to the stars.

Truth be told? The travel to the North often made her sick. The roads leading up to The House of Stark were often slick with mud, the stone pathways bounced the carriage as she arrived. And while it was a smoother arrival than she had remembered in the past, the winter nights often kept her awake. Only now, as her stuff had all been returned to the quarters she had grown used to over the years, her mind wondered. Fingertips gently touched the wood barrister of the bed, smoothed in polish as digits drifted down to the furs. One of which she had wrapped herself in, instead of asking Lady Ashara to have their staff unpack her winter coats. All of which had been gifted to her by the North, over the years. This was different. Her travels intended purpose now, and her mind carefully wondered back to her arrival. When she stepped from the carriage, and irises peered back over stone and gravel, where the heir of The House of Stark— as she had known him— appeared to be.. stronger. Hardened. Less of a boy that she remembered, so eager to hold the weight of the crown.

With the fur blanket still wrapped around her, she moved toward the door, unknown that the same boy was standing on the other side as his knock is half cut off— and she jumps in a startled breath at piercing blues that seemed just as caught off as she had been. In reaction, she drops the candle in her hand and it rolls against the stone corridor, snuffing out the flame as her gasp shifted the small space between them. Her brows pulled into a furrow, confusion lacing her features as dark eyes flickered up. “Were you lingering outside my chambers?” She blinks behind him, then down the empty hallway as her heart stutters and she barks at it to slow. She hadn’t expected him. He never welcomed her. In fact— more often than not, he avoided her until need be.

Standing this close to him, she noticed the difference in stark detail now. His eyes were bright, but they held a certain tiredness on the crinkle of what she and duty must have etched into his features. His shoulders were broader. His hands were rough. In this light, he looks so much like the ruling lord, she nearly blinks to flush away the comparison in her eye.

There was the faint hum of the tavern song, drifted between the low rumbles of speech and the crackling fire that sat in the midst of the stone walls to keep warm. Still, he had shed his coat, revealing most just cotton tunic beneath. He’d binds too much cloth for the south, each piece peeled off and lingered in his bought room, as the days stretched on. The days were longer, the sun stretched over valleys of sand and sea, and in the moments of early dawn, or twilight, when the stars kissed the sun— he doesn’t miss the north. That in itself should have spoke volumes for the people of the south. He’d been hired as a sword for the city, under the guise of coin. And while the coin did lead him, his adventure far and wide from his home of cold mountain tops.. it was not the only reason for travel. He did not wish to marry, he did not wish to rule. Alas, that feat was bestowed upon his eldest brother, for now. While his youngest, was traveling summers between the north and kings landing.

He’s halfway into a sip from the goblet that rests against his palms, his voice bellowing in laughter as the barkeep fills his drink. They speak of the woods, of the men that hired him that could barely wield a sword, let alone lift one above their shoulders. But his gaze, quietly, occasionally, feels the lull of a viper. The barkeep will nod his head, and blues will cast out over his shoulder, finding that of violet and brimstone. When he turns back to the keep, his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek to keep the smirk from resting beneath the twitch of his jaw. She was stunning— as women within Dorne quite are. But she was more so, unlike the women he’d met through his travels. She was the kind of beauty, that hung stars and whisked stories of old gods falling in love with mortal women. Though, he fears beauty like that will ruin a man. And he’s willingly cast himself into the sun, for a moment of orbit.

she listened, the tale unfamiliar, but its quality, she knew within her heart. of the sort she may tell children she encountered, to paint vivid images of a land beyond their imagination. in their glittering eyes, she would find her reward, and be reminded of how her own father had quenched her thirst for adventure with his epics. if she liked how the stranger's story ended, she may yet add it to her repertoire. lips parted to speak, but words faltered. lady dayne. it was rare that she would wear her title so openly, in these establishments. it afforded her no privilege, neither as patron nor as healer. even so, word seemed to travel fast. she had masked her surprise so poorly, that as a first, she offered a kind smile. "i reckon your summer wolf finds himself an unlikely companion, for they have no reason to harm one another. what they lack in ferocity, may unite them yet, in friendship." a revelation amid her words: it was an idealist's heart, that beat in her chest. "they hatch a plot, and he hides and waits until morn. when she is uncaged by her keepers, they leap to freedom together, to explore the forest as they see fit."

it would simply not suit, she had concluded, to end the tale on a disheartening note. "were you to contrive a grisly end… it would not bode well for your southern exploits, would it, northman?" with her head tilted and her cup empty, smile morphed into a grin, unbothered who was to spend coin next. "now, even if my coin should procure more wine... you owe me your name."

He’ll take a long sip from the cup, before acknowledging her answer. Though, blues spark with fever, and they subtly lift along the curve of her jaw, or the draping of the dress she wore. However, he did not linger. He did not boast or ravish with his eyes, only feigning quiet interest. As if he was setting it across the table and allowing her to do with what she wished. His smile though, rises to the corners of his jaw and ticked there beneath the muscle. “Clever,” he adds with a raise of his brows. See, he had no intention of weaving a fable that would be difficult for her to untangle. In fact, he quite enjoys her closeness, the bold press of brims and how they stained flushed with the promise of dornish wine. “The dragon and the wolf unmistaken, fall in love, and in that love between two beings, shifts the balance of time. Nature bows in quest to their devotion.” His chin tilts, and there’s the faintest smirk nestled against the corner of his mouth now. “As sunlight cast itself through the morning dew of the forest, man then fall back on their swords, and word travels amongst the kingdom. The dragon was no dragon at all, but cursed to live until another creature bestows upon it love unyielded.” He leans forward a bit on his forearms, as if to tell her a secret, as his voice notches an octave lower. “And swiftly, the dragon becomes the lamb, as it lays with the wolf.” There’s a faint hum, and he leans back again, pulling wine to brims and flickering blues to violets over the rim of his cup. “And the wolf if no wolf at all—“ There’s amusement in his tone now. Lifted, light, voice a little echoed between the bottom of his cup. “He is a fox.”

So while she did guess a fraction of the story, the ending was not what was branded on stained lips, and he can’t help but smile. It’s a gentle kind of brimming, one not expected of a man who bore scars deeper than that of knives and swords for hire. “Must I?” He asks, and he sets the empty cup down now, his frame shifting so that he may look at her directly now. “That was not part of our deal, but perhaps I am willing to strike a new— your company, for my name.” Blues shift behind her only momentarily to the friend she’d mentioned briefly, who nearly buckled the moment his gaze met with hers. “Have you decided, what it is you will tell your companion of my stories?” His chin tilts a bit as his gaze is returned to her. “Or should you wish to hear more of them tonight?”

Happiness is subjective. If they knew that he was sitting here, discussing the meaning of life and people and what drives them, what they feel, they might call him mad. She suspects he’s been thrown words around like crazy, all his life. In theory, she remembers a childhood. She remembers a small town, and falling in love with a boy when she was sixteen. She remembers getting married, and having her first child. She remembers the morning sickness, and the feeling of something growing inside of her. But when her hand briefly touches her stomach, unmarred and untouched— she knows it’s not hers. And there’s a deep ache there, like a mother without a child. A mother, without something to love. And God, did she have enough of it. So much warmth inside her, that it pillowed at her fingertips, and spilled over. And yet, she was alone here. Except for him— and the others, a young solider who one day never came back.

Some days, Ronald will let her sit outside the chambers where the others were. Sometimes, she would talk to them. One in particular, she would read to. C05 — a young woman who Ronald said was the likely going to be the last of them to wake up. He wouldn’t tell her much more about her, only from what Esme could imagine. But she looked so young, and timid in dreams, like she was just sleeping. Waiting. And while Esme doesn’t remember being in the chamber, she doesn’t want them to feel alone. And so, she reads to her. On rare days when the labs were busy poking and prodding, and bruising her arms with constant needles. She didn’t mind it so much, those days. “You’d be surprised,” her voice felt like honey. “I’m pretty easy to impress.” And she doesn’t go into detail, she just lets it sit there between them.

“I like to think there’s a little bit of soul leftover, even after the ends.” She says with a small shrug of her shoulders. “It makes everything a little bit easier, sometimes too, knowing things will end, or begin again. I mean, that’s kind of the whole point of this right? Find a cure, save the world, it’s nearly poetic— if you were a sadist.” The last part is a joke, a quiet tease on the end of her breath. Because she knew, there was no poetry in the world today. In the outside. But, God, did she want to see it for herself. She wanted to step out into the grass, feel the wind, even if it was just for a second. Maybe that’s why she liked the solider. He was standing offish at first, always standing straight and following her around like she might step into a pit or the floor might swallow her up, and the cure to the world would be loss in the abyss. But the longer he watched, the more she spoke to him even when he didn’t speak back, the softer his shoulders got. Then came the stories. The way he told her, that one day soon when the others woke up— they would go outside. And he would take her. Show her how to make shapes out of the clouds, how to build a fire, how to protect herself when the time came. And then, one day, he was gone. And she didn’t love him, but she was fond of him, of the companionship. Maybe she could have, had they been given a little more time. But that’s the thing, right? There was never enough of it. Even in Eden.

She listens, half heartedly as her mind wondered. He explains the science behind emotions, and she nods. “I think you could dissect all the reasons why we feel, or act, but it doesn’t really explain the root of it in the moment. The ache in your chest when something a little too heavy sits there. The way your fingers warm, when it stammers just a little bit.” Her eyes glance to his hands, and the way he wipes them on jeans, and the way he stammers. And she realizes, everyone was human, even him. “It must be really tiring to always remember everything.” She breathes, but it’s more to herself than anything. When he says he hasn’t touched other factors, she laughs a little. You interest me, she wanted to say, but she doesn’t. “Does it interest you?” She says instead, and it sounds vaguely the same.

When he looks at the photograph, or a few trinkets, and hums— her heart stammers a little. She’s expecting him to say something to agree with them, but he doesn’t. He just asks her why she collects things, and she lets out a small shrug and a sigh. “I think I just don’t want them to be forgotten.” Maybe she, doesn’t want to be forgotten. When he says they haven’t given her much to attach to, she nods a bit. Agreeing, but doesn’t say anything at first. “It’s okay.” She finally says, after a moment. “There’s always tomorrow.” Then he stands. And her chest sinks a little, because she knows what’s coming. Their tea time was over, and she would be left with her thoughts and empty walls, and she’d read her book again— trying to quiet the echo of machines. Maybe tomorrow he’d bring her something else, a different story. A different book.

"Are you?" brows rose at the question, trying to piece her together. It was difficult, sometimes, to understand where the source ended and she began. How much was transferred, how much was new...acquired. He couldn't imagine what that must have felt like. But then again, he never asked. Not really. Not beyond a pre-made script that dug into specific recollections and patterns. "Do you think you could...try something? For me?" Diego never wanted for her to feel pressured, to feel like a rat stuck in a maze, pushed and probed one way or the other. But if he could find a way to ask, perhaps she could attempt an answer. "Do you think you could...verbalise what it feels like, to be -- you. Do you feel distinct, from...from her, or do you feel like...a continuation?" he'd known for sure there were differences, that her source liked old literature and she enjoyed fantasy. That her source ate blueberries, and she could not. But there was something inexplicable, something no research could provide -- and that is a true and deep understanding of human consciousness, and how it transferred, if it did at all.

“I like to think there’s a little bit of soul leftover, even after the ends.”

Her words linked perfectly to that thought. "If there is a soul --" the if was but a curtesy, really, because Diego had always believed in a soul. He'd believed in God, in his own way, in a mystery that bound the universe together. He was not so arrogant to think human consciousness was grand enough to ever truly comprehend or...explain everything. And while he may not have believed in the Abrahamic concept of an afterlife, or that everything had a purpose and a meaning, he believed in the existence of a soul -- even if had been nothing more than a byproduct, an unintended consequence. "Then no, I don't think it ever ends. Maybe I just hope, maybe...it's easier that way; to digest the plausibility of our innate insignificance." he chuckled at her joke then, bemused. "D'you think me a sadist, Esme?" eyes narrowed. "Be honest." he'd wondered sometimes, what all this must've looked like from the outside. What she must've thought of him. Did she think of him as a good person? A heartless one? A necessary evil? Did a part of her resent him? If it were the other way around, he likely would have -- held resentment, that is. Yet none could be found in her eyes, none whatsoever. Perhaps he'd resented himself more than she did. Perhaps he'd understood all this, far less, than she had.

When she spoke up again, leaving the pathways of her own thoughts, he shrugged in a manner of semi-agreement. He did that, when there was no way of truly knowing, and a discussion point reached an impasse. "Sort of like riding a bike, isn't it?" he shifted in his seat, somewhat. "One can dissect the process, know the physics behind it all. Know what muscle groups are put to use, what cognitive function is necessary what...what social constructs might help build up the desire to ride a bike and still, none of it comes close to actually...doing the thing, does it?" and the only way to actually learn it, is by doing. The only way to feel, was to feel. --- And Diego felt, in that moment, a discomfort. Her observation birthing a sense of familiar anxiety. "Not tiring, no. " smile pushed into his lips, forced but not void of warmth. "Everything interests me."

He let himself think over her gentle admittance. Fear of forgetting, of being forgotten. It linked back to their conversation of importance, of living for a purpose, of there being 'a point'. Of death, of soul, of new beginnings. "One Hundred Years of Solitude." he stated, hands interlinked with hers as they swung to the movement of gentle music. "Gabriel Garcia Marquez contemplated, in his work, how death comes in waves. First, when the soul leaves the physical body, and then again, when our names are spoken for the last time. Forgetting." he spun her around, at the part of the tune which called for it, then caught her again, pulling her somewhat closer to provide a more centred sense of balance. Though he did not mind the closeness, he'd enjoyed it the same way he'd enjoyed poetry, or a nice painting -- for the sake of it alone.

She nods a bit, her demeanor softer under the faint hum of the music shifting tempo. “I am.” She adds, as if it’s certain. Then he asks if she can try something, and she’s hesitant a little at first— until he asks if she would do it for him, and something in her stirs. It’s alive, not like a wire or warmth. It’s subtle, just lingering beneath the surface of her chest, snuck beneath a few of her ribs that’d they’d given to create more. But she lingers, and then she nods again. There’s a faint shift of their feet, and he twirls her just to pull her in closer. She’s not sure what he’s going to ask, but she can hear the faint thrum of hesitancy in his voice. Like he was weighing out how to say it, or maybe how to ask it. Whether he should. When he finally does, her gaze blinks back at him. “It feels like..” The words drift off a little, and she’s unsure. She’s uncertain of a lot. “Have you ever had a really vivid dream? Like, you’re living it. And it’s so vivid, and feels so real, that when you wake up— you feel as if it was. You feel, scared or you miss it, like it was something you lived. Something that was taken. As if, you lived another life in your sleep. And then reality starts to flicker away that feeling, and it feels like.. not you.. but also not entirely a dream.” She’s not sure if she’s making sense. “I don’t feel like a continuation.” There’s a breath. “I feel like I knew her. Like she was a part of me, but not entirely. I remember.. what it felt like to be in love.. I remember what it felt like to have children.. and how it feels like it’s not mine. Not really. But I also feel like.. she liked things, that I don’t. She wanted things, that I didn’t. Some things she had, I want. So— I don’t really know what that means.” Or if it answers his question at all.

They’re a little closer now, and his voice pulls her back to the topic now changing slightly. His laugh lulls her from all her thoughts, and her gaze shifted to the way his eyes slightly crinkled when he did. And he asks what she thinks of him, and she shakes her head a bit. “No, not at all.” She answers honestly. “I think you care about things you believe in, loudly.” Whether his voice was quiet, or blunt, it didn’t matter. “I think we’re pretty similar in that way, actually.” The truth of the matter is, she doesn’t have a lot to go on. She has their conversations. She has the long hours spent listening and watching. And she knows— one thing for sure— he was one of the few that didn’t treat her like she was a means to end end. Like she was only here with the purpose of one thing. The cure. Whether that was intentional on his end, or just the simple fact of being left in close quarters together— or if it was just her, entirely. She doesn’t know. But she knows that she feels a little warmer when he’s around, in comparison. She knows that she hates tea, but drinks it anyways so that he’ll stay and talk a little longer.

“If.” She says with a small smile curling into the corner of her lips, because she doesn’t believe for a second, that he believes that. But she doesn’t press, or try to force it, or make him see anything. Who was she to talk about souls, anyways? He shifts, her eyes were over his shoulder as she wasn’t looking at anything in particular. But his hands coax hers upwards, arms over his shoulders and her chest stammers quickly. Quicker than she thought it would have, considering. She hadn’t expected the warmth, or the slight hum of pink on the tops of cheeks or bridge of her nose. They’re closed now, his hands coax hers shifts down to her waist, and she feels suddenly— a benign flutter in her chest. No, a buzzing. Like humming birds. He talks about a book, and her gaze can’t help but flicker over to him. Listening intently this time— not speaking as she tries to steady the newfound rhythm in her heart’s drum. “It sounds like a good book..” She says faintly, they’re close enough now that she doesn’t need to speak very loudly.

Her eyes find his again, and her arms were loosely around his shoulders, and she looks away— only briefly, as if her thoughts were chasing his words trying to keep up. Muscle memory causes her hands to gently clasp together, against the nape of his neck where they briefly, ever so slightly, brush against dark curls that lingered there. Not intentionally, but it might as well have been. She shifts back to him, feeling the intense lull of his gaze, or his smile, that has her matching his. The corners of her mouth shift, kissing the edges of a smile that brightens up dark irises. “Why not? Can I not bend the rules for my own gain?” Her voice is teasing now, barely playful and soft. But then he asks where she would begin, and she shakes her head a little. “It’s hard to think about.. because .. I wouldn’t be here if the world hadn’t ended..” There’s a quietness in her voice now. “Sometimes I think of what I would have been like, before. I would want to begin in.. New York. I’d want to see the city alive. Feel it moving around me. I’d want to meet someone, and get my heart broke just to feel it, and then fall in love again because you just can’t help it.” The words linger a bit. “Maybe when we fix the world, I can go to the beach, and see the ocean. I’d really want to see the ocean.” She decides, planning for after they saved a world she didn’t destroy. Her gaze shifts, and her throat bobs just an inch. The closeness was almost palpable now. “Where would you put me in yours?”

she had never seen such a mesmerising blue before. not on the glittering stretches of the summer sea, nor the brilliantly azure skies of dorne -- none had captivated her, as much as this stranger's gaze had. ashara had seen him frequent the tavern before, had begun to be hopeful for glimpses of him, whenever she would attend after dusk, and long, gruelling days of work. a healer's work was never done, but she did love to tend to those who needed it most, and offered gratitude that warmed her being and fulfilled her with the very sense of purpose she sought. it was also work that struck her to the bone, endless hours on her feet, raw anguish in patients that kept her restless for nights to come. spiced wine was a welcome tonic, for soul and body, lulling troubling thoughts and steering them towards conversation, song, dance.

she had been listening, the timbre of his voice enough to quicken a heartbeat -- svelte fingers curled around a half-drank cup, as she made her way to his table at an opportune moment, after companions dispersed to seek other pleasures. "i have a proposal for you, if you're in the market for such things." she took a moment, to acknowledge sitting opposite him -- took in fair hair and beard, those spellbinding blues, the smile that dipped into cheeks. there was something so warming, so very inviting, to his features. not of dorne, not by looks nor speech, and she longed to know more. "i will buy you a drink, provided you can tell me a story and let me guess its ending before you finish your tale. if my guess is wrong, i will treat you to said drink. if it is correct, you must delve into your coin purse for more wine."

index finger she dragged along the rim of her cup, finding herself smiling, wide enough to reflect in the violet pools of her eyes. ashara turned her attention to the group she'd left, nodding to a woman, who watched both curiously. "my friend is rather taken by your legends. i told her i suspect you're a charlatan who steals stories from others, and embellishes them, for amusement. and attention, evidently."

There was the faint hum of the tavern song, drifted between the low rumbles of speech and the crackling fire that sat in the midst of the stone walls to keep warm. Still, he had shed his coat, revealing most just cotton tunic beneath. He’d binds too much cloth for the south, each piece peeled off and lingered in his bought room, as the days stretched on. The days were longer, the sun stretched over valleys of sand and sea, and in the moments of early dawn, or twilight, when the stars kissed the sun— he doesn’t miss the north. That in itself should have spoke volumes for the people of the south. He’d been hired as a sword for the city, under the guise of coin. And while the coin did lead him, his adventure far and wide from his home of cold mountain tops.. it was not the only reason for travel. He did not wish to marry, he did not wish to rule. Alas, that feat was bestowed upon his eldest brother, for now. While his youngest, was traveling summers between the north and kings landing.

He’s halfway into a sip from the goblet that rests against his palms, his voice bellowing in laughter as the barkeep fills his drink. They speak of the woods, of the men that hired him that could barely wield a sword, let alone lift one above their shoulders. But his gaze, quietly, occasionally, feels the lull of a viper. The barkeep will nod his head, and blues will cast out over his shoulder, finding that of violet and brimstone. When he turns back to the keep, his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek to keep the smirk from resting beneath the twitch of his jaw. She was stunning— as women within Dorne quite are. But she was more so, unlike the women he’d met through his travels. She was the kind of beauty, that hung stars and whisked stories of old gods falling in love with mortal women. Though, he fears beauty like that will ruin a man. And he’s willingly cast himself into the sun, for a moment of orbit.

Her heart stammers a little at that, but she doesn’t let it linger. Fear of impossible questions and what might happen, would keep her up at night as it was. “Ah well, lucky them.” She says a little less enthusiastic as before, but just as it lingers, it dissipates. “I like to think I’d at least let them buy me dinner, before they tie me up.” Lips pursed a little, and she drums her fingertips on the edge of the cup now, thinking in that head of hers as he speaks. There’s a smile on his features that she knows doesn’t have much to do with her, and only to do with what thought was passing by, but she enjoys it nonetheless. In fact, she glances away, the small stammer in her heart palpitating in a way that makes her focus on the cabinets of the living quarters. The tea maker, the coffee maker. Only shifting back at him at the exact moment he looks at her, too. And she swallows, only a little, only faintly nervous and warm. The kind of warm that wasn’t made in a lab, the kind of warm you were born with. The kind of warm that was just— who you are.

“Oh I don’t know about that. Happy endings are still endings, and I think we decide what falls into that category. If we cease to believe in them all together, then what’s the point of living?” A question far too complex to come from a being, shell of someone else; without a soul of their own. She knows what they think about her. But that doesn’t mean she has to believe it herself. But when he starts on a tangent on why she would read the same book, she listens. For awhile at least, until her thoughts spill over into his words and she pulls herself back as he speaks. She wasn’t lying, she did like listening to him talk. She liked the way he made her question stuff, too. Maybe just listening to him, would give her something to think about. People were repetitive, that’s what she got from that. It was a human emotion, creatures of habit. At least she knows she’s not entirely different from them. “That’s all good from a scientific standpoint.” She says, but it’s lingering like it’s not the only thing she has to say. “But what about the standpoint of a man? Why do you watch the same movies, or read the same books— or better yet— why don’t you?” Her brows arched a little softer.

She snorts out a laugh, her nose wrinkling slightly. “I’ll be sure to give Roland your love.” She preferred when Diego was around to the later. His hands were always warm. Roland’s was always cold, like ice. Probably poor circulation given the age difference, but still. She didn’t shiver when he checked her pulse, or her temperature. Not in the same way. “I don’t know— you’re not too bad to look at.” She doesn’t mean to say it so bluntly, so she stammers back. Reels it in as warmth touches her cheeks, and her throat bobs a little. “But if you want one of them to make me a prince, I wouldn’t be too opposed.” She laced it in a tease, like she was just joking at the fact. But it was true, she was lonely. She wanted the other clones to wake up, or at least be close to waking them up. Just having the company, would have been nice, since she only gets Diego in small intervals. Tea time— even though she hated tea.

When he says he liked poems, she smiles. And it’s warm, and entirely too much like someone that had been around for a lifetime, and not the short amount of time she’d been here. “I like poems too.” She said softly, like she had just discovered it. Like she would read whatever poetry he had to offer, just to see what he felt about it. “Well yeah,” she says, her voice a little lighter. “I think it’s good to just— feel things. Like them because you like them. Fuck what anyone else has to say about it? You know? And then you’ll find people who like the same things you do, and that’s how the world is supposed to work right?” Well, it used to.

Her gaze flickered down, and lingered on his hand that closed around hers. She lets out a small breath and smiles. He told her what he liked— it’s her turn. “I like.. collecting things that people thought were forgotten.” She finally says, moving over to where her bag sat on the couch, and brings it back where she sits next to him this time, abandoning her tea. She opens the bag, slipping the bracelet inside. And then, she pulls out a couple of pieces. The pin the soldier left behind, a photograph of a man and his son that was faded and frayed at the edges, and gold button, with a logo she didn’t recognized carved into the front of it. “The others said it was junk.” Her tongue pushed against her cheek. “Broken jewelry.. missing buttons.. that I shouldn’t get so attached to things I’m just going to lose.”

He noticed the subtle shift in her tone, and the way her eyes drifted left as she spoke. Although he did not know the cause of that sudden change, he'd felt a gentle pinch of guilt regardless. Long time ago, he'd learnt not to probe into quickly passing matters -- some things were better left unexamined.

Diego drew a smile up for her then, to follow along and let whatever momentarily unsettled her; disappear. "We take bondage for granted down here, 'm afraid. 'Less you consider rice and beans...with extra beans, a luxury dinner." that had to have been charming enough, he thought, though the topic itself was straying further away from the professional boundary he worked hard to establish. Seemed she was becoming less of a subject and more of a...well, a friend. And Diego never did all that well with friends. Figures though, that his would had to have been made in a lab. He'd recalled Martin Tallis say something once, along those lines, 'Why don't you go make yourself a friend, smartass?' -- and then he'd pushed him to the floor and Diego ran home crying to his mother, begging for a dog.

"Suppose happiness is subjective, isn't it? As is the concept of an ending. Does anything ever? End, I mean?" Diego often pondered that. Life was so fluid and ever changing, and every ending shifted into a beginning of something else. Cycle, maybe, or a simple continuation. It was hard to say. "Must life really have a point to be worth living?" eyes narrowed then, and he'd had thoughts of his own on the matter, carefully crafted and neatly tucked away somewhere at the back of his mind. But he was more curious as to what she had to say -- because she was made with purpose for a purpose. And there was no escaping that, no freedom to search for a purpose outside of the one given to her. Suddenly, he'd felt a deep sense of kinship, understanding -- he'd never had much freedom either, though he supposed neither of them would like to think of their lives that way; so out of their control.

Her question took him by surprise, and he did not know how to approach it at first. "I --" he stuttered, then an awkward smile took over and he wiped the palms of his hands against his jeans. Some things were easier to understand, than they were to explain. And he'd always struggled explaining his own mind. "I do, revisit media, I mean. Often." he scratched at the side of his temple, then looked ahead to where she sat. "Only, I do it in my head, it's all...it's all there. I don't forget -- I don't forget a thing." he figured she could figure out the rest. "Sometimes, I lay in bed and I put together fragments of different stories, you know? Every story, well, every good story follows a pattern. It's a simple pattern really, a beginning, a middle, and an end. A three-act-structure, a story circle. I like to pull them apart and put fragments together, like a literary version of a Frankenstein's monster." he chuckled, having realised he'd moved forward slightly, and spoke with his hands. He did not mind. "I like to imagine what might happen when different universes, or thoughts, collide, when...different characters meet. What choices they would make, how far their story would go..." it was like a game, something he held on to ever since he was a child. "I call it the 'what if'. Would you like to play?"

When her cheeks reddened, following the words that seemingly took them both by surprise, Diego pretended not to notice. Though a part of him was certainly glad to know she'd preferred him to a balding old man with a minty cologne. Or that she found him nice to look at at all. "You don't need our help getting yourself a prince. From what I've gathered, you are well equipped to get one all on your own." Diego noticed, the way she'd spoken to the young soldier whenever he came around. And how close the two of them got in such a short period of time. But now the man was gone, dead most likely. And soon, the rest of them would be gone too -- that was the way of things.

He'd gotten lost in that thought, and when she'd agreed with him regarding his love for poetry, he'd simply smiled and offered a soft nod. Hands twisted gently the hair at his chin, mind rushing so loud he'd failed to notice silence as it shrouded the room. "It is inevitable." he said at last, likely she would have found it confusing what he was referring to, after such silence. But he'd said it anyway. "Feeling things, I mean. We've these neurotransmitters plaguing our brains; serotonin, dopamine, norepinephrine. Physical structures like...like the amygdala, sort of like a-a processor for various emotions. Then there's the prefrontal cortex; charged with emotional regulation, crucial to decision making, linking the two together. Feelings, decisions." he paused, and although he was looking at her, he was more so talking to himself. Or at least that's what it seemed, that's what he would do when he had a point to examine outside of the confines of his own mind. "And hormones. Cortisol, oxytocin..." he finished his tea, and his focus shifted to her entirely. "Stress, and fear, and attachment, and love. It's all just...chemistry, in the end." there was something oddly comforting about that, and frightening at the same time. "And I'm not even touching the psychological, or social or...evolutionary factors, though I could -- if this sort of thing interests you." one of the hardest things Diego ever had to learn, was when to stop talking, when to stop explaining. Although he never understood why people would refuse to know things, it was a simple reality that a lot of them did not care to know everything they could. Some people enjoyed a bit of mystery, here and there.

He realised he might've strayed a bit off topic, however, because finding people with similar interests certainly was a compelling way to build bonds -- but he wasn't exactly 'easy' to bond with. Or to understand. His interests were...vast. And nobody liked a 'know it all'. Least that's what his father used to say, back in the day when Martin Tallis advised him to build himself a friend.

Luckily, there was no time for him to dive further into that thought because she jumped to her feet and brought forward a backpack full of various trinkets. Some he recognized, some he did not. "Hm..." he held onto the photograph for a moment, then proceeded to further examine the button, the pin, the backpack itself. It felt like he was missing something, a direct causation for her inclination to collect. "Do you know why you enjoy this? Collecting things?" whoever told her it was all junk was right, and she most likely would lose most of these things on the road, or be forced to give them up. "It is human to crave attachment. We haven't really given you much to attach to, have we?" he placed the empty glass back on the table, and usually, this is where he would get up, wish her a good night and leave.

Happiness is subjective. If they knew that he was sitting here, discussing the meaning of life and people and what drives them, what they feel, they might call him mad. She suspects he’s been thrown words around like crazy, all his life. In theory, she remembers a childhood. She remembers a small town, and falling in love with a boy when she was sixteen. She remembers getting married, and having her first child. She remembers the morning sickness, and the feeling of something growing inside of her. But when her hand briefly touches her stomach, unmarred and untouched— she knows it’s not hers. And there’s a deep ache there, like a mother without a child. A mother, without something to love. And God, did she have enough of it. So much warmth inside her, that it pillowed at her fingertips, and spilled over. And yet, she was alone here. Except for him— and the others, a young solider who one day never came back.

Some days, Ronald will let her sit outside the chambers where the others were. Sometimes, she would talk to them. One in particular, she would read to. C05 — a young woman who Ronald said was the likely going to be the last of them to wake up. He wouldn’t tell her much more about her, only from what Esme could imagine. But she looked so young, and timid in dreams, like she was just sleeping. Waiting. And while Esme doesn’t remember being in the chamber, she doesn’t want them to feel alone. And so, she reads to her. On rare days when the labs were busy poking and prodding, and bruising her arms with constant needles. She didn’t mind it so much, those days. “You’d be surprised,” her voice felt like honey. “I’m pretty easy to impress.” And she doesn’t go into detail, she just lets it sit there between them.

“I like to think there’s a little bit of soul leftover, even after the ends.” She says with a small shrug of her shoulders. “It makes everything a little bit easier, sometimes too, knowing things will end, or begin again. I mean, that’s kind of the whole point of this right? Find a cure, save the world, it’s nearly poetic— if you were a sadist.” The last part is a joke, a quiet tease on the end of her breath. Because she knew, there was no poetry in the world today. In the outside. But, God, did she want to see it for herself. She wanted to step out into the grass, feel the wind, even if it was just for a second. Maybe that’s why she liked the solider. He was standing offish at first, always standing straight and following her around like she might step into a pit or the floor might swallow her up, and the cure to the world would be loss in the abyss. But the longer he watched, the more she spoke to him even when he didn’t speak back, the softer his shoulders got. Then came the stories. The way he told her, that one day soon when the others woke up— they would go outside. And he would take her. Show her how to make shapes out of the clouds, how to build a fire, how to protect herself when the time came. And then, one day, he was gone. And she didn’t love him, but she was fond of him, of the companionship. Maybe she could have, had they been given a little more time. But that’s the thing, right? There was never enough of it. Even in Eden.

She listens, half heartedly as her mind wondered. He explains the science behind emotions, and she nods. “I think you could dissect all the reasons why we feel, or act, but it doesn’t really explain the root of it in the moment. The ache in your chest when something a little too heavy sits there. The way your fingers warm, when it stammers just a little bit.” Her eyes glance to his hands, and the way he wipes them on jeans, and the way he stammers. And she realizes, everyone was human, even him. “It must be really tiring to always remember everything.” She breathes, but it’s more to herself than anything. When he says he hasn’t touched other factors, she laughs a little. You interest me, she wanted to say, but she doesn’t. “Does it interest you?” She says instead, and it sounds vaguely the same.

When he looks at the photograph, or a few trinkets, and hums— her heart stammers a little. She’s expecting him to say something to agree with them, but he doesn’t. He just asks her why she collects things, and she lets out a small shrug and a sigh. “I think I just don’t want them to be forgotten.” Maybe she, doesn’t want to be forgotten. When he says they haven’t given her much to attach to, she nods a bit. Agreeing, but doesn’t say anything at first. “It’s okay.” She finally says, after a moment. “There’s always tomorrow.” Then he stands. And her chest sinks a little, because she knows what’s coming. Their tea time was over, and she would be left with her thoughts and empty walls, and she’d read her book again— trying to quiet the echo of machines. Maybe tomorrow he’d bring her something else, a different story. A different book.

Her hair was down today, not pulled back in its quiet ponytail like it often was. It was clean, the lab was self functioning and even had hot water— but she remembers what it was like to not, even if she never expended it. It was clean, with the faint scent of citrus and jasmine. Not that they had many options anymore, whatever they did have was brought back by the soldiers. Though, one was particularly soft on her. And when she asked for shampoo that smelled like the outside, that’s what he brought back. He died— a few weeks ago. Yet she still has one of his badges, pinned on his uniform for God knows how long.

Now it’s pinned against her backpack, the one that she kept most of her intimate belongings in. Not that anything was really too intimate around here. “Maybe I can grow eyes in the back of my head.” She hums a little, lazily allowing her chin to rest on the palm of her hand. She glances down at the tea— she didn’t like tea. Actually, she distinctly didn’t like tea. But she liked him— in comparison to many of the other white coats. So, she thought, maybe it’ll grow on her.. So far no luck. “You should write that down for the next batch.”

Her hands curled around the cup, and she takes a sip. The distain is nowhere to be found on her features, because she’s halfway afraid that if she didn’t like the tea— he’d stop staying to finish it. And honestly? She was lonely. She didn’t mean to be, but she was. Still she enjoys the furrow of his brows, and the slight confusion in his tone, or maybe it was just humble curiosity, she didn’t really understand the difference. So she smiles, barely, its kissed to the corners of her mouth and she drums fingers on her jaw. “Because I always know what’s going to happen.” She finally adds. “No surprises.” And then she takes a moment before the next words fell out of her mouth, carelessly. “And there’s always a happy ending.” Lisp pursed a little, irises shifting back to the book before she closes it. “Magic, handsome princes, overcoming the odds— what’s not to like?” That part, was a little teasing.

She watches as he speaks, and there’s a small wrinkle on the bridge of her nose as she smiles. And then, a faint shrug of her shoulders. Impossibly normal. Like the wasn’t made in a lab, and had a lifetime of experiences. “I just want to hear you talk.” She presses lips together, the smile quiet and lingering before she leans back in her chair a bit. “I’ve got all the time in the world.” Esme smirks, not understanding the irony of that statement, and how little time she actually had. “But.. I know the source liked ..” She shakes her head, as if trying to recall the memory. “Old literature.” Though before he could list anything, she speaks again. “I don’t like that.” Brows wavered upwards. “I like.. things that make me feel like we’re not underground in some lab, and I’m not what I am. And the world is a little more colorful than what’s on the outside.” Lips pursed. “And dragons. Dragons are cool too. Excitement, adventure. Definitely— not— vampires. Too cliche.”

"Probably best not to joke with that around here, they might strip you to a table and apply some bullshit genetic modifiers to see how a brain would function with quadruple perception points." he laughed at his own musing, it was a joke or, well, his attempt at one. He was never particularly good with those, though it wasn't for the lack of trying. Sometimes he'd deliver a joke he'd picked up somewhere, that had people laughing; only the way he did it or the context he used it in was not as funny as the original seemed to be. Perhaps he just suffered from the case of tough crowd. People in the lab had a pathetic sense of humour, and he hated himself for being one of them -- for laughing when Gillian asked 'What did the physicist say when he found two isotopes of helium? -- HeHe!'. The thought alone left a smile lingering over his lips as he pulled his mind back to her features.

Diego nodded, and a part of him forgot this was just a job and she was just a lamb he chose to feed before slaughter. Perhaps it would have been easier altogether, if they'd never woken them up. If they just loaded them in some sort of truck and dragged them across the country. It seemed almost cruel, to let them have these thoughts these...dream-like thoughts. "Knowing whats ahead, happy endings, handsome princes -- nothing like the real world, huh?" he understood the appeal, brushing his curls out of his face as he placed the tea back on the coffee table. These days, he took his time, though for someone who knew so much he did not exactly know why. Perhaps he'd liked her company, or maybe he just found her curious. Maybe he was doing his job. Who knew where the lines blurred? They were stuck in an underground lab with nothing else to do. And being a clone alone made her the most interesting person down here. But there was more to her than that too, there had to have been.

"Familiarity and comfort." he said, fingers intertwining over his chest as he relaxed deeper into the armchair. "Research suggests that's the most common reason people enjoy re-consuming their favourite media. It aligns with your reason, I suppose -- the comfort of knowing the ending, knowing it is a good one." he continued, feeling almost encouraged by her admittance she'd liked to hear him speak. Many did at first, he supposed, but he could get daunting quick too. "Then there's emotional connection. Repeated exposure can deepen the emotional ties one has to certain characters or themes; create a sense of resonance with personal desires or...experiences." he'd only now realised how applicable this might've been outside of repeat media too, how him being here, every day, same time, same tea -- was a repeated behaviour in its own right. How same dangers lay hidden in such exposure. But he had no time to fully dwell, because his train of thought took no stops. "Nostalgia. That's another big one. Sometimes people will re-visit literature, movies, places...even people; to relive positive memories. Or to chase after feelings they once had." many lived in a permanent state of nostalgia these days, it was difficult to think ahead when all the best was already behind. "The rest are...cognitive engagement, social sharing, safe exploration. But I think they're all more-or-less the same thing. This type of research is flawed, speculative..."

He'd started to realise perhaps her feelings on the matter had to do with simply getting to live, to exist outside of confines of someone elses memories or restrictive walls of the underground and his quiet judgment "No old literature then." he'd already composed a short list of books he would hand over tomorrow. "Dragons and adventures and happy endings, I think I can manage that. And, handsome princes, yes, I would hate for you to lack romantic engagement seeing as you are stuck looking at Roland six hours a day." the old man was nice, real grandpa energy about him, but he was not the easiest to look at. Especially following the sub-division steam fire experiment back in 2005.

"I like poems, I think." he was not sure what brought that on, the quiet admittance. Perhaps he just felt like sharing. There weren't many things in the world he liked for the sake of liking them, it was a disease of the mind -- to have an insatiable need to derive meaning and sense out of everything. To root opinions on facts, grow them out carefully, examine them regularly. Art, poetry, they could yet be personal -- void of explanation. "I think sometimes it's good to like a thing just because it's beautiful, you know? Nothing more..." like a beautiful name, or a simple bracelet.

"You should keep it. Esme." he closed her fingers over it, as she handed it over for him to examine. He'd known it well enough. Played with it as he held Esme's hand, as they lay in bed deep in the mountains and her hand rested over his bare chest. He knew the clutch was slightly rusted now, that she'd hated taking it off at the lab. He knew she'd lost it, just before everything went wrong. Perhaps this time it would bring better luck -- a happier life.

Her heart stammers a little at that, but she doesn’t let it linger. Fear of impossible questions and what might happen, would keep her up at night as it was. “Ah well, lucky them.” She says a little less enthusiastic as before, but just as it lingers, it dissipates. “I like to think I’d at least let them buy me dinner, before they tie me up.” Lips pursed a little, and she drums her fingertips on the edge of the cup now, thinking in that head of hers as he speaks. There’s a smile on his features that she knows doesn’t have much to do with her, and only to do with what thought was passing by, but she enjoys it nonetheless. In fact, she glances away, the small stammer in her heart palpitating in a way that makes her focus on the cabinets of the living quarters. The tea maker, the coffee maker. Only shifting back at him at the exact moment he looks at her, too. And she swallows, only a little, only faintly nervous and warm. The kind of warm that wasn’t made in a lab, the kind of warm you were born with. The kind of warm that was just— who you are.

“Oh I don’t know about that. Happy endings are still endings, and I think we decide what falls into that category. If we cease to believe in them all together, then what’s the point of living?” A question far too complex to come from a being, shell of someone else; without a soul of their own. She knows what they think about her. But that doesn’t mean she has to believe it herself. But when he starts on a tangent on why she would read the same book, she listens. For awhile at least, until her thoughts spill over into his words and she pulls herself back as he speaks. She wasn’t lying, she did like listening to him talk. She liked the way he made her question stuff, too. Maybe just listening to him, would give her something to think about. People were repetitive, that’s what she got from that. It was a human emotion, creatures of habit. At least she knows she’s not entirely different from them. “That’s all good from a scientific standpoint.” She says, but it’s lingering like it’s not the only thing she has to say. “But what about the standpoint of a man? Why do you watch the same movies, or read the same books— or better yet— why don’t you?” Her brows arched a little softer.

She snorts out a laugh, her nose wrinkling slightly. “I’ll be sure to give Roland your love.” She preferred when Diego was around to the later. His hands were always warm. Roland’s was always cold, like ice. Probably poor circulation given the age difference, but still. She didn’t shiver when he checked her pulse, or her temperature. Not in the same way. “I don’t know— you’re not too bad to look at.” She doesn’t mean to say it so bluntly, so she stammers back. Reels it in as warmth touches her cheeks, and her throat bobs a little. “But if you want one of them to make me a prince, I wouldn’t be too opposed.” She laced it in a tease, like she was just joking at the fact. But it was true, she was lonely. She wanted the other clones to wake up, or at least be close to waking them up. Just having the company, would have been nice, since she only gets Diego in small intervals. Tea time— even though she hated tea.

When he says he liked poems, she smiles. And it’s warm, and entirely too much like someone that had been around for a lifetime, and not the short amount of time she’d been here. “I like poems too.” She said softly, like she had just discovered it. Like she would read whatever poetry he had to offer, just to see what he felt about it. “Well yeah,” she says, her voice a little lighter. “I think it’s good to just— feel things. Like them because you like them. Fuck what anyone else has to say about it? You know? And then you’ll find people who like the same things you do, and that’s how the world is supposed to work right?” Well, it used to.

Her gaze flickered down, and lingered on his hand that closed around hers. She lets out a small breath and smiles. He told her what he liked— it’s her turn. “I like.. collecting things that people thought were forgotten.” She finally says, moving over to where her bag sat on the couch, and brings it back where she sits next to him this time, abandoning her tea. She opens the bag, slipping the bracelet inside. And then, she pulls out a couple of pieces. The pin the soldier left behind, a photograph of a man and his son that was faded and frayed at the edges, and gold button, with a logo she didn’t recognized carved into the front of it. “The others said it was junk.” Her tongue pushed against her cheek. “Broken jewelry.. missing buttons.. that I shouldn’t get so attached to things I’m just going to lose.”

Picking a name, you’d think it be easier done. She had settled on a few, watching herself in the mirror as she said them out loud. “Jasmine.” She muttered under her breath as her eyes flickered over the curve of her features. She wondered, if it was even right to call them her own. She knew that she had her mother’s eyes— the source’s. She knew that she laughed warmly, and people had always liked it. She remembers what it was like, to light up rooms she would never see, not really. Not for herself. Not for who she is. So— she said the name jasmine, and she shakes her head. “Lola.” It’s repeated between brims and her nose scrunched. God, that was worse. She’d been doing this on and off for days.

She doesn’t even notice him enter, not at first. She’s still fixed on the mirror, but there’s something threaded between her fingertips today. Irises are fixed forward, and there’s an open book on the desk. Swan lake, it was always swan lake. His voice causes her to jump, only slightly. “You sneak up on people a lot..” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. He moved so quickly, his steps were so quiet and determined. She turns towards him, she knows the drill. Sit down, answer the questions, look at the light and follow the finger. But today, today he asks her something different. He had passed by the book plenty of times now, and never said a word about it. Today? He asked. When she asked about names, they gave her a round about answer. If you’d like to. That’s what the others said. If she would like a real name, rather than the numerals and letters and whatever was on that piece of paper he always looked at. “I have, well- again. I’ve read it probably three times now.” It’s not like they had television anymore. Just movies on DVR, DVD, or recordings that they did just before the fall. It was weird, watching modern day television of people that probably weren’t around anymore. It felt.. like you were watching ghosts.

Still, she grins a little. “Why? Do you have any recommendations for me?” She’ll follow the light, overturn her arm as he checks the pulse thrumming beneath her skin. And then, brown eyes shift up to meet his as he worked. It wasn’t an intimate gaze, it was just lingering. Watching as the wheels turned in his head, and she wonders if it was ever quiet in there, or always a well oiled machine. “Do you like to read fantasy?” She doesn’t ask him if all he ever read was intellectually stimulating, because God how crowded his head must have got from that on an everyday basis. People read to forget for a little while, it didn’t hurt. Still, she lifts her chin so he can feel the lymph nodes beneath her jaw, like it was habit. Because it was. Because they had been doing this everyday for.. well.. awhile now. “And I did pick a name.” She gently puts the bracelet down. When she found it, it was kicked under a desk, the clasp was broken so she imagines it fell off in a rush. “Esme.” Then her gaze shifts to the open book. “Esme Odette.”

He'd been told that before; that he'd had a quiet step, a lurking sort of presence. But he never thought much of it. "My ability to sneak up on you is tied directly to your degree of focus. I'd suggest when you read, you do so with your back against the wall and your eyes facing the room." just as her statement, his advice was quick and he'd moved past it swiftly.

There was no need to write down her vitals, or his observations. It all got stored into neat and permanent compartments in his head. So he put everything away, jotted down a few important notes for the archives and then proceeded to sit himself down into a comfortable armchair right across from where she sat. The tea was getting cold.

"Three times?" his brows furrowed. Diego never understood the innate need for repetition. Granted, he knew research boiled down the human desire to re-read or re-watch their favourite media to some six key reasons, but even then it was all far too subjective and speculative for him to take serious. "Why?" before he ventured into those details further, perhaps she could shed some light on her drives and stir him in the right direction. "What's it about this book you like so much?"

At her question a smirk appeared across his features at last, and he relaxed beneath the sweet smell steaming out of his cup where he held it beneath his mouth. "I've more recommendations than you've time to digest. Maybe if you tell me what you enjoy, I could narrow it down for you." since he was a child, Diego read fast. Now he could absorb up to 20k words in just under a minute. He was not reading so much as inhaling words. At times, he felt like some day he would drown under the weight of them, and all the connective roads that linked concepts together like a poorly constructed highway. But he never did, if anything, it just got easier with time.

"I do." he answered simply, having always enjoyed a dive into fantasy and science fiction alike. The former was easier to process than the latter, he found that artists rarely got the 'science' aspects as right as he'd liked. "It is rarely done well, but I enjoy escapism as much as the next guy. Why'd you ask?" her curiosity was flourishing tonight, it felt different than usual. Perhaps he'd been different too. It was difficult to see the bigger picture now, that he was focusing in on the details.

Her hair was down today, not pulled back in its quiet ponytail like it often was. It was clean, the lab was self functioning and even had hot water— but she remembers what it was like to not, even if she never expended it. It was clean, with the faint scent of citrus and jasmine. Not that they had many options anymore, whatever they did have was brought back by the soldiers. Though, one was particularly soft on her. And when she asked for shampoo that smelled like the outside, that’s what he brought back. He died— a few weeks ago. Yet she still has one of his badges, pinned on his uniform for God knows how long.

Now it’s pinned against her backpack, the one that she kept most of her intimate belongings in. Not that anything was really too intimate around here. “Maybe I can grow eyes in the back of my head.” She hums a little, lazily allowing her chin to rest on the palm of her hand. She glances down at the tea— she didn’t like tea. Actually, she distinctly didn’t like tea. But she liked him— in comparison to many of the other white coats. So, she thought, maybe it’ll grow on her.. So far no luck. “You should write that down for the next batch.”

Her hands curled around the cup, and she takes a sip. The distain is nowhere to be found on her features, because she’s halfway afraid that if she didn’t like the tea— he’d stop staying to finish it. And honestly? She was lonely. She didn’t mean to be, but she was. Still she enjoys the furrow of his brows, and the slight confusion in his tone, or maybe it was just humble curiosity, she didn’t really understand the difference. So she smiles, barely, its kissed to the corners of her mouth and she drums fingers on her jaw. “Because I always know what’s going to happen.” She finally adds. “No surprises.” And then she takes a moment before the next words fell out of her mouth, carelessly. “And there’s always a happy ending.” Lisp pursed a little, irises shifting back to the book before she closes it. “Magic, handsome princes, overcoming the odds— what’s not to like?” That part, was a little teasing.

She watches as he speaks, and there’s a small wrinkle on the bridge of her nose as she smiles. And then, a faint shrug of her shoulders. Impossibly normal. Like the wasn’t made in a lab, and had a lifetime of experiences. “I just want to hear you talk.” She presses lips together, the smile quiet and lingering before she leans back in her chair a bit. “I’ve got all the time in the world.” Esme smirks, not understanding the irony of that statement, and how little time she actually had. “But.. I know the source liked ..” She shakes her head, as if trying to recall the memory. “Old literature.” Though before he could list anything, she speaks again. “I don’t like that.” Brows wavered upwards. “I like.. things that make me feel like we’re not underground in some lab, and I’m not what I am. And the world is a little more colorful than what’s on the outside.” Lips pursed. “And dragons. Dragons are cool too. Excitement, adventure. Definitely— not— vampires. Too cliche.”

She was the first to wake up, and that in itself was a kind of miracle. For days he'd watched her, like a risky experiment, waiting for something to go wrong. But nothing did. C01 was a marvellous specimen, indistinguishable from its source. And as the time went on, he started to feel at ease in its company -- her company.

His colleagues ushered in their warnings, cautioned against attachments and inevitable outcomes, but Diego thought they could not have been that clever if they broke the world and proceeded to create a sort of cure that could only be obtained through more screwing with nature and extractions out of corpses.

So instead of staring down microscopes into further parasite samples, or glaring at Elliot's uncanny copy in the large incubator, he'd found himself spending evenings with her instead. He labelled it 'cognitive analysis' on his schedule and let no one question his methods of obtaining data pertaining to her adjustments.

Tonight, he even made tea, placed it down on the table in front of her. They were not in a lab, at least not in its white and sterile centre, they were at the living corridors which had since the fall become a 'home' of their own.

Picking a name, you’d think it be easier done. She had settled on a few, watching herself in the mirror as she said them out loud. “Jasmine.” She muttered under her breath as her eyes flickered over the curve of her features. She wondered, if it was even right to call them her own. She knew that she had her mother’s eyes— the source’s. She knew that she laughed warmly, and people had always liked it. She remembers what it was like, to light up rooms she would never see, not really. Not for herself. Not for who she is. So— she said the name jasmine, and she shakes her head. “Lola.” It’s repeated between brims and her nose scrunched. God, that was worse. She’d been doing this on and off for days.

She doesn’t even notice him enter, not at first. She’s still fixed on the mirror, but there’s something threaded between her fingertips today. Irises are fixed forward, and there’s an open book on the desk. Swan lake, it was always swan lake. His voice causes her to jump, only slightly. “You sneak up on people a lot..” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. He moved so quickly, his steps were so quiet and determined. She turns towards him, she knows the drill. Sit down, answer the questions, look at the light and follow the finger. But today, today he asks her something different. He had passed by the book plenty of times now, and never said a word about it. Today? He asked. When she asked about names, they gave her a round about answer. If you’d like to. That’s what the others said. If she would like a real name, rather than the numerals and letters and whatever was on that piece of paper he always looked at. “I have, well- again. I’ve read it probably three times now.” It’s not like they had television anymore. Just movies on DVR, DVD, or recordings that they did just before the fall. It was weird, watching modern day television of people that probably weren’t around anymore. It felt.. like you were watching ghosts.

Still, she grins a little. “Why? Do you have any recommendations for me?” She’ll follow the light, overturn her arm as he checks the pulse thrumming beneath her skin. And then, brown eyes shift up to meet his as he worked. It wasn’t an intimate gaze, it was just lingering. Watching as the wheels turned in his head, and she wonders if it was ever quiet in there, or always a well oiled machine. “Do you like to read fantasy?” She doesn’t ask him if all he ever read was intellectually stimulating, because God how crowded his head must have got from that on an everyday basis. People read to forget for a little while, it didn’t hurt. Still, she lifts her chin so he can feel the lymph nodes beneath her jaw, like it was habit. Because it was. Because they had been doing this everyday for.. well.. awhile now. “And I did pick a name.” She gently puts the bracelet down. When she found it, it was kicked under a desk, the clasp was broken so she imagines it fell off in a rush. “Esme.” Then her gaze shifts to the open book. “Esme Odette.”