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[bleps]

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[bleps]

[(You joke, Arenvald... and so does Connor, but he really would've been nagging at you about it all day.)

His eyes track his friend, casually, as he makes his way over to the BG who had been tending to the non-critical wounds of many who had visited throughout the day. He watches, merely observing, simply because it's what he does, what comes naturally to him. Watches as the android cleans the cut, wiping away a little at the warpaint that always adorns Arenvald's face. Furrows his brow slightly as Arenvald politely stops her, mouth forming words he cannot quite make out, but can create approximate guesses at.

Connor realizes that he's never seen Arenavld without the strokes of warpaint across his face. Aesthetic, he thought, perhaps cultural. But its significance -- in whatever degree it might be -- is therefore highlighted to him, watching this transpire.

When he comes back to him, Connor nods.]

Satisfied. [Ah, but wait for it. Here it comes, that question behind his eyes making its way to his lips.] Though, I noticed something that I'm curious about.

[paladorable]

[ Arenvald, for his part, can’t think of anything that happened between points A and B that would pique the other’s curiosity, and his brows arch in surprise. ]

Alright then. What is it?

[bleps]

[With an open invitation, Connor — as always — gets straight to it.]

I’ve never seen you without your warpaint. Why is that?

[paladorable]

[ He realizes then that Connor must have caught the exchange he just had with the BG, and he rubs at the back of his neck, obviously self-conscious.

It's not like he wants to keep his reasons a secret from Connor -- he trusts him, would trust him with his life, even -- but he's not so sure he wants to get into the whole mess that is his past right now. ]

I, ah. Had kid of a nasty injury when I was a kid. Warpaint covers up the scar.

[bleps]

[Connor senses the self-consciousness, sees it in his body language. Has no reason to not believe what he’s being told, and as a result, his logic is thus:]

Do you think it’s unflattering?

[paladorable]

Less that, and more that it has some unpleasant memories attached to it, so I prefer to keep it hidden.

[ Though it is definitely unflattering, too. In addition to the paint, he keeps his hair like it is for a reason, as well, since the worst of the scarring is in the middle of his forehead. ]

[bleps]

[And thus Connor finds himself in the middle of a familiar sort of situation, and his social programming strains to dictate his next action. “Unpleasant memories” meaning bad associations, also meaning that people are often not inclined to talk about it — depending on closeness and circumstance. Depending on personality, and willingness.

They’re in the middle of this tent, likely tired, in which Arenvald didn’t bring up the matter; Connor did. But his friend is the amicable sort, and it is hard not to be curious.

In the end, he decides to venture asking.]

I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know. Are you willing to talk about it, or did you prefer for me to not press the subject?

[At least he remains conscientious in that weird Connor-like way of his.]

[paladorable]

[ If nothing else, he's glad that Connor is so straight-forward, outright asking instead of awkwardly dancing around the subject and dropping vague hints. ]

Later, mayhap. When the both of us have had a proper chance to rest and recover.

[bleps]

[Even better, then, that his friend is the type to respond well to his straightforward approach. An awkward reply in return, where people vacillate between annoyance and faux comfort always muddles things up.]

Later, then. We’re all due for a little bit of refocus after this mission.

[A successful mission. It’s... nice.]

[paladorable]

[ He’s almost brought up his own past in conversation with Connor several times now, what with Connor’s insistence that he is not meant to be more that he was made for. Arenvald knows how that feels, after years of scraping away on the streets, a child of two worlds and yet belonging to neither. It was only his own choices that led him across Baelsar’s Wall and, eventually, into the company of the Scions.

After all that, he could never believe that someone is the product of their birth and no more – even if Connor was manufactured rather than born.

But, given all they’ve been through, the timing never felt right, or it felt like too much to heap onto an already reeling Connor. He’d welcome the chance to discuss it in private, once things have calmed down. ]

I’m due for a decent meal and a nap after this mission, to be quite honest with you.

[bleps]

[It's for the best, likely, even if Connor's curiosity would dictate otherwise. Still, he's patient -- or rather, he can afford to pretend to be patient for a friend.]

And if I was the kind of individual that ate or slept, I would agree with you.

[paladorable]

Be glad you don’t eat. That slime that serves as food here is terrible.

[ He makes a face, wrinkling his nose. Though, that does bring up a question about Connor in general. ]

Can you even taste things or just… uh, analyze them?

[bleps]

I did notice. I spoke with several, gathering their opinions on the food; none of it was flattering.

[He should be grateful, but honestly, he was more concerned for the state of morale after having to eat that slop every morning.]

Only analysis. Taste is not a sense that androids experience, not in the way that humans do. Though both forms gather information in their own way.

[paladorable]

[ He really wishes that he’d gotten to know Konoha weeks ago. Her ability to create fruits and vegetables out of nothing has been an absolute life-saver. ]

True. And I suppose if you can’t eat it, being able to taste it would be kind of silly.

[bleps]

Unnecessary, yes. Though I wouldn't call it silly.

[A beat.]

...Admittedly, I have wondered what it might be like to taste things. Food is such an important part of any given culture; it's strange to not be able to experience it, when I was designed with the purpose to integrate and learn from humans.

[paladorable]

Mayhap they figured a sense of taste would get in the way when you’ve got to go about licking oil and the Twelve knows what else.

[ Don’t lick strange things you find on the street, Connor!! ]

[bleps]

[why not]

To be fair, taking oil samples isn't common.

It's usually various forms of blood, or other relevant bodily fluids.

[paladorable]

[ Now he really makes a face. ]

That’s even worse. Gods, I wouldn’t want a sense of taste if I had to do all that!

[bleps]

[Well that's a familiar reaction.]

Maybe so. But being able to take samples in real time has always proved advantageous during investigations. It's just part of the job.

[paladorable]

It’s still gross.

[ This, as he jabs at Connor’s shoulder playfully. ]

But I’ll believe you when you say it’s helpful. We’ve nothing very sophisticated when it comes to investigating murders or aught else.

[bleps]

[He jostles a little at the jab, but huffs out something that sounds like a faint laugh if you squint.]

You sound like someone I know.

[paladorable]

[ He quirks a brow, glancing over. ]

Do I now? I hope that’s a compliment.

[ Little does he know. ]

[bleps]

My work partner back home, Lieutenant Hank Anderson. He’s of a similar mindset. He thinks taking samples like I do is ‘gross’.

[I hope you can hear those air quotes, Arenvald.]

[paladorable]

[ Oh, he can, and he laughs again. ]

Surely you understand why we’d think that, right?

[bleps]

No.

I don't taste, as you said. I don't get sick. There's no reason why you should think it's 'gross' when the usual consequences don't apply.