goodweather | IC INBOX ( SAIL )

Of course

On text or in person?

Either. Whichever. You pick.

[ … ]

Is it urgent?

No. Probably not. No.

Alright

You can find me in John's. Let me know when you're coming.

I will be there in 10 minutes. Do not be alarmed, I'm wearing my armor.

It feels the warning is fair. About, like, 8 minutes later, the equivalent of a Spartan from the Halo series comes into John's, faceplate of its helmet opaque black. The armor is pale (though dirty), a company logo on the shoulders scratched out.

The warning is, indeed, fair; Phil would have been pretty off-put by the sight without warning. As it is, he's only a little off-put.

He stands up from the piano, leaving his book open on the music stand, stepping off of the stage to meet it halfway among the tables. "Hey there. What's the occasion?"

"The shipboard ghosts have found themselves able to possess passengers recently. This fact has already led to violence. I have been advised to be armored in case of hostiles."

Its voice is rendered even more robotic by the helmet, but if there is any emotion in it, it's very muted.

... Ah. Security construct, indeed.

Phil takes a seat slowly, folding one leg over another as he takes in the news. "Alright." Um. "First, thank you for telling me. Second, uh, do we know anything else? Things we can do? Signs?"

"The ghosts have access to the memories of the bodies they're possessing, but that doesn't make them perfect at acting in line with their personalities. They're...desperate. For them, they're clinging to this as a last chance at life. Some are acting wildly erratically, and others...others just want to live."

And that's where Murderbot is stuck.

Because it doesn't want to hunt down and murder these supposed 'hostiles', just for...wanting to live. When it has a hard time with that, sometimes.

"That. Makes sense," he says. And thinks.

"No one could blame them. For wanting to live." As he talks, his pace slows; the gears in his head are visibly turning as he works out the apparent crisis they've found themselves in. "I..." Hm.

"And what about the people being possessed? Do they know what's going on? I mean, they, it's--it's not fair for the people here either, to have their lives and... bodies taken out of their hands. Not without even being asked."

"I don't know. And you're right about it not being fair. Fair's a fucked-up word to try to apply to real life on any level. Is it fair that the rich thrive and the poor suffer? No, but life isn't fair. The problem isn't really fairness, I don't think. It's...dishonesty, and the interruption to lives in progress."

It tilts its helmeted head slightly to one side. "Does that make sense? The ones who're lying to the people who see them, who think they're still themselves, that's...a lot of the problem here. They're trying to fake it and hurting people that way."

"Of course life isn't fair. I don't think it's terrible to still want to try towards it either."

Life is cruel, life is cold. Bad things happen to good people because things happen all the time. Phil has no intention of just letting it all go by. Not that there's much he can do about this, but.

"But you're right. You're right." Dishonesty is always the crux of these things when it's involved, much as it is now, and there's nothing much more Phil can add or say to that. "So now what?"

"I don't know. I almost wish one of the ghosts had possessed me instead. I'm expendable; I always have been. Taking over the body of someone with a meaningful life...that's dickish. Right?"

They've already gone over Murderbot's issues, is this line of thinking really a surprise after that?

It isn't. It's unusual conversation, but it isn't surprising at all.

Phil has no literal, concrete reason to think himself expendable in the same way SecUnit does. He's never thought himself that way. He has thought that there would be no great loss if he simply stopped, or that he was all done and ready to go, and there was nothing he was doing that wasn't replaceable anyway.

Unfortunately, there is a truth: it matters only if you want it to. It is very difficult when you don't. It is deeply frustrating when you don't, and other people do.

"It's dickish to do without permission to anything that can be asked a question and make a choice, flat. Even if they figured that somebody wouldn't mind."

Phil taps on the table. "With permission, not so much. I guess. But they'd still have to deal with all the other people who suddenly have something cut out from their lives--cut by choice."

Murderbot's face gives nothing away, until that last sentence, and then it grimaces. It's an ugly, pained grimace, one that's at least part wince.

Because it cut itself out of the lives of the only humans it can remember caring about it, as surely as if by death, when it ran away from them. It removed itself from their lives by choice, and without much of a goodbye (okay, yes, Mensah got a novella worth of justification for its choice, but that wasn't enough, that can't have been enough for its favorite human).

"The people on this ship are sentimental. They would care. A lot."

“They would,” he agrees. “Unfortunately.”

(“I would’ve followed you. You have to know that I would’ve.”)

“People don’t get to have the last say in what we do with our lives. I only know of two exceptions to this. First is when it can’t be helped. Second is when it hurts other people. Cutting yourself out when other people want you there is the second.”

A beat. “After that, I guess it’s just about how much that matters to you. If it’s bigger than the… the cost of sticking around.”

"I don't know. It's impossible to know what that cost will be, before it is."

It glances around for a moment, as if considering trying to wedge itself into a chair despite being in its bulky armor, because standing over Phil while it talks is getting just a little weird.

"I don't know how to be cared about."

"It takes practice. Like everything does."

Some people are a practiced hand at it from birth. The rest of them aren't so lucky.

"I think a place to start is... letting people help. Even when you think it's unnecessary or undeserved. It doesn't hurt anybody and it makes them feel better. Anything that's both of those things is never a waste of time or energy."

He's a guy lucky enough to have gotten to know so many people that even relatively obscured motions like that usually read well, so Phil does pick up on the slightly awkward gesture about their current placement. Yeah, that is kind of weird, huh.

"We can move somewhere else, if you want to."

"I don't know where else to go. I need to be in the armor to be ready in case someone needs help. I'm on duty now. I'm always on duty now, unless I'm recharging. We're in a crisis, and I'm built for those."

Is it a good idea for someone in its current mental state to be on active duty? Who knows, but it's better to be needed, isn't it?

It's probably not better, but it is nice to be needed (though usefulness is not a stable bridge to meaningfulness). It's great to be of service. And... if this is providing familiarity and stability to SecUnit, Phil doesn't know if he can or should try to discourage it, especially given what's been going on.

He does, of course, also notice how it addresses his second concern and nothing he'd said before that.

"Well, I appreciate your help. Really. It's... I'm not used to handling things like this." No matter how many times he's been through it. He stands, sighing. "I'm gonna go get a drink."

It's more of an excuse to put them back on even footing than it is to actually drink, but he honestly could use one anyway. It's not five o'clock yet but he thinks he gets a pass. As he goes to the bar, he says, "What else did you wanna talk about?"

Not dismissed, not just yet.

"I'm not sure I had anything else. I just. Sort of. Wanted to say something. To someone."

Its gaze follows Phil as he moves, head turning to indicate where it's looking. Face still hidden, as it prefers.

"And I'm glad you did," he says, turning to look at SecUnit while he gets himself a glass. And he means it. He can't imagine this is something so ordinary or natural for something like it. "Really. And I'm glad that you see me as someone you trust enough to talk about this kind of stuff. That's, you know, who I try to be."

Try. He's just glad that whatever he's doing, it seems to be working.

He takes a sip from his new whiskey. "If... there really is nothing else, and you have a job to do, then I won't hold you back. But I'm always here if you want to talk again. You know where to find me."

And a little grin. "That's me saying I care."

"Thank you for translating. I would not have been able to tell."

There's zero sarcasm there.

"I care about you, too. How are your feathers growing in? I can't preen while in armor, but I can maybe make time."

Phil recognizes the lack of sarcasm and is just a little bit surprised, since it was partially a joke--but it was meant to be as informative as it was taken, too. There's a part of him that sees Murderbot as childlike in some ways. Not in irresponsibility, or loudness, or lack of coordination, or snottiness--but just like a kid, it's only been acting in this messy world and living a messy life for... well, he can't assume for very long.

And like a parent or a teacher, he's doing his best to give that space to learn.

And that offer is so sweet of it. He extends his ripped wing. "Slowly, but well. All of Dr. Watson's--Joan's, I mean, all those stitches have come out. The pins are mostly grown in. I'm not sure I'll be able to fly until the next month or two."

He folds it back in. "Reaching around's still hard, so... yeah, you can let me know when you have a moment. Don't worry about it if you don't."

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