Deacon nodded. "I think I get it. Like, if you grow up knowing one thing it can be hard to leave, even when you know you want to. That's probably why so many synths don't run away from the Institute, even though a lot of them aren't exactly happy."
He picked his way over the rubble down the museum steps, across a street, towards a small plaza of dead grass. A toppled bronze statue of a Native American man on a horse lay in the dirt, half-buried by time. The shattered city that used to be Boston was familiar to him, all he'd known before he came to Moira. It barely registered to him as broken unless he stopped and thought about it. It just was.
"The first time I met Rinzler I asked him why he didn't speak. 'No permissions' he said. Well, wrote. You know what I mean. His old master must have been a hell of a control freak."
no subject
He picked his way over the rubble down the museum steps, across a street, towards a small plaza of dead grass. A toppled bronze statue of a Native American man on a horse lay in the dirt, half-buried by time. The shattered city that used to be Boston was familiar to him, all he'd known before he came to Moira. It barely registered to him as broken unless he stopped and thought about it. It just was.
"The first time I met Rinzler I asked him why he didn't speak. 'No permissions' he said. Well, wrote. You know what I mean. His old master must have been a hell of a control freak."