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Miles is making an order at a small, cozy coffee shop on the outskirts of town. It's an early fall and everything is coloured in nice blue and reddish hues, the shop being a comfortable, if cheap, shelter from the outdoor chill.
While they wait for the faulty cash register to load, Walrider gently pulls his attention to the flowers in the corner of the room. Miles has an earpiece on, so he replies with a huff, in a 'I'm on the phone with a silly colleague' sort of way, and the barista, a guy in his mid-twenties, gives him a small smile.
This makes it the best social interaction Miles has had through all summer, with his often dismal attitude, evepresent protective mask, and weird way of handling things when he's hiding his distorted fingers.
He knows it's not that bad, some mutilation shouldn't have socially crippled him so much. It will get better soon, when gloves and scarves become appropriate.
It didn't last year, but he'll have another shot.
His other pulls at the flowers again.
“This is a begonia, right?” Miles nods at the plant, making Walrider practically preen. The bastard would have spent the whole day browsing Wikipedia if Miles hadn't dragged them outside.
“I think so, yeah,” but the guy doesn't look away from the register. “So one medium latte for...”
The place is practically deserted, and even personnel don't have badges. Barista's coworker looks up from where she has already started making Miles's order.
Miles latches onto the guy's curiosity like a drowning man.
“Eddie.”
“Nice to meet you, Eddie. I'm Daniel. That'll be $1.95." Miles offers cash with his left hand, and it doesn't look too bad. “You can have a seat while you wait.”
“Thanks, Daniel,” he instead leans on the counter with his hip, looks to the side, touches the earpiece, and tries to make it look like he has his shit together. “Yes, I'll send the article at six p.m. on the dot,” he still hasn't found a reliable publisher, or a stable writing flow for that matter. “Sure. Yeah, next week's the same... Thanks, you too.” Walrider is amused while Miles barely fights back the embarrassment. He takes off his earpiece and hides his hand with it back in his pocket.
Daniel leans on the counter too. “You're a journalist?”
“Yeah. Heard an industry in your town makes their waste everyone else's problem.” Not that Miles wants to talk about the upcoming breaking and entering, but he doesn't want to lie and does want to impress. He almost says it's been a long way from Colorado, but if shit hits the fan, these two baristas better not have him in mind. Oh, he's probably already fucked up by bringing this up. “Came here for a break,” he nods at the cup of latte the coworker places on the counter. Miles waits for her to look away to take it.
He did indeed write a piece on this corporation, for some reason, and even got it published. He knew he and Walrider would just barge in the moment they heard about it. The bastard was erasing all nuance and leftovers of his self-preservation by making direct involvement possible, but he still wanted to have something to do. Stealing and leaking documentation right from assholes' office desks and private safes should be good enough for him to settle, but it never is. He feels indebted to Walrider instead.
“Industry? You mean Andro Labs?”
Miles winces.
“Yeah.”
“I'm so glad at least someone writes about these assholes, it's like they bought everyone's silence.”
The other barista joins in, “Even teachers at my uni shush us, it's awful. A corporation shouldn't be protected by the state, it's like…”
“Yeah, I'm pretty sure they control social media too. My friend's account got hacked after she posted about—”
“Wait, what? Which friend?”
“Julia! Didn't I tell you?”
He should be taking notes, but instead he gets distracted by the damn begonia.
What Walrider was also doing was asking him to write. About nature, architecture, psychology even. Not because it wanted them to have actual paychecks, it was actually quite fond of theft, it has said that Miles's brain gets clearer with the adrenaline. He might have enjoyed stealing too, the effort of it, the intensifying connection between the two of them, but...
We want you to feel okay. I very much do.
He tried explaining that he's a journalist not for himself, that he can't just take whatever topic he pleases, that he should be helping, he should be... adequate about the whole thing.
At the time, Walrider just laughed, sadly, and said, Miles Upshur had a reputation to uphold. Eddie, Richard, and others don't.
The begonia is underwatered, the poor fuck.
These people only need to wake up the next day, that's the standard.
Trust Miles to drag a bunch of sentient nanobots into depression.
Now Walrider thrums within him, a bit agitated, a bit bored. He hums to the coffee shop workers when he needs to, and somehow the interaction is still going. He actually thought he might be able to flirt with the guy, that there was something there. Maybe desperation made him delusional. This whole dialogue makes him feel like he has changed.
There is a weird callback loop when Walrider reacts to whatever he's feeling, like emotions layering on top of each other until either one of them talks or it all builds up to unbearable white noise and knocks him out. Sorrow gets covered with reassurance, reassurance with frustration because stop it, I didn't need this , the sorrow comes back, and Miles feels like a scandalous child until Walrider puts him out of his misery and finally takes the wheel, softly interrupting the baristas.
”I need to go,” it says to them while it relaxes Miles's stance. “Thank you for your help, I'll keep that in mind.” Miles doesn't remember himself like this.
“Oh yeah, it's 5:30 already! Good luck on your article!”
Walrider waves at them as it leaves, as if two of the body's fingers aren't of a different skin tone and shape to the others, as if they don't belong to Billy Hope.
“Thanks, have a nice evening.”
The girl only spares them a single look, nothing else.
“You too!”
The sky is slowly changing from reddish to scarlet as they make their way back to the rented apartment.
Walrider puts the earpiece on and Miles feels its nanites settling back in his vocal cords, preparing for a conversation. He didn't realize just how good Walrider got at this in only a year and a half.
But he is still overwhelmed, so he turns to theatrics, “We're so fucked.”
Walrider is gentle as ever, “You should come back later,” and he knows it's right even as he disagrees.
“I really don't, it fucking sucked and you know it.”
Walrider doesn't let his legs stop or move faster, but allows some dramatic hand gestures. Miles runs his hand over their face and then fixes the mask when it gets stuck on his damaged lips. He and Walrider keep biting through them when in stress, in bed, or otherwise, and it often takes too much time and effort to piece them together in something that would look natural. Especially considering they'll just ruin it again with all the fretting and... anyway.
He twirls the cup of the lukewarm latte in his hand, distracting Walrider from whatever it might have noticed, and Walrider just hums before murmuring, “Haven't heard you talk to anyone in a while. Your tone changes. It's nice.”
And Miles loves the bastard, because it always tries so hard. It's ridiculous that the only things it really demands are that he take care of himself and read to it every day. If Miles had to deal with himself, he would've shot the guy.
He points out, “Depends on how the next job will go.”
But Walrider doesn't touch this can of worms, and Miles wishes it did. There's always too little snarling for his liking. You should wound and jeer if you're being used.
“Fine. What do you want to do now?”
And right after he asks, it readily tugs them off their path, guiding them towards the nearest park. A two hour walk, it says. A bit of rest.
To Miles's surprise, their time goes on.