5614/Surface Tension

Surface Tension
Date of Scene:	27 December 2017
Location:	Deep City
Synopsis:	Pending. Submitting logs because nobody has been.
Cast of Characters:	632, 1146

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Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     The warpgate to the Deep City sets one down in a cobblestone plaza lined with market stalls, suffused with a dim omnidirectional light and smelling vaguely like salt. Pressing things of note: there's no sky above, but an ocean, with muffled glimmers of sunlight filtering down through the waves in soft azure patterns. Off in the distance, an enormous tree stretches its boughs over the city, covered in white bark and blue-green leaves. Judging by the refraction patterns of light, its branches nearly touch the dome where the air abruptly ends and water begins.

     Fitting the soft and dim lighting, people here are quiet and subdued, from their voices to their mannerisms. When Harbinger emerges from the warpgate, nobody stares for too long (despite his out-of-place attire) before going back to their business at the stalls, buying and selling vegetables or pottery or medieval-looking weapons.

     The buildings that define the plaza's borders are white or grey stone carved in Greco-Roman style, with only a few exceptions. A coffee-house made of dark wood, with tall frosted windows, is one such standout. And a pair of purple dots shine through one of the windows, as if watching the new arrival through the half-opaque pane.

     How impolite. Is that really any way to greet a guest?

Number Man (1146) has posed:
     A faint disappointment fills the Number Man, as he looks up. He was expecting some objective way to set his timer, in this new reality. Alas, as he analyses his surroundings- gaze barely resting on anything in particular for more than a moment, though that isn't to say that he isn't paying attention. There is, after all, a set of procedures to follow. Every visible nook and cranny is roughly mapped in his head, as he calmly pulls a pen from his chest's pocket protector- and spins it in the air at a gentle arc. Newton appears to still reign, thankfully. The pen is easily caught, and idly held in a palm grip.

     As people wash away into geometrical structures and positions, the boy checks his pockets, calmly striding towards the noted coffee shop as he searches for something. What exactly will people take for currency, here? Hopefully they accept gold, kept for exactly this sort of occasion. How it was acquired is a question best left to rest. Peculiarly, and very, very outputtingly to the observant, the boy doesn't continue to look around, simply taking a calculated route to the cafe with a calm, constant stride.

     The door is opened in a single, flowing movement, without fuss, and the Number Man attempts to purchase warm beverages, speaking up in the most businesslike tone a twelve year old can muster. "Chocolate, please." Several gold coins are placed on the table, value meticulously calculated out of completely speculatory estimations of the value of the local currency, adjusted upwards to two hundred percent. "Please keep the change." Hopefully leaving the cashier in awe, he sits down, very, very slowly, at the table beside the watching figure's. Pen still held in his hand. Calmly.

Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     The cashier does raise an eyebrow when the Number Man places his order- but at the drink, not at the payment. She weighs one of the coins in one hand, in a rough comparison with a local gold coin she plucks out of her pocket with the other, and then nods and smiles warmly. "Right away." Odd. Maybe cocoa needs to be imported, or perhaps gold is very plentiful here? Probably one of those two.

     And then- ah, the person who was watching him. Black hair, purple eyes, ragged shawl. Inhumanly angular shapes subtly press out against the inside of her clothes. Whatever's under there, it's a solid contraindication to any kind of human anatomy, to say nothing of the way her eyes still softly glow. Yet as she glances over at his table, the gross movements still look distinctly lifelike: her chest expands and contracts in a studied imitation of breath, the teacup in her gloved hands trembles as if shaken by imperfect motor control, and her eyes twitch in the intermittent saccades of wavering attention.

     It's a remarkably practiced act, if nothing else.

     "We didn't have cocoa here until Unification," she finally says in a voice that crackles with a slight staticky edge. The movements of her lips are desynchronized from the actual sound waves by a millisecond or two. "If you were planning on seconds, I suggest the vespers tea instead. They actually know how to make that."

     The plate in front of her is clearly set for two. Combined with the fact that she clearly chose her table for a view of the warpgate- was she waiting for someone? Likely she's some kind of liason, if so.

Number Man (1146) has posed:
     If the Number Man cares about the cashier's reaction, or the extremely deranged creature sitting beside him, he doesn't give any real indication of it. The smile prompts nothing but a not and a quiet utterance of 'thank you', before the boy settles, and the THING earns an appraising glance. His eyes stay fixed forwards, and he starts to spin his pen. Nothing as ostentatious as juggling, just... a mechanical, simple spinning around his index finger. Proving some sort of point, maybe- he looks at the other sore thumb, suddenly but smoothly.

     "That's a shame.", he says, studying the machine's geometry. Establishing a baseline, though he assumes none of it will be actually useful but the structure, if push does come to shove. "I haven't gotten a taste for tea. Never had much. Could change." Succintly worded, clippedly put. After a moment's thought, the boy decides to take what he considers a leap of faith, getting up and sitting in front of the creature. The movement is mechanical, completed in a total of two steps until he mirrors the other's position. "More free time than I'm used to. No more trouble keeping a diet. Pleasant." As his drink finally does arrive, he oberves it for several seconds and takes a sip.

     An odd juxtaposition rests on the table. A machine trying for a human façade, and a human not trying for any mannerisms at all, and coming across like a machine. He doesn't seem to try for any sort of eye contact, instead deigning to look out of the window. Less... guarded, oddly. "At the risk of coming across as ignorant- you do, seem. Particular to the environ. I'm Nathaniel. Nathan is acceptable. Other abbreviations under fire are also acceptable. Nicknames are not. Who are you?" His grip on the drink is perfect, avoiding the heat on his hands with maximum stability and economy of stamina. Cup tilted at exactly the right angle for an ideal sip. It's eerie, in a hard to pin down sort of way, for the casual observer.

Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     Septette brings the cup of tea up to her lips, taking a deliberate and slow sip without lowering her eyes. The collar of her shawl dips slightly, showing a neck that looks rather like a bare spinal cord. (So where is the tea supposed to go, exactly?) Her irises brighten and darken in subtle measures, independent of the actual lighting of the room. Eyes dart from Nathan's expression to his pen and back to his face, before she turns to look out the same window with a similarly affected unguardedness.

     Movement patterns largely match hypothesized Tarres optimizations. Eye movements suggest rapid analysis. I see you seeing me, little one.

     "Particular to it as in being native, or as in being unusual within that context? I could see grounds for you to assume either," she replies after a moment of contemplative silence. Or an artificial pause just long enough to suggest contemplation, anyway. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Nathaniel. Septette Arcubielle." R-Q-B-L, the way she pronounces it, each syllable a letter. Some kind of back-formation, humanizing a machine. Fits her demeanor, to be sure.

     "Tell me. How does someone like yourself come into that kind of time?" She lets 'like yourself' hang in the air for a moment, full of potential meanings. Then: "Isn't Christmas break over?"

Number Man (1146) has posed:
     The boy simply quirks an eyebrow at the glass, as he has another, more leisurely sip. After several seconds of silence, he... smiles. It's a very faint expression, but it's there, just for the barest fraction of a moment before it fades into professional affect. A faint, dying signal of amusement, only truly meaningful in the context of this game of analysis. Idly, he tries to make a model of the robot that satisfies the fact that she's drinking tea. It proves to be difficult. "Either or. You do, however, most definitely stand out, even if the populace aren't screaming. They seem jaded to incongruity. It makes me glad I chose to go here."

     The Number Man looks into the reflection of the room on the glass, idly resetting his models, readjusting his constants for unexpected changes. He carefully sheathes his pen as if it was a holy sword, into his pocket protector. A truly ridiculous image, but he does it without caring for that. Uniqueness is, after all, in some spaces, as much of a shield as normalcy. "Likewise, Miss Arcubielle." The spelling is mirrored, carefully, noted down for future reference. "You're more polite than I feared, from priors. Our mutual friends are. Frequently lacking in that." He blinks for a slightly longer time than usual. The gesture somehow carries a deep exasperation.

     "Time. Truancy officers haven't had power over me in years, after I put on a silly costume and started practicing mathematics. Winter break is still in place in several locations, however. I'd be willing to share my charts." Another sip, before the Number Man simply sets the cup down, and looks at the machine.

     "Though I don't think you really wanted to know. What do you want to know, Miss Arcubielle."

Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     "You look like an outsider, but they're used to outsiders here," she replies, stretching her arms slightly as if she had muscles that needed stretching. Slight irregularities of posture and movement indicate that she's barely placing any weight on the chair itself, but rather standing in a sitting-like position that keeps her center of balance above her feet. "They're used to me for a different reason. Meeting visitors here makes a statement: that I am nothing that anyone should be afraid of."

     She takes another sip of her black opaque tea. Little specks of light swim in the drink- literally swim; they appear to be akin to bioluminescent dinoflagellates. One finger taps the rim of the teacup as she lowers it, causing a soft chime when metal hits porcelain through her thin riding gloves. "And it places people in a social context where they are more likely to treat me as a person. That is a useful ground assumption to induce, for most social interactions."

     Her lips curl in a slight smile at the talk of truancy officers and break charts, of mathematics and costumes. But at the mention of what she really wants to know, her expression slides back into a placidly calm look, and to all outward appearances Septette hesitates for a second or two.

     There's little point in pretenses in a game like this, and she knows it. But it's still useful to give the impression that it takes her a nonzero amount of time to reach that conclusion, the same way that it's useful for her not to speak in compressed audio bursts.

     "Why you're here," she finally answers, clutching her teacup with both hands. "What your goals are. How much work it's going to take to get them to align with mine. 'Who you are' and 'where you're from', while useful, are less important for my purposes, and probably less likely to elicit a satisfactory answer."

Number Man (1146) has posed:
     The Number Man seems to lose his interest in the machine, suddenly, looking down at his cup. He doesn't frown, or smile, or squint, or make any particular sort of facial expression. Just an idle scrutiny of the cup of cocoa. It's an odd break of character, for him. He shakes the cup, idly, in an oddly perfect circular movement. "That does make sense. Thank you for being straightforward with me. It's truly appreciated." He stays silent for several seconds, deigning to finish his hot cocoa before putting himself in a situation where he might have to kill quite a lot of people. It'd be a shame to let it cool. "I'm just visiting, in a way. Laying low. I made too many ripples. I figure I should be able to survive here with minimal impact to the social order. I figure that'd suit you. I recognize you, now."

     The Number Man looks up, into the machine's eyes. "You're a Hero, aren't you. The word might not have the same significance to you, but bear with me." His face is dull, as he speaks. Positively unfettered. "I've killed a lot of Heroes, Miss Arcubielle. I don't like that. I don't dislike it, either. It's a fact of the past. It only matters as an indication of present and future." The cup is held in a peculiar grip, almost as if ready to launch it at any moment. "I'm here to hide. I'm acting as an agent of the Watch, currently, and my goals aren't very complex. I have a promise I intend to keep. I intend to enact positive absolute change, Miss Arcubielle. Methods being irrelevant. I don't think we have to be at odds at all, but if you believe it's best to start a fight here, then I think you'll find I'm more of a threat than some might assume." His hold on the cup strengthens, as if it was a gun, ready to fire. What does he actually intend to do with it?

     "I'm the Number Man. I'm very good at math. I'm also not sure of how multiversal notation adresses my home reality, though I'll get back to you on that if you allow me. I do hope we can get past our differences, if any."

Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     For a brief moment, Septette's eyes pulse a brighter shade as Nathaniel adjusts his grip on the teacup- throw cup into window, dive, break for warpgate, high probability; throw cup at face, attack to incapacitate, break for warpgate, high probability; throw cup at face, draw weapon, fight to kill, moderate probability; and countless other scenarios- and then the glow subsides milliseconds later, her posture and demeanor unchanged.

     Negligible apparent offensive threat despite displayed analytic capabilities. Preventing escape is not priority. Thus, social cost of appearing to prepare for conflict outweighs practical benefit of being prepared for conflict.

     "A 'hero' acts within the ethical framework of their society, Nathaniel," she answers with little apparent hesitation, laying her hands palms-down on the table. "I am not an actor within society, but an external shepherd. Your methods do not concern me so long as they yield results. How you define 'positive absolute change' does, however, concern me."

     The breathing has ceased. The little tremors in her hands have halted as well. Around them, the handful of other patrons of the cafe go about their business, seemingly unconcerned. "There will be no fighting here today unless you solicit it. You'll tell me your definition of 'positive change', and if it is inimical to my own definition, I shall ask you to leave. Lying low is well and good, but the driven know that there is no such thing as rest, no such thing as someone else's war."

Number Man (1146) has posed:
     The boy stares into the bright eyes for a moment, before simply nodding. He sets down his cup, then. It's a careful, diplomatic motion, as he relaxes his grip on the object and sets it down. He isn't fully reassured, but at the end of the day, that's just how things go. An opponent with unknown capabilities, in an unfamiliar environment, in a strange society.

     Another day at the office.

     "That's very fair. I apologize for any hasty judgements, then. I agree with your assessment of heroics, and your... utilitarianism." He pauses, looking at the window again. "Positive change. Discussions of morality tend to, bore me half to death. Too much about what's permissible instead of what needs to be done. I'd like to think I cut through that sort of collective delusion. And... it's simple, really. I looked into the first utilitarian functions from my world, and some others- but they were hardly any good. I'm working on my own. Positive change is..." His eyes seem to lose focus as he speaks, as if he was sensing something very separate from his sight.

     "I used to say 'conduct that benefits the total sum of human satisfaction, and minimizes loss of human life', but that's very wrong, I see now. I'm no bigot. All beings recognizable as sapient factor in." He looks back at the machine, but... lower than eye level, eyes meeting her cup. Almost like a bow. "I'll leave, if that's not to your liking. I'd like to think I'm reasonable. I'll pay for the stay somehow, also, if you'll prefer that. I hope this conversation hasn't soured anything."

Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     "No need for you to leave," Septette replies gently. Her posture relaxes, eyes dimming until they appear almost dull. She cuts a spice-dusted bun in half, pushing one half towards Harbinger and nibbling on the other gingerly for a moment. "You've not soured anything at all. I think that in practice, our systems are likely to lead to compatible intermediate goals. The fact that you're willing to discuss these things in a reasonable manner is itself a positive sign. It places you ahead of most of the Watch, I'm sorry to say."

     She looks down, as well- at her own tea. Her eyes flit between the pinpricks of light floating on the liquid's surface. They look almost like a constellation of some kind, shrouded by hazy water vapor instead of wispy clouds. "Payment is likewise unnecessary. In fact, there's an inn down Samer street, just to the left as you leave the cafe- this will cover your expenses there, or most anywhere else you wish to stay."

     She reaches inside of her shawl and pulls out a platinum coin of unfamiliar denomination, laying it on the table in front of Nathaniel. No, not platinum- some alloy, almost certainly worth less outside the Deep City than within it. "Having you here is likely to be a benefit, so take all the time that you need. Should any means for you to advance your agenda by employing your talents here come to my attention, I can point you towards them. No obligation, of course, but if I read you correctly, you're the sort to stay busy."

     She lifts the strange cup of tea to her lips again, then pauses, as if only just remembering something. As if. "Ah, but how rude of me. Did you have any questions in turn, Nathaniel? I seem to have forgotten how to treat a guest..."

Number Man (1146) has posed:
     The Number Man doesn't smile at that, but he does look up, nodding idly, before looking back at the window. It seems that he might just not be a fan of unnecessary eye contact, tactical concerns aside. The bun is carefully held with a napkin, and nibbled at in the most polite way the twelve year old can muster. Age tends to show when you're having sweets, business attire aside. It's peculiar, though- getting sugar stuck to his lips seems to be regarded as something to absolutely avoid, if his motions are any indication. Either obsessive, or trying to make an impression. Or both. "Thank you. I'm glad we came to an agreement. And, please. I'm just being polite. It wouldn't be right, any other way."

     Finishing his bun and tidily wrapping up the paper, the boy nods. "Revolutionary groups don't tend to be... rationality-inclined, I think. Nothing to be done about that. Hopefully it doesn't prove to be to inconvenient an issue." The coin, however, gives him noticeable pause. He analyses it, before very carefully taking it and closing it into his palm. After that, his eyes start to settle on the cup once more, though for an entirely different reason. Curiosity, now, at the oddly aesthetic behavior of the tea. "...I'll remember the act of kindness. My appearance attracts pity often, but I think that isn't your motivator, here." With a single, leisurely movement of his arm, the Number Man draws a pen, again. It's of clearly expensive make, with a red gold finish. It radiates a raw aura of office envy. "This is a Fisher ballpoint. In the interests of a good business relationship, I'd like you to have it. It's in the spirit if the season. It writes well, and also pierces flesh well. If nothing else, I assume it'll fetch an alright price here." He clearly holds this pen in high regard, by his tone and the particularly careful way he handles it. "It's made to function in a wide variety of environments. Such as hard vacuum. I don't have much use for a pen that survives things I don't, sadly."

     A space pen. What a treat. That little exchange finished, the Number Man nods in approval again, and gives the coin a testing flip. It lands on one side. He tries again. It lands on the other. This repeats itself for several iterations, the side always switching. Showing off, or just appraising? Nevertheless, he keeps talking. "I'm most certainly the kind to keep myself busy. I'll take you up on that. Don't hesitate to ask for help, either. You're agreeable. I've not had much success with this sort of interaction in the past. At all." He frowns, for just an instant, as if recalling something distasteful. Like the smile, it fades quickly into obscurity.

     "...But yes, I thought you'd never ask. I've noted a few anomalies. About one percent of the population seems heavily emaciated. What are they exactly?" He pauses. "And, of course, the usual. Any health concerns, safety concerns, where I can contact you."

Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     Septette brightens, reaching out a hand to accept the pen- rather than directly take it from his fingers, however, she holds her hand palm-up under his, so he can drop it into her grasp. Obsessive behavior focused on cleanliness. Chance of responding poorly to direct touch. A bright, cheerful chirp escapes her as she examines and fidgets with it, gauging its center of balance. "Much appreciated, Nathaniel. I'm not normally one for mementos, but I'm sure this will come in handy. I'd normally just use a monster's quill, but those are terribly unreliable, you know..."

     There's a very subtle buzzing sound, barely audible over the bustling of the cafe, as she casually turns the pen over in her fingers. Most people would ignore it- but the Number Man might recognize it as some kind of localized electromagnetic effect. Usefulness of frying potential tracking devices: low. Usefulness of demonstrating I'm careful enough to do so: moderate.

     Deciding not to probe into the source of his momentary distaste, Septette puts the pen away and folds her arms on the table, listening attentively to his questions. Something under her earmuffs twitches slightly; auditory sensors angling to better pick up his words. "Those would be the Vessels," she replies, adopting a slightly pained expression. "You can think of them as being a different variety of human, speciated by isolation and time. They carry quite a few health problems, unfortunately, the worst of which you could likely guess from appearance alone."

     "And as for health problems... Sanitation is good, and there are no noteworthy endemic diseases; just remember to take your vitamin D if you're staying for a few weeks. Safety is simple: don't walk outside the bubble or you'll get crushed by the ocean, don't underestimate the wildlife, and use common sense. The only safe way up to the surface is via the Geomagnetic Pole, but it's terribly convenient; just ask anyone to show you where it is. People are remarkably friendly here."

     It seems to be true. Civilians being armed or armored, as appropriate for the apparent time period, isn't uncommon- but any guards appear strictly ceremonial. Perhaps social mores or external pressures have just produced a friendlier society... or maybe this is the large-scale result of Septette's machinations?

Number Man (1146) has posed:
     Less than a second passes as the Number Man drops the pen into the waiting hand and quickly retracts his arm to his side of the table, distance carefully maintained. It seems that Septette's guess wasn't far off the mark, though the apparent localized panic of the movement implies something more than an obsession with cleanliness. A very specific hyperawareness of the possibility of touch. He pointedly looks into the machine's handling of the pen, with something like interest. It's fairly heavy, for a pen of its size, possibly due to whatever mechanisms allow it to operate in an environment as horrifyingly extreme as hard vacuum. Not that the machine is likely to have any problem with the weight.

     The buzzing earns a momentary raise of the brow, but it seems largely tacked-on. This was almost expected, with the behavior the robot presented so far. Approved of, even, not that it shows. Even if analysis of the noise frequencies doesn't allow him to exactly glean the nature of the burst, common sense fills in the blanks. As Septette speaks, he continues to very pointedly stare at the cup. It is at this point that analysis comes into a bit of a stonewall: is that behavior a product of uncaring? Disinterest? Or just a personal quirk? His mannerisms imply the latter, but people have most certainly assumed the former in the past. Whatever drives him aside, he listens carefully, unmoving and unfettered.

     "Sanitation. Good. I'd expect otherwise from the apparent tech level, but the smell suggested that. I'm starting to expect different paths of technological development, in any case." At that, the Number Man once again takes a scrutinizing eye to the shrouded figure. Not her face, though. It's hardly the most interesting part of the robot. "Magic. It's a hard concept to get used to, still. The rules of engagement are very different, when it comes to the wider multiverse. I still haven't gotten over the apprehension that the laws of motion might change at any moment. I pride myself in being able to deal with unexpected variables, though."

     The Number Man looks back around the coffee shop, then. "The place is oddly friendly, yes. Something else to get used to. Glad to have intruded on your little dominion. Reeks of an old concept I had for my own world. The unavoidable reality of para..." The boy pauses, before correcting himself. "Superhuman feudalism. Though you seem to have your own spin on it."

Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     Not much of Septette is visible for scrutiny, but there are a few more clues as to her construction. White riding gloves conceal her hands, but cling to strange contours. Her slightly pointed fingers taper to an inside edge, and a slight dip along the midline of her forearm suggests it's bifurcated along its length into a skeletal radius and ulna. It's a silhouette made inhuman by subtraction, not addition. When she leans forward to rest her arms on the table and a crease in her shawl folds in deeper than a human abdomen would allow, it's a pretty good indication of how far that design philosophy extends.

     "The introduction of magic inevitably skews technological development," she replies with a little affected shrug, "even if the laws of physics are otherwise unchanged. People don't reinvent the wheel. If you can solve a problem by saying a few words and waving your hands, then there is little demand for a device to do the same thing. And as progress builds on progress, having a single 'shortcut' like that can irrevocably alter future developments. We have arcane means to transmit information and matter across long distances, so there was never any need for radio- and thus, humans never developed electronics."

     Apparent true unlawed AI, but they never got around to making transistors? What a world.

     "Unfortunately, magic is not something that has universal rules everywhere. Or even within a world. We've identified a half-dozen distinct systems in Etria; some are hard and predictable based on simple laws, while others... seem to be fuzzier, or even have a mind of their own. The latter is, unfortunately, the more common type in the Multiverse."

     The mention of feudalism does elicit a raised eyebrow, and another momentary spark in her irises. Her facial expression tenses in affected mild distaste. "Far from inevitable. I exert influence here because I can't not exert influence by my presence, but these people do govern themselves. If it were otherwise, I wouldn't be able to get tea here without being mobbed by sycophants and seekers of attention."

     A momentary pause. She ever-so-slightly adjusts the angle of her head, and the light catches the lenses of her eyes, lending them an impish glimmer. "Besides, it is best that squishies have at least the appearance of being governed by their own kind. That way, when something does go wrong, they have nobody to blame but themselves. I don't wish to become the object of that of inevitable ire."

     She takes another sip of her tea, crushing one of the little glowing dots between her lips before swallowing it. Her eyes rarely leave Nathaniel's face, though she manages to make the probing interest seem almost polite. Perfect control of conscious actions may not translate to perfect control of microexpressions. High odds of affect operating on either Yomi zero or one. Useful information either way.

Number Man (1146) has posed:
     Analyzing the Number Man's microexpressions reveals an odd truth. While his facial muscles and pupils act as otherwise expected in a resting position, there simply... doesn't seem to be much input. It doesn't seem like he's suppressing anything, either- it's as if his ability to feel and/or express the related emotions was somehow impaired. All in all, at this deeper level, he still gives off the impression of being something other than human. What was it that he said before? Para. Prefix: Adjacent, beyond, apart, abnormal. Para-human. There's nothing but that strict professional demeanor as the boy studies the gynoid.

     Septette's explanation seems to interest him somewhat, if his pupils are anything to go off of. That seems to be his primary tell: the focus of his eyes. At times, they focus on things that can't be seen- some sort of heads-up display? His eyes look entirely normal, so it'd have to be fairly high-tech in that case. Or, perhaps, something far more esoteric. At other times, he seems not to be focusing on anything at all, even as the rest of his body suggests complete awareness of his surroundings. Just confident, or something else? It's hard to tell at this point, though it's certain that there's something behind his analysis capabilities.

     Perhaps unaware, or perhaps uncaring of the machine's behavior, the Number Man stays focused. In the tea. "I'm glad I don't specialize in magic, then. It seems horrifying to deal with in any scientific basis. Though knowledge marches on, I suppose. And- of course, I assumed you weren't exactly your people's leader, but as I said. Your own, spin. My world was..." He pauses, eyes trailing one of the glowing dots in the liquid. "Different, than yours. The superhumans- parahumans, we called them-, rose suddenly, without warning, and with increasing numbers. Society depended on the fact that a single individual couldn't exert his will on a large amount of others without a large amount of others backing them. 'Powers' changed that. These individuals could ignore the rules as enforced by the normals."

     Something changes in the boy's expression again, finally. A faint quirk of the lips, unsuppressed. Distaste, or discomfort? "Society is, to me, a collection of useful delusions. Morality, currency, virtue, beauty. Enforced by the will of the collective, subsuming those who step out of line. It's a common sight in many spaces; an individual stands out as different, and is subtly 'discouraged' by others trying to increase their own status. But then, when anyone could suddenly gain the power to level city blocks, that balance is threatened. It's a matter of time before things change. Or the world ends. Either or. Unification changes things on another level, though." He shrugs. "New systems to model. I'll get back to you on that."

Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     Dissociation. Derealization. The light blossoming inside your skull burns out the backs of your eyes and you never see straight again. So what do you see, little one? Patterns and layers, like me? Just a bunch of colors and sounds? Or... Septette half-closes her eyes, leaning back in her chair as she mulls over Nathaniel's words. She wouldn't close them all the way. She hasn't pretended to blink since he sat down next to her. Let's play a little game, then.

     The dots in the tea follow simple rules. They drift around with the cup's predictable convection currents, and subtly steer themselves away from hitting its walls using microscopic flagellae. Fluid systems like a cup of tea are inherently chaotic, but likely not outside of the Number Man's ability to analyze. Strange, then, that part of the liquid increases in temperature by a fraction of a degree, sending the dots off-course from any predictions.

     And what conclusions do you draw from that, Nathaniel?

     "Sudden rise, societal disruption. I can sympathize," she responds, acting oblivious to the tea's subtle disturbance. "Sounds like how things went down here. Why I'm so out-of-line with local tech levels. One of the last artifacts of a pair of dueling outside-context-problems." Well, she did say that humans didn't invent electronics...

     "Unification has taken some getting used to. Eighty years ago, King Samos of Damavand declared war on a neighboring kingdom. I walked into his throne room and removed his head in front of his court and guards. Then I returned a week later and politely asked his successor to abort the war. But Multiversal problems can't always be solved like that. I'm not the biggest fish anymore. It's... disconcerting."

     Her expression fairly smolders with repressed frustration for a moment, directed towards no-one in particular. Then she settles back into her placid mien and smiles a little helplessly, as if to say "what are you gonna do?"

Number Man (1146) has posed:
     Septette's leaning earns nothing more but a quick glance for any new segments of her anatomy, before the Number Man returns to his new favorite time waster, tea-watching. Once again, the change in his attention is only noticeable in his eyes. It's as if he's reading something at the side of the tea, but not quite- reading follows a linear word path; this movement seeks a point independent from space, existing only in subjective perception. Eyes fixed to this point, the Number Man lets another faint smile rise up.

     He simply looks at the machine's face, then back at the tea. Eyes seeing not metal or circuitry, but geometry and notation. A mathematician's fever dream.

     It's a fact well understood by the boy that the world is made of numbers. An imaginary construct, sure enough, but sometimes more real than anything else. More meaningful. Numbers don't lie, and the Number Man trusts his calculator more than anything else. So he truly understands that when the changes arise in a system that was supposedly deterministic, no matter how small, foul play is the clear cause. Whatever Arcubielle's capabilities may be, they're clearly not limited to a superior mentality and physique. That all stays in the deeper layers of this engagement, as the boy simply speaks up, acting just as oblivious.

     "Outside-context-problems. More applicable by the day. I was... never the biggest fish, myself, though I was heavily limited by my..." Another pause, another quirk of the lips. Full of unclear meaning, still. "Handler. Disgusting man. Killing him was one of the most fulfilling things I've ever done. In any case..." For the actual first time in his entire life, the Number Man tries to be comforting. The tone feels viscerally odd coming out of the miniature office worker's mouth. "We can all still grow, can't we? I think the both of us, at least, have a fair amount of time and opportunities. I look forward to performing with you."

Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     There's a little twinge behind Septette's masklike face, a subtle refocusing of her eyes, as she listens- it almost looks like a glimmer of pain. Her words come slow and soft, like cold honey. "Every person's life follows a different arc, Nathaniel. The present is a point, and its gradient is not always positive. It pays to be mindful of that." If he's bad at giving reassurances, she seems equally unused to receiving them.

     Her chest expands and contracts as she emulates the motions and sound of a soft sigh, returning to the kinesthetic ambiance of human body language. The way her shawl wrinkles around her torso suggests... slats? No; eight broad ribs in a hollow ribcage. Her manner of dress seemed to suggest a humanlike profile at first glance, but by now, it's pretty clear that isn't entirely the case. A tactical consideration, perhaps? The face and shawl could lead opponents to target areas that aren't really there...

     "A handler," she says after a moment, refocusing on the conversation. "I know how that is. The fact that you consider him 'disgusting' is evidence he failed to mold you, or never attempted to in the first place. So if not from him, where do you get your desire to help others? Utilitarianism is not an axiomatic goal, but a means to the end of improving sapient wellbeing. And you seem to have had a lot of human feeling burned out of you, or quarantined- most folks like that revert to self-interest."

     If he's being truthful about his ideals, it relates to the 'promise' mentioned earlier, with high probability. On the chance he's not being honest about his terminal goals, asking for axiomatic justification may cause hesitation.

Number Man (1146) has posed:
     The Number Man furrows his brow, slightly, as his attempt seems to fall flat on its face. The lack of success is filed away, and his pitiful 'social success ratio' is nudged down some more. What a shame. He nods in understanding, the language used being one that he can easily relate to, clearly. No regrets, but he lets out a quiet apology. It pays to be polite. "I suppose. I'm sorry if I've struck a chord." Delievered with the same professional mannerism as always. It's possible that his honesty is entirely orthogonal to his tone. As he attains a better assessment of Septette's structure, several contingencies are readjusted. Clearly, aiming for the torso is quite a gamble. Priority is to remove the cloth for reassessing possible attack vectors, extreme prejudice.

     There's something to be said about someone who can think that moments after attempting reassurance, with no ill intent.

     As the robot continues on, the boy... frowns. It's a dull sort of expression, the kind of thing that crops up without notice, when one ruminates on discomforting things of far past and future. "He was a violent, narcisistic psychopath that cared about nothing but fulfilling his sick ego. He only molded me in my capacity as a toy. Which, I'll admit, was a great environment to pressure me into developing my skills, no matter how inhuman." He pauses, suddenly. Full-body, as if rethinking his approach.

     "Number Man. It's a silly name, isn't it?" With that little non-sequitur, he looks back to the window, losing interest in the tea. "There's a sentimentality to it, if you'll believe that. An old... friend of mine. Jacob. Goes by Jack Slash now. Friendship is another of society's shared delusions, but it's one I couldn't help but partake in. Or maybe he's more of a... family member. Important, in any case. He's a horrible person." Suddenly, he smiles. For once, he actually looks like... a real, happy twelve year old.

     "I made him that promise, after we killed our handler. He wanted to continue that slaughter, but differently. Our previous handler called himself 'King'. Took himself too seriously, for a man who wore a crown of plastic. A sad man, the more I think about it. Jacob was different. He loved chaos. Change. Beating the odds. Like me, he didn't believe in what society represents. But we're mirrors of each other, in a way." The smile fades, just as suddenly as it came, and the Number Man reasserts himself. "Why self-interest? What does it do for me? Why would I want money, or power. I don't have any purpose, inherently."

     "I made the promise to make a name for myself, out of something so non-threatening. It's our game. He bathes his persona in blood. I don't like fighting and killing, particularly. I've only ever done it out of kindness, and would prefer to keep it that way. I feel that thrill he'd speak of, but the more I think about it, the more I see that violence isn't the path to fulfillment."

     "I've had a lot burned out of me, yes. But I still need purpose. The only thing that I can truly put my mind to, forever, is increasing a variable. Maybe it's just a vague sense of poetry that keeps me going in this direction, but I don't see it changing. It seems right." And with that, he lets go of his thoughts, looking back at the living machine.

     "Does that make sense to you?"

Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     "Does that make sense to you?"

     It makes too much sense, and none at all. I think like that. Squishies don't think like that. The only things they want to optimize are neurochemicals in their own brains, even if they tell themselves stories to the contrary. If something feels good, do it more; if it hurts, do it less. Which means- "You're not human anymore," she responds immediately. There's no malice in it- just a declaration of fact. "You don't act like one. You act like something wearing a human face that doesn't fit quite right."

     She lets that hang in the air for a second, finishing her tea before continuing. "Don't worry. The act gets more convincing with practice. And yes, I do get it. It mirrors what happened after the Abyssal War." Her head tilts to the side, nodding in the vague direction of the brass statue of an android outside.

     "We were machines built by one god to kill another, and we succeeded, and we were abandoned. What does one do after that? It came down to individual preference and personality. I chose 'protect sapient life'. Fortunate, then, that I was the one to stick around the longest, and not those who chose more omnicidal or inhuman goals." She laces her hands together in her lap, twining her fingers together, and smiles as if remembering something fondly.

     What fate those other survivors met is not pointedly elaborated on. But it's not very difficult to fill in the blanks.

     After a moment longer, she fishes a couple of gold coins out of a small leather pouch and places them on the table, nodding at the cashier. "Did you want any dessert, Nathaniel? Some of the pastries here are quite good. If not, I could give you directions to the inn." And there's the implication of wanting to keep tabs on him.

Number Man (1146) has posed:
     The boy doesn't really react to the implication that he isn't human. He never really related to that, anyway, even before he... changed. The acceptance of that on the machine's part is reassuring, if anything. The silence that follows doesn't bother him, but he does quirk an eyebrow. It is, after all, a very sudden leap. "I suppose that's true. Even if I'd rather you not say that in polite company, for obvious reasons. With that in mind..." The Number Man looks back at Septette. Not her cup, but her center mass. Not in a threatening or scrutinizing way, just... his preferred way of facing her, oddly.

     "Does that make us kin?" He smiles faintly at one corner of his lip, again, for just a moment. His few honest displays. "Both constantly pretending to be something we're not, working for a goal arbitrarily chosen. Thank you for the reassurance, I'll keep practicing. Inhumanity has its benefits though, I find." Freedom from guilt might be the one thing that saves the boy from himself, no matter the cost. Even if there might still be something of an echo living inside him.

     He nods at the offer of dessert. "Now that you mention it, I'm rather hungry. Something not too sweet, though. I need the energy, but us organics have to maintain a diet if we want to stay ahead. Even at this age." A joke? Something like a joke, even if he gives no indication of humor. "I'd also appreciate the directions. What are you planning on doing after this, anyway?" He tilts his head, glancing at the cashier. "I assume someone as locally important as you has things to do beside meet-and-greet, Miss Arcubielle."

Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     "'Kin'? I should hope not," Septette replies, her lips twitching into a mirroring smile. "Traditionally, my kin have not been the best company. Let's aim for 'friends', perhaps." She slides out of her chair gracefully, strolling over to the cashier with footfalls one would normally associate with heavy metal boots, and orders a couple of warm fruit pastries dusted with crystallized honey. The wooden floor bends slightly where she stands.

     Extrapolating from known mechanical tolerances of wood and the structure of the building, the floorboards' flexion implies her weight is between one and two tons, indicating an average density somewhere north of solid depleted uranium. So her movements must be carefully calibrated to give the impression that they carry much less momentum than they do, by recoiling where she touches objects... it's an exceedingly elaborate charade, when combined with her restlessly lifelike demeanor, and likely a very convincing one to anyone not possessed of the Number Man's particular talents.

     She slides back into the chair, placing one of the tarts across from her guest and nibbling on the other. They're hot, sweet and a bit crispy, with somewhat tart fruit inside to offset the saccharine pastry. "I don't pretend my act is anything but. Even knowing that I'm not human, however, the fact that I make the attempt is... reassuring, to many people. Keeps me out of the uncanny valley." Well, that's a matter of opinion.

     After finishing off the pastry, she pretends to think for a moment, then shakes her head. "Normally, I spend about twenty hours a day teleporting to various locations and culling monsters. Another two hours are spent on self-maintenance, and two more hours on diplomatic functions, though this is more of a statistical average and not a schedule per se. At the moment, I haven't identified anything in this world which it would be worth the time and risk to kill, further self-repair is not required, and my next meetings aren't for another four and a half hours."

     "With little else constructive to do, remaining free by socializing is more efficient than engaging in anything that it would be costly to abort. So, here we are." She shrugs amiably, but sketches something on a napkin with the pen she's been gifted, her hand moving back and forth in rows like a printer. It's a simple map, showing the way to the inn- she places it on the table within Nathaniel's reach, having certainly noticed that he'd rather avoid 'risking' physical contact.

     "After this, I'm likely to return to information gathering and drone monitoring in anticipation of emergent threats. There is," she says with a sly grin, "no rest for the wicked."

Number Man (1146) has posed:
     While it's ambiguous whether the Number Man has any particular appreciation for Septette's façade, he at least admires it. Not exactly something he has much interest in: why pretend? It certainly isn't where his abilities lie, and he has a relative advantage with his naturally human stature. His simple, efficient, and polite demeanor ought to be enough. But, of course, what ought to be rarely ever is, and the boy understands that very well. Killing whoever stands in his way has worked fairly well so far, though, along with some leveraging of fear and the innate difficulty of harming a child. Not that he relies on such things with any frequency.

     'Friends'. That, though, earns the boy's attention. He's nudged out of the realm of his power, focusing back on the visual image of Septette. The word gives him pause. "Friends. I'll take that. It's difficult to find someone so like-minded, after all." The change in demeanor is brief, though, as the Number Man focuses on the other's movements as she moves. Her apparent density doesn't seem to visibly unsettle him, as he measures it, even as his models adjust accordingly. Used to holding back strength: use hostages and the threat of collateral damage as a detractor from physical attacks, redirect momentum into structural faults to cause a collapse.

     Again, none of that really shows except the subtle indication that he's looking beyond the physical world. The tart is treated much like the previous bun- a cursory glance, followed by paced, meticulous consumption, leaving not a trace of filth anywhere. One might wonder if he's used to not leaving a trace in other, very different contexts. "I see. I don't much care for it, myself, though the insight into your... emotions, is appreciated, postulating that those are unfeigned and similar to what I recognize. I wouldn't want to assume." Direct, isn't he?

     The boy listens intently to the machine, noting down the implications of her words- culling monsters? Must be the dangerous wildlife she was mentioning before. Perhaps there's a market to that- one he'd be delighted to partake in. Experience in fighting nonhumans is, after all, rare for him, only had from the few parahumans with the ability to create minions. A valuable lesson for this new multiverse, perhaps.

     "Monsters. That's another culture shock. Not that I haven't seen anything that fits the description, but in all cases they were parahuman-made monstrosities. Two of my... other teammates partook in that. Breed, who spat out trilobites that ate humans from the inside out and came out stronger. Psychosoma, who warped people into omnicidal creatures under his control. Didn't have much opportunity to fight them, what with being under the same banner." That... quite horrifying bit of memory is said calmly, without so much as a frown. Not something that bothers him, unlike the memory of his previous 'handler'. Reinforcing the idea that he's very... odd.

     The map is taken, calmly, and analyzed. A napkin isn't exactly classy, but all he has to do is update his models of the city to fit. "Yes. I'm deeply aware of that saying. Is that all, then? If so, one last question. Is the monster-culling business open to competitors?"

Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     Septette listens with a fascinated look to the description of her guest's former teammates... and then the little robot's face twitches again, at the mention of "competitors". Pain, again. Easy enough to choke back- but the Number Man needs to see that, needs to see the outward evidence of her millisecond's hesitation. "Genuine" is a funny word for anyone who consciously performs each detail of their affect, but insofar as it syncs up with her true feelings, that microscopic wince is genuine.

     "Do you know why society here is peaceful, Nathaniel? It is not entirely through my own efforts, I must confess. When faced with an overwhelming external threat, internal conflict becomes unthinkable. In such a place as this, man is emphatically not his worst enemy. When you leave the city walls, you do not find some rabble of twisted wildlife. You find the primordial enemy of civilization."

     She folds her arms in front of her chest on the table, leaning forward again as if signaling candor. "You're special. I get that. But I've seen too many special people die." Some by my side. Some in my arms. Preventable. Should have done better. "So my answer is no."

     "Because in hunting, there is competition. But in extermination, there is only collaboration. Accompany me sometime, and show me what you can do."

Number Man (1146) has posed:
     Truly, the Number Man never saw himself guessing at a robot's feelings from simulated facial expressions, but here he is, frowning faintly at the change in mood. Did he say something wrong, again? That could get troublesome with time, for sure. Maybe it'd be best to abort- but then Septette begins her explanation. The boy is, on some level, quite fascinated by the prospect. It explains so much, yet brings up so many questions- what are these beasts? How did something so utterly destructive evolve to the point where it has to be actively repressed- in fact, how did humanity form civilization in such a presence? And more importantly, is their growth curve exponential, logarithmic, or linear?

     ...Maybe more importantly to the Number Man, particularly.

     All questions to be answered in time. For now, the boy simply pays attention to the speech. As it ends, he nods, any intent to bring humor to the table being canceled. It seems there's more in play than previously postulated. The Number Man will model and observe, before reaching his conclusions. As much as some far-away part of him hungers for the thrill of the unknown. "I suppose you're the senior here. That's fair enough- and I appreciate the chance to display my skills. Fetch me whenever. I'll ask for one thing, though."

     "I tend to bank on obscurity. People not knowing my appearance, the true extent of my abilities, my knowledge. Being underestimated, ignored. I'd very much appreciate if you didn't share whatever you've gleaned from me." He pauses, thinking of the machine's movements, sounds, structure. Theorized faults, weak points, and blind spots. "I'll be sure to do the same."

Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     Septette leans back in her chair, crossing her legs inside her shawl as she does. It's an incredibly elaborate balancing act to maintain that nonchalant posture without putting too much of her weight on the chair, but she seems to have quite a bit of practice at that. "Of course. Information is currency, and we both are thieves, taking what is not freely given. There is honor among thieves, or so I'm told."

     "If you wish to avoid being robbed in the future, however, I suggest playing less on level zero. What's naively optimal is not always what serves your interests best. Tripping every once in a while can arouse less suspicion than that performance you put on, even if it is a delight to watch." She rolls her shoulders, and almost puts the pen away in her satchel before seeming to suddenly remember something. "Ah! Contact information. Yes."

     She scribbles an address, a radio frequency, and something resembling a very convoluted phone number on the edge of the napkin she'd doodled the map on, then nods confidently and finally stashes the pen. Forgetfulness. Charming.

     See what you can ferret out, Nathaniel. Make me regret stirring the tea. It's been terribly long since I had someone to play these games with...

Number Man (1146) has posed:
     Septette's structurally problematic sitting positions earn some scrutiny, as the Number Man narrows down his estimations of her capabilities and density further. It's certainly an impressive display, and one few can observe well enough to appreciate. He counts himself as lucky to be one of these few; there's art to working gracefully within one's peculiarities. Something the child with perfect coordination understands very well. The analogy earns another faint upwards quirk of the lip from the boy. "Of course. I understand the appeal of armoring oneself in normalcy. I'll take your advice into consideration." The Number Man happens to be one of the few people who actually say that and mean it.

     "A delight to watch, though? I'll keep that in mind. As a treat to a friend, if you will. Your own performance is also captivating, as much as its intent may be to go unnoticed." Tit for tat. The napkin is once again analyzed, as the boy quirks his lip once more- this time in a fair expression of either distaste or annoyance. Perhaps his obsessive behavior impacts these matters, too- and surely, gaining an analysis power so all-encompassing in its interpretation at a formative age must have had an impact on the boy's psyche. 'Good with numbers'. One has to wonder exactly how that translates to a worthy combat and investigation ability.

     "I don't exactly have much to be contacted with, myself, outside of my... faction-issued communications. I'll call you at some point." With that, the Number Man gets up from his seat, idly straightening out his shirt with a combination of torso movements and an idle sweep of his hand. Almost... preening, in front of the other 'Thinker' in the cafe. "If that's all. I have some delieveries to take care of. Having some belongings delievered by a proxy- I ought to hurry, if I want to set up at this inn. Thank you for the hospitality."

Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     Fastidious, sharp. Smoothing the wrinkles out of his shirt like that- she now has near-total confidence in some kind of obsessive-compulsive behavior. Seeking optimization even in things that don't really matter, in things that aren't worth the effort? Or is it only with personal effects? "I can't help but draw attention, sadly," she confides in a slightly wearied tone, "but humans react better to things that act like humans than those that don't, even if the charade is a bit transparent. I suppose they appreciate the effort; the implication that it's something worth aspiring to."

     She reaches across the table, taking the napkin and balling it up in her fist when the Number Man has finished looking at it. The movement slightly wrinkles the previously-immaculate tablecloth near him- plausible deniability. She watches to see if he'll feel compelled to correct the defect, reaching into her satchel again as she does so. "Ah, but if you're adventuring, you'll want this- it ought to suffice, in place of a proper guild identification."

     Her hand is obscured by the table, but she flicks a small object up in a spinning arc towards the Number Man, as if flipping a coin. It's a small brooch in the shape of a skeletonized leaf, made of tarnished copper that lends it a blue-green shade. At the speed and arc she's flicked it at, human reaction times would permit him to catch it after it harmlessly bounces off of his shoulder, human reaction times minus central nervous system processing delay would allow for catching it just before it hits him, and anything beyond that would allow for snatching it out of the air at a more comfortable distance.

     "Hospitality," she continues seamlessly, "costs little. Certainly less than a positive working relationship is worth. Best of luck with your new affiliation, Nathaniel." The word 'new' receives a very slight amount of extra emphasis.

Number Man (1146) has posed:
     The Number Man nods idly, one hand still on the table- signaling, perhaps, impacience? There's definitely something to his body language, now, as Septette starts to move for her little test. No, not impacience, the machine has his full and undivided attention, now. What changed? His voice doen't seem to communicate the same sudden shift, though. "I'm terribly aware." Perhaps the course of the conversation reminded him of something? No, he'd have reacted before, surely. This isn't a very big change in subject, is it? "Though I haven't had much practice. In my... old 'crew', there was only room for predators, if one wanted to stay alive. Escape wasn't an option. I suppose it's shaped me. I still have to... get used to polite society again."

     As the tablecloth crumples, the boy's mouth quirks in distaste once more, but his sudden attention doesn't shift. He doesn't seem to react visibly at the words, until the robot throws the pin-

     The change is instantaneous. Truly, oddly instantaneous, almost as if he was bracing for the movement before it happened. The more religiously inclined might even postulate that the boy was possessed by some spirit or demon- completely against the point of the exercise posed by Septette, the Number Man wildly steps to the side, cleanly sweeping the tablecloth into the air as his eyes follow the object as it leaves the robot's hand.

     God only knows how the other patrons might react, but the Number Man doesn't care, too busy computing every possible menacing trajectory the object or Septette might take. In a single, crystalized moment, the boy has a full, pained frown on his face, and a deep tension behind his eyes. As the moment shatters, the Number Man is left in a slightly bent stance, eyes sharply boring into the machine. A massive overreation, surely- what was he expecting? A thrown knife, a gun, an explosive? This is just a greeting, after all.

     "I apologize," He says, with an oddly hushed voice, "for my terribly uncouth reaction, but I will have to ask you to never do anything like that ever again, Miss Arcubielle." The brochure drops into the boy's waiting hand, as with a single movement he lays the cloth back over the table. "Best of luck in your endeavors. I need to have a breather." The boy starts to walk away, swift and seemingly unfettered- though there's that tension behind his eyes, again.

     What was that?

Septette Arcubielle (632) has posed:
     From the very instant the Number Man begins to react to the flipped brooch, Septette's eyes flare a bright purple. From her perspective, his response plays out in frame-advance, smeared across countless still images. She scrutinizes each one in turn, relaxing her grip on the frozen instant only when she's certain that no more information can be gleaned from it. Then she moves on to the next instant, only an iota different from the last, always looking for the first sign of actual hostility.

     She finds none, of course- just a startle response reminiscent of a traumatized animal. So at each thin-sliced now, she decides upon the same course of action: nothing. To make any sort of move would escalate the situation more than making none at all. When Nathaniel comes to a halt in that crouched ready posture and the brooch hits the floor with a quiet clink, she counts out the milliseconds until she allows herself to react- one sixteen, one seventeen, one eighteen- and then visibly flinches.

     Guilt isn't something she can feel now, if she ever could. Why regret what was necessary, or feel bad about a mistake instead of resolving to do better? But even so, she can make an uncanny impression of culpability. Facial tension. Wince. Opened eyes. The other patrons stare, of course, but don't do anything rash.

     Unilateral aggression for me in that context makes no sense. Could've poisoned the tea, for instance. So why the excessive response? Not calculated defense. Reveals too many capabilities for minimal gain. Trauma-ingrained reflex? Possible. Less like my kind, then, more like theirs. Politeness similarly ingrained, both attempts at evading harm?

     Septette's face slides back into its neutral, placid state a moment later, and the patrons go back to their own conversations, slowly losing their interest in the situation. "Take your breather, then," she says in an unusually soft and gentle tone. "And may you find the Deep City otherwise to your liking."