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[He wasn’t expecting it to be a pleasant story. Scarring like that doesn’t hint towards anything pleasant at all, even if Arenvald hadn’t already told him that it was representative of bad associations. He knows organic bodies well enough to understand the degree of an injury, being the sort of android that he is. Connor can see, through empirical observation, that whatever caused such scarring was not a middling thing.

But he can’t garner a full story from only observation. And so he’ll listen, his face falling into something a little more serious than before, and he nods.]

Yes. I do remember you telling me that.

My mother was Ala Mhigan, but my father… he was Garlean. A soldier. You can probably guess what I mean when I say my mother did not exactly welcome my arrival.

[ A beat, as he lets that sink in. The circumstances of his birth may never stop being an uncomfortable subject. ]

My very existence seemed to cause my mother anguish, I could see it in her eyes when she looked at me that I was naught more than a reminder of the worst moment of her life. She wasn’t kind to me by any means, and one day she…

[ Another pause, but only because he realizes there is some context here that Connor is missing. Once again, he has to relay a tale knowing that the finer details are all but alien to his friend, but this is the first time it’s been something so deeply personal. ]

Ah, I should explain. Pureblood Garleans have a third eye, set in the center of their forehead. It’s not quite an actual eyeball, and rather looks a bit like a pearl set in the skin. In any case, my mother became convinced that I had the start of one coming in. She took up a knife, and… [ He makes a vague hand motion at the angry scars slashed across his forehead, dripping onto his face, as if to say, “you know.” ]

She cast me out not long after that. I was just a boy at the time, a half-Garlean mongrel, left to fend for myself on the streets.

[There are a multitude of things to say to that. Programmed responses that come fluttering up in his mind, line by line, to choose from dependent upon mood, circumstance, and preferred reaction. All of it already queued up before Arenvald even finishes his last statement, habit that he’s not sure will ever dissolve; ingrained in him, these empirical notions. The analytical negotiator, made to look and sound approachable, and to always say the right thing — no matter how uncomfortable the subject might be.

And yet Connor makes the willful decision to discard all of that. What Arenvald tells him is deeply personal, those scars on his forehead now possessing a weightier meaning than he could’ve guessed at. A terrible moment couched in another terrible moment. He can’t hope to imagine what it must’ve been like for him. Fear, pain, the trauma of memory to be etched in skin.

Strange, how when he wants to reply with something not wrought from subroutines, words seem less ready to leap from his lips. That other core of himself is perpetually less suited for this, maybe, but Arenvald deserves only a sincere response.]

I’m… sorry. I can’t imagine how awful that must’ve been for you. And I understand now why you’d rather cover your scars rather than let them show.

[It was more than just vanity. It was a very raw, personal part of himself, Connor thinks; why allow strangers to look upon it as if it were nothing?]

Does it make you… uncomfortable? That I’ve seen them?

[ Many of the Scions know that he's half-Garlean. He'd even go so far as to call that part common knowledge, but this? Only very few people know the story behind the strokes of paint that cover his face, and fewer still have seen the scars.

In fact, Connor is the only one to have seen him without his warpaint. Even before Connor asks, he knows the answer. He knows that he's strangely okay with this, the initial embarrassment aside. ]

Uncomfortable? No. I... I trust you with this, Connor. I decided I would trust you with it when you asked back on Struxta.

[There's something... satisfying, knowing that Connor holds that much of Arenvald's trust. (Maybe satisfying isn't quite the right word for it, not strong enough, but he doesn't wish to strain his mind to find the right label for it right now.)]

Thank you. I'm glad that you trust me enough to tell me something which probably isn't easy for you to talk about.

[They've both had their turns at it, haven't they?

He pauses, pursing his lips together, before venturing further.]

It must've been difficult, after that. Fending for yourself, by yourself?

[ Of all the people who could have barged in on him, he’s glad it’s Connor. Connor has a quiet sort of understanding, even with his penchant for directness. He appreciates the chance to have this moment, sat down as friends instead of the somewhat hurried explanation he gave to Alphinaud and the Warrior of Light to better explain his desire to seek out the Mad King’s trove.

This is different. It is grim and heavy to be sure, but there is a measure of comfort here as well. ]

No, it was… quite difficult. The best thing I can say about those years was that I survived, but I’m not proud of the things I did to get there, begging and stealing and worse with naught to my name but a dagger and whatever scraps I could lay my hands on.

Then one day something clicked into place. I looked in the mirror and realized I hated the animal I’d become. I fell in with the first group of refugees I could, bound for the border and out of Ala Mhigo. Once we crossed out of Garlean territory, I took up life as an adventurer. I earned an honest living as best I could and ‘twas only some time after that my Echo began to awaken and guided me to the Scions’ door.

[It’s hard to imagine Arenvald — the kind and friendly person that Connor knows him to be — to have once been desperate enough to steal and worse. But he knows just as much that survival is an impossibly strong motivator; instinct ingrained in organic beings, that will to live overriding almost everything else, rendering paths steeped in morality far more difficult to tread.

He’s seen it in deviants too. That stubborn desire to cling to what they thought was life, the way they looked at him, with that vicious, last-gasp defiance they all shared.

Connor swallows thickly, though he has no need to. He’s glad, at least, that his friend was able to pull himself out of that dark period of his life.]

You’re a very strong individual, Arenvald. Most would let experiences like that change their personality and perception of life into something bleak. Something that followed them constantly. But it appears as if the opposite applies, in your case.

[ That is a very flattering assessment, and though it’s not the first time he’s heard such a remark, it still makes him a bit embarrassed. He doesn’t think he did much special, but he’s seen just what can happen when things go the opposite. He sees it in Fordola, a girl his own age, a pureblood Ala Mhigan who threw in with the Empire out of some bitter sort of hatred towards her countrymen and determination to prove that she was good enough in the eyes of their invaders. It eats at her, that anger. By the grace of whatever gods that cared to cast their mercy upon a poor half-breed like him, he was spared that darkness. ]

Someone very important to me once said that I am free to write my own story. I try to live by that as best I can.

[ His eyes flick over, catching Connor’s gaze. ]

There should have been no future for someone like me, some wretched, starving half-breed with a scar on his face and no food in his belly. But somehow… I moved beyond that. I became more than what I was made to be, and I can only hope that I do better every day.

[He meets Arenvald’s gaze, and — I became more than what I was made to be — holds it, for a lingering second. He feels it again, then; that doubt, wheedling uncertainty, that has absolutely nothing to do with the tale he’s just been told. Simply the application of that idea, of becoming something other than what circumstances wrought you to be, runs a strange parallel in his mind that he has no desire to actually bring forth into the conversation.

Connor glances to the side briefly, sets his jaw. But nods, because despite whatever flickers within the ring of his LED, he is truly glad to hear it for his friend.]

I’m sure that you will. [He looks at Arenvald again.] All of us have been doing good since our arrival here. Helping foreign worlds and the people on them. Whatever circumstances that may come to define you in the future, it can only be a positive result.

[ That was somewhat intentional on his part, that statement. He had offered it to Connor as a suggestion in the midst of the Storm, after his friend has said in a small and terrified voice that he was afraid to die.

What if you are simply meant to be more than your program?

It is something he still believes of his friend, that despite his origins in some factory and the fact that is is electricity thrumming beneath his skin instead of a pulse, he is still a person. Connor, too, is free to write his own story. ]

I certainly hope so. I still don't really agree with Astoria more or less conscripting us, but I do feel good about what we've accomplished.

[Arenvald might believe it in an unwavering way, but to Connor, the idea is a bit like foundation shaking under his feet. And he does all he can to step over the fault lines, the cracks snaking across, so that he doesn't stumble and drown in the unknown in-between.

If he knows there's a point that his friend is trying to gently make, read via implication and memory of a conversation they've had once before, Connor willfully does not mention it or bring it to light.

If nothing else, his stubborn streak is indelible.]

It's hard to complain about a successful mission, even if none of us are here on our own accord. I hope it's the beginning of a trend.

So do I.

[ It feels good to succeed, regardless of why or how they're here. ]

By the way, let me know if there's anything I can do to help you out. With Hank, I mean, but in general, too.

I appreciate it. And the same applies to you, from me.

[He does have one final curiosity, though.]

Did you speak with Hank for very long?

Not overlong, I suppose.

[ He frowns, unsure if he wants to explain to Connor that Hank somehow got an express ticket onto his bad side. Surely he doesn't need to worry about that on top of everything else. ]

His dog ran off, so I helped him find it. After that we chatted a bit and I tried my level best to explain what was going on, but he wasn't really having it. We split up not long after that.

[But as always, and perhaps not surprisingly, Connor thrives off of details. Especially when it comes to his friends.]

What did you think of him?

[And in a very Connor-like fashion, he asks bluntly.]

[ Connor sure likes to cut right to the quick, doesn't he? ]

Well, I uh... I suppose he didn't strike me as someone I'd want to spend a lot of time with.

[ That's putting it nicely, right? ]

[He does, when he sees no reason not to.

But just as efficiently, he reads between the lines of Arenvald’s reply, noting the minute hesitation between words, the carefully crafted response that acts as a coating around a harsher truth.

It isn’t surprising.]

I’m sorry it wasn’t a better first impression. He was like that the day I met him, too. Quick to push those who disagree with him away, quicker to judge when he’s already made up his mind about someone.

But... he’s a good man, Arenvald. Despite whatever he might have said to you.

[ All at once he feels bad for letting Hank get under his skin like he had. He doesn't believe Connor to be the type to make that assessment lightly, especially given his proclivity for blunt-force honesty. ]

You know I trust you, so if you say he's a good man, I'll believe it.

Can't imagine he much likes me considering the way I sort of left in the middle of our conversation, though.

[Not that Connor expects to change Arenvald's mind with a single declaration, for he knows that these kind of impressions are the ones that linger the longest. He only hopes with time, the next few meetings won't be so unflattering.]

Was it that bad? Getting under your skin really takes some effort.

Well, I'm glad you think so highly of my temperament.

[ Said with a laugh, as he rubs the back of his neck. True, he's probably more even-keeled than a lot of people he knows, but he's not infallible. ]

It... ah, it was starting to needle at me, the things he was saying. I thought it best to leave before I made it worse.

[Despite everything, the next question should hardly be that surprising, even after directly appraising his friend’s demeanor. ]

What did he say to you, specifically?

[ He had a small sliver of hope that they might avoid the particulars, but Connor quickly proves him wrong, as bluntly as ever. ]

When he asked me not to tell you he was here, I told him he ought to give you more of a chance, especially since up until now you've been the only one here from your world.

He didn't much appreciate that, and accused me of trying to guilt him into doing something he didn't want to do. I left after that.

[His features tighten a small amount, Connor seeming to hang off of every word of this explanation. But to his credit, he doesn't look as hurt as one might expect; blame it mostly on the fact that still none of this comes as a true surprise. It fits what he knows about Hank, even if none of it is preferable to hear.]

I see. Thank you for clarifying.

[His LED spins once, twice.]

The transition to another world is jarring to most people. And I don't think Hank is the sort of man who processes sudden change very well, much less hearing suggestions that he wasn't ready to entertain.

[It sounds like Connor is making a lot of excuses for the man. Maybe he is. He backtracks a little, but doesn't correct himself.]

But I appreciate you trying to convince him, anyway. And that you became irritated on my account.

[ He does pick up on that, the excuses, but Arenvald reads it more as someone who just really wants their friends to get along, despite a rocky start. Honestly, he’d be the world’s biggest hypocrite if he didn’t give Hank a fair shake after insisting he do the same for Connor. He’ll do his best. ]

By your reckoning, how long did you two know each other before you came here?

[He knows exactly how long, down to the very hour-]

Four days.

[-not that it’s very hard to count.

It’s quality, not quantity, that matters.]

Edited 2018-09-06 20:39 (UTC)

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