[At least V finds the patterned design on the umbrella itself novel, if a little cliche. He especially likes the little trail of black cats, with the tails in the air, weaving in-between the skulls and witch hats.
Prompto seems to have a liking for it, at any rate, if how closely he keeps it to his body is of any indication. V doesn’t seem to care; he has no need for a broken umbrella.]
It was.
[Again, eyes sweep across Prompto, as if trying to judge just how interested he really might be.]
But, to be fair, I'm not from Earth, either. I'm from a place called Eos, which is totally a planet kinda like this one, except we got different kinds of plants and animals and — lore.
[he nods, feeling wicked cool at using that word.]
We did poetry back in school and there's some names I could remember off the top of my head, like... Siggurd Grandi and Oric Cantor.
[—V repeats, as if testing the name on his tongue might give him an idea of what his world is like.]
I’ve never heard of them, but that’s not so surprising. Do you think you could recite a few lines from their poems… [Tips his cane over to lean on his other leg, then balancing it accordingly. His brow is furrowing, like he’s trying to recall something that’s slipped away.]
And I wouldn't be able to remember anything about the poems for the life of me. It was like... five years ago? And I haven't really thought about it since . I'll try and remember, but I'm more into visual stuff.
[rubbing his nose, he adjusts his seating, too.]
Is your name literally just V? Is William Blake a super popular guy where you're from?
[Prompto Argentum. And he’s asking him about dubious naming conventions.]
That’s right. Prompto. How could I forget? Are you a man of readiness like your name implies?
[He almost asks "what kind of visual stuff"; he assumes the equivalent of television is his meaning, but they can loop back to that later.]
And V is what I go by. It’s as good as anything else I could’ve picked for myself. [He knows that doesn’t answer the question, but he continues as if it doesn’t matter, or won’t go into detail. Both are likely true.] William Blake’s been dead for more than a hundred years, but he was a very influential poet and painter in my world — or at least, in the western world.
[And yet V, despite this comment, doesn’t seem to be too bothered to answer them. He shifts in his seat a little, leaning forward.]
Your name is Latin, Mr. Silver. [lol] And I’m a fan because I enjoy the imagery, the simplicity of construction that still lends itself to a sense of… well, mysticism, you could say. Even though he was a religious man — or maybe because he was, there’s an otherworldly and ephemeral quality to many of his poems.
What I recited to you what a portion of Infant Joy. It’s only two stanzas long.
It's Lucian. [lol] —but you're saying it means something in a language from Earth? What's 'silver,' Prompto or Argentum? Also, don't call me that again. [wtf]
[but despite his mid-rant, prompto actively listened to what v had to say about the poet and the poems. he actually takes a moment to take in the words, putting one hand on his chin as if in consideration, foot jogging not quite in impatience, but rather energetic curiosity.]
‘Argentum’. Therefore, Mr. Silver. [Wow that’s rude he thought it was clever, okay.
But fine, he won’t make another pass at the name, not when he’s been requested to recite something a second time. And so V continues to lean forward, this time placing a hand on the hilt of his cane and balancing it there, fingers curling gently.
He starts from the beginning, since he had left out a line initially.]
‘I have no name I am but two days old.’
[(What he had told Dante that day he visited him as a new client, a proffered introduction rooted in irony.)]
‘What shall I call thee? I happy am Joy is my name, Sweet joy befall thee!’
[he said not to call him that again, v you fucking weasel—]
[he lets it go in lieu of the other seeming to get into position to deliver the requested stanza. and although he listens to it again, it makes very little sense to prompto. it's straightforward, in a way, but it does hold some mystery to it (or questions, rather) that he feels are left unanswered. who is the one speaking in the poem? are there two individuals, or one? are they individuals at all?]
[as these questions pile on him, his brow furrows and his usual anxious fidgeting is gone. clearly, he's trying to concentrate.]
I think I get what you mean. The... mysticism stuff. [lmao, HE THINKS] What's the second stanza like?
[it looks like prompto is about to say something towards the end of the poem, but all that comes from him is a slightly-opened mouth, ready to breathe out words that never come.]
[yeah, he's got nothing on this fucking poem.]
This is just like in school. I'm not good at abstract stuff.
[maths and poems and the like. give him an actual hands-on project and analyzing purely the superficial, and he's pretty much set to succeed. anything else goes past him like it holds no weight.]
It has a nice rhythm to it! You obviously like the stuff a lot.
[leaning back on the chair, the umbrella falls back on the floor and prompto startles—having forgotten it, and decides to leave it where it is, instead, keeping arms crossed.]
[back to v now.] Must have taken you a while to learn it.
It's straightforward enough, Prompto. [It isn't so much criticism, not really. V isn't so arrogant that he would deride someone who shows a sincere interest in a recited poem. Instead, he eases into explanation.] The meaning is in the title, "Infant Joy". The joy of a new life coming into being, and how the outside world might also impress joy upon it.
[There's a subtle sort of enthusiasm that V exudes when he speaks about poetry, hard to pin down. The way his mouth upticks into a different kind of smile, or a different kind of light behind his eyes. Yet V is still all casual demeanor when he leans back in his chair again, though his hand still grips idly at his cane.]
I told you I've been a fan for a while. When I was... younger, I used to read often. Especially poetry.
[It's technically true, at least, if one stretches the truth just a little. But Prompto doesn't have to know that.]
[he's definitely the type of person who, despite being so earnest, doesn't get to see it clearly until someone else spells it out for him. at least he's smart in other subjects.]
Hate to break it to you, but there aren't any books here. There's, uh, [looking through his pocket, he finds some pins—QR codes etched over the cheap metal.] an online archive. [he's reaching over so he can give v the pins] Don't know if it works on your implant yet, but if you take a picture of those codes and scan them, you get like — a 10-day free access to online books you'd have to buy otherwise.
[This far into the future, long past the threshold of stepping into a digital age, the fact that there are no physical books to be found isn't surprising to V. During his time at the station, he noticed a dearth of paperwork passing hands (even if he was not in a position to be dealing with paperwork, he was certain he would've spotted at least one stray document in passing), and there was none to be seen in the safehouse, either.
It was an inevitability even in his own time. But to be living it, with the wide scope of the internet basically existing in his head now, is almost surreal.
It threatens to make him frown; that is, until Prompto fishes out some messily etched pins from his pocket, and V nearly tilts his head, holding out his free hand in a bid to look at a one or two of them.
(What a person eager to help, he thinks. Overly friendly, even to a stranger who had caused more trouble than good.)]
Let me take a look, then?
[He can try to access wherever the QR code leads him, if it'll work with no registered ID. He needs to practice using this invasive thing in his head.]
Not that it'll ever replace the feel of a book in my hands. What a dreary future this is.
[he easily relinquishes them into the ownership of the other.]
If I find more I'll make sure to drop them off with you. They're not that difficult to come by. And, well, the future's not so bad. It's missing a few things, but I'm really into all this tech stuff.
[that being said,] You're still learning to use the implant, right? It'll become second nature soon enough, but lemme know if you have any questions.
[It takes a second or two before he opens up the interface to scan the QR code lying flat in his palm. His implant processes it nigh immediately, but then flickers with an error: ID not found. Please try again.
It’s the same result when he tries the one that lies next to it. Apparently a subscription service, free or otherwise, still requires an account to tie it to — and in consequence, a working ID.
He shakes his head, offering them back.]
Thus far, not being in the system seems to cause more problems than not. But I think once I’m assigned a name, I’ll adapt. And be able to browse an online library more freely.
[He’s always been clever, quick to learn. The tech is advanced, but the user interfaces shouldn’t be too hard to unravel in time.]
[he's crossing his arms, so enjoy keeping shit in your pockets.]
[prompto even raises an eyebrow at the other.]
Yeah, you'll have to come up with a name other than just V. There's a minimum character requirement and all. [a shrug] You'll have a library for years, so at least that's something to look forward to if you're into reading.
As for me, that's three months already. Time feels like it's dragging here.
[V lifts a brow, because he sees it as just that — keeping useless junk in his pockets until his ID is activated, and he assumes that’ll be a few days yet before that happens.
But he relents, curling his fingers inwards to keep the tidbits close, then shifting a little to place them in a pants pocket.]
I’ll think of something clever. [With regards to his name. You know. “Vee” is probably clever, right.] Three months is a long time. Far longer than I feel comfortable staying in this world.
[He had heard tell that time might not move similarly here as compared to home, but without any certainty to this theory, he can’t quite feel at peace with the idea. Obligations hang over his head, the same ones which led him to strike a deal with Riko in the station.]
[can't wait to see what clever shit you come up with, it better be good.]
That's right. You mentioned how you — had to get back.
[everyone has to get back to their own worlds, continue on with whatever it is they were doing; it all mostly falls under the realm of urgent or exceedingly important. prompto understands, having been plucked away halfway through something that had yet to reach a conclusion.]
[not to mention the prophecy ardyn had mentioned...]
Some people have left. Dunno how, they just disappear from one day to the next. We don't know if they actually return to their homes, but... Hopefully you'll get lucky.
I do have to get back. Despite the amount of time I can feasible stay here now, I left something behind unfinished. Incomplete. [A vague statement, but nonetheless true. Somehow, by some impossible means, V's body has halted its degradation, no longer feeling as if it's crawling towards an inevitably slow dissolve. But that didn’t mean that he should enjoy it — it was but a constant reminder of how he had been torn from his own reality and transplanted into this one.]
How close have we come to figuring out why we’ve been brought to this place?
[this is the part where prompto shifts uncomfortably in his chair and looks apologetic, fidgeting away with his hair and pushing back at blond spikes behind his head.]
I don't think we've made a lot of progress in that front. There's a lot that we don't know about yet, and there's a lot of variables, so...
Doesn't help that many of us don't even come from the same planet or universe. Or that the people who come from Earth aren't even from this Earth, or the same Earth as others. A lot doesn't line up.
[ultimately, he shrugs]
Some others are a bit more well-versed in this than I am. Maybe they'll be able to give you a better answer than what I can say for sure.
[Suddenly he’s glad for the deal he made with the detective — if they’re this clueless as a group, even with a cavalcade of personalities and skills originating from various worlds, then they will need all the resources that they can squeeze dry.
Police included.
But that’s a thought for later, he assumes, with nothing to be done about it now. Let it be one more passive stressor in a whole list of them.]
My priority will be adjusting to what this world has to offer, after all. As I understand it, making a temporary life here is unavoidable.
[back to arms crossed in front of him, prompto hums in thought.]
Once you're out of the safehouse you've got to fend for yourself. Get a job, or just find something to do to blend in and appear like a normal citizen of New Amsterdam. Some people get apartments and others have stayed in the safehouse instead, it's all up to personal preference.
It's not hard to get on by, though. Morningstar helps with the initial hurdle a lot.
[glancing up at v, he considers the man for a moment.]
When setting up your ID, El asks about your interests to try and help you land a job so you can go about it as you like. Maybe that's something you could think about in the meantime.
[A job. How utterly mundane and very much human; he supposes it would be fitting for him to try to fill that role now, given both this body and his new circumstances. But for all of his memories, his years of existence if taking that other self of his into account, V has a feeling he'll still be a bit at a disadvantage.
Never has he really lived as a "normal" human before. He knows the irony in that, but keeps these thoughts to himself.]
It's difficult to imagine how my interests might apply to a job in this sci-fi future. [Because it really does seem like they're living in the pages of a sci-fi narrative, something dystopian and raw.] Manual labor isn't much my forte. Is there much of a call for the arts still, in this day and age?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Prompto seems to have a liking for it, at any rate, if how closely he keeps it to his body is of any indication. V doesn’t seem to care; he has no need for a broken umbrella.]
It was.
[Again, eyes sweep across Prompto, as if trying to judge just how interested he really might be.]
William Blake. Are you familiar with him?
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But, to be fair, I'm not from Earth, either. I'm from a place called Eos, which is totally a planet kinda like this one, except we got different kinds of plants and animals and — lore.
[he nods, feeling wicked cool at using that word.]
We did poetry back in school and there's some names I could remember off the top of my head, like... Siggurd Grandi and Oric Cantor.
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[—V repeats, as if testing the name on his tongue might give him an idea of what his world is like.]
I’ve never heard of them, but that’s not so surprising. Do you think you could recite a few lines from their poems… [Tips his cane over to lean on his other leg, then balancing it accordingly. His brow is furrowing, like he’s trying to recall something that’s slipped away.]
…What was your name again?
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[he says, sniffling. it's been chilly outside.]
And I wouldn't be able to remember anything about the poems for the life of me. It was like... five years ago? And I haven't really thought about it since . I'll try and remember, but I'm more into visual stuff.
[rubbing his nose, he adjusts his seating, too.]
Is your name literally just V? Is William Blake a super popular guy where you're from?
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That’s right. Prompto. How could I forget? Are you a man of readiness like your name implies?
[He almost asks "what kind of visual stuff"; he assumes the equivalent of television is his meaning, but they can loop back to that later.]
And V is what I go by. It’s as good as anything else I could’ve picked for myself. [He knows that doesn’t answer the question, but he continues as if it doesn’t matter, or won’t go into detail. Both are likely true.] William Blake’s been dead for more than a hundred years, but he was a very influential poet and painter in my world — or at least, in the western world.
I’ve been a fan for quite a while.
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The what? It's just a name.
[lol at latin existing but not existing.]
[although he supposes that v could go by whatever name he would like to go by, since here everyone can pick at what new identity they want.]
Why are you a fan? [just questions upon questions] That what you said before, that's a poem of his, right?
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[And yet V, despite this comment, doesn’t seem to be too bothered to answer them. He shifts in his seat a little, leaning forward.]
Your name is Latin, Mr. Silver. [lol] And I’m a fan because I enjoy the imagery, the simplicity of construction that still lends itself to a sense of… well, mysticism, you could say. Even though he was a religious man — or maybe because he was, there’s an otherworldly and ephemeral quality to many of his poems.
What I recited to you what a portion of Infant Joy. It’s only two stanzas long.
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[but despite his mid-rant, prompto actively listened to what v had to say about the poet and the poems. he actually takes a moment to take in the words, putting one hand on his chin as if in consideration, foot jogging not quite in impatience, but rather energetic curiosity.]
...could you say it again? The stanza.
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But fine, he won’t make another pass at the name, not when he’s been requested to recite something a second time. And so V continues to lean forward, this time placing a hand on the hilt of his cane and balancing it there, fingers curling gently.
He starts from the beginning, since he had left out a line initially.]
‘I have no name
I am but two days old.’
[(What he had told Dante that day he visited him as a new client, a proffered introduction rooted in irony.)]
‘What shall I call thee?
I happy am
Joy is my name,
Sweet joy befall thee!’
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[he lets it go in lieu of the other seeming to get into position to deliver the requested stanza. and although he listens to it again, it makes very little sense to prompto. it's straightforward, in a way, but it does hold some mystery to it (or questions, rather) that he feels are left unanswered. who is the one speaking in the poem? are there two individuals, or one? are they individuals at all?]
[as these questions pile on him, his brow furrows and his usual anxious fidgeting is gone. clearly, he's trying to concentrate.]
I think I get what you mean. The... mysticism stuff. [lmao, HE THINKS] What's the second stanza like?
[without preamble,]
You have a nice voice, by the way.
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But for now, the rest is as easily quoted as the first half.]
‘Pretty joy!
Sweet joy but two days old,
Sweet joy I call thee;
Thou dost smile.
I sing the while
Sweet joy befall thee.’
[The last line stressed and slowed, indicating its end. Only then does Prompto get any kind of thanks for the wayward compliment.]
…I appreciate the compliment.
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[yeah, he's got nothing on this fucking poem.]
This is just like in school. I'm not good at abstract stuff.
[maths and poems and the like. give him an actual hands-on project and analyzing purely the superficial, and he's pretty much set to succeed. anything else goes past him like it holds no weight.]
It has a nice rhythm to it! You obviously like the stuff a lot.
[leaning back on the chair, the umbrella falls back on the floor and prompto startles—having forgotten it, and decides to leave it where it is, instead, keeping arms crossed.]
[back to v now.] Must have taken you a while to learn it.
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[There's a subtle sort of enthusiasm that V exudes when he speaks about poetry, hard to pin down. The way his mouth upticks into a different kind of smile, or a different kind of light behind his eyes. Yet V is still all casual demeanor when he leans back in his chair again, though his hand still grips idly at his cane.]
I told you I've been a fan for a while. When I was... younger, I used to read often. Especially poetry.
[It's technically true, at least, if one stretches the truth just a little. But Prompto doesn't have to know that.]
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[his expression perks up just like that.]
That makes a lot of sense now!
[he's definitely the type of person who, despite being so earnest, doesn't get to see it clearly until someone else spells it out for him. at least he's smart in other subjects.]
Hate to break it to you, but there aren't any books here. There's, uh, [looking through his pocket, he finds some pins—QR codes etched over the cheap metal.] an online archive. [he's reaching over so he can give v the pins] Don't know if it works on your implant yet, but if you take a picture of those codes and scan them, you get like — a 10-day free access to online books you'd have to buy otherwise.
[he's resourceful like that]
Maybe there's some poetry in there.
[here's a friendly smile]
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It was an inevitability even in his own time. But to be living it, with the wide scope of the internet basically existing in his head now, is almost surreal.
It threatens to make him frown; that is, until Prompto fishes out some messily etched pins from his pocket, and V nearly tilts his head, holding out his free hand in a bid to look at a one or two of them.
(What a person eager to help, he thinks. Overly friendly, even to a stranger who had caused more trouble than good.)]
Let me take a look, then?
[He can try to access wherever the QR code leads him, if it'll work with no registered ID. He needs to practice using this invasive thing in his head.]
Not that it'll ever replace the feel of a book in my hands. What a dreary future this is.
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[he easily relinquishes them into the ownership of the other.]
If I find more I'll make sure to drop them off with you. They're not that difficult to come by. And, well, the future's not so bad. It's missing a few things, but I'm really into all this tech stuff.
[that being said,] You're still learning to use the implant, right? It'll become second nature soon enough, but lemme know if you have any questions.
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It’s the same result when he tries the one that lies next to it. Apparently a subscription service, free or otherwise, still requires an account to tie it to — and in consequence, a working ID.
He shakes his head, offering them back.]
Thus far, not being in the system seems to cause more problems than not. But I think once I’m assigned a name, I’ll adapt. And be able to browse an online library more freely.
[He’s always been clever, quick to learn. The tech is advanced, but the user interfaces shouldn’t be too hard to unravel in time.]
You’ve been in this world very long, then?
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[he's crossing his arms, so enjoy keeping shit in your pockets.]
[prompto even raises an eyebrow at the other.]
Yeah, you'll have to come up with a name other than just V. There's a minimum character requirement and all. [a shrug] You'll have a library for years, so at least that's something to look forward to if you're into reading.
As for me, that's three months already. Time feels like it's dragging here.
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But he relents, curling his fingers inwards to keep the tidbits close, then shifting a little to place them in a pants pocket.]
I’ll think of something clever. [With regards to his name. You know. “Vee” is probably clever, right.] Three months is a long time. Far longer than I feel comfortable staying in this world.
[He had heard tell that time might not move similarly here as compared to home, but without any certainty to this theory, he can’t quite feel at peace with the idea. Obligations hang over his head, the same ones which led him to strike a deal with Riko in the station.]
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That's right. You mentioned how you — had to get back.
[everyone has to get back to their own worlds, continue on with whatever it is they were doing; it all mostly falls under the realm of urgent or exceedingly important. prompto understands, having been plucked away halfway through something that had yet to reach a conclusion.]
[not to mention the prophecy ardyn had mentioned...]
Some people have left. Dunno how, they just disappear from one day to the next. We don't know if they actually return to their homes, but... Hopefully you'll get lucky.
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How close have we come to figuring out why we’ve been brought to this place?
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I don't think we've made a lot of progress in that front. There's a lot that we don't know about yet, and there's a lot of variables, so...
Doesn't help that many of us don't even come from the same planet or universe. Or that the people who come from Earth aren't even from this Earth, or the same Earth as others. A lot doesn't line up.
[ultimately, he shrugs]
Some others are a bit more well-versed in this than I am. Maybe they'll be able to give you a better answer than what I can say for sure.
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[Suddenly he’s glad for the deal he made with the detective — if they’re this clueless as a group, even with a cavalcade of personalities and skills originating from various worlds, then they will need all the resources that they can squeeze dry.
Police included.
But that’s a thought for later, he assumes, with nothing to be done about it now. Let it be one more passive stressor in a whole list of them.]
My priority will be adjusting to what this world has to offer, after all. As I understand it, making a temporary life here is unavoidable.
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[back to arms crossed in front of him, prompto hums in thought.]
Once you're out of the safehouse you've got to fend for yourself. Get a job, or just find something to do to blend in and appear like a normal citizen of New Amsterdam. Some people get apartments and others have stayed in the safehouse instead, it's all up to personal preference.
It's not hard to get on by, though. Morningstar helps with the initial hurdle a lot.
[glancing up at v, he considers the man for a moment.]
When setting up your ID, El asks about your interests to try and help you land a job so you can go about it as you like. Maybe that's something you could think about in the meantime.
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Never has he really lived as a "normal" human before. He knows the irony in that, but keeps these thoughts to himself.]
It's difficult to imagine how my interests might apply to a job in this sci-fi future. [Because it really does seem like they're living in the pages of a sci-fi narrative, something dystopian and raw.] Manual labor isn't much my forte. Is there much of a call for the arts still, in this day and age?
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