to imagine it. "I grew up there. Starling City, up near San Francisco. Least that land is good for something, I guess."
Right now he especially doesn't believe in his own worth. Caught between lacking purpose and the accusations pressed into his mind by the nightmare, he doesn't believe he deserves much of anything good.
But he can talk with hera while anyway. She came all this way.
"San Francisco is gone. The ocean swallowed up most of it and the rest burned up under the sun. Los Angeles covers the southern half of the state and nearly pushed into Nevada. It's one of six megapolises left on the planet, each built around a space port."
It's been years since Sara's felt like she's deserved anything good. She doesn't need a nightmare to reinforce that much. Their doppelgangers had just reminded her of what she already knew. That feeling amplified ten fold, targeting the people close to her to show her she couldn't even take care of them.
She's good at pushing it down, though. Burying it all, putting on a smile, cracking a joke as a cherry on top. She chews at the inside of her lip, frowning at the idea of a world where her home was just... gone.
"Is there anything good about where you're from? Because honestly, everything you've ever told me about it sounds horrible."
He would never argue that his planet is... good. It's literally a dead world, the corpse of the earth that once supported life now drifting in space while its inhabitants fight to get free of it like fleas. It's actively killing those that are left, and will take billions with it in the end. Takes millions every day.
But it's still home. It's still his city, they're still his people. He presses his lips together and resists the urge to shrug.
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Her touch is light, but insistent. And when she's sure he won't fight her on that, she lets her hands slip back down into her lap, searching his features quietly.
"Nothing about where you come from is easy. But it's like I told you. You don't have to stick by those rules anymore. No one here sees you as... as they did."
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Los Angeles was terrible, it was dying, but it was home; the rules he was subject to there were exacting, were harsh, but there were rules. He thinks he could like the comparative freedom, perhaps, if it didn't feel like trying to balance on a high wire without a net - and isn't that a traitorous thought, too?
"Not no one," he adds after a moment, gesturing at the black mark down his throat, at the mess that is his head. "I'm trying," he promises, a faint note of something like desperation woven through.
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He reminds her of the mark that signifies his standing here, arbitrary as it is. She frowns at it, gaze lingering there for a moment.
"I know you are," she concedes quietly. "But you're not alone, okay? This... this place is a mess, but it can be better than it was at home. It will be."
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He'd been warned about the ways the city, the program have of knocking its subjects down a rung. Nothing could have prepared him for this though.
He nods, even if he can't quite smile yet. He hears her. He acknowledges her. He'll do his level best to believe her.
"Will you -" He stops, licks his lips, tries again. "Can we talk about something good?"
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She studies him curiously, anticipating a request, already half agreeing to whatever the hell it is - if it'll help. If it'll cushion the below. When it actually lands, she sputters out a soft laugh, smiling down at her hands.
"That I can do," she replies, lifting her gaze to his again. "You hungry?" She slips off the bed, reclaiming the backpack she'd brought and digging around in it for a lump wrapped in foil. "Barry made... I dunno what this is. Banana bread, maybe."
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He still nods, he still agrees that he is, but it's rote; his stomach is as unsettled as the rest of him and he honestly has no idea how this is going to go, but he'll try. For Sara, he'll try, and even he can recognize that under normal circumstances he would be enthusiastically agreeing.
"I've never had banana bread," he offers, moving to the edge of the bed himself, scrubbing his hands down his face and through his hair in hopes it will clear his mind a bit more. "The cookies were amazing." Not an uncommon review, from him.
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There's not much light in his eyes now, though. Not after that thing had gone and snuffed it out. Still, he's trying, like he said he would, and at the very least he has to be starving from everything he's just been though.
She toes off her boots, unwraps the tin foil and perches back onto the edge of the bed next to him, crossing her legs underneath herself and offering it out for him to break off a piece. "It's good. There's chocolate chips in it." She grabs a piece for herself, munching on it thoughtfully, trying hard not to keep looking over him, keep checking to make sure he's not crumbling.
"I think pretty much everything he makes is amazing. But I'm shit in the kitchen." She offers a small smile. "Do you have a favorite food?"
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He's still going to eat it. He's going to try anyway. But he smells it, and he looks it over, and he watches the piece Sara took as she chews on it, and he crinkles the foil thoughtfully when she asks him that. Does he have a favorite food?
"Those little - sour octopus gummies Scratch has." It's the only place he's encountered them, so that's his association for them. "And bacon. No, strawberries."
He really can't be expected to choose only one.
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She hadn't expected to have to explain the concept of banana bread to him, still smiling as she breaks off another piece and munches on it. Watching his expression curiously when he takes a bite, she nods at his list.
"They make maple bacon donuts. Sweet and salty. They're really good. Though I'd actually kill for some of those sour gummies right now."
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"They'll be there when we go back, no need to kill anyone," he points out, but there's a lighter note; he's kidding, too. "I've heard of doughnuts. I haven't tried any yet, though. I used to have a whole list." And now that he actually has access to some of the things on that list, he's been wholly distracted by all the things he never imagined to put on it.
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His joke is surprising, welcome, though a lot of things about him are surprising. She gives him a smile, munching on another piece. "Used to?"
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She's seen the memory, she knows where that last one comes from anyway. He takes another bite of banana bread and takes his time chewing it, too, before he speaks again. "But then I came here and I realized there's no point in having a list. There's so much I've never even heard of, let alone thought to want to try."
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"Some of that stuff I don't even think I've had," she concedes. What the hell even goes in a charlotte russe? But with all the conveniences of her own world - delivery, melting pots of culture, fast food, convenience stores - she can't imagine a world where you could conjure up a food you'd want to try and not be able to go out and get it.
"You can still have a list. Make sure you've tried the stuff you've always wanted to, on top of everything else." She chews thoughtfully a moment. "What were your favorites? From the movies you watched?
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He actually leans forward a bit toward her, relaxing into the conversation, his answer ready to that question.
"Turkish delight," he answers immediately. "Or couscous. But I always thought a candy good enough to distract you from finding your family must be particularly delicious, so.
Turkish delight. Have you ever had it?"
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She reaches out to brush a crumb of banana bread off the front of his shirt, brow furrowing as she remembers the flash of blood there - the bullet she'd buried into his chest - before she blinks it away, glancing back up at him.
"From the Narnia movie? God, I forgot about those." She chuckles, shaking her head. "I've had it a few times in Istanbul. It's good. Sweet, chewy. I like the ones with chopped nuts in them the best."
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He does nod to confirm - "The book," though - before getting distracted by her answer.
"You've been to Istanbul?"
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"I know it's a book," she chuckles, eyes trained on her phone a moment before she returns her attention to him. "Yeah. International assassin, remember?" Another few clicks and she tucks her phone back into her pocket. "The League was based up in the Himalayas, but I got sent all over the place."
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And shakes his head.
"You never said international," just so they're clear. But more importantly: "I rarely left Los Angeles, let alone California. Never what used to be the United States. What was it like?"
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She doesn't go far, at least, reclaiming her spot next to him at the edge of the bed, shifting a little further towards the middle to try and get comfortable.
"Oh. I guess I don't like to talk about it much." It's the understatement of the century, but he's seen it first hand now. Not much use in hiding it. "It's beautiful. Colorful, bright. Really busy, but that's true of any major city. It's right on the peninsula, so there's water all around." She leans back on both her hands. "Where have you been, besides LA? You ever go up north?"
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He tries to imagine what she's telling him and smiles faintly, an expression that vanishes when he thinks of California.
"For cases. There are protein farms a few hours flight outside the biome, but not much else. People can't live outside the megapolises anymore so it's a popular place for rogue replicants to hide."
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Her brow furrows, trying to imagine it. "I grew up there. Starling City, up near San Francisco. Least that land is good for something, I guess."
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But he can talk with hera while anyway. She came all this way.
"San Francisco is gone. The ocean swallowed up most of it and the rest burned up under the sun. Los Angeles covers the southern half of the state and nearly pushed into Nevada. It's one of six megapolises left on the planet, each built around a space port."
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She's good at pushing it down, though. Burying it all, putting on a smile, cracking a joke as a cherry on top. She chews at the inside of her lip, frowning at the idea of a world where her home was just... gone.
"Is there anything good about where you're from? Because honestly, everything you've ever told me about it sounds horrible."
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But it's still home. It's still his city, they're still his people. He presses his lips together and resists the urge to shrug.
"You're from a better planet. I'm not surprised."
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"What were the things that made you happy? Back home?" Joi, likely. She's seen the way he changed around her. The ease in his demeanor.
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