It's the thought flickering on and off through Hugh's head as he wanders blindly from place to place as prompted by Proto-Gen staff. Things were different at first - an initiation or something, the little robot had said, because it immediately noted his oncoming panic attack at waking up under strange, vaguely medical circumstances, interrupted its chuffed little greeting as he vaulted off the bed to grab it and--
Well. The second time he comes around, his head hurts from the fall and he's just a bit more cooperative. Hard not to be when you feel so remarkably, unabatedly dogshit and don't have that little extra bit of push from animal panic. He feels like he's stumbling over his own feet on the walk to orientation, like his tongue is too big for his mouth. Fighting a combination of the flu and the world's worst hangover wrapped all in one, body just radiating malaise.
It's so quiet now. Not in the room - in his head.
He'd known (known without knowing, something inherent, a number he could spit out on the spot and not have any idea where it came from) that there were just under seven hundred of them linked to him now. Some had died, lessened the burden - but he'd still had six hundred and eighty-seven thrumming behind his eyes at all times, and the constant dull roar of their existences hadn't left him alone for even a moment. Lives that weren't his, dreams that came from someone else. Sometimes it had been hard to figure out which ones were his own anymore.
Not until now. The connection is cut. He's alone again.
(He's not. But when you've spent so long being so many people in bits and pieces, another soul doesn't feel like so much, does it? Probably softens the emptiness a bit. Lulls him easy out of the hivemind, keeps him company in ways he isn't even conscious of.)
So, yeah. It could very well be worse. Has been worse all this time. He's probably one of the few that comes out of orientation just a bit brighter, his steps a bit easier - who presses his palm over the stitches and finds some measure of wonder, not horror, in the sting. Picks up his things and sets out immediately, nevermind the warnings, because he needs - he's planetside again, he has to--
Has to see the sky. Right now. Sunlight hits his face and he has to fight to keep his composure, eyes shut, chest pulling deep into air that smells like city and people and outside and life, not some hyper-filtered dead oxygen only meant to keep him alive. Has to hear birds and breeze and the soft drift of distant conversation, and absolutely, positively nothing else.
It's probably a good thing he takes six or seven steps and immediately passes out in the street. He'd hate for anyone to see him this misty-eyed.
Did these people build this city and everything in it out of popsicle sticks and asbestos? Godawful work.
[ oh he's on the network just. ranting. as you do. there's an audible metallic crackle-hiss in the background that anyone with any familiarity with welding torches might recognize, and a clarity to his voice that those people might also recognize as a blatant OSHA violation. where's his mask? what the fuck is he welding? where is he welding? it is a mystery.
there are definitely people in the background though, so wherever he is, he isn't alone. sounds like it's outside. someone tries to talk to him ("Doctor, thank you for fixing--") and gets shushed rudely for their trouble. ]
I'm sure one of you has tripped over some scrap metal at this point. Odds and ends. Doesn't need to be pristine, I'm more than talented enough to work with little. [ HSSSSSSS. there's a sharp intake of breath like something hurts in there, maybe. wear gloves, stupid. ] I've a pet project I need it for that I'm sure you'll all benefit from. Bring it to me and you'll be rewarded appropriately. If you make me walk through Basileios to get it I'll kill you with my bare hands.
[ yeah he wandered into the rich people part of town and they kept asking him what new model of ServiTon he was and where his owners lived, apparently largely because of the alien shit he's already self-conscious about. bad time for everyone involved.
finally, muttered half under his breath as he ends the feed: ]
I'll be God damned if I pay these people for bottom shelf liquor.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
introspection
It's the thought flickering on and off through Hugh's head as he wanders blindly from place to place as prompted by Proto-Gen staff. Things were different at first - an initiation or something, the little robot had said, because it immediately noted his oncoming panic attack at waking up under strange, vaguely medical circumstances, interrupted its chuffed little greeting as he vaulted off the bed to grab it and--
Well. The second time he comes around, his head hurts from the fall and he's just a bit more cooperative. Hard not to be when you feel so remarkably, unabatedly dogshit and don't have that little extra bit of push from animal panic. He feels like he's stumbling over his own feet on the walk to orientation, like his tongue is too big for his mouth. Fighting a combination of the flu and the world's worst hangover wrapped all in one, body just radiating malaise.
It's so quiet now. Not in the room - in his head.
He'd known (known without knowing, something inherent, a number he could spit out on the spot and not have any idea where it came from) that there were just under seven hundred of them linked to him now. Some had died, lessened the burden - but he'd still had six hundred and eighty-seven thrumming behind his eyes at all times, and the constant dull roar of their existences hadn't left him alone for even a moment. Lives that weren't his, dreams that came from someone else. Sometimes it had been hard to figure out which ones were his own anymore.
Not until now. The connection is cut. He's alone again.
(He's not. But when you've spent so long being so many people in bits and pieces, another soul doesn't feel like so much, does it? Probably softens the emptiness a bit. Lulls him easy out of the hivemind, keeps him company in ways he isn't even conscious of.)
So, yeah. It could very well be worse. Has been worse all this time. He's probably one of the few that comes out of orientation just a bit brighter, his steps a bit easier - who presses his palm over the stitches and finds some measure of wonder, not horror, in the sting. Picks up his things and sets out immediately, nevermind the warnings, because he needs - he's planetside again, he has to--
Has to see the sky. Right now. Sunlight hits his face and he has to fight to keep his composure, eyes shut, chest pulling deep into air that smells like city and people and outside and life, not some hyper-filtered dead oxygen only meant to keep him alive. Has to hear birds and breeze and the soft drift of distant conversation, and absolutely, positively nothing else.
It's probably a good thing he takes six or seven steps and immediately passes out in the street. He'd hate for anyone to see him this misty-eyed.
(It could be so, so, so much worse.)
dialogue
[ oh he's on the network just. ranting. as you do. there's an audible metallic crackle-hiss in the background that anyone with any familiarity with welding torches might recognize, and a clarity to his voice that those people might also recognize as a blatant OSHA violation. where's his mask? what the fuck is he welding? where is he welding? it is a mystery.
there are definitely people in the background though, so wherever he is, he isn't alone. sounds like it's outside. someone tries to talk to him ("Doctor, thank you for fixing--") and gets shushed rudely for their trouble. ]
I'm sure one of you has tripped over some scrap metal at this point. Odds and ends. Doesn't need to be pristine, I'm more than talented enough to work with little. [ HSSSSSSS. there's a sharp intake of breath like something hurts in there, maybe. wear gloves, stupid. ] I've a pet project I need it for that I'm sure you'll all benefit from. Bring it to me and you'll be rewarded appropriately. If you make me walk through Basileios to get it I'll kill you with my bare hands.
[ yeah he wandered into the rich people part of town and they kept asking him what new model of ServiTon he was and where his owners lived, apparently largely because of the alien shit he's already self-conscious about. bad time for everyone involved.
finally, muttered half under his breath as he ends the feed: ]
I'll be God damned if I pay these people for bottom shelf liquor.