exsiliumlogs | [closed]

Charles is shocked by the abrupt arrival of the child, and he hops up in his seat and drops his pen at the sound of the door exploding open. Charles' eyes are torn to Nikolai immediately, and he looks shocked, then apologetic. "Nik," he says then, trying to make his tone sound reassuring. He stands from his desk then and he makes his way over to him, kneeling to face him.

"I am glad you're all right."

It only occurs to Nik now that this is actually their very first face-to-face meeting. He spends a moment to gape up at Charles, and at his office. Taking in details. He likes this setting: it's all nice and organized and safe.

Once that's done, Nik rubs his eyes. "Hello Mister Charles. I don't like today."

He takes the last couple steps closer to try and practically plant himself into Charles' knee. It's a sad attempt at a hug, especially for Nik.

Well, that certainly makes him blink. Then he laughs softly, though he tries his best to keep his tone from being one of disrespect. Reaching to touch Nik's head, Charles just pats him gently and begins to kneel down -- though only with a careful attempt to unhinge the child from his leg.

He is looking more concerned now, expression a bit less amused and more stern. "What -- ah, what, exactly, has happened today?" he asks. Charles reaches out to hold one of Nik's shoulders, ensuring that he is eye-level with the child as he asks his question. He had a few ideas, but he was thoroughly shocked by the developments he'd been privy to already.

Nik is practically a limp doll at this point, so Charles doesn't get much resistance when he pulls Nik off. Nik does stir to grab on to the hand on his shoulder, though, clinging hard to Charles' sleeve.

"I... found people in my head," Nik says. "And they keep taking over. And doing things. Only I don't know what they do and it's scary because I think one of them does bad things."

He gets steadily unhappier with every word. By the time he's done talking, he looks wretched.

"Can you read my mind, Mister Charles?" he asks, the question coming out all in one breath. "Can you -- can you tell me who they are? Please?"

Charles watches as Nik grasps his sleeve and he purses his lips with displeasure at the words that come from him. He'd noticed it himself, after all, and it was a terrifying event. Nodding, Charles reached to touch Nik's head after a moment -- to pat his hair gently.

"I can try, for you," he offered. "If that is what you wish. Remember that I... do not hear words, only numbers. But you can understand them?" he murmured, his voice sounding incredibly hopeful.

"I think I can. If you can just... say them aloud, or write them down?" Nik looks hopeful, too.

He's feeling calmer, now. Charles' presence is soothing, and Nik greatly appreciates the head pat. But he continues holding on to Charles' sleeve like he is never going to let go. Because at the same time he feels something else stirring, alien and strange. Curiosity? If so, it is not his. Or is it?

Nik does not like it when he cannot be sure whose thoughts are flitting through his head.

He bites down on his lip and tugs on Charles' sleeve again. "Do you read anything, sir?"

Charles nodded to that, carefully standing from where he'd been crouched before. He's gentle when he pulls his sleeve away from Nik's hand. He makes his way around his desk and begins to search for a pad of paper and a pen. It's probably easiest if he attempts to write down the numbers he hears when he makes his way into Nik's head, so he prepares to do just that at the young one's request.

In seconds, Charles returns to Nik's aid. "Not yet," he said then, before he was trying to kneel down. He closed his eyes -- against his own better judgement, as he tried then to read the thoughts that rushed in numbers through Nik's mind.

Nik doesn't feel anything, just as he hadn't when Charles had first read his mind over the network. But he watches as Charles jots numbers down, wide-eyed, trying to make sense of them--

--and he stops. Curiosity overwhelms him, overwhelms all of them. Nik blinks. Maletski looks around, looks bored, and looks at Charles.

He grins and leans in close.

"Whatcha doing, mister?"

Charles is startled slightly as he notices the shift in Nik's personality. It does not take him long, perhaps to his own merit. His fingers stop immediately and he pulls himself back a bit from Nik -- puts a bit of distance between them, obviously with no real fear of showing the boy that he's at least mildly intimidated by his shifts in behaviour.

"Reading your thoughts," he says then, opting for honesty.

Maletski shoves himself forwards to glare up at Charles. The effect probably would have been much more intimidating had he not been toddler-sized.

"Stupid," Maletski says, nearly spitting. "Can you read anything? No! Because it's a fucking computer, dumbass!"

Then he makes a snatch for the paper that Charles had been writing on. He'd been writing something down, though. Huh.

Charles watches in shock at first, taking a step back to put a bit of distance between them both. Yes, he's definitely surprised by the shift in personalities -- it is much different in person, that is certain. What language!

"I can do a degree," he informs easily enough, though he watches as the smaller man? child? reaches for the paper. He pulls it away, furrows his brow and makes a point to stuff it into his cardigan pocket. "And why does that concern you?"

Maletski glares as the paper is snatched out of his reach and eyes the pocket. Now he's just even more curious. Come on, he can't have been writing anything real, right? Nik doesn't even have a brain to read... does he?

"'cause I'm him," Maletski says, grinning, "and he's me." And that's a total lie. "So I think I got a right to know what's in his head, huh? Just looking out for kiddo's best interests and all!"

And with that, the grin drops from his face. "Give me that paper, asshole."

Charles' eyebrows shoot up in surprise immediately. Such language! And from such a young mouth. Then his own eyes narrow with a great curiosity. How much information can he get out of this -- this identity, if he tries?

He ignores the request for the paper, instead patting his chest where it's been placed. "Ah, perhaps only if you answer a few questions for me," he says.

Maletski squints up at Charles suspiciously.

Any other time, any other place, any other body and Maletski would've just ripped this guy's throat out, grabbed the paper, and called it a day. Unfortunately, he'd already discovered early on that neither Nik nor Cherkesov will let him get away with that shit. It's downright unfair. Fighting was what he was made for and they won't let him do it.

So he has to settle.

"...how many?" Maletski asks, scowling and looking away.

Charles was watching with an obvious curiosity as Maletski seemed to be debating the merits of his ultimatum. Though it wasn't an ultimatum, not really -- Charles didn't have an "or I'll" or "then I'll" anywhere in the equation. Ever still, he watched him, pursing his own lips.

"Not very many at all. Perhaps... four, if you wish to quantify it."

Maletski kicks at the floor and takes his sweet time thinking about it. He starts to pace, looking around Charles' office curiously as he does so. And finally he wanders behind Charles' desk and clambers up (with a bit of trouble) into the chair.

Only after he's seated himself does he look back at Charles.

Well, it could be interesting. What sort of questions was Charles going to even have, really? Nothing that Maletski would really care about, right? Nothing that he couldn't lie his way out of, anyway.

"Okay," Maletski says, with a dismissive shrug. Whatever. "Four questions. Shoot."

Charles watches him get up into his chair with a look of increasing amusement. It takes all that he can to keep himself from laughing; he doesn't want to antagonise him, surely, but that was quite a bit to watch. He does look like a child, even if he does not behave as one.

Charles nods, then, deciding that he ought to make the best of this, and that he really ought to be certain he's got the perfect questions lined up. He starts, hoping that open-ended ones don't become unacceptable too quickly. "Who are you, if not Nik?"

Hmm. Maletski wonders how much Charles had observed already, and whether or not the other one had spoken to him. Maletski even goes as far as to spend a few seconds digging through Nik's memory banks before he gets bored of that and decides to hope for the best. Hope that people are just stupid.

"Cherkesov," Maletski says, suddenly, folding his arms and attempting to spin Charles' chair without much success. He ignores that little failure and goes on: "I'm the real host of this body. That Nik kid, he's like a, what do you call it? Parasite?" He snaps his fingers, and brightens up. "Virus."

Charles is wondering if he ought to believe any of this additionally supplied information. The fact that it was supplied without his own needing to ask is enough of an answer on its own -- probably not, no. Charles' eyes are narrowed somewhat as he considers what he ought to say and finds himself frowning deeply instead.

It's better, too, that he frown like that -- least he begin laughing again at the unintentional antics displayed for him. "I see. And so, if he is a virus upon you -- Cherkesov -- then where did he come from?"

Maletski snorts, blowing a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. "I dunno. A lot of history got lost after the clip."

And if the question had been about Maletski's origins instead, Maletski's answer would've been almost honest. Maletski didn't know where he came from. The only memories he has of his creator are faint and formless and he can glean nothing from them. No clear memory of a face, a name, not even a voice....

Maletski scowls. This is not worth thinking about.

"All right, come on, next," he says, waving a hand.

Eyebrows raised at the behaviour, Charles almost smiles as he's dismissed to his next question. He's not exactly satisfied with the answer he's received, but he supposes it's his own fault for his phrasing. At least, that is what he's going to go with. He's counting his questions in his mind, certain not to waste them.

Really, it feels like something out of a fairy tale that he's placed himself in with these limited questions. "How did you come to be? Who was your creator?"

Oh. Maletski would have just blown these questions off with a 'hell if I know' again, if he hadn't made the statement that he was the valid host of this body. That's a claim that'll be hard to substantiate if he says that he doesn't even know his own origins....

"Some kid after the apocalypse made me. Never got his name before he got killed, of course," Maletski says, with an indifferent shrug. Good enough, right? Sounds reasonable. He could even give a full description if Charles wants one. But.

"That's four questions, asshole!" Maletski suddenly sits straight up, grabbing on to the edge of the desk and all but launching himself across it, straight Charles. "Pay up!"

Even if Charles isn't fluent in 1100011101s, he considers himself a rather intelligent man, and those words don't fly. Not at first. Soon enough, though, they've moved onto another topic and Charles is trying to reel himself and his scepticism in, for Nik's sake at the very least.

Charles' eyes widen at the behaviour and he takes a step back at first. "I'm sorry? I don't entirely remember offering to pay anything --"

[ and then horrible things happened and it was all charles' fault

and he drowned himself in tea ]

Luckily for Charles, Maletski's trajectory is slightly miscalculated and Charles' step back puts him just out of range. Maletski hits the ground.

He spits, splutters too many curses, and rolls back up to his feet to stand angrily at Charles' feet. As if nothing had happened.

"The paper, dick," Maletski says, holding a hand out. "We had a deal. So fucking pay up or I'll make you regret it."

[ i have never been more traumatized by a tag disappearing from my inbox than this. :|a; sweet baby jesus ]

Charles wouldn't admit it, but he was glad that he managed to avoid the flying child. His eyes widen as he watches him do so and he's too shocked by it to even chuckle -- something that he would have easily done moments before during their interactions. The language coming from that mouth makes Charles raise his brows with shock, before he's considering the rest of his words.

In a moment of haste and concern, Charles reached for the paper he'd pocketed so much earlier and found himself making a very quick decision. Perhaps it was the influence of being around a child -- even if he were not really a child -- and perhaps it was a combination of the stressful events of his life here in this place, but within seconds Charles found himself simply crumpling the small piece of notepaper he'd been so diligently scribbling upon earlier and popping it into his mouth.

He realised the absolute depth of his ridiculousness the moment the jagged paper hit his tongue, but he had truly crossed the event horizon at that point and knew that there was no turning back. And so, with utmost determination and the most dignified expression he could muster, Charles made a point to chew and swallow the notes he had taken just before Maletski's eyes.

Well, there you go. That happened.

Maletski stares.

Maletski doesn't actually believe that this is a thing that he just witnessed happening.

He'd been half-expecting a refusal, that doesn't come as a surprise to him. But he'd been expecting Charles to tear the paper to shreds, maybe. Or to crumple it up and toss it out the window. He had not been expecting Charles to eat it. Jesus fucking Christ eating the paper wasn't even something that Maletski would've done had their roles been reversed. What the fuck?

"What the shit?" Maletski says aloud, voice nearly a screech in his anger and bewilderment. "Are you fucking two years old?"

It's a legitimate question.

At first, Charles had quickly deciphered a range of excuses for what he should say -- but the way that Maletski was so absolutely shocked by his behaviour only serves to make him laugh. He chokes after a second, clears his throat, then continues to chuckle somewhat. In fact, he's laughing until he's out of breath, and he just sighs deeply.

What the shit, indeed. "I -- well," he began. No, he was not two years old! He was just about to respond to those words before he stopped himself, continued on a different vein once more.

"You can't have it. I don't trust you with it."

Maletski draws in a deep breath as they suddenly switch gears. But still caught up in the absolute strangeness of what has just happened, all he can do in response is pout. (Not that he realizes that he's pouting. This vessel has a mind of its own sometimes, he swears...)

"Oh, come on," Maletski says. "You were just trying to read his mind, right? What the fuck could you have read that I wouldn't know already? I am his head!"

He has a very good point, in that. Charles can't help the way that his face shifts -- his expression shifts into one of understanding; then he's laughing, albeit only a little. Out of every single absurd thing that has happened during their experience here, the most of which having just occurred -- realising that it was all very much for naught just makes him exhale and laugh to himself.

"You are very right. A--Well. After all, it is only numbers. Ones, and zeroes. Binary, as it were. Very strange, though I do suppose it makes a right bit of sense as he is very much a computer, is he not?"

Then he stops, raises his brows. "Are you all computers? Every one of you?" No, unfortunately, Charles doesn't quite understand how computers function. Not yet, though it is not for a lack of intelligence -- only a lack of time to immerse himself in the technology.

Yet still, he would be entirely rubbish with it. And thus is his interactions with computer-based-persons.

Binary. Huh. So he'd just read through the memory, then. No use.... doesn't sound like Charles has got any clue about the biocore at the center of all the hardware in Nik's head. That wouldn't be surprising, though. After all, Maletski's fairly certain that even Cherkesov doesn't have a clue what it is.

Maletski huffs and crosses his arms. The manic violence is out of him now. There's no point. He can't get any interesting information out of this guy, and he can't kill him, either. No fun.

"Yeah, yeah," Maletski says, pacing, brushing off Charles' question. "We're all computers. All three of us. I'm a computer, he's a computer, you're a computer too. Man, why the hell not?"

Maletski stops pacing to peer up at Charles. "You wouldn't be a very good computer. Just sayin'."

[closed]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject