[Clint frowns at the comment. Because...he's not wrong. None of these places have people--Thomas the bartender notwithstanding and entirely dependent on one's interpretation of the word 'people'--and a lot that he's seen so far have the feeling of being abandoned. Some long ago, some abruptly. That (biomed?) office hadn't had a soul in it, and had a whole room built with an everything-proof lockdown protocol, like someone was waiting for some kind of lab accident to happen.
Impossible to tell, it seems, if these people were just borrowing bodies, their own laid back thousands of miles away in some little VR pod thing like from a movie, or if they somehow got put into the bodies. Did they die, or just get disconnected like when the wifi goes out?]
I'm starting to think these bits of other worlds might not show up if there wasn't a disaster.
[Makes him wonder if a bit of his own world might show up. The Compound's remains, but barren of life.
He shakes his head as though to dislodge the morbid thought physically, examining one of the androids. Even if he could find some kind of manufacturer's stamp, it wouldn't mean anything, would it--?
He turns, looks, stares, blinks. If one well-versed in shades of exhaustion translated into colloquialisms, Clint's face would be along the lines of "life is already so god damn weird, this might as well happen", or something to that effect. Somehow this guy found something worse than a speedo and yet likes it better. Both of these choices have shown him entirely too much of this confused gentleman.
His eyes go back up to face instead and stay there.] Whatever's comfy for you.
it is possible mistakes have been made
Impossible to tell, it seems, if these people were just borrowing bodies, their own laid back thousands of miles away in some little VR pod thing like from a movie, or if they somehow got put into the bodies. Did they die, or just get disconnected like when the wifi goes out?]
I'm starting to think these bits of other worlds might not show up if there wasn't a disaster.
[Makes him wonder if a bit of his own world might show up. The Compound's remains, but barren of life.
He shakes his head as though to dislodge the morbid thought physically, examining one of the androids. Even if he could find some kind of manufacturer's stamp, it wouldn't mean anything, would it--?
He turns, looks, stares, blinks. If one well-versed in shades of exhaustion translated into colloquialisms, Clint's face would be along the lines of "life is already so god damn weird, this might as well happen", or something to that effect. Somehow this guy found something worse than a speedo and yet likes it better. Both of these choices have shown him entirely too much of this confused gentleman.
His eyes go back up to face instead and stay there.] Whatever's comfy for you.