Batou walked towards the buffet. Given that there neither he nor the Major had discovered any place to replace the plutonium pellets that powered their internal nuclear batteries, they had decided to minimize the strain on their electrical systems but supplementing the nuclear batteries with chemical energy.
In plainer speech, they ate.
Batou and the Major ate a lot, and of the most calorically dense food they could manage, in the realm of several thousand calories per day. It wasn't any real kind of replacement, but it would certainly extend the lives of their batteries.
Deuce turned slowly as he walked, brushing by as many of his fellow passengers as he could without drawing undue attention. The back of a hand, the faintest touch of a shoulder. It was a pickpocket's art, but theft was not his aim today.
He wished to know what sort of place this was. Where the people happy? Sad? Where they angry at being taken from their homes?
Touch might not have been the most pleasant way for him to gain answers, but it was certainly the quickest.
Forcibly shaking off one set of feelings while reaching for another, Deuce didn't see the large, white-haired man until he had, quite literally, walked into him.
Batou weighed several thousand pounds. He was so heavy that he was unable to use the elevators on board and he crushed virtually every piece of furniture he inflicted himself on. Deuce bounced off and he cocked his head down. Was the man blind?
Falling back, Deuce reached, his hand catching the man's arm to steady himself--
And everything went quiet. The pall of ambient emotion hanging in the air like static, the psychic residue clinging thick and sticky to his thoughts, even his own steady thrum of anxiety.
It all became quiet.
Deuce looked up at the man, not seeing or hearing, but feeling. "Devla," he whispered.
"I don't speak your language," responded Batou, impassive face and blank metal eyes gazing down at Deuce. Batou suddenly cocked his head to a sharp angle as his internal processors took the man's voice, analyzed it and compared it to voices he'd heard before.
"Deuce," Batou rumbled. "Hello. I'm Batou. We spoke earlier."
Deuce blinked, shaking his head a bit as the spell broke. He released Batou's arm. "Apologies," he said faintly, his eyes finally seeing Batou. He had to tip his head back to meet his eyes. "You are as tall as your voice is deep." Impressed and not a little awed; he had only seen demons as tall as this man.
Catching himself, Deuce stepped back and doffed his hat. "A pleasure to meet you in the flesh."
"Flesh. Hah," Batou said, bowing back as Japanese etiquette demanded. His long white ponytail fell over his shoulder and the cyborg straightened up, flicked it behind his back once more.
Batou flipped through modes of vision to examine Deuce, a habit he'd slipped into on the Elegante. Some of the passengers, he'd discovered, had insides that weren't typical of a human, or didn't have insides at all. Deuce seemed normal in a physical sense, so Batou changed his vision back to the visible spectrum.
"Exploring, are you?" the cop rumbled. He could hear the amazement in Deuce's voice and to be honest, it was nice to see that the shell Batou had chosen had the desired effect.
Deuce smiled; he had always harbored a deep affection for the police. It came from too many hours spent chatting in one interrogation room or another. He couldn't help but like them. They were merely doing what they thought was right. It wasn't their fault that he had been caught, after all.
Deuce sighed at Batou's question, waving his hat toward the milling passengers. "I am doing, ah-- how do you say? Recon." The word felt clunky in his mouth, wrong, and it showed in how he pronounced it; English had never come to him as easily as it had to his brother and sisters.
"I have heard many conflicting stories about this place," Deuce explained, frustration leaking into his voice. His frustration. Only his. It was a reassuring thing. "I desired to know which were true."
"Getting the lay of the land," Batou said in approval, cocking his head again as his on-board memory cross referenced what he was saying through his internal memory. One of his most-used books popped up in a window in his visual field, giving the cyborg the same quote in English, Chinese and Japanese. "'He who controls earth shall conquer Heaven'. It's a smart idea to explore."
"Sun Tzu also said 'An army marches on its stomach'," Batou said, turning and moving towards the buffet. He took a plate, a knife and fork and began to pile steaks onto his dish.
And having nowhere else to be, Deuce followed, watching Batou with curious eyes. "Not land," he corrected absently, running his fingertips down the lapels of his coat. "The people. It is the people who make the land." It was an old way of thinking, a Roma way. Having no land of their own, they did not think much of other people's.
Almost thoughtlessly, Deuce brushed by a woman, the backs of his fingers finding the side of her hand. Faint urgency to be someplace, hunger, a little melancholia. He shook his head slightly and sighed. Nothing useful. The next person who passed, he stole a pen off.
Clicking it, he took the napkin from the edge of Batou's plate, and began jotting down in short-hand what information he had come by. It wasn't much, but it was better than what he had started with.
"Your opinion," Deuce requested, still writing. "Do you think this is a bad boat?"
"Land shapes the people, at least if you're an environmental determinist," mused Batou, piling on another few steaks and then walking towards the doors. He held them open for Deuce and let them close behind the other man as Batou set to the staircase and sat down on the metal grill. He balanced the plate on his knees and began to slice the meat into bite-sized chunks.
"I am not certain it's a boat at all," he admitted, chewing and swallowing. Batou ate in a mechanical fashion, almost as if he were piling boxes into a warehouse instead of enjoying a meal. "I'm not certain you're even real."
Deuce paused, looking up from the now ink-stained linen. "This is all in your mind, then?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "You must be a very talented man indeed to dream such a place."
He tucked the pen and napkin into his coat. "I am flattered, I must say," he said, sitting down a stair below Batou. "Truly. Often have I been dreamt of, but never have I been dreamt into being."
"I've been hacked before," Batou said, grim voice calm and level as he steadily put away the steaks. They were t-bone and he made a neat pile beside his leg of the bones. They contained many trace elements and he'd eat them later. Batou knew that normal humans didn't like it when cyborgs exhibited non-human behaviours, so it was purely out of courtesy he refrained from crunching and swallowing the fragments to be digested. "This simulation would not be out of the realm of the Puppetmaster's talents, or many other hackers I've encountered. Cherry Lin, for example--"
His voice broke off and he frowned when he saw Deuce was amused and laughing.
"Perhaps we were all dreamt into being," Batou admitted, smiling a bit. Deuce was charming in his own way, a bit like Ando with his hesitancy and outgoing nature.
Nimble fingers found the hang of his rosary, curled around the beads, thumb lingering on the crucifix. "There are worse ways to birth a world," Deuce said, his smile fading slightly. He looked down at his partly healed wrist, at the blackened weave of the Dead Man's String, and thought it would not be too terrible a thing, to be a dream.
Deuce swallowed, releasing his rosary, and let his coat sleeve fall back into place. "It happens often, then?" he asked, focusing on Batou, on the calm he projected. "This, ah, hacking?" He wiggled his fingers by his temple.
"No," said Batou. "But my job involves hacking and hackers, so I run into it more than most people ever do. Not that they'd know, of course, because a good hacker will do his or her work and you would have no idea."
Batou had no pupils, so it was impossible to tell where he was looking, but he hadn't failed to notice the burn on Deuce's wrist or the easew ith which the man clutched his rosary. Catholic. Probably Italian, or near-to.
Batou paused, then recited, "For God does speak - now one way, now another - though man may not percieve it. In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falls on men as they slumber in their beds."
Deuce looked up, startled. "Tunc aperit aures virorum et erudiens eos instruit disciplinam," he recited, adding to the quote, "ut avertat hominem ab his quae facit et liberet eum de superbia." He smiled then, uneasily, and rolled a shoulder. "The book of Job frightened me as a child."
In plainer speech, they ate.
Batou and the Major ate a lot, and of the most calorically dense food they could manage, in the realm of several thousand calories per day. It wasn't any real kind of replacement, but it would certainly extend the lives of their batteries.
Batou opened the door of the buffet.
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He wished to know what sort of place this was. Where the people happy? Sad? Where they angry at being taken from their homes?
Touch might not have been the most pleasant way for him to gain answers, but it was certainly the quickest.
Forcibly shaking off one set of feelings while reaching for another, Deuce didn't see the large, white-haired man until he had, quite literally, walked into him.
Reply
"Be careful," Batou rumbled. "Are you injured?"
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And everything went quiet. The pall of ambient emotion hanging in the air like static, the psychic residue clinging thick and sticky to his thoughts, even his own steady thrum of anxiety.
It all became quiet.
Deuce looked up at the man, not seeing or hearing, but feeling. "Devla," he whispered.
Reply
"Deuce," Batou rumbled. "Hello. I'm Batou. We spoke earlier."
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Catching himself, Deuce stepped back and doffed his hat. "A pleasure to meet you in the flesh."
Reply
Batou flipped through modes of vision to examine Deuce, a habit he'd slipped into on the Elegante. Some of the passengers, he'd discovered, had insides that weren't typical of a human, or didn't have insides at all. Deuce seemed normal in a physical sense, so Batou changed his vision back to the visible spectrum.
"Exploring, are you?" the cop rumbled. He could hear the amazement in Deuce's voice and to be honest, it was nice to see that the shell Batou had chosen had the desired effect.
After all, his job was to look intimidating.
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Deuce sighed at Batou's question, waving his hat toward the milling passengers. "I am doing, ah-- how do you say? Recon." The word felt clunky in his mouth, wrong, and it showed in how he pronounced it; English had never come to him as easily as it had to his brother and sisters.
"I have heard many conflicting stories about this place," Deuce explained, frustration leaking into his voice. His frustration. Only his. It was a reassuring thing. "I desired to know which were true."
Reply
"Sun Tzu also said 'An army marches on its stomach'," Batou said, turning and moving towards the buffet. He took a plate, a knife and fork and began to pile steaks onto his dish.
Reply
Almost thoughtlessly, Deuce brushed by a woman, the backs of his fingers finding the side of her hand. Faint urgency to be someplace, hunger, a little melancholia. He shook his head slightly and sighed. Nothing useful. The next person who passed, he stole a pen off.
Clicking it, he took the napkin from the edge of Batou's plate, and began jotting down in short-hand what information he had come by. It wasn't much, but it was better than what he had started with.
"Your opinion," Deuce requested, still writing. "Do you think this is a bad boat?"
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"I am not certain it's a boat at all," he admitted, chewing and swallowing. Batou ate in a mechanical fashion, almost as if he were piling boxes into a warehouse instead of enjoying a meal. "I'm not certain you're even real."
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He tucked the pen and napkin into his coat. "I am flattered, I must say," he said, sitting down a stair below Batou. "Truly. Often have I been dreamt of, but never have I been dreamt into being."
Deuce's eyes were dancing.
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His voice broke off and he frowned when he saw Deuce was amused and laughing.
"Perhaps we were all dreamt into being," Batou admitted, smiling a bit. Deuce was charming in his own way, a bit like Ando with his hesitancy and outgoing nature.
Of course, Ando hadn't been real either.
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Deuce swallowed, releasing his rosary, and let his coat sleeve fall back into place. "It happens often, then?" he asked, focusing on Batou, on the calm he projected. "This, ah, hacking?" He wiggled his fingers by his temple.
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Batou had no pupils, so it was impossible to tell where he was looking, but he hadn't failed to notice the burn on Deuce's wrist or the easew ith which the man clutched his rosary. Catholic. Probably Italian, or near-to.
Batou paused, then recited, "For God does speak - now one way, now another - though man may not percieve it. In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falls on men as they slumber in their beds."
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He covered his wrist. "It still frightens me."
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