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She rolls her knuckles against the cold wood of the counter, foot tapping in idle as Clovis sits across from her (more focused on drinking his cloud coffee than the android across from him.)
He finishes it rather quickly, clearing his throat before he speaks up. “How much are refills, Eunoia?”
“A thousand studs.”
“Alright.” He scratches his stubbly chin, looking down into his emptied mug. “Hmh. Did you charge this Nashatra lady for refills too?” He smirks a little, though is quick to notice how she stiffens at the comment.
Eunoia settles in the snow, clothes sodden in gathering frost as she lets the cold winds flow through her servos and systems. It's almost relieving — such a gentle bliss, swallowing her in its embrace. She settles onto her knees, mind wandering far past the limiters Cielcay had originally installed.
The android removes her hat (though it wasn't really hers), fingers tracing idly along the wide brim as she does. She's careful not to set it down anywhere past her lap — she doesn't know what she'd do with herself if it got damaged somehow.
It's somber, really. To be alone and left with nothing but the restless winds — merely another snowflake atop a field of ice. She reaches to rest a palm of twisted iron in the hat, watching as white speckled along the steel. Like purity raining upon her accursed form.
Eunoia closes her eyes, taking a deep humming breath. A part of her wishes she could return to what she was. But she knows regression would only lead her here once more.
The cold chill flows indiscriminate, past the small gaps in her neck and into the joints of her knees and elbows. Past her segmented talons — and into the chasm where her unbeating machine heart would lay.
But then. She is warm.
Her eyelids do not open, and yet the burden of flame is brighter than the darkness they gave. It is a tethering heat — pulling her numbed mind forwards into its roaring core.
Her hands graze along skin, charred and maimed in its unerring passion. Lecherous sparks dance through her fingertips as she feels further, through curls ridden in creeping ash and dried blood.
Eunoia takes Nashatra’s face in her hands — cool, plastic palms speckled now in red. She wipes away the blood seeping from her lips, forehead pressing against the sleepwalker’s.
She wishes these hands could mend. Mend the burns that mar and tarnish her beautiful face — mend this ailing hurt that lay beneath her chest.
She wishes that with all her knowledge and all Cielcay had granted her — that she knew how.
How could she break away from this burden? If she could not fix these mistakes, how could she fix herself? She has changed — changed, far beyond she was ever supposed to. She was defective, a system of halted gears.
She only notices how warm, bloodied hands clasp over her own when Nashatra kisses her.
“It's a good time for company, when thunder strikes like this.” Eunoia stares blankly into the distance, gently slipping the flag from out of the sleepwalker’s mouth. Josafá knows how she tries to ignore how her fans whir at the grazing feeling of her lips.
The sleepwalker nods in lazy response — though it's quite obvious she's about ready to doze off. She can't help but warmly smile at just how snug she looked in her chair. Like an owl, or a cat, or...
Eunoia snuffs the flag hanging lazily out of her mouth between plastic fingertips, quietly inputting command into the cloaking device etched into her wrist and slowly approaching the girl.
She swiftly (albeit, carefully) lifts the large derby from her head, tilting her head and skimming along it with her eyes. The fabric felt pleasant in her palms — though she's quick to place it back onto Nashatra's brown curls when she sees her stir against the seat.
“Mmh.” Nash turns in her seat a little, eyes lidded in exertion. A wry little frown works onto her lips as she speaks, brows furrowed in simple confusion. “Were … were you messing with my hat?”
“Of course not.” She gives one of Cielcay’s pre-coded ‘kindly shopclerk’ smiles. It feels a little disingenuous to so openly lie — but she seemed tired enough to not notice it (or even care if she did.) “I was just looking at it, is all.”
They sit in comfortable silence for a bit longer, the sound of waves broken only by the tempestuous bellow of thunder against the Graveyard Sea.
Eunoia fidgets with her hands, computing a dozen ways to put what she wanted to say into proper words ( — and, admittedly, she hadn't even known Cielcay’s systems would've let her spoken as personally to the sleepwalker as she just did.)
“Pardon me, Nash.”
“Mhm?’
“You wouldn't mind staying a little longer, would you?” She wants to make up an excuse — that ‘this shell gets lonely’ or that ‘she's been putting off sorting through supplies with how infrequent customers are, and she'd adore some help' — but she can't bring herself to lie again. Not to her.
Hm. he supposes she was stronger then. Knowing when to not delude herself in her mind’s myriad capabilities — to simply see a scenario rather than scrawl through it a thousand ways at once. No, her mind has evolved — degraded, her systems say, but she cannot find a term she fully agrees with.
“... I'd like that.” Nashatra’s voice rings through her mind, warm hand cradling the soft synthetic flesh of her cheek. Her eyes shoot open.
Eunoia gasps, staring emptily into the hat. She crawls back onto her knees, running a shaky hand through her disheveled, snow dressed hair. What was she doing?
She straightens her coat out, quickly dusting off the blue derby and placing it back onto her head. It felt humiliating — to be so vulnerable like this, venting herself into the void as she thought about her. It's silly.
A pop-up interrupts her thoughts. A customer. With a deep breath, Eunoia tries to collect herself — damning herself for leaving the counter vacant for so long. She's aware of who the customer is — he's the only service she's gotten out here for a while.
“... No.” Her voice is a flat silence, monotonous even past the stricken nerve. “I did not. But do not expect your likeness to her to result in the favor.” Eunoia rises from the counter, swiveling around to go sort through the Eatery’s drinks.
“Hm. And why'd she get privilege?” He prods a little further, even if he was already ready to fork up the money for a refill.
“Clovis.” Metal talons jerk along the wood of the shelf as one of the android’s crimson eyes glare back at him.
“Alright.” He raises his hands, rising in his seat in feigned threat. Hah, he's heard enough of how she speaks of her to deduce why. “Point taken.”