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[open] apples and quinces, lemons and oranges
Who: Ned, open to all
What: Here be species-swap logs involving Ned the unlikely fertility god.
Where: Anywhere (preferably outdoors).
When: Duration of the event (58 - 61); put date in header, please.
Warnings: Blood, kidnapping, creepiness and general Ned-terrorizing? [will add more as necessary]
Ned wanders the town barefoot, leaving a path of fruit and flowers and vegetation behind him. There are daffodils and bluebells, hyacinths and crocuses, irises of all colors, primroses and poppies and periwinkle in profusion. When he stops to sit quietly under a tree, by the edge of the woods, the vines spread out from his body like paint creeping through water. They slowly wind their way up the trees, or else sprawl across the ground, swelling with strawberries and blackberries, grapes and kiwis, passionfuit and cherries.
He doesn't understand why it is happening, but from the sound of the messages over the communicator, everyone has been going through some strange changes. As far as Ned's concerned, being some kind of plant conjurer is better than some options.
Since he can't think of much else to do with his time, Ned lounges in the dappled shade and makes bouquets. All he needs to do is rake his hands through the soil and a few minutes later, up come the snapdragons, up come the cala lilies. He finds that, if he focuses on a particular kind of flower as he does it, sometimes it is mixed amongst the others. As he sits the hydrangeas are bubbling up around him, shielding him from view.
Ned isn't worried about resting in the woods, despite all the dire warnings he's heard in his short time here. He is at the very edge, just in the shade of the first few trees; the lions and tigers and bears can't possibly have any objections. So he lounges in his cozy bower, hazy, half-awake (he hadn't exactly slept well, the previous night), weaving crowns of camellias and garlands of gladiolus.
What: Here be species-swap logs involving Ned the unlikely fertility god.
Where: Anywhere (preferably outdoors).
When: Duration of the event (58 - 61); put date in header, please.
Warnings: Blood, kidnapping, creepiness and general Ned-terrorizing? [will add more as necessary]
Ned wanders the town barefoot, leaving a path of fruit and flowers and vegetation behind him. There are daffodils and bluebells, hyacinths and crocuses, irises of all colors, primroses and poppies and periwinkle in profusion. When he stops to sit quietly under a tree, by the edge of the woods, the vines spread out from his body like paint creeping through water. They slowly wind their way up the trees, or else sprawl across the ground, swelling with strawberries and blackberries, grapes and kiwis, passionfuit and cherries.
He doesn't understand why it is happening, but from the sound of the messages over the communicator, everyone has been going through some strange changes. As far as Ned's concerned, being some kind of plant conjurer is better than some options.
Since he can't think of much else to do with his time, Ned lounges in the dappled shade and makes bouquets. All he needs to do is rake his hands through the soil and a few minutes later, up come the snapdragons, up come the cala lilies. He finds that, if he focuses on a particular kind of flower as he does it, sometimes it is mixed amongst the others. As he sits the hydrangeas are bubbling up around him, shielding him from view.
Ned isn't worried about resting in the woods, despite all the dire warnings he's heard in his short time here. He is at the very edge, just in the shade of the first few trees; the lions and tigers and bears can't possibly have any objections. So he lounges in his cozy bower, hazy, half-awake (he hadn't exactly slept well, the previous night), weaving crowns of camellias and garlands of gladiolus.
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"At the moment, I find it very confusing," Daneel says. "There is so much to process and experience. My Laws are... simply gone. How am I to know what to do? There is nothing obliging me to take any particular course of action."
Is that why he feels so... giddy? Or is that just everything being so new?
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He turns around, walking backward, hands clasped behind his back, so he can look at Daneel as he says, "You know, I think I kinda get what you're going through. Not entirely, obviously, since I was never been a robot. But the whole... suddenly going from having rules about how to behave and then not knowing what to do without them, I get that. The way it's kind of terrifying and also exciting, because you're the one in charge, now, and you get to make the decisions, but that also means you have to make the decisions." Ned shrugs, ends with a simple, "I grew up Catholic."
They've made it to House 20, and Ned says, "Wait here a second, will you?" before ducking inside. He is in and out quickly, before any of his housemates has a chance to notice, emerging a few seconds later with half a pie (still in the tin), two forks, and two cloth napkins. "Where do you want to go to eat it?"
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"It's pleasant here," he says after a moment's deliberation. "I would like to... enjoy being outside." Because being outside is... pleasant, or he thinks so, anyway. Ned's talk of an analogue experience, even one so different, does catch his attention, though the details of what he's alluding to escape him. "Would you be able to tell me about growing up Catholic?"
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"…If you want me to." He doesn't talk about religion, much, but Daneel's going through a lot right now, and if it will help, Ned's more than willing to discuss it, within limits.
"It's a religion," Ned explains, sitting down on the steps of the front porch, putting the pie tin next to him and handing one of the forks to Daneel. "It'd take too long to explain the whole thing, but the important idea is there are a lot of rules saying what you are and aren't supposed to do. If you do the right things, you go to a good place after you die, and if you do the wrong ones, you go somewhere horrible to be burned and tortured for all of eternity." There is a bitterness, a sarcasm in Ned's voice as he describes the concept of Heaven and Hell. He pauses, scoops up a forkful of the pie, chews it thoughtfully before he goes on.
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It is delicious. Sweet, a hint of spice, fruit and flaky pastry. What he's eaten to this point has mostly been individual things, plain things, and they were good. This is a symphony of tastes, in comparison, so many different flavours coming together. No wonder humans put such stock in good chefs.
It's almost an effort to pay attention to Ned's side of the conversation.
"Many religions form a basis for morality rules," he observes, "or at least that has always been my understanding.
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"They do. But the Church isn't the point of the story. The point is, when I was a kid, I bought it. I believed all of it, and I tried to be good. But then I grew up, and... things happened, and after a while... I realized none of it was real." He doesn't know if Daneel has quite enough experience being a human to understand all the emotional complexities of a religious crisis, but he's going to do what he can to make it comprehensible.
"I didn't believe in it. I didn't think there was an all-powerful, all-knowing ancient being in the sky, watching every single thing I did, waiting for me to make a mistake so he'd have an excuse to burn me for the rest of time. And that even if there were a being like that, arranging everything in my life and. Y'know-" Ned hesitates, looking away from Daneel. He slides a stray slice of apple back and forth over the bottom of the pie tin with his fork. It's still so strange, being able to talk to people about things like this. "-Making me the way I am. I thought, if some god were in charge of all that, he must be a sick bastard and I didn't want anything to do with him."
He stabs the stay slice of apple, eats it, still not looking up.
"So after that, I had to come up with my own rules to live by. Make my own choices about what was right and what was wrong."
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Uncomfortable in an entirely different way from his minor experiences with pain, but uncomfortable nontheless. It's the best equivalent.
"I've witnessed robots break down entirely when they were unable to keep the Laws. Friend Giskard suffered that, in the end."
Friend Giskard. That is how one robot addresses another, on Aurora, as friend, admittedly a meaningless term between most robots, but Giskard... Giskard had been more, a true friend in every meaning of the word, and while Daneel has missed him, grieved for him in his own quiet way, he's now struck with a sudden wave of sorrow, human grief. If Daneel is a person, if he should have counted as a person before he ever woke up this morning, then Giskard did too.
Suddenly, tears are in his eyes -- actual tears -- and he doesn't know what to do about it.
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Instead he picks up one of the napkins, holds it out for Daneel to take, murmurs, "I'm sorry to hear that." That's what people say, he knows. He also knows how completely pointless the words are, hates himself a little bit once he's said them. "Is there anything I can do? Do you want to...talk about it, or not talk about it, or talk about something else?"
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"Friend Giskard broke the First Law to save all of humanity and he couldn't be sure he was doing the right thing. He is the one who gave me my mental powers. He saved me, and I saved him."
His relationship with Giskard is complicated, trying to apply human terms to a robotic relationship. Should they be termed friends, or brothers, or something else entirely?
"I am sorry. I should not... I can't..." Overwhelmed again, Daneel screwed up his face, not at all sure what he was supposed to do.
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Ned isn't sure if he will or won't appreciate physical reassurance. In the end, he banks on a tentative yes and, cautiously, rubs a hand back and forth across Daneel's shoulders soothingly. How can he possibly make this any easier for him? Humans get plenty of experience crying as babies. The process is natural to them, comprehensible, even if it gets confusing and complicated along the way for some people. But Daneel has no experience with it, and Ned can only imagine how disorienting it must feel.
"Don't apologize. It's only me here, so if you want to cry... that's okay. It's better than trying to hold it back. You'll just end up feeling worse, for longer." Not that Ned's speaking from experience, or anything.
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With the napkin pressed against his face, he sobs for a few moments, hard, harsh, but oddly silent sobs. Crying is horrible, he's quickly deciding, and as it passes it leaves him with an oddly empty feeling. For now, though, he leans gently into Ned's touch.
"I believe I am... better... now," he says when he can speak. "I did not realise human emotions were so... intense."
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"They're very inconvenient," Ned agrees, voice a little thick. He clears his throat, says in a more steady tone, "It's a wonder we get anything done. Though it's probably worse for you, since you aren't used to them, whereas most of us have years of experience ignoring them, or controlling them, or working around them."
Then he adds, softer, "If it helps, you've just gotten a taste of one of the worst ones." Whatever name they want to call it - loss, sorrow, grief, heartbreak, maybe even regret. It's hard for Ned to say. "They aren't all so bad."
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Losing him had been terrible enough already.
He's becoming far more aware of how fallible and fragile his creators really are, too.
Not knowing what else to do, he goes for another bite of pie, though his appetite seems somehow.... diminished. "I have always made parallels between my own reactions and human emotions, as that is the only way I have to describe them, but I do not lose myself in them like this."
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Realizing how that might sound, Ned back-pedals, "Not that I'm saying everything's easy for you. I didn't even know robots were real, then. I just had days when I wished I couldn't feel things so strongly." And then, because Daneel's trusted him enough to cry in front of him, Ned thinks, he can trust him a little, enough to add, "Losing people is particularly hard."
"Correct me if I'm wrong," he declares after a pause, moving on the conversation, "but from the sound of it, emotions aren't new to you. They can't be. If they were, you couldn't have cared about someone so much that just thinking about him made you cry. It's just a question of intensity, or maybe novelty. You aren't used to the way this body reacts when you feel the same thing you were already feeling. It's all very biological, you know, and it varies from person to person."
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Perhaps he should be using the past tense.
"I could say that human emotions are more... physical. At least, they are physical in a sense that goes beyond the brain. If I was told I must do something I disliked the implications of, I would feel it here," he touches his head, "which might make it difficult for me to walk, or speak. When Partner Elijah died, I could not at first walk at all. This sort of grief is overwhelming. I feel it here, and here." He touches his chest, his stomach, trying to communicate the terrible clenching of his gut, the shortness of his breath, the pain in his chest that comes with hard crying, but not at all sure he knows the right words to describe.
no subject
He also can't help but think that, from the sound of it, Daneel has lost a lot of people. What Daneel says about not being able to walk after Partner Elijah died makes Ned think of when his mother died, how he'd sat there for almost a half hour, unable to budge. He pushes the thought away quickly.
This isn't what he wanted. He didn't want Daneel to have to discover all the complexities of grief and its physical manifestations on the human body. He wanted to talk to him, yes, and to feed him pie, and help him enjoy his time as a human. Ned is half-sure that his motives are selfish, but he doesn't care; all of this is starting to get a little close, for him, and unlike Daneel, he knows when to veer a conversation to avoid the emotional rapids.
"So," Ned says, clapping his hands together, a clear signal that he is transitioning to something new, "Did you have anything else planned for your time as a human? We've done flowers, fruit, pie, and sadness..." he ticks this items off on his fingers. Ned searches in his mind for options. He thinks about suggesting swimming, but he doesn't want to accidentally drown Daneel. He thinks of music, thinks how wonderful it would be if only Galen were available to play his guitar and let Daneel react emotionally to the music, but that's off the table.
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What are the crucial aspects of being human? Mortality, which he has no desire to experience; art and music, which perplex him; growth and procreation, which might be a bit premature; sexuality, which is more acceptable in some cultures than others and is possibly rude to inquire about so casually. He needs a more educated opinion about being human, clearly.
"What would you suggest I try to experience next?"
no subject
So he thinks back to when he hadn't been this way, to when he was a kid, and everything seemed bright and possible and full of joy. Then he smiles a little, at the corner of his mouth. He stands up and nods in the direction of the park.
"I have an idea."
Ned leads the way; once they are in an open, grassy expanse (one that is beginning to acquire a bed of flowers as soon as Ned sets foot on it) Ned stops, taking a few steps away from Daneel so he has plenty of space.
"I know it sounds weird, but being dizzy can be kind of fun. We used to do this when I was a kid, and I figure, if you haven't ever, now's the change to go for it. I'll go first. Show you how it's done."
And with that Ned closes his eyes, flings his arms out and starts spinning in a circle in place, his smile widening into a luminous grin. It isn't very long before he looses his balance and topples over onto his behind, laughing out loud. For Ned, there's a kind of special thrill in losing control of his coordination like this. He's usually so careful in his movements, so deliberate with where he steps and puts his arms. To know he's somewhere safe, somewhere he can keel over without any terrible consequences is thrilling.
"You go," he chuckles, swaying where he sits, putting one hand to his forehead and cracking one eye open so he can watch.
no subject
With a slightly wary glance in Ned's direction, Daneel throws out his arms in imitation and starts spinning -- slowly at first, and then faster as he builds up momentum. The movement is exhilarating in itself, speed and adrenaline, and dizziness is the last thing on his mind.
He stumbles, then, and falls back onto the flowers and grass, and though he's still, the world still seems to be moving around him; were he more fanciful, he might think of the planet revolving beneath him. Daneel lifts a hand into the air, his fingers against the rotating sky, while he gives a weak, breathless laugh. It's disconcerting, but he made this happen, he's safe, and Ned wouldn't mislead him.
"Why does," Daneel tries, faltering, "why does it move?" It's possibly the most poorly-phrased question of his entire existence, but it's the best he can manage just then.
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"I don't know, something about your inner ear not knowing what's going on," Ned explains, trying to stand up too soon, thinking better of it, and laying flat on his back. "But it's weirdly enjoyable, right? That's why people love carnival rides and playground equipment and getting very drunk, well, sometimes they do that for other reasons. But you don't want to do it too much or you'll get sick, and that is something that definitely should not be on your list."
It's nice to just lay on the grass for a little while, with the sun on his face, letting the feeling that the world is pitching and spinning beneath him gradually recede. Without opening his eyes Ned says, "You really should make a list. And ask for other peoples' suggestions. I'm pretty boring you don't want to just ask me."
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He doesn't know how long this will last -- in this place it's hard to anticipate -- or if it will ever end. Knowledge comes from experience, though, and whether this is temporary or permanent, he has a lot to learn.
"I don't believe your suggestions have been boring at all."
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"We should do the ocean next," he says, a reversal of his earlier thoughts. Just what he needs right now. Something bracing; cold water, activity. He'll be careful not to let anything bad happen to Daneel, "Is the water safe? I mean, if we stay in the shallows and we aren't in it for too long?" He'd heard some rumor about toxins, one about a giant squid, but there are ways to avoid those things. Daneel will know; he's been here much longer than Ned.
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Oh, he knows the mechanics, but robots -- even humaniform ones -- don't tend to float too well, but as they can't drown either, it's not usually a major issue. Daneel sits up, still wobbling uncertainly, but improving, and inhaling the scent of lilacs everywhere. "I would like to see the ocean. I... would not want anything to happen to you, so we will be careful." And that's true even without the First Law, so that's... promising.
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See, all these little choices, little questions of preference, making up the average part of a human's day. Ned isn't going to make them for Daneel, though he's more than happy to provide a few ideas along the way, and keep him company and be a sounding board for him.
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"I... I want to put my feet in the water," he says. Daneel's reasons for this are complicated and confusing, a mixture of curiosity and a desire to experience everything.
The matter of mutual protection is interesting; if there are Laws of Humanics that govern human behaviour, as he and Giskard had discussed on occasion, perhaps that factors in.
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