[She repeats the names back. She doesn't know these people (or any people right now) but from the way this woman feels about them they deserve to be remembered.]
You loved them and they died.
I guess that's what she's asking you. I was a kid when I lost everything, so I didn't have a lot of choices about what to do with it. What makes you want to keep walking?
[She licks her lips, and then immediately regrets it as they go frigid.]
I'm not capable of it at all, by some people's definitions. But I can be loyal to other people. Other people can matter to me.
[She exhales a steady breath, finding herself thoroughly unsurprised by this new information about herself. It causes a few more things to make sense in context.]
And do you want that again? It seems like it's safer to keep to yourself.
[As if in response, the voice comes again: Do you survive for yourself alone, revelling in the solitude? Or do you hunger for a connection, seeking out others?
She makes an irritated sound, almost a growl, and kicks a bone out of the way in frustration.]
That's what I mean! Solitude is easier - not to mention safer - but something in me wants that connection. I get attached in ways I don't want to be.
[She watches the other woman impassively, knowing that whatever she feels, it's definitely not that. All that fear, frustration, ambivalence...]
You're making it really complicated.
[It's not meant to be a criticism: it just is.]
Safety doesn't really come into it for me. I'll keep going if it happens. I'll keep going if it doesn't. Having people isn't something I need, but it was... nice.
Sure, I'm not missing much; only a fundamental part of the human experience.
[She says it lightly, and honestly, she means it lightly - she's never been one to brood and dwell, much less about something that she can't change. But it is genuinely how she thinks of it: as something near-universal that she's cut off from, something she'll never experience that most people consider essential.]
[Again, she opens her mouth to speak only to be interrupted by that voice again, asking another question: Do you survive for yourself alone, revelling in the solitude? Or do you hunger for a connection, seeking out others?
And, again, she narrows her eyes in frustration, feeling as if she's being asked a question whose baseline premise doesn't fit her at all.]
I don't survive for only myself or hunger for connection.
[She grumps, still with the vibe of a sullen teenager. And it's not just the spotty memory thing, either. Her personal history fills in more and more as she talks, and while the Swiss-cheese holes are still noticeable, she's quickly approaching the point where there's more that's there than not. Her memories aren't totally contextless anymore: they're starting to have scaffolding.]
I've never known. But I saved people at home, with my team, and I liked doing it.
[But she's saved from having to elaborate, because the next question comes right on the heels of her words, as if the whispery voice is spurring them along. "Do you settle into the silence, and embrace it? Or do you crawl into it whimpering and it crushes you?"
She rolls her eyes, looking over at the other woman. She can take this one first.]
[But she says it with a matter-of-fact casualness - no bravado here. She doesn't make it through via big moves and dramatic gestures, at least not all the time. She just doggedly perseveres, crawling through the muck.]
She doesn't remember much, and what she does remember about loneliness feels particularly theoretical. But theoretical or not, loneliness strikes her as a thorny, difficult problem.
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singillatim
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[Her voice is dull - not quite bitter, but maybe in the neighborhood of it.]
But I still don't know how to answer that question about surviving. I just do.
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[There’s something almost noble about it, even if in the case of wandering around the skeleton woods it is stupid.]
Do you remember their names?
[She barely knows anything else right now, maybe she can remember them too, with this woman.]
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Liam Shaw. Niloufar Hanifnejad. Michael Cole. Joss Carter. John Reese. Harold Finch. Root.
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You loved them and they died.
I guess that's what she's asking you. I was a kid when I lost everything, so I didn't have a lot of choices about what to do with it. What makes you want to keep walking?
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[She says it quietly, but she means it.]
I just do. Like I said, it's automatic.
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[Trying to avoid caring about anything enough for it to matter if she loses it feels like her own strategy.]
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[She licks her lips, and then immediately regrets it as they go frigid.]
I'm not capable of it at all, by some people's definitions. But I can be loyal to other people. Other people can matter to me.
[She exhales a steady breath, finding herself thoroughly unsurprised by this new information about herself. It causes a few more things to make sense in context.]
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[As if in response, the voice comes again: Do you survive for yourself alone, revelling in the solitude? Or do you hunger for a connection, seeking out others?
She makes an irritated sound, almost a growl, and kicks a bone out of the way in frustration.]
That's what I mean! Solitude is easier - not to mention safer - but something in me wants that connection. I get attached in ways I don't want to be.
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You're making it really complicated.
[It's not meant to be a criticism: it just is.]
Safety doesn't really come into it for me. I'll keep going if it happens. I'll keep going if it doesn't. Having people isn't something I need, but it was... nice.
Your way sounds like a headache - no offense.
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I've spent a lot of time wishing that I couldn't feel anything.
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[She says it lightly, and honestly, she means it lightly - she's never been one to brood and dwell, much less about something that she can't change. But it is genuinely how she thinks of it: as something near-universal that she's cut off from, something she'll never experience that most people consider essential.]
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And, again, she narrows her eyes in frustration, feeling as if she's being asked a question whose baseline premise doesn't fit her at all.]
I don't survive for only myself or hunger for connection.
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[She grumps, still with the vibe of a sullen teenager. And it's not just the spotty memory thing, either. Her personal history fills in more and more as she talks, and while the Swiss-cheese holes are still noticeable, she's quickly approaching the point where there's more that's there than not. Her memories aren't totally contextless anymore: they're starting to have scaffolding.]
I've never known. But I saved people at home, with my team, and I liked doing it.
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[There’s something she can't quite remember, about a train and a girl, and wanting to save people, and it does feel like connection to her.]
You said “at home”. You're remembering more?
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[She says, drawing in a ragged breath.]
Some.
[But she's saved from having to elaborate, because the next question comes right on the heels of her words, as if the whispery voice is spurring them along. "Do you settle into the silence, and embrace it? Or do you crawl into it whimpering and it crushes you?"
She rolls her eyes, looking over at the other woman. She can take this one first.]
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Don't ask me. I don't know what that means, either.
I don't let anything crush me, though.
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[But she says it with a matter-of-fact casualness - no bravado here. She doesn't make it through via big moves and dramatic gestures, at least not all the time. She just doggedly perseveres, crawling through the muck.]
So that's, what, 'none of the above'?
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She doesn't remember much, and what she does remember about loneliness feels particularly theoretical. But theoretical or not, loneliness strikes her as a thorny, difficult problem.
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I try not to think too long term. I think I was expecting to be dead by now.
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[And, honestly, dramatic wording aside - this question is easier for her to answer than some of the others.]
I embrace the silence.
[She says it wryly, the wording too flowery for her tastes.]
I'm fine with it. I'm used to it. I like it, a lot of the time.
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