Because Bayami is sure that the world will tell her what to do, if only she listens hard enough. It has to, right? That's its function. It tells her what to do to keep it running, and she does it.
And she can't remember exactly what that feels like, which makes her uneasy. It's something bone-deep and indescribable, like hunger or interest or love, and she's starting to forget how to listen for it. But she thinks it should be raining over here. Perhaps. It's sort of a whim, really, but a whim might be this world's way of telling her what her task is.
"Fine," he says, climbing to his feet with some difficulty and engaging the mechanism to retract the movement arms on the back of his flightsuit. "Either I'm on Earth or I'm hallucinating. Let's go with the first one."
In which case, he picks a direction and starts walking. Finding out where the hell he is: top priority.
"Sorry," says a soft female voice from out of thin air.
Bayami's working, so she's got her whole illusory-invisibility thing going on, but that doesn't mean she doesn't feel a little guilty about bringing a downpour to soak this poor guy.
(When did she start feeling guilty for making weather? Perhaps that time around people at the farm was a bad idea. The will of the weather obviously outstrips that of random mortals.)
He's spun around, drawn his sidearm, and focused his eye on the source of the noise before he consciously registers that words are involved.
Then more details filter in, lowering the apparent threat level from "unknown voice out of nowhere" to "unknown voice floating in the air apologizing to me", which is much more innocuous (if bizarre). The reflex to aim is interrupted by the fact that there's nothing to aim at, so the gun stays pointed at the ground.
Some time later-- don't ask when-- a much more weathered Neil pulls up to the Cooper farm in an equally scuffed electric car.
Don't ask where he got it.
Spend enough time wandering the roads of Kansas and you'll find out pretty quickly that there's this farm full of weirdos and outworlders, smack dab in the middle of the nominal safe zone. He wanted to see it for himself. So sue him.
In the interval between his conversation with Bayami and the present moment, he's managed to find himself some clothes that aren't as obviously astronautical (or less obviously military) as his flightsuit. The suit, therefore, is in the backseat with the rest of his meager supplies. His gun is... somewhere. You'll find out if you startle him.
There's a short ginger kid standing on tiptoes outside the house and holding a little tin radio away from his body at an angle, because he's sure the reception is slightly better like this than it was in his previous position in the bunker.
Steve notices the eyepatch, but doesn't particularly react to it (beyond 'ooh, rugged'). Hey, he lives in a world where gods and dragons run around and skinless dogs try to eat you*. By comparison, an eyepatch is almost humdrum.
He gives the guy a friendly smile, though he doesn't lower the radio.
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Because Bayami is sure that the world will tell her what to do, if only she listens hard enough. It has to, right? That's its function. It tells her what to do to keep it running, and she does it.
And she can't remember exactly what that feels like, which makes her uneasy. It's something bone-deep and indescribable, like hunger or interest or love, and she's starting to forget how to listen for it. But she thinks it should be raining over here. Perhaps. It's sort of a whim, really, but a whim might be this world's way of telling her what her task is.
And so it begins to rain.
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"Fine," he says, climbing to his feet with some difficulty and engaging the mechanism to retract the movement arms on the back of his flightsuit. "Either I'm on Earth or I'm hallucinating. Let's go with the first one."
In which case, he picks a direction and starts walking. Finding out where the hell he is: top priority.
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Bayami's working, so she's got her whole illusory-invisibility thing going on, but that doesn't mean she doesn't feel a little guilty about bringing a downpour to soak this poor guy.
(When did she start feeling guilty for making weather? Perhaps that time around people at the farm was a bad idea. The will of the weather obviously outstrips that of random mortals.)
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Then more details filter in, lowering the apparent threat level from "unknown voice out of nowhere" to "unknown voice floating in the air apologizing to me", which is much more innocuous (if bizarre). The reflex to aim is interrupted by the fact that there's nothing to aim at, so the gun stays pointed at the ground.
"Sorry for what, exactly?"
His tone is genial enough, if a little rattled.
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Don't ask where he got it.
Spend enough time wandering the roads of Kansas and you'll find out pretty quickly that there's this farm full of weirdos and outworlders, smack dab in the middle of the nominal safe zone. He wanted to see it for himself. So sue him.
In the interval between his conversation with Bayami and the present moment, he's managed to find himself some clothes that aren't as obviously astronautical (or less obviously military) as his flightsuit. The suit, therefore, is in the backseat with the rest of his meager supplies. His gun is... somewhere. You'll find out if you startle him.
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Hmm.
Maybe if he tilts it like--
Oh, hey, a car.
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He leans out, incidentally revealing the eyepatch.
"Hey. You live here?"
(The fluff and the youth and the look of concentration remind him obliquely of Setsuna.)
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He gives the guy a friendly smile, though he doesn't lower the radio.
"Hey, yeah. Are you new?"
*He's still not very happy about that.
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