Take these out, they said, and arrange the tripods here, here, and here, with the lenses pointed down. There's something interesting down there, and we're going to find out just what it is. But it'll take a while to get a proper read, they said, something about refraction, that it can't be left alone, that the monitor must be patient. Then many of the eyes in the cabin pointed to K, and the collective mirth lapped at him like warm bathwater, so he raised his hand.
So here he is, out on the flats, just him and the boys, and by boys we mean the tripods and the data station that came with them. By the look of it—from a distance, anyway, all that glass like a silent sea—he's got patience for days, and a real appetite for science. Or it's just that while he stands there with his arms folded and his chin tilted down, ostensibly watching figures move on the screen, he's really slipped away, up and wandered off into his own head. Gaze gone soft and breathing slow.
By and by, he closes his eyes, and listens. The rhythmic purring of the equipment, the breathless moaning of a distant wind finding its way between frozen sprays of glass. His coat brushing against his legs. Little blips on his psychic radar, moving, each one of them a person. He wonders what his own blip looks like.
It could be a minute or an hour before one of those blips becomes more distinct than the rest. When he cracks his eyelids, the data crawl doesn't look much different than it did before he went away. It's obvious the approach of another body has nudged him back into action, but he plays it casual nonetheless, leans to touch the display like it was his plan all along. Still accustomed to the analog flavour of his own place and time, he presses it a little more firmly than necessary, leaving blobby fingerprints of liquid crystal, or whatever this is—he didn't ask—and watches as they fade. The approaching body, and the mind attached to it, space bug and all, may catch a ripple of surprise on the otherwise calm surface of his mood. He leaves another rainbow smudge with his thumb, this time just to see it.
His eyebrows are still frowning when he looks up, but the rest of his face is open enough to look friendly. As much as it ever looks like anything.
Choose your own adventure:
— "What's this?" Soft pops of curiosity like fireflies as K takes the container.
— The approach grows K's awareness, tells him something's amiss; his sudden vigilance feels ready, like a closing fist. (What? What happened?)
— K's silence is expectant. The present stillness of his mind is calming—even comforting. You end up talking first, as usual.
k / blade runner 2049
Take these out, they said, and arrange the tripods here, here, and here, with the lenses pointed down. There's something interesting down there, and we're going to find out just what it is. But it'll take a while to get a proper read, they said, something about refraction, that it can't be left alone, that the monitor must be patient. Then many of the eyes in the cabin pointed to K, and the collective mirth lapped at him like warm bathwater, so he raised his hand.
So here he is, out on the flats, just him and the boys, and by boys we mean the tripods and the data station that came with them. By the look of it—from a distance, anyway, all that glass like a silent sea—he's got patience for days, and a real appetite for science. Or it's just that while he stands there with his arms folded and his chin tilted down, ostensibly watching figures move on the screen, he's really slipped away, up and wandered off into his own head. Gaze gone soft and breathing slow.
By and by, he closes his eyes, and listens. The rhythmic purring of the equipment, the breathless moaning of a distant wind finding its way between frozen sprays of glass. His coat brushing against his legs. Little blips on his psychic radar, moving, each one of them a person. He wonders what his own blip looks like.
It could be a minute or an hour before one of those blips becomes more distinct than the rest. When he cracks his eyelids, the data crawl doesn't look much different than it did before he went away. It's obvious the approach of another body has nudged him back into action, but he plays it casual nonetheless, leans to touch the display like it was his plan all along. Still accustomed to the analog flavour of his own place and time, he presses it a little more firmly than necessary, leaving blobby fingerprints of liquid crystal, or whatever this is—he didn't ask—and watches as they fade. The approaching body, and the mind attached to it, space bug and all, may catch a ripple of surprise on the otherwise calm surface of his mood. He leaves another rainbow smudge with his thumb, this time just to see it.
His eyebrows are still frowning when he looks up, but the rest of his face is open enough to look friendly. As much as it ever looks like anything.
Choose your own adventure:
— "What's this?" Soft pops of curiosity like fireflies as K takes the container.
— The approach grows K's awareness, tells him something's amiss; his sudden vigilance feels ready, like a closing fist. ( What? What happened? )
— K's silence is expectant. The present stillness of his mind is calming—even comforting. You end up talking first, as usual.