Farm Livin' [open]

[abheirrant]

Who: Carlisle Longinmouth, farm animals, and anyone else who might wander into the area
What: With Anchor's #1 Ranch Hand gone, someone had to take care of the animals.
When: Late June/throughout July
Where: Agricultural Level, mostly near the barns/livestock and the adjacent forested area
Warnings: Will update as necessary!


As someone who had everything he ever knew either ruined, upended, or permanently changed for the worse within the near-year he's been aware of himself, Carlisle is glad to have some semblance of a routine back. True, it came at an awful cost, but in an effort to maintain his nerves — and therefore keep his more volatile, necrotic energies in check — he will take what victories he can get, however small they may be.

It started when he first moved into the barn. He's been there for well over a month now, and it took most of that time for the animals to adjust to his presence; with his head-to-toe outfit and fastidious nature, Carlisle is a far cry from their former farmhand, but he simply couldn't let Kieran's animals be without a caretaker. Given the man disappeared so soon after he'd been healed — and after Carlisle had begun to form the barest notion that they could be friends — the former clergyman is quick to blame himself for Kieran's vanishing. What's one more addition to his long list of sins? He has so much to atone for already, and a seemingly endless existence to do it. Who better to be responsible for Anchor's loss but him?

It's self-fulfilling prophecy, of course, but Carlisle is hesitant to label it as such. He felt a genuine bond with Reynir, who then disappeared. The same goes for Kieran, and now he's gone. Carlisle has yet to be proven wrong, shown that the misfortune he's said to breed with his very presence isn't a guarantee, but with only his own experiences to go on, he cannot say he believes otherwise. The only reason he remains in the colony at all is because of the insistence of a few individuals — that, and his own cowardice toward what lies in the wasteland outside of Anchor. The vast, open expanse is enough to have him reeling.

As it is, he told those same few individuals that he was moving from the housing quarters to the barn, slowly converting one of the sheds into a private home as the days went by. He claimed it was for the sake of the animals, and that it'd be a good exercise for him. By surrounding himself with living creatures who depended on him, he'd have to not only have to continue to live withing Anchor, but he would have to master his often destructive energies, keeping them in line lest he wanted their deaths on his hands. It was grim motivation, but motivation none the less. There was a heavier truth lying just beneath that reasoning: he felt that if any animals disappeared, no one would notice, whereas being in proximity of people put them at risk — those he would consider his friends included.

And so, he moved away from them, keeping his distance much as he did in life. It didn't do him any good then, either.

Well, that's not to say that living at the barn hasn't done him some good. Carlisle has indeed gotten a better hold on the necrotic magic that animates him, been able to practice wielding them in the safety of his solitude. He no longer rots everything he touches, can walk across the grasses of the fields without leaving a trail of dying, withered stalks behind him. Animals do not shift uncomfortably at his touch, and there some satisfaction in that. Each day, he feeds them, brushes them, goes about his prayer, watches over those who need him, works a little more on making the barn habitable. It's a routine, and one that often has him interacting less and less with people.

But just because he doesn't seek them out doesn't mean he's completely away from them. He actually has help on the farm some days: there's Pratt, who has shown him how to more or less manage the animals, and Ami, who comes by the brush the horses on a regular basis. Try as he might to fully isolate himself, Carlisle finds that he can't... and deep down, he isn't sure he wants to, no matter how he may seclude himself, both unconsciously or otherwise. Despite everything that's happened in his vicinity, everything he's done as the Blight Heir, Carlisle doesn't want to be alone. He's constantly trying to make amends for an endless guilt that festers in his gut. At least the animals don't judge him as harshly as he judges himself.

When dropping by the agricultural area, one might see Carlisle tending to the start of his garden: he's built up a bed of soil and surrounded it with rocks, hoping to deter the few chickens he has from plucking the new sprouts as they emerge. Acting as an additional deterrent is a tiny dragon, the blue-and-white wyrmling often nestled atop a pole in the center of the bed. Though barely bigger than a chicken himself, he does his best to act as a guard dog, keeping watch over the budding plants and hissing at anyone who would approach, letting loose a breath of chilling air.

When not there, Carlisle can be found over by the field as he tends to the cattle, letting them graze on the grasses to their hearts' content while he prepares their hay or (badly) fixes the fence. Sitting among the cattle is their protector: a hulking beast of an undead abomination. Its malformed body is no less than eight feet tall when sitting, closer to nine or ten when standing, making it out like a sore thumb among the cows and bulls; its rib cage has far too many ribs, and houses a vibrant, blue light that blazes like fire within its cavernous torso. Its frame is built of materials of all sorts, mismatched fragments of both human and animal bone, as well as a twisted branch or two making up its many limbs. The skull of a long-dead cow acts as its head, its eyes shining with the same blue light that burns in its chest. Most notable is a collar that hangs from the human-spine-turned-neck, a shiny bell dangling there for all to see.

And on rare occasion, Carlisle is outside the barn, etching into its walls an elaborate glyph. He accomplishes this with what appears to be a screw with a crude handle added to it. While it may not be a precision tool, it gets the job done, so long as he can work uninterrupted. No matter where one sees him, it's apparent he's attempting to adjust to his new life: in addition to his usual garb, Carlisle now tends to wear a pair of work gloves right on top of his normal ones, as well as a leather apron. With only one proper outfit that masks his emaciated frame, he's not eager to get stains on it.

Then again, he's not always eager for company, either. There are just some things he cannot avoid.

[ooc: alternatively, if none of these prompts are up your alley, hit me up on Discord or Plurk, and we can plot!]

Comments

[abheirrant]

[A part of Carlisle wants to argue that Qubit should have seen him as less, or at least as worse than a human. It's the same part that struggles to accept his being an undead, that considers himself as more creature than person. His very existence goes against his principles, his life's work, and his devotion to his goddess; reconciling his current state with the tenets that kept him alive for so long when he had nothing else is a seemingly impossible task. Moreover, it makes it all the more difficult to understand why anyone else would accept him, either — especially someone who knows what he's done.

And there's arguably no one who knows more about the extent of what Carlisle did as the Blight Heir than Qubit. He's seen first-hand just what his abilities can do in a moment's anger, glimpsed at the horrors of which he's capable were he to lose himself completely to his Revenant nature. Of all people, Carlisle feels Qubit could accurately judge him for what he is, no matter how much the idea wounds him.

Yet, much like Carlisle, Qubit is harshest on himself. That similarity is not lost on the former clergyman. He nods, trying to accept what Qubit's saying, wanting to trust that he's being sincere. The injury in his voice and the remorse on his face make it a surprisingly easy task.]

I thought... once you no longer felt the need to trust me, things would simply go back to the way they were. Once you no longer needed to share your thoughts and struggles, you wouldn't. Once you remembered who you were and what I was, you'd see I had no answers for you, and would insist on finding them on your own. And perhaps you'd be right in that, as you so often seem to be, but—

[The words stick in his throat; he pushes out a sigh, shaking his head.]

I thought I would go back to being just a problem you couldn't solve. Someone who comes to you for help, but can never truly help you in return. Someone who hid his very nature from you because he was afraid of what you would think. And the more I thought about it like that, the less I liked that prospect. And—

[His brow knits, his own regrets etching into his features.]

And then came the guilt. Who was I to worry about what I would lose when you had lost everything? What kind of person does that?

[superposition]

[ Qubit shakes his head again, this time just sort of nonplussed. ]

Every kind. I'd have felt about the same, in your shoes.

[ But what, exactly, did Carlisle believe he stood to lose? Before his memory returned, Qubit often found himself wondering exactly that. What was his friend getting out of this that he hadn't been before?

The answer is, essentially, agency. For the first time, Carlisle had a chance to approach Qubit on something approaching an equal footing. He finally had some control over the flow of information between them. He could keep certain things private if he wanted, and thereby know for sure he wouldn't be condemned for them. And he could actually feel useful for a change.

He was missing the mark a bit, though. Qubit shifts to a cross-legged position so as to face the preacher a little more directly. ]

... You know, I wasn't spending all that time with you just because you were useful to me. Although - don't get the wrong idea, you have been a phenomenal help through this whole ordeal. I'll never discount that. In fact, I -

[ - ah. Conflicting impulses again. Tell him why you understand. Don't show weakness. You can trust him. You're making a mistake. He shakes his head and rubs the bridge of his nose, frustrated with himself, but recovers after a second. ]

Sorry. [ Maybe he'll revisit that once his head's on a little straighter. ]

What I'm trying to say, though, is - I enjoy your company. I've liked stopping by and shooting the breeze. Learning about your homeworld, arguing about magic - even your long-winded family stories. It gave me something to look forward to. [ an amusing afterthought - ] And you've even made a tea drinker out of me, somehow! I don't want to say I'm a convert, but - double agent, maybe. Coffee doesn't have to know.

[abheirrant]

[Carlisle turns his eyes to Qubit, the rest of his head following as his companion faces him. He cannot help but wonder what that pause was about, but assumes from the frustrated gestures that his internal conflict must be related to his earlier confession: that he wants to do better. He wants to fix this, wants to do anything but cause Carlisle further injury. He's bound to get tongue-tied from time to time as he figures out the best way to go about that.

Experimentation, readjustment. That does sound like Qubit, albeit in a comforting way. He's trying, and that's more courtesy than many have afforded him, especially those who knew more about him than most. Carlisle appreciates the attempt, however awkward this conversation may be; he appreciates the honesty, especially the assurance that in the end, he was useful in Qubit's recovery, however indirectly. He even appreciates the levity, enough so that he smiles. Qubit might not be able to see it beneath the mask, but it's evident in Carlisle's tone, his voice softer, warmer than the chill that normally surrounds him.]

I believe that coffee betrayed you first by keeping you awake so often when you ought not be.

[And yes, he understands that's the point of coffee in general, but his assessment still stands. He offers Qubit a look of genuine gratitude, his grip on his own fingers finally loosening. As Qubit surmised, the loss Carlisle was so worried about was not just their friendship, but the aspects of said friendship he'd really come to enjoy — notably, the fact he felt he actually brought something to it, for a change. He's unfortunately lived a life of gauging his value based on how useful he could be. As a Longinmouth, Carlisle found value in the fact he could heal, something neither his uncles, nor his father could do; as a twice-cursed, he was allowed more leeway than others because he was clergy, and therefore served a purpose int he eyes of his goddess and his congregation.

And as the Blight Heir — or the man who used to be him — Carlisle has struggled to find that purpose again. When he failed to fully heal Kieran and put everyone around him in terrible danger in the meantime, he questioned if he had any purpose left at all, any reason not to walk into the wastes, never to return. Long after he restored the man's sight, he still wondered just how much good he brought to Anchor, especially in comparison to how much of a danger he presents to the colony just by being there. Even now, living at the barn and taking care of the animals in the wake of Kieran's disappearance, Carlisle doubts he would be missed were he to simply vanish, too.

That's not true, of course, and he knows it, no matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise. Qubit is proof of that, being he's about the smartest fellow Carlisle knows, and he's still here. Then again, perhaps that's just Qubit's self-professed proclivity for reckless self-endangerment telling him that risking his life for the sake of one person is worth it. He is, at times, an utter mystery.

Either way, he's not the only one who would insist Carlisle has inherent value. Sometimes, he just needs help seeing it. Not all value has to be pragmatic, measurable, quantifiable. Much like emotions, some meaning must simply be felt.

Carlisle sighs, this time more relieved than rueful. He may still be worried Qubit will up and vanish as soon as he admits aloud the importance he places on their friendship, but... he certainly likes to think about it, however privately. Maybe that's why Qubit stopped himself earlier: he's just as afraid of losing more than he already has, too. He's afraid of that wound, and what it would do to him.

One day, Carlisle will bring himself to ask. For now, he has plenty of other questions, and at least one apology he feels he owes Qubit.]

I'm sorry I doubted you. Thought that you had changed your mind, or would change your mind.

[superposition]

Hah! ... Touché. [ That's fair, he could stand to get more sleep than he does. Not that coffee's entirely at fault for that, but still.

It's lightened the mood a bit, which he's grateful for. There's still more he could say on the subject - there's a lot he thinks about this guy, it turns out - but he's managed to get across the salient points. And most importantly, Carlisle believes him. It's a huge relief, seeing him start to relax. The cloud of uncertainty surrounding Qubit's motives had weeks and weeks to thicken, to the point where even Qubit couldn't see through it, much less dispel it. Clearing the air like this helps them both. ]

It's all right. I'm sorry for giving you so much room to doubt. I never meant to be that secretive with you.

[ He'll have to be more open with him going forward, he knows that. He's known that for quite a while, technically, but this time he's actually going to follow through. Give him the basics, at the very least.

But... he'll need to redraw his boundaries somewhere. This isn't going to be a "no secrets" kind of friendship, tell you that for free. Complete transparency is just not the way Qubit operates, and that was true even before he had all these unforgiveable sins to hide. ]

... Old habits die hard, I suppose. It did serve a purpose, though, back home. I told you I was a superhero, at least, didn't I?

[ Carlisle definitely knows about the Paradigm, but he can't recall how well he explained that part. Emotions were running a little high at the time. ]

[abheirrant]

[Carlisle does know about the Paradigm, at least in the sense that it was a thing that existed. Comprised of Qubit and presumably the people in the painting with him, they'd been described as 'Earth's mightiest protectors.' That was the intent, anyway, Qubit had said, which implied things had gone terribly wrong somewhere along the way. Further evidence to that end was that there were only two others left when Qubit had been spirited away from his world, the rest likely dead or gone.

The main one of note was the Plutonian, and the way Qubit talked about him — Tony — made it clear that they were friends, and that Qubit cared immensely for him. It was with him that the aforementioned something had gone wrong, as somewhere along the line, a lot of children ended up as skeletons; he wanted to fix whatever mistake had caused that, and couldn't. No one could — not even Qubit.

How that lead to the downfall of the Paradigm is something Carlisle doesn't know, along with—]

I'm not even sure what a 'superhero' is, or how it differs from a regular hero. Aside from the obvious implication. And this is the first I've heard of your being one.

[superposition]

Good Lord. I didn't tell you that? That one's not even a secret.

[ Hoooo boy. Qubit sighs, running a hand over his hair. Gonna have his work cut out for him, then! Especially considering Carlisle has virtually no cultural context for it. ]

All right, well. Superheroes are people, usually with exceptional powers or abilities, who use those abilities in service of the greater good. A little like what your father and uncles used to do, but - less mercenary, and on a wider scale. It was our job to handle problems that ordinary people and institutions weren't equipped to. Things like alien invasions, natural disasters, supervillains...

[abheirrant]

[Qubit's initial reaction doesn't paint his past behavior very favorably, as even he seems surprised at how secretive he's truly been the entire time they've known each other. Maybe he had his reasons before, or perhaps the right opportunity for such discussions never came up when they were facing the undead, a red shift, and murderous lunatics like Kabal; either way, it does make Carlisle feel woefully uninformed.

Thankfully, Qubit's explanation gives just enough context to put together an image of what superheroes and their work entails. Admittedly, it does sound a bit like the work the Longinmouth bloodline did for generations, though in a world where magic is relatively commonplace, one must be truly exceptional to make an impact. Mathilda Longinmouth's impeccable divination, Benistad's mastery of many schools of magic, even Carlisle's unheard of expertise in healing — were they remarkable enough to be considered extraordinary in another world? They certainly were in their own, after all.

It's a curious thought. Given Qubit comes from a world without magic — and presumably, not everyone has psionics, either — then someone like Carlisle may be considered akin to a superhero there.

Or would he be a supervillain now, given what he is? Or is it the intention for good that separates them rather than the application of their abilities? Carlisle is sure of neither the answer, nor if he wants to ask.]

Is that how you used your technokinesis, then? Much as you do here, for the 'greater good' of Anchor?

[superposition]

[ Qubit smiles, quietly pleased. You did it, Carlisle! You finally got the name of his power right!!! He is so proud of you. ]

That's right. I didn't have precisely the same role there, obviously - restoring derelict space stations to working order was more of a hobby at the time. But I did handle the bulk of the technical work, data infrastructure, et cetera. Not to mention tactics, coordination, logistics...

[ He wore a lot of hats, basically. Figuratively speaking. No actual hat is fierce enough to tame that magnificent quiff. ]

I'm sure I told you about my teleportals. Using those, we could mobilize to anywhere on Earth in a matter of minutes. So - slightly bigger operation.

[ Not to toot his own horn or anything, but before the shit hit the fan, he was damn good at his job. It's just too bad about the... everything. ]

[abheirrant]

Slightly.

[As a man who spent nearly his entire life in the valley where he was born, never traveling far when he did step beyond the mountain's borders, Carlisle cannot fathom being able to traverse the entire world in such a fashion as the teleportals Qubit once described for him. It'd make huge distances and ocean travel absolutely trivial; his uncles could be across the world in the morning and back at the estate before dinner. And if one needed a healer, help was but moments away. What problems could not be solved when one had such an incredible convenience at their disposal?

... Whatever problem had caused the downfall of the Paradigm, apparently.]

How many of you were there? Superheroes, I mean.

[superposition]

In total? There was never a formal headcount or anything, but... not many. Somewhere in the neighborhood of a few thousand worldwide, at my last estimate.

[ That estimate is from before 9th July, of course. There are significantly fewer now. Let's steer clear of that right this second, though. ]

... For reference, that's out of a population of about 6.8 billion. Although, granted, that's only counting known superhumans. I don't doubt there were more of us flying under radar - er, keeping out of sight, rather.

[abheirrant]

[Right, so superhuman abilities are far less common than magic usage in his world. Duly noted. His brow furrows.]

What reason is there to have a gift if you are not going to use it? Or was it that they preferred their privacy to helping those in need?

[superposition]

[ Qubit frowns slightly. ] Well, it's not that simple. It's an extremely difficult and dangerous job, and the way our mass media works, you can't avoid some level of celebrity. It's definitely not for everyone. [ He folds his arms and shrugs. ] It sounds harsh, but if someone's not cut out for that kind of work, they shouldn't be doing it, no matter what kind of power they have.

[ As he's saying it, though... Does that imply, then, that Tony shouldn't have been doing it? If he'd had better support, if they hadn't assumed he was as indestructible mentally as he was physically... He still did a lot of good, after all. He saved the world too many times to count. And more than that, he inspired people. Qubit's life might have played out very differently, if not for his example - or it might have ended that day in Dimension Ectru. Should Tony have stayed home? Would that even have helped?

He shakes his head and backtracks. ]

... Actually, no, strike that. It's not that black-and-white, either.

[ He rubs his chin for a moment, pensive, and chooses his language carefully when he resumes. ]

Even if someone wants to become a superhero, even if he genuinely believes it's the right thing to do, there are significant tradeoffs to consider. Maybe he's willing to risk life and limb himself, but what about those around him? You make powerful enemies in my line of work, and as far as they're concerned, your loved ones are soft targets. There are steps you can take to mitigate the risk to them, but you can't eliminate it completely.

[ It's the voice of experience, but once-removed. He never did meet Jim's kids. ]

[abheirrant]

Wha—

[He shakes his head — nevermind, he doesn't want to know what mass media is. He can infer well enough that, if it invades one's privacy the way his very name did, it likely isn't good, especially if it paints a target on one's back. Carlisle forgets at times the true blessing that is anonymity; he never had it for even a day in his life.]

What horrible people they must be, to use their exceptional gifts for villainy. Then again, I suppose the same can be said of necromancers and their ilk.

[As for putting one's family at risk because of those gifts, well... he can't say he doesn't understand that, in a way. The Longinmouths were not without their enemies. At least a superhero, much like a magician, could choose not to use their abilities. The same cannot be said of someone with an affliction, despite the similar results.]

Was your family at risk? That would explain... well.

[The reason they're having this conversation, for starters.]

[superposition]

[ Qubit raises an eyebrow. But Carlisle, you're a - at least try to thinly veil your self-loathing. He knows what you mean, but still.

Anyway. He doesn't immediately answer the question, instead lacing his fingers together in front of him. ]

... There are steps you can take. Most of us adopt secret identities. We use code names, mask our faces. Quite a few have day jobs. You live a double life, essentially, keeping your personal and professional spheres as separate as possible.

However - [ holds up his index finger ] - that's every bit as difficult as it sounds. Secrecy alone makes for flimsy security, and the more complex the illusion, the more potential points of failure you create. It's both simpler and more secure not to maintain a civilian identity at all.

[ It's still difficult in other ways, of course. But Qubit's long made his peace with that. He's made a lot of decisions over the years that he regrets, but this isn't one of them. ]

[abheirrant]

[Excuse you, Qubit, he meant real necromancers. Carlisle refuses to admit to basically being one, no matter how many undeads he raises by accident or how many times Scraps puts himself back together without permission.

He notes that Qubit only indirectly answers the question about his family; though his response explains why that may be, Carlisle finds it unsatisfying, especially in light of Qubit's desire to do better in regards to the uneven distribution of information between them. He cannot help but wonder if Qubit doesn't speak about his family now for a reason — it's not as though anyone in Anchor can use that information against him, can they?

Carlisle sighs quietly, trying to assure himself inwardly that it's nothing personal. It must be the principle of the matter: Qubit had better not get into the habit of bringing them up, lest he risk whatever identity he's built for himself as a superhero.]

I cannot imagine living like that. I can see where it would be the pragmatic choice in such circumstances, but I suppose I have a difficult time picturing it because I've never had a choice at all.

[superposition]

[ Qubit picks up on Carlisle's disappointment, a twinge of guilt tugging at him. Sure didn't take long to run into a forbidden topic, did it? The fact that it's family doesn't help, either, given how important Carlisle's family is to him. The Longinmouth name, the heroic legacy with all its grand expectations, have hounded him from cradle to grave - and beyond.

It's especially sad when, in a world without rapid communication or careful record-keeping, forging a new identity is as simple as moving a couple towns over. Granted, with his family's reputation and the support of his community, he probably had a better life in Bear Den than he could have done elsewhere - but he's said his fragile health precluded travel anyway, so it wasn't an option in any case. Once, he told Qubit his greatest desire was for freedom - from his name, his curse, his suffering. The life he'd choose might be very much like the one he already had, but it means a lot to be able to choose.

Qubit can understand that, if perhaps not to the same degree. But that chapter of his life is closed, sealed, and archived. It's not something he can reopen lightly. ]

It's... not an easy choice to make. Let's leave it at that.

[ Yet he really feels he ought to give Carlisle something. A fuller explanation, at least. ]

... Look. I am trying to be more transparent with you, Carlisle, but... there are still going to be some things I can't talk about. With anyone. It's not just you.

[ He knows it's extreme. By any other standards, this is really basic information. He wondered a lot about it, when he'd forgotten. Did he have a family? Where did he come from? How did that shape who he is today?

Now he knows, but he also knows why he's never brought it up. If they are still alive - which isn't certain, he didn't have a chance to check - it's solely because Tony didn't know who they were. And Tony could still resurface, despite being dead and scattered to the four winds of the cosmos. Any of his enemies could. There's been no sign of Modeus since the Porter plucked him out of Qubit's head, but he's still at large, and Murphy's Law says someone will app him the second Qubit gets careless. Lol no they won't. ]

I will tell you... to state the obvious, I didn't always go by "Qubit." I did have a life before that. But that life, for all intents and purposes, is over. [ It's a firm stance, but he says it with the tone of an apology. It's really not you, Carlisle. ] I can try to answer some of your other questions, though, I'm sure you have plenty.

[abheirrant]

[As mildly frustrated as Carlisle may be with that explanation, it goes far to smooth the waters; he nods, understanding and appreciating that transparency. He also appreciates that Qubit goes ahead and addresses his first question: unfortunately, it wasn't all that obvious until now that 'Qubit' may only be a pseudonym. After all, with Kabal and Kieran having been around, it's not as though it sounded all that unusual by comparison.

What should he ask, then? Carlisle has a few questions he's not sure he wants to know the answer just yet; there are others that are better saved for another day, when they are more pertinent to the discussion at hand. He doesn't want Qubit to feel as though he's demanding his entire life's story just because he's finally being given the opportunity to do so.]

I do, but where to start is the true conundrum. I suppose I should ask something practical, just in case this happens again.

[He assumes Qubit will put into place some preventative measures to keep there from being a next time, but Carlisle would prefer to be prepared himself, as well.]

What enemies have you here? Or friends who would offer their assistance to you? It only occurred to me when I needed such information that I didn't have it. I could neither warn you of who to avoid, nor suggest anyone else to help you.

[That probably explains why he took so much of Qubit's care upon himself. They are alike in that way, as they are in so many others.]

[superposition]

[ Qubit nods. It's a good question - eminently practical, which is always something he can get behind. He does have some ideas for contingency plans already, but allies are more important. ]

Good idea. Let's see... [ He taps his chin, thinking it over. ] Well, you know Kabal wants me dead. He can't get through the force field, but there's not much else to stop him trying. [ Two: ] Fellow named Jacob - goes by "Rook" on the network. We had a misunderstanding a while back and he won't let it go. [ Three: ] Len has kept a low profile, but I get the sense he's more of an opportunist. I wouldn't trust him.

And then... [ Number four, who he pauses on for a moment. ] Scaramouche, I suppose. Honestly, I still don't know what to make of him. When I say he gives me a bad feeling, that isn't just intuition. I can sense electronics, and his... [ he shakes his head. ] I can't put my finger on what it is, exactly, but I've never felt anything else quite like it.

[abheirrant]

[A name he obviously recognizes, a couple he doesn't, and—]

Scaramouche? The robot who led you out of the maze?

[superposition]

[ Another nod. ] That's the one. So he did save our lives, but...

[abheirrant]

But that is not a reason to trust him, particularly if he was aware of your predicament.

[But Qubit knows how Carlisle feels about robots; even if he did have reason to trust Scaramouche, he likely wouldn't on principle alone.]

[superposition]

True. And he could have been doing it for Peter's sake. I don't know how the two of them get on, but knowing Peter, my guess would be "famously."

[ If you can befriend Creepy Joe, you can befriend anyone. ]

I don't know. I've been keeping an eye on him when I can spare one, but he doesn't seem to be up to anything. And he's been here about as long as you and I have. I know I'm not imagining things, but... maybe it doesn't mean what I thought.

[abheirrant]

And how long have you been here?

[One more thing he probably should know. He assumed longer than himself, but...]

[superposition]

[ Oh, right, he did mention not knowing that at some point, didn't he? Yeah, let's climb back out of the rabbit hole and get back to some questions he has the answers for. ]

Nine and a half months, give or take. When I met you, I'd only been here two weeks. [ Although come to think of it... ] How long had you been around?

[abheirrant]

Just as long. I- I thought you'd been here far longer.

[He rubs the back of his neck.]

I suppose your having been to another world before helped you acclimate quickly. I've wondered for some time if I'm in the minority in that this is the first time I've been spirited to such a place. That I know of, at least.