nexus_sages | Values

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Values

The desk is back in the Nexus again. And the owner of it is once more behind it, hands folded primly in front of him. Set off to the side is a fountain pen and a pad of paper. The banker's light and the metronome rest on the desk as well, though both are turned off. The snow is cleared in a neat three foot circumference around his seat, and though he's in just a dress shirt and sweater vest, the cold doesn't seem to bother the doctor one bit.

"I wonder," Dr. Hill begins in his usual northern European accent, "What do you, as a person, value more? Honesty? Or loyalty?"

A simple question, really.

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"And that notion doesn't give way to despair? That you cannot be the pilot of your own destiny? Not even here, in a place like the Nexus? It affords you a great deal of freedom, after all."

Despair? She shakes her head before he's even finished speaking, rejecting that out of hand. "No time to brood. I've seen people overthink- uh. This kind of thing. It's a bad way to go. Waste of time. We've got a war to fight. Even coming here is part of it."

The war is everything, as the War Cult likes to say.

"And when the war is over...?"

He lets that hang in the air, letting Blaze be the one to conclude the thought.

"Hah, assuming I'm still around by then.” It’s sort of a morbid way of thinking, but somehow easier than contemplating the alternative. Blaze shrugs.

“Guess I’ll have to wait around for another fight worth my time. People always need protecting from something.”

"Is the war just that pervasive, or are you just that unsure about your survival? You seem quite sturdy to me! And how convinced are you that your conviction towards protection is your own, rather than something installed by your creator?"

"Even Guardians meet their last death in the end. The question's never whether you'll die, it's how well you're going to do it. But I'm doing pretty well! My commander says a lot of novices don't make it this long." Some people still look surprised that she has.

She doesn't have much of an answer for his last question: she rubs at one antenna and shrugs again. "I don't know what they did. Not like they signed their names to it. Not even sure what difference it'd make - they programmed us, all the core stuff is probably down to them. Does that mean it's not ours?"

"You seem remarkably uncaring about what could be your thoughts and what could not. You feel no revulsion, no resentment, at the idea your choices were never yours to make? Or is the idea of being aimless and without purpose a worse fate?"

Uncaring definitely seems to be what she's going for, but the cheery dismissal is quickly turning into a very determined indifference.

"There's no point," she insists fiercely. "Seems like every Exo I meet is obsessed with figuring out our past: where we came from, why we got wiped. As if they think it's going to make anything better." She's shaking her head, not looking at the doctor any more. The light of her optics is narrow and bright.

"But it's not going to happen. Our creators are dead and dust. I don't even recognize their faces and they're already- hnh. My point is, there's no use in getting angry at shadows. No use in spending every waking moment trying to figure out what you're thinking when. Not when there's work to be done."

"That's a very pragmatic way to look at things! That's what I like about you, Blaze. You are very fierce, very straight-forward! Eager to fix things, eager to tackle matters head-on. Except for fixing the glaring hole in your history, of course. You could very well have the means of deciphering what is programming and what is free will, but why bother when there are wars to wage?"

The last part is said with a reasonable hint of sarcasm.

Her gaze locks onto him at that: she's giving him a hard look, unsure of what he's implying. Bristling visibly at the possibility she's being somehow... neglectful? Cowardly?

"If we run across a cache of Golden Age files about it, I'll give them to the cryptarchs and the Warlocks and whoever else thinks they want to know. Whoever thinks it'll make them whole. But that's not likely to happen. And until then I don't have the means to decipher anything. Besides, what does it matter, when what I want and what I was built for are in alignment anyway?"

Not... not that she's really checked. Either of those last things.

"But that's the issue, isn't it. The catch 22. Do you want to do it by your own will? Or do you want to do it because that's all you were made for? That's quite the stumper! Something that'd keep the more introspective up at night, certainly.

"But by all means, just keep your head down. Keep being the good soldier. That's easier, isn't it?"

"I don't have to." Her fingers are clenching and one hand drops to the mark trailing from her hip, as if to remind herself the cloth is there. It's about the only solid thing with no counterpart in a previous life. "If the cause wasn't worthy, I wouldn't serve it. I'd- well, I'd fight it."

...Battle is simpler. The point where everything falls into place, whatever its source. Programming, desire, orders, memory- everything converges cleanly. Feels just right. But that doesn't mean she's a mindless kind of weapon. Doesn't mean her motivations belong to anyone but her. She's not fighting this war just because it's the one she found when she woke up.

She's sure of that.

She wonders if such impressions can be programmed. If they'd even need to be. Clever people, those ancients of the Golden Age...

He sighs and leans back in his chair again, threading his fingers together. "I suppose this will always be the unique anxiety of being created by another, isn't it. I don't mean by methods of birth, but actually crafted.

"Food for thought, I suppose? Something to take with you next time you go and get your orders, hm?"

"I keep telling you, sitting and wondering isn't going to give me any answers." Difficult to sway, indeed. "What do you know about being created anyway, doctor?"

A title she hasn't even questioned: he sounds like a doctor and he didn't correct her - good enough, right?

Dr. Hill smiles.

Chuckles.

Then laughs.

"Ahahahah! Oh, what do I know! What do I know indeed!"

She folds her arms, gives him a very hard stare. "...Going to share the joke?"

Because that's rude. Also, unfair.

He settles down, tapering into fitful giggles behind a fist, waving off her question.

"Oh no, no. Nothing, it's nothing. I'm just very, very empathetic, of course! And it's my job to consider the hard questions of the psyche."

"Riight." It's not drawn out in sarcasm: that's the sound of suspicion that something's not right. She just can't quite find grounds worth challenging him on. "Pretty sure this is one area where training won't help you. But good luck with the rest."

"Oh certainly! One of the reasons I field these questions in the Nexus. Just honing the craft, as it were. Getting a feel for the workings of this place. And you've been very helpful in that respect. Thank you, Blaze."

"Uh-huh. Then I guess you're welcome... what's your name, doctor?"

"Dr. Hill. Dr. Alan Hill. Psychoanalyst and therapist." He stands and offers a business card! Not that he pulled it from a pocket or even had it in his hand before this. It simply is.

"I have a practice set up here in the Commercial District, should you ever wish to chat further."

She cocks her head - she definitely didn't miss that. She takes the card apparently just to inspect curiously. "Nice trick. Doubt I'll be paying you any calls, but... maybe we'll see you around."

That 'we' is explained, of course, as she turns to go, absently passing off the card to the little Ghost who peeps out from behind her at Dr. Hill for just a moment, then vanishes with the card.

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