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His voice is steady, but his gaze softens. “It isn’t fair. But that’s the sad truth of it.”
>You seemed vaguely suspicious about the Project Butterfly facility names. Do you know anything about it? Or have some past with the Terran Commonwealth that makes you familiar or wary of them?
Harper snorts, a sharp exhale that makes the edges of his mouth twitch. "The last time I heard about Scylla...my nanny used to tell me stories about her to put me to sleep." He pauses, closing his eyes as if savoring the memory. "And Yakwawiak...not exactly up to date on Native American mythology, but I know he's supposed to be some sort of large animal spirit."
You study his face. Eyes, mouth, even the way his jaw works and strains. Every flicker of expression. He doesn't even flinch.
"My hand to God," he says, lifting his arm as if to emphasize the point, "This is the first time I've ever heard of anything called Project Butterfly. I'm just as much in the dark as you are, Lydia. And I'm very curious as to why they needed to have one hundred seventy-five people as test subjects, and why they named their facilities after mythological creatures."
Your thoughts churn. <span class="mu-i">Monsters</span>. That's the word he's supposed to be using. Charybdis, Scylla, Yakwawiak...those aren't the kinds of names used for anything wholesome or ethical. And you, just like the others, were stripped of a real name - just a number and a designation as a chrysalis.
And you have no idea what sort of metamorphosis awaits you.
You shift your gaze back to Harper. He reclines, stretching with a yawn. "I spent most of my life away from the big cities. Off the grid, off the corporate radar, and lived off what land hadn't been strip-mined or polluted by corpos who cared more for the bottom line than the price of human suffering. Where the only noise was the wind, rain...God's creation in all its beauty."
He waves a hand vaguely. "Not the the sensory bombardment of holo-verts trying to sell sex, drugs, or the latest chrome for the 'it' crowd trying to fill the void in their souls hollowed out by mindless consumerism..."
You hesitate, curiosity pricking through your thoughts. "Are you an anarchist?"
Harper releases a low, derisive snort. "Not likely. But I've met plenty of them in my travels. Clans, roving militias, bohemian collectives...moral characters all over the spectrum with inclinations towards terrorism or anti-establishment antics. Never a dull moment with those guys." He shrugs.
Then he leans forward, a smile tugging at his mouth. "I'm just an old soul who prefers simple things from simpler times. Alternatively, I'm among those who walked away from Omelas."
The reference slides past you, strange and foreign, but settles neatly in the back of your mind for later. You file it away for later even as your eyes drift down to the pistol holstered at his side. "Simpler times," you echo, then add with a twitch that might be a smirk. "But you've got a laser pistol."
(cont.)
