Silence settles like a heavy blanket as Aaron remains at his spot by the door, eyes fixed on K, quietly watching and recognizing old patterns, familiar patterns. He had been that guy once, the man who would opt for a merciful solution or find a kinder way, try to apologize or rationalize his actions rather than go in for the kill without wasting another thought. Negan and his saviours changed it all, though. Forced them to shed their old skin and a bit of their humanity along with it. Transform rather than evolve, spiralling downwards on their DNA and bringing back instincts and tactics that matched their wild beards and sweaty shirts. Us or them – that’s what it all boils down to, and after losing Eric and Carl and Denise and Glenn and so many other friends, Aaron would no longer hesitate and make sure it would be ‘them’.
And hadn’t that been the hardest truth to accept? Harder than losing his arm. Amputating part of his beliefs, of what he deemed right and good, just to make sure that he and Gracie would stand a chance to survive the aftermath of Eric’s death. But after ten years of living in this world, of fighting and killing, after ten years of compartmentalizing and fragmenting, of disconnecting his emotions from the undead to protect the living, it’s almost impossible to see anything but monsters. Decaying corpses spreading death and causing more suffering. Taking more people away from him.
And yet, the old Aaron is still here, faded and tired and worn out over the years, suddenly all too aware of the heavy weight of his mechanical arm and the hammer in his right hand, and should K turn to look at Aaron’s face he may be able to spot a flickering of shame or guilt in the way Aaron looks away from the corpses to gather himself, regain his focus. Anger, though? Not in the slightest.
“Are you sure you’re not the human guy and I, you know…,” he lifts his mechanical arm as if to underline what he’s hinting at. Who’s the robot in this world? “When it all started,” he pauses to quietly clear his throat and tries to think of way to word what he would like to say, in a way that doesn’t sound completely barbaric. “The first couple of months after the outbreak, you would sometimes have to... take down kids, little kids, and teenagers. Those were the hardest. Now it’s only tough when it’s… “ ’when it’s a familiar face, someone you know’. Which thankfully doesn't happen all that often due to the undeads' tendency to form herds and roam. But whenever you run into a walker that resembles someone from your old life - or worse: when it actually is someone you know? Well, then it’s a nightmare, and yeah, he really doesn’t want to think abut that. Not now.
Pushing the hammer through a loop at the side of his pants, his now free hand goes up to give K’s shoulder a reassuring pat-pat. ’You did so well, you have no idea, man.’
Nodding in response to K's question, Aaron lifts his mechanical hand to gesture in the vague direction of the room they've just left. “Yeah. Yeah-- I'd definitely like to put something up to keep other travellers out.” Aaron's plan is to use one of the screw drivers and scratch a quick message into the surface of the doors - ‘DON'T OPEN, DEADLY VIRUS’ or something along the lines as a signal for visitors from other realities to stay away and try their luck elsewhere. But before he turns to drag the bodies all the way into the previous room, he shrugs off his backpack and tosses it in K’s direction, trusting that the other man won’t take off with his supplies and the spare bandages for his stump. “There are two leather straps under the top flap that I normally use to roll up and carry a blanket or sleeping bag. Feel free to use them for your coat, if you like.” One closer look at Aaron’s attire may give K a good idea about the climate of the world they’re about to enter and why Aaron is suggesting for K to consider taking off his coat. Inside this old factory building made of bricks and mortar it may be cool, but outside it’s too warm and far too humid for a jacket (or anything more than a Henley, really), and if it weren’t for his prosthetic (and his latent aversion to ticks), Aaron would have likely opted for a T-Shirt for the rest of the hike.
“Oh, and while you’re at it, there’s an old wallet in the front pocket of my pack that I use for nails and screws and stuff.” It’s been a while since his last trip to the Hilltop and so most of the nails in his stash are used and not really in good shape, but there should be at least three or four of Earl’s handmade iron nails left. “We can use one of those old shelves to nail up the the door. Along with those black nails from my wallet. A blacksmith from another community makes them, the same guy who also made my prosthetic. If we match his nails with the right warning, it should be enough to keep my people out.” Because nails from the Hilltop mean that the warning not to enter the building was left by an ally. “Nothing about the virus, obviously. But maybe ‘Collapse! Floor I & II not safe! Don't enter.'” Or a similar message about parts of the gateway being an incalculable risk.
It will work, he decides. Has in the past. And there's not really much more he can do right now, not without butchering his deadline and risking an argument with Michonne -- which he would rather avoid, given the surprise guest he's intending to bring home.
The first door, the one that should serve as a barrier to keep other travellers out, is quickly turned into a man-sized warning sign, and then blocked with the dead biters piled up right behind it. Should anyone try to push it open, it would require quite a bit of force – and the position of the walker pile should also serve as an indicator as for how frequented this gateway actually is. No way into Aaron’s reality without moving the bodies. “All right. This will have to do for now.” Wiping a sticky hand on the side of his pants, he turns and marches all the way back to K, then nods to the battered exit/entrance door, ready to risk a glance? Yeah? Okay...
The comment is met with an almost startled look that quickly dissolves into K's customary guarded expression that doesn't give much away, though that forced neutrality is in itself a fair indication that a nerve may've been struck. He looks away a moment later, focusing on the tasks at hand instead and surveying the area that they'll be blocking off.
"Because androids are unfeeling machines, and only humans are capable of empathy?" That's what humans have always chosen to believe, anyway. And if there's any censure in his voice, it's at least well concealed beneath the dry sarcasm; playing it all off like a joke, as though the words can't hurt him (despite the fact they obviously had). After everything Aaron has said to him, and how he's treated him, he'd let himself believe that Aaron is truly different from every other human he's encountered in his life — and he clearly still is in some significant ways, but evidently even he might harbour some innate prejudice about androids, despite the technology not existing in his own world yet. Maybe it's just human nature to feel this way about them.
But the remark causes a subtle shift in K — he's a little more subdued afterward, and no longer meets Aaron's eyes. Attempting to protect himself against an emotional wound he can barely understand. He's endured exceptionally terrible treatment every day of his life simply for being what he is, why do a few insensitive words now bother him this much? It's irrational. He's also thinking about what Aaron followed it up with, about taking down little kids, and the implications of everything that was left unsaid... His world hasn't experienced an apocalypse of the zombie persuasion, but people there have already been similarly hardened, their humanity eroded to the point of embracing the slavery of sentient beings on a world-wide scale.
The pack is easily caught but he decides against removing his coat (nor the sweater or layers of undershirts he wears beneath it). Not only because extreme temperatures in either direction don't affect him as they would a human, but because he also feels safer keeping his few possessions on him. In case. He'd hate to have to leave behind his only coat if something happens and he's forced to escape on his own, if this community with supplies they'll freely give a stranger really is too good to be true. But he does fish out the nails as he's instructed to, and willingly assists with arranging and securing the barricade, knowing that, even on his own, he should be able to get back through when he needs to. In the meantime, their precautions should hopefully prevent any of the cross-world contamination that Aaron's concerned about.
And with that preliminary glance through the door at the world beyond, he isn't sure what he's seeing at first. He understands the concept of what a forest is, but they've long since gone extinct in his world, at least on Earth; reading about them couldn't have prepared him for the reality of experiencing one in person.
Pushing past the door, he can't help but stare in open — almost uncomprehending — wonder at the natural, living world around them. He never knew that many shades of green could even exist. Craning back his head, his eyes trail up the trunks of trees, and he spends a long moment contemplating the glimpses through the canopy of a clear blue sky that he's never seen before. Dense pollution combined with nuclear winter keep the sky of his world's Los Angeles shrouded in a perpetual gloomy haze that the sun can never fully penetrate. This new world is remarkable to him, and it's nearly too much to take in all at once, though he seems to be trying to as he slowly turns in a full circle, still staring in fascination at everything. When he finally comes back to himself a bit, he realises he's still holding the pack and promptly offers it back. Then, recalling how Aaron had appeared to struggle with it before, stows his hammer and holds the pack by both straps instead, making it easier for Aaron to just slip his arms through them and shrug it back on. A small gesture, but it feels good being able to offer help.
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no subject
And hadn’t that been the hardest truth to accept? Harder than losing his arm. Amputating part of his beliefs, of what he deemed right and good, just to make sure that he and Gracie would stand a chance to survive the aftermath of Eric’s death. But after ten years of living in this world, of fighting and killing, after ten years of compartmentalizing and fragmenting, of disconnecting his emotions from the undead to protect the living, it’s almost impossible to see anything but monsters. Decaying corpses spreading death and causing more suffering. Taking more people away from him.
And yet, the old Aaron is still here, faded and tired and worn out over the years, suddenly all too aware of the heavy weight of his mechanical arm and the hammer in his right hand, and should K turn to look at Aaron’s face he may be able to spot a flickering of shame or guilt in the way Aaron looks away from the corpses to gather himself, regain his focus. Anger, though? Not in the slightest.
“Are you sure you’re not the human guy and I, you know…,” he lifts his mechanical arm as if to underline what he’s hinting at. Who’s the robot in this world? “When it all started,” he pauses to quietly clear his throat and tries to think of way to word what he would like to say, in a way that doesn’t sound completely barbaric. “The first couple of months after the outbreak, you would sometimes have to... take down kids, little kids, and teenagers. Those were the hardest. Now it’s only tough when it’s… “ ’when it’s a familiar face, someone you know’. Which thankfully doesn't happen all that often due to the undeads' tendency to form herds and roam. But whenever you run into a walker that resembles someone from your old life - or worse: when it actually is someone you know? Well, then it’s a nightmare, and yeah, he really doesn’t want to think abut that. Not now.
Pushing the hammer through a loop at the side of his pants, his now free hand goes up to give K’s shoulder a reassuring pat-pat. ’You did so well, you have no idea, man.’
Nodding in response to K's question, Aaron lifts his mechanical hand to gesture in the vague direction of the room they've just left. “Yeah. Yeah-- I'd definitely like to put something up to keep other travellers out.” Aaron's plan is to use one of the screw drivers and scratch a quick message into the surface of the doors - ‘DON'T OPEN, DEADLY VIRUS’ or something along the lines as a signal for visitors from other realities to stay away and try their luck elsewhere. But before he turns to drag the bodies all the way into the previous room, he shrugs off his backpack and tosses it in K’s direction, trusting that the other man won’t take off with his supplies and the spare bandages for his stump. “There are two leather straps under the top flap that I normally use to roll up and carry a blanket or sleeping bag. Feel free to use them for your coat, if you like.” One closer look at Aaron’s attire may give K a good idea about the climate of the world they’re about to enter and why Aaron is suggesting for K to consider taking off his coat. Inside this old factory building made of bricks and mortar it may be cool, but outside it’s too warm and far too humid for a jacket (or anything more than a Henley, really), and if it weren’t for his prosthetic (and his latent aversion to ticks), Aaron would have likely opted for a T-Shirt for the rest of the hike.
“Oh, and while you’re at it, there’s an old wallet in the front pocket of my pack that I use for nails and screws and stuff.” It’s been a while since his last trip to the Hilltop and so most of the nails in his stash are used and not really in good shape, but there should be at least three or four of Earl’s handmade iron nails left. “We can use one of those old shelves to nail up the the door. Along with those black nails from my wallet. A blacksmith from another community makes them, the same guy who also made my prosthetic. If we match his nails with the right warning, it should be enough to keep my people out.” Because nails from the Hilltop mean that the warning not to enter the building was left by an ally. “Nothing about the virus, obviously. But maybe ‘Collapse! Floor I & II not safe! Don't enter.'” Or a similar message about parts of the gateway being an incalculable risk.
It will work, he decides. Has in the past. And there's not really much more he can do right now, not without butchering his deadline and risking an argument with Michonne -- which he would rather avoid, given the surprise guest he's intending to bring home.
The first door, the one that should serve as a barrier to keep other travellers out, is quickly turned into a man-sized warning sign, and then blocked with the dead biters piled up right behind it. Should anyone try to push it open, it would require quite a bit of force – and the position of the walker pile should also serve as an indicator as for how frequented this gateway actually is. No way into Aaron’s reality without moving the bodies. “All right. This will have to do for now.” Wiping a sticky hand on the side of his pants, he turns and marches all the way back to K, then nods to the battered exit/entrance door, ready to risk a glance? Yeah? Okay...
no subject
"Because androids are unfeeling machines, and only humans are capable of empathy?" That's what humans have always chosen to believe, anyway. And if there's any censure in his voice, it's at least well concealed beneath the dry sarcasm; playing it all off like a joke, as though the words can't hurt him (despite the fact they obviously had). After everything Aaron has said to him, and how he's treated him, he'd let himself believe that Aaron is truly different from every other human he's encountered in his life — and he clearly still is in some significant ways, but evidently even he might harbour some innate prejudice about androids, despite the technology not existing in his own world yet. Maybe it's just human nature to feel this way about them.
But the remark causes a subtle shift in K — he's a little more subdued afterward, and no longer meets Aaron's eyes. Attempting to protect himself against an emotional wound he can barely understand. He's endured exceptionally terrible treatment every day of his life simply for being what he is, why do a few insensitive words now bother him this much? It's irrational. He's also thinking about what Aaron followed it up with, about taking down little kids, and the implications of everything that was left unsaid... His world hasn't experienced an apocalypse of the zombie persuasion, but people there have already been similarly hardened, their humanity eroded to the point of embracing the slavery of sentient beings on a world-wide scale.
The pack is easily caught but he decides against removing his coat (nor the sweater or layers of undershirts he wears beneath it). Not only because extreme temperatures in either direction don't affect him as they would a human, but because he also feels safer keeping his few possessions on him. In case. He'd hate to have to leave behind his only coat if something happens and he's forced to escape on his own, if this community with supplies they'll freely give a stranger really is too good to be true. But he does fish out the nails as he's instructed to, and willingly assists with arranging and securing the barricade, knowing that, even on his own, he should be able to get back through when he needs to. In the meantime, their precautions should hopefully prevent any of the cross-world contamination that Aaron's concerned about.
And with that preliminary glance through the door at the world beyond, he isn't sure what he's seeing at first. He understands the concept of what a forest is, but they've long since gone extinct in his world, at least on Earth; reading about them couldn't have prepared him for the reality of experiencing one in person.
Pushing past the door, he can't help but stare in open — almost uncomprehending — wonder at the natural, living world around them. He never knew that many shades of green could even exist. Craning back his head, his eyes trail up the trunks of trees, and he spends a long moment contemplating the glimpses through the canopy of a clear blue sky that he's never seen before. Dense pollution combined with nuclear winter keep the sky of his world's Los Angeles shrouded in a perpetual gloomy haze that the sun can never fully penetrate. This new world is remarkable to him, and it's nearly too much to take in all at once, though he seems to be trying to as he slowly turns in a full circle, still staring in fascination at everything. When he finally comes back to himself a bit, he realises he's still holding the pack and promptly offers it back. Then, recalling how Aaron had appeared to struggle with it before, stows his hammer and holds the pack by both straps instead, making it easier for Aaron to just slip his arms through them and shrug it back on. A small gesture, but it feels good being able to offer help.