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[Part of Connor, even now, sometimes wants to claim that he isn't deviant; it's something--not being deviant--that was so integral to everything he was supposed to achieve that it feels almost like suddenly being considered a different species. It feels foreign and unnatural at times, even though in others he can recognize clearly all the things that make him more than a machine.

Most of the time it's somewhere in between, though, like now. He can feel wanting to have preferences, and that he does have preferences, but at the same time it's almost like those preferences are coming from someone else and he's just relaying them. It's... Strange.

But he's trying, even if all he can really manage to Maeve's response is a small nod of understanding and agreement; he feels distant from the whole thing, even while engaged, and even while recognizing that her agreement to include something blue causes a positive emotion. Maybe it's just that he still doesn't care much about the clothing thing, but she seems to and so he decides to ask--]

You said you were looking to expand your own wardrobe. What are you looking for for yourself?

[A different voice. Maeve wondered, once, if it was God's voice. A god, anyway. Or if the voice she could hear was even her own, if her choices were even her own.

Here, it isn't about clothes at all, or choosing them. It is establishing preferences and in Connor's case, understanding why. Trying to. Seeing the option. Somewhat gently, she guides him into one of the many little stores lining the street. Every day she woke up in Sweetwater it was the same dress, the same underpinnings, the same accessories. Having the luxury of selection is worth it.]

I like red and purple, [Maeve says flippantly, waving a hand.] Suppose it's the one residual thing I had any say in.

[He wanders into the store with her, glancing around curiously as the strange selection but more focused on her response.]

Were you able to choose your own clothing?

[Back in her world, he means, of course.]

No.

[The word is flat, with no inflection. When in the attire created by her makers it felt like little more than another shackle around her wrists, another means to bind her to the identity they constructed. Hair twisted into a flattering chignon, paste jewels dripping from her ears, around her neck, a collar of red stones, of blood.]

We were dressed for our roles and aesthetics. [Maeve pauses by a rack of men's clothing, pushing through the trousers.] I was the madam of a brothel.

[The answer is much less surprising than the alternative would've been, because of course even such a small thing wouldn't be allowed. Humans can't dare let their creations develop even the smallest signs of independence, right?

He's thinking about her response, especially the last part of it, and his own experiences investigating the Eden Club. Connor had still been very machine-like at the time, and yet some part of him had found the place unsettling; at the time, he'd blamed it on the noise and colors and distracting nature of it all and how that conflicted with his attempts to solve the case, but looking back he's not so sure. He had, after all, decided to spare the two Traci models that were trying to escape, a decision he would make again but still now doesn't know why he made at the time.

Connor drifts around the store, not really paying attention to what he's looking at as he thinks, just letting his fingers trail across fabrics to idly feel the differences in them as he figures out how to reply. Finally, he decides to go with something positive.]

So is this a new experience for both of us?

[She may have picked up some new clothes already, but in general maybe it still applies.]

[He's quiet. Processing. With anyone else Maeve might restrict her speech more, withhold information, neglect to tell them the full story. Connor deserves honesty because the truth commands a certain amount of control, control which he has so lacked in his life - his existence - until more recently.]

Something like that.

[She flashes a quick smile at him, several pairs of trousers already slung over a slender arm. It wasn't much to guess his size.]

What did you wear, before this?

['Something like that' is usually a dismissive answer, but the combination of the subject and her smile makes him think it's more that she might be a little uncomfortable and wants to move on. So he will, fiddling with the collar of a jacket that's caught his attention.]

As my model is designed for detective work, the clothes I was assigned were supposed to be a combination of professional and practical. Androids are required to wear identifying markers, so my jacket displayed them, but otherwise my uniform was very similar to what a human might wear.

[As opposed to a lot of android uniforms, which are very distinctly different. Part of his role was to be approachable and integrate well, and so minimal android markers made that easier.]

Hm.

[He feeds her a charming little bit about the reason behind the design, the practicality of it, but given that she found him first in clothing that he chose to hide himself, she assumes the uniform was a bit more egregiously identifying than he might like to admit. No one wants to walk about with a sign painted on them.

Maeve moves in to him, watching him fiddle with a jacket, and presents him with the trousers.]

Pick through these while I look for shirts, would you?

[It had definitely been identifying of his android status, but that alone hadn't been the reason for his disguise. The problem was his model number, in specific, and that he was a prototype; other androids would recognize him as the deviant hunter the moment they saw the brightly illuminated RK800 on either side of his jacket. As it turns out, the disguise had also served the purpose of allowing him to blend in as human during the raid on the ship, protecting him from the otherwise indiscriminate gunfire whenever a soldier hesitated while trying to determine Connor's species.

He shakes himself from those thoughts, though, taking the clothing offered to him automatically and furrowing his eyebrows at them. They looked about the right size, or at least as close as possible considering the limited selection, but the cut definitely varied.]

Should I just choose what seems most appealing?

[He needs some direction here.]

[The question has her stop, turning slowly to look at him again, an evident question on her face. For moment Maeve isn't certain whether Connor is utilizing his usual deadpan variety of humor and it takes a quick processing of his hesitant body language to determine that he isn't.]

...yes.

[Comes the plain response, and she raises her eyebrows.]

Or try it on. I can help you.

[He'd... Appreciate not getting that look, which is a look he gets a lot honestly but can only now really feel anything about, and he knows she's not actually disappointed in him or anything but it still feels that way. He's made to be sensitive to that, after all, and was so even before he admitted he was becoming deviant.

But he tries to shake it off for now, refocusing on the task at hand.]

It's fine.

[He'll figure it out. He carefully drapes each article of clothing over the racks, so he can see them all together, considering the colors and feeling the fabrics and trying to look inward for that sense of 'like' or 'dislike' that he's still learning to recognize.

A pair of dark jeans ends up being his first pick; they're not as loose as the ones he normally wears with his uniform, but they're the most familiar and he's not sure if he actually likes them or is choosing them because of the familiarity. Either way, though, he's at least chosen them.

He almost asks 'are these okay?' before changing his mind, reminding himself that he doesn't have to ask.]

I like these.

[She doesn't mean to judge. He's still learning, she knows, she knows, and making choices never felt difficult for her even when they followed a set rule, a strict script of predetermined factors with minor room for diversion. Even when she was trapped she felt as though something was different, that she could create change of some kind. Identify the source of the problem, move forward, always move forward.

The first step she took back came from a feeling she tried to ignore and couldn't. Maeve still can't.

She peers over one of the many racks, one arm laden with bits and pieces she's acquired for herself, to look at Connor's selection. He likes dark colors. Sedate and calm.]

I found a jacket here for you, as well. Similar shade.

[He takes the clothes he's decided on and moves closer to Maeve, interested in the idea of a potentially-matching jacket; it'd be a lot closer to what he's comfortable wearing, even if that's generally a low priority at the moment.

While he comes over to see, though, he hasn't forgotten--]

Have you looked for anything for yourself yet?

[She doesn't need to focus entirely on him, especially now that he's made one decision; he thinks he can start trying to pick out some other things as well, after he sees the jacket. She needs to find things she likes too.]

[Comfort was denied them for too long. Maeve doesn't mind indulging it, now that they lack the urgency that was present back in Westworld. Now that they lack all urgency, in a place like this.

She drapes the jacket over his arm, patting it idly.]

Don't worry about me. I know what I like when I see it, and the selection is lacking.

[Connor's attention is drawn to the jacket, and it is a nice color; it's deep blue, and definitely a slimmer cut than the bulky leather jacket he'd scrounged up back home and is still wearing now. He decides right away, this time, that he likes it, and offers a faint hint of a smile of thanks.

And he'll accept that answer for now, glancing around the store again briefly; it does appear to be mostly men's clothing, and mostly plain, so perhaps she's looking for something more feminine.]

Would you like to try another store?

Edited (switched characters too fast for my brain to catch up) 2018-09-01 14:50 (UTC)

[IC Inbox | Hadriel]

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