He listens. He raises his head, when asked. Somewhere in the proceedings, he takes a seat on the shining floor. (A risk. A hunch. How long has it been, since someone did not stand on ceremony and remained amicable? No one but 20022 is here to see, and if the Great Lord does not object, then what room does he have to complain about decorum?) He listens, and he learns, of temples, of assassins, of Biomancers, of the life of the Royal Architect, who is second only to the Shah in the Endless Azure Skies.

Before the talk is done, his hand strays from his lap, and gently pets the floor beside him. He touches the polished gold as if it were a friend’s shoulder. The Royal Architect is not the whole station, his concept of body and self must be much different than his own. This much, he knows. But perhaps the Royal Architect also knows that he knows, and that his options are rather limited here. How else can Dolce of Beri tell a digital mind that he [i]sees[/i] the fear that grips his ancient heart? Can he say as such, in what few words he has? Can one so small offer any help against a prison of the mighty? The Architect may see this humble offering of sympathy, and take some small comfort when Dolce presses no further on his point of hospitality.

He wouldn’t be right. But he wouldn’t be entirely wrong, either. There is just more than one monster trapped here.

Can you feel him down there, Diodekoi? No, probably not. To be frank, he hopes you don’t feel anything, haven’t felt anything for a long, long time. Better to sleep, and dream of someplace better than here, than to be awake for every moment of your fate. What one god works, no other god may unwork, but perhaps, Hera, there could be room for a warm, peaceful dream? And if she dreams not, then somehow, let her feel this gentle touch through countless layers of ice, bone, and metal. Let her know that someone knows she is there, and wishes it were not so.

Thus run his silent prayers, when a voice snaps his full attention to the present.

“Decommissioning?” At once he is on his hooves. At once he is trembling to hold himself still. “My, my apologies, I, no one gave me any reports. Who’s to be decommissioned? Who’s in revolt? We left so suddenly, I didn’t see - is everyone,” The moment he touches the idea, a pit of dread opens in his stomach, and all his thoughts cling desperately to keep from being sucked into an abyss. He wills his throat to loosen, and his tongue to speak coherently. “Are they [i]okay?[/i]”