So tired of dreaming daydreams
So tired of only play schemes
Why don't you call me
Call me tonight, my dear
Tell me that your thoughts
Are all of me, sweetheart
All day long I wonder
Why we're far apart
- "So Tired", by Russ Morgan
It was said by some man of God, over a thousand years ago, that the more we suffer, the closer we become to God. All evidence points to this being the likeliest case, though what was to be said about suffering bringing one closer to the self? Only when childish whimsy is forcibly stripped from the individual, could said individual enjoy the simple delights the world has to offer. First, we are idiot children, then we are miserable, childish adults, and only after that crucial phase of misery, can we truly delight.
Eris thinks it is because of that oft said cliché about losing something making it all the more precious. She wonders if it is joy she felt all those months before now, and if it is misery she feels presently. Divulging the feelings of others has never been a complicated task for her, but for herself? She's content to admit that she doesn't know where to begin.
The wonder dwells in her until she concludes that to suffer could be interpreted as bringing oneself closer to God, but more often than not, it brings a sort of hardened, and embittered wisdom, and perhaps that is why most old people are apathetic. Perhaps, she thinks, they just look down on all the youth making the same poor decisions over, and over, and over, and thus are never surprised nor excited. Most trials could be easily thought of as bridging the gap between man and God, but Eris is no theologian, and she's certain she's never spent enough time reading any of that literature. As with any well-to-do academical fraud, she knows Aquinas, but beyond that, she can't remember anything he ever wrote. A pity, truly.
It's funny that she's having the most cerebral thoughts she's had in nearly a month now, cleaning the latrine. The universe never ceases to play these inane tricks on her, but she'd be fooling herself if she thought it was for her. After all, what did she ever do for the universe that it would be at her beck and call?
That foolish, impulsive stunt the other day with Rona had clearly been a mistake, because her threadbare, barely-there blanket had gone missing in action. When she'd asked where it'd gone, that old crone had fixed her with a severe stare, and the other girls had soon followed suit. Eris, though time had proven her unwise, was indeed wise enough to say nothing, though it'd caused her bodily pain to resist throttling the old heifer like she'd done to Canyon Runner weeks before. For two nights afterward, she'd fallen asleep to thoughts of somehow poisoning her, and even fantasized about breaking into House's bunker and releasing the securitrons.
Truly, there were things she was learning about herself constantly. It was the group-think that disgusted her most of all, and though Eris knew the mechanism behind its existence, the utility for it, she also knew that desert nights were cold. Exclusion was all well and good, she knows it's their way of establishing order in a society that they have very little individual value or power. Exclusion at the cost of her comfort was going a little too far, however, and so she was currently considering how she was going to find something else to cover up with at night.
Under her blue eyes were dark circles, tattoos from her time spent in sleep deprivation hell. She was averaging perhaps not even four hours in any given night, for the past almost-month now. Counting the days is only possible through either asking a legionary, or monitoring which tasks she's been doing and how long she's been doing them for. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a shadow move, but she's well aware it's because she almost had a zero-night last night. Six hours in bed amounted to barely an hour of sleep, because of the bitches she was bunked with. Yesterday, she saw a centipede crawling on the latrine's floor, which had crawled into the ceiling and reappeared in the toilet a minute later. Very exciting stuff.
The mop is so old that it frequently needs its head reattached, and when the mop breaks (which happens often), it's down on her knees to clean the floor. In between cleaning the floor, she thinks about him. Him, being Mr. House, for what other 'him' could she ever think about without yawning in boredom, or cringing in distaste, as an ode to the centurion across the river. In moments where she's not being rushed, or in moments where she's not stuffing her mouth with scraps of food, she wonders what he's doing, if he's found a way to move on with his inventive schemes, without her at his disposal.
His disposal. Honestly, she doesn't quite care anymore that she is his subordinate. Working for him was a luxury, compared to just about anyone else, especially compared to who she slaves under now. How is it that the seemingly merciless carries with him the most mercy?
How foolish of her, had it been, when she ruthlessly picked apart every single thing he'd said, especially when he'd referred to his scheme as 'their' scheme. Desperately, she'd not wanted to feel validated by something so simple, but now, she'd do anything just to hear it again. As if the universe is punishing her for having indulgent thoughts of bygone days, the mops breaks.
"Of course it does." She mumbles to herself, glaring at a legionary that's using the same hole she just cleaned not thirty minutes prior.
"What was that, slave?" He looks up to pin her with an equally pointed look, and it takes every ounce of her once impeccable frivolity to summon a smug leer at the man who dares to talk down to her while he's taking a shit.
"Nothing you should concern yourself with, master. Just talking to… them." She wiggles her eyebrows then, hoping this one is one of the more superstitious ex-tribals. She's convinced that it's impossible to beat all of the superstition out of them.
It works every single time, unfailingly. Even with the cleverer ones, it's just a matter of disproving Vulpes' warning to them that she is 'intelligent'. Those who call her intelligent are less intelligent than her, really, and she likes to think that she's not even that intelligent. In reality, she's certain that she's just good at sounding it. And in that case, then she most certainly does have a social kind of cunning, which was just as valuable as erudition, sometimes even greater.
There is no one, no one, that she can talk to, in the Fort. Antony was out of the question, because she's not even serving meals anymore. Her punishment had been extended, because they'd learned that she was quite good at cleaning. Eris was sure that she'd never cleaned anything before in her life, though within the week, she'd been told that she could get out of the latrines, if she was on 'good behavior'. Such a standard was wildly open to interpretation, as she did her job as well as could be asked, but she didn't do it with much chutzpah. Pride be damned, she was not going to exclaim her love for serving Caesar, because Caesar himself likely didn't even care to hear it.
Something shiny caught in her peripheral, and she ignored it for the time being, rationalizing the silver sheen as yet another hallucination from her poor sleep. But it stayed put, and was unlike the centipede or the shadow person she'd seen a couple of days ago, in that regard. She eyed it a couple times from across the dimly lit building.
The latrines were anything but spacious. They were cramped, and if the Legion didn't practice good hygiene, it'd be ground zero for nearly every disease known to man. Painted on the walls were stark, mismatched shades of utilitarian white and off-white, far from the ideal of its undoubtedly decadent Roman counterpart. In any given building utilized as a latrine of sorts, there were fifteen to twenty toilets, enough to serve a sizable portion of each corner of the camp they were in.
Unable to contain herself, and fully sure that whatever it was, was most definitely unreal, she dropped the rag she was holding and scurried over to the shiny piece of metal sitting in the far corner of the room. She shook her head first, a cartoonish gesture that led to yet another cartoonish gesture of rubbing at her eyes, to make sure she was seeing the real thing.
It was a utensil of some kind, like a fork but only more primitive. Instead of being four-pronged as most standard forks were, it was two-pronged, and looked to be of crude make. Despite this, it looked sharp, and she held it between her fingers like it was a gift from heaven. Between her calloused fingers, it lay, and she maneuvered it around, trying to figure out if this was a trick or not. More than likely, it wasn't – the Legion couldn't afford to waste time on baiting her into an escape, but her tired mind walked ceaselessly on those paranoid grounds.
Too good to be true. That kind of skepticism had protected her before, the kind of skepticism that stubbornly refused to look forward to anything, and kept her standards so low that not even the Legion could dumbfound her. Of course, the latter was thoroughly untrue, because Aurelius had obviously been a good pick for traumatizing the would-be slaves. Eris thought for a good, long moment (out of habit, no less) about that fateful day when the centurion had made her eat someone. Out of instinct, the hand holding the knife twitched, and she swallowed a lump in her throat.
Normally, that event was stressful, though the past week has been miserable, and full of conditions that factor in on why that one, single moment of cannibalism was currently paralyzing her again for the first time in weeks.
Right. The fork.
The fork, she knew, could be used to unlock the collar, if she were so inclined to risk her head to get out of here. Explosive collars weren't like rope, they weren't flexible nor could they be untied with dexterity. The pick would need to be precise, her hands couldn't be shaky like they were right now.
But because she was repeatedly impulsive, and imbecilic to boot, she stuck one of the prongs into the keyhole on the collar, hoping to get a read on how well it fit. Where there should be a click, there was silence. Carefully, she tried to jiggle it around, up and down and even sideways, as she knew picking locks entailed. Quickly, she became more and more frustrated, a state of mind that was extremely uncharacteristic, though she blamed it on solitude and sleeplessness.
Those bitches were giving her back the blanket, tonight, or there was about to be a missing persons case in Fortification Hill. The utensil couldn't be pocketed, for there were no pockets in the rags she wore presently. The shoes she wore were too small, and too worn by time to make for a comfortable fit, and if the fork cut her, they'd bleed through and give her away instantaneously.
Rona had told her she'd never get out of here unless she died, and Eris fully intended on proving her wrong, because past experience had told her that a challenge was the only thing that could move her vegetated mind. Fully aware that she was the most ridiculous halfwit in history, made evident by the image of her trying to pick a lock with the sharp prong of a fork in the middle of a pungent bathroom out in the middle of nowhere, Eris decided to hide the fork in the meantime.
Prestigious plan A was to sharpen the fork and look for some other utensil that could support it while she picked the complex lock. A screwdriver was out of the question, but the back end of a spoon was reasonable. Though nearly completely out of commission, from her mind to her body, she rolled the possibilities around – all the different options she could take if this didn't work. Over half of them involved Antony or Antony's kennel somehow, but this one.. this one looked promising.
Into the fray, the fork went. By fray, she meant underneath one of the toilet hole's metal frame, where no one would ever find it, because who would want to look for it? Eris cringed at the stench, which she was becoming familiar with. Pathetic.
Her hands smelt… well, they smelt like they'd put the fear of God into someone, if God was that vengeful. It made her skin crawl, even now, and she has a stomach made of iron. It had taken her three days while here to get accustomed to sleeping with unclean hands, truly a testament to the conditions that instilled so much exhaustion and desperation that the elements didn't matter.
Indeed, she hypothesized that the duties given to every slave was actually a mercy in disguise. Their cognizance was maintained at a healthy minimum by the sheer workload they had, much like the legionaries themselves were. Entertainment was minimal – an occasional hunt, or a row with slave girls that were charged with that specific duty, just enough to keep them from taking a trip in the world that Antony inhabited, but not enough to remind them that they were human. And if they were aware that they were human, what great amounts of suffering were to be had upon reaching that realization?
Finally, she can concede that society is worthless if it is joyless. For so long, she'd prided herself on her contrarianism, her refusal to bend to the avarice and pleasure-seeking that ruled Vegas. Here in the Fort, she's found, or rather, witnessed, a society that is good at efficiency, if even that. Certainly, it could be counted on for birthing and rearing a limitless supply of humans, but beyond that, what could it ever offer the world beyond mouths to feed? Were a couple hundred-thousand hands worth more than a few notable minds that could eventually find hands to do their bidding?
And, was a 'successful' society really successful if the people cannot even reap the harvest of their labor? She compares it to an anthill at times, ants were successful in the most base of senses – they could systematically produce offspring that were well-suited for any given task necessary for the continued survival of the colony, but could they indulge in an afternoon drink and be reminded that their aching limbs were for the greater good? No, they could not unwind and therefore they could not complain, and had no criticism to counterbalance their inevitable acquiescence. And that is why ants are ants, and not humans. So, she wondered why humans would continuously try to emulate ants over the course of history?
The lesser of her schemes went unsuccessful, because why wouldn't it? One working mind against a cohesion of matronly women with daddy issues, it was bound to fail. They'd beaten her. She now had no blanket, and indeed not even a cot to sleep on. The gambit hadn't paid off, but at least she still had Fork.
Fork had become the most supreme of deities occupying her tortured mind, which was regressing in refinement with every passing day, while progressing further in desperation and seedy opportunism. She'd not slept in nearly three days now, and like a madwoman, she raved when she did her latrine duties, and jumped at every single object in her peripheral.
How ironic was it that a society that valued the strength of the group actively discriminated against the few. The few, being her and some others she hasn't had the privilege to meet, besides Antony. Joshua Graham, he was one name she knew, one name that wasn't uttered here under threat of primitive essence rubbing. Of course, how could groupthink be formed if it didn't rely on excluding those who did not have any interest in possessing it?
It isn't that she's hurt by it. No, she couldn't possibly be hurt by something as petty and small as kindly looking women stealing her things because she is a bad slave. The issue is, unfortunately, far simpler than that. Eris is reminded right now of the first few days she spent out in the Mojave after waking up, and at the time, she was too thrilled to sleep, but now, she desires it more than anything.
Going to Vulpes was an option, and though she can surrender to many things without fear of garnishing her less-than-pristine reputation, she cannot fathom ever admitting defeat against social odds. And that is why she is here, lying at the foot of the kennels, hoping that no one on guard duty will collect her. Antony is not here, so she reasons that he is sleeping peacefully. Unlike her.
How she dozes off, she's not sure – there are literally bull whips poking into her back, the instruments that are given to any kennel master. Though wake up, she does, and it is not to a legionary, but to the warm, wet feel of a puppy licking the apple of her tanned cheeks. The smell of their breath is a sweet and unexpected reprieve from all that she smells most of her day. It is a new scent, in so many ways. New, because she's never smelt it before, and also, because it is a life as of yet unconditioned to the ways of this society.
Eris decides that she will not give in to adolescent nihilism today, not if it can be helped, and no matter how easy and right it felt.
The sun is only just rising, and she reckons that she's gotten about five hours of rest, though she cannot be sure. As she's leaving the area of the kennel, she is assaulted with a horrible feeling of vertigo. Exhaustion has not left her, then, she surmises.
So out of it was she, that she didn't even notice Vulpes standing not ten feet away from her, before she was confronted. He wears a terribly stoic mask over his unconventionally handsome features, a truly troublesome thing for Eris, who is feeling too slow to properly psychoanalyze a stoic at this time of the morning, under the pressures she is wading through.
"A restful sleep, I take it?" He questioned, as if there was not one hard feeling between them.
And truthfully, was there? Though drowning beneath the less than third world living standards, she is aware that to blame the hand, and not the head, as it were, is futile and senseless. It isn't his fault that she's here, and it isn't his fault that she's too proud to ask for help.
"You could say that." She replies tastelessly, unable to summon the usual spirit to which she teases others. "Beauty sleep is integral, even in the third world."
His blue eyes narrow at that, the veiled insult that wasn't quite an insult, because it was true and he knew it. Besides, Inculta didn't seem the type to waste utilities on mild, vocalized jabs like that one. In that, he was different from his brothers, but the same in most other qualities. Like a wooden toy he moved, though if it was because of his innate phlegmatic attitude, or his service to the Legion, she was unsure. She supposed it could only be answered if she knew how long he'd served in the Legion.
What did he want? She wondered. Rarely did she ever spot him these days, as he was always in Vegas, and, well, she wasn't. Thus, he was a rare sight, and this might have been the first time she's seen him with her own eyes since first being brought to the Fort. A thought occurred to her, that he was far too high in status to be in her presence, talking to her as if they were on the Strip still. Eris concludes that he wants something, and that he wants something so badly, that he cannot afford to send another frumentarius to get it. He is a sharp one, and knows that he's a familiar face to her, a reminder of better times.
"I could have you punished for sleeping in quarters that aren't your own, you know. The women you are bunked with? They have much to say about you, but I won't repeat information that we're both aware of." She doesn't hear the 'if', but it is implied, because he is already forming another sentence with his lips. "I thought we could have a calm discussion instead."
That segue makes her want to roll her eyes, but he is smooth about it, in an idiosyncratic way. So, she lets him lead her to a tent, all the while she is aware that though he has made no move before, her life and worse could be in serious peril. She finds that she doesn't really care, and is worryingly apathetic. Whatever could be coming, could not be worse than the experience with Aurelius.
This tent lacks the embellishment of Caesar's, though she knows it's his. Most of the time, she'd skip by it in the morning, because he wasn't ever there to take meals. His living space is spartan, and she admits to some admiration for Inculta, who extols minimalism and lives by his own principles – not someone who preaches without fulfilling his own end of the bargain, very unlike her.
In the Fort, he wears his armor, without the mask that she's familiar with. Neither his dog drape nor his goggles are present, showing a youth who could not be more than a decade her senior. It begs the question of what his real age is, and if she can eventually divine the age of a legionary, then maybe she can move on to advanced calculus.
"You put in a great deal of effort to plot this meeting between us, Inculta. So, what is it? Surely, you haven't invited me here to ask how latrine duty is, unless…?" She trails at the end of the question, leaving it in the air, then continues, "You have?"
It is painstakingly clean in his tent, a detail that inspires envy in her aching, malnourished bones. Every moment spent in it is a reminder that she wades in filth for nearly twelve hours in any given day. An irrational part of her wants to rip the tidy space apart, just so that someone else can experience something close to the level of grime that she does.
"No. Indeed, I haven't." He replied without skipping a beat. He watched her closely, with a glint in his eye, something infinitely vulpine and opportunistic, she suspects. "It's a delicate matter, I'm afraid, and before we speak about it, let me make one thing clear."
She watches him, boredom swimming in her eyes, which were nearly the same shade as his, but a touch lighter. If he thinks he can move her through intimidation, then she's sorry to retort that he is dead wrong. Or, maybe she's not so sorry. Perhaps it is in arrogance that she no longer fears what they can throw at her, or perhaps it is the starvation and exhaustion fueling the fearlessness. Underfed people were known to be deleterious in their desperation, and anytime she looks at her reflection, her cheekbones look even more prominent than they had before.
For all her time in the Mojave, she's spent it skinny. She strongly suspects that the culprit is a fast metabolism, coupled with a forgetfulness towards necessary bodily functions like eating. How foolish it was, to not stuff her face in the Lucky 38.
"Tell anyone of this, and I will make your life harder than you can imagine. For someone who lived comfortably in the Strip, I'm certain you don't have the imagination."
"That is neither here nor there." She cuts in, slightly irritated by the endless threats to her person. And, he's doing that thing that uncivilized people do to the civilized – acting as if they are heedless to a particularly juicy secret about life away from luxury and novelty being enlightening.
Her arms cross then, but she says nothing else. What is there to say? Her curiosity is piqued, yet she doesn't have the patience right now for the smoke and mirrors, and dramatics, that she would have if she were not still reeling from her never-ending reality check.
Inculta smirks at her, and she narrows her eyes, stubbornly refusing to back down, especially since he so obviously wanted something. She resolves not to try and leverage him until she knows exactly what he wants. A breeze, free and warm, breezes through the tent flaps and takes a few strands of her long hair with it, a short moment that would've been blissful had it been long enough to savor. Around them, are the standard sounds of the Fort – hundreds of voices, shouting, and the clang of metal on metal, sounds that sometimes did not cease until the wee hours of the night. The Legion was like a well-oiled machine that tried its hardest not to give in to human weakness, despite being profoundly pro-human.
"Such cheek for someone who has been brought to the level that you have. I'll assume you speak to me like this, only because you are blinded by familiarity, and not because you haven't been properly reprimanded. Because we both know, you have." She stares listlessly as he speaks.
"You're a smart feller." She comments blithely, though inwardly she does rejoice in the opportunity to talk to someone she knows. "I'll leave you to resolve any uncertainty you have about said familiarity. It is… immaterial." The last word slips from her in a kind of ghost or mockery of reverence.
"On that reprimanding, I wanted to ask you about your time in Cottonwood Cove." She couldn't hide her keenness now, and she knew that he'd noticed. He'd been trained to notice these things, after all. Now, there were no questions as to if he had her full attention.
And here she'd begun to worry that he was onto her about the Fork, or that she was plotting an escape plan right under their noses. Or, that she wanted to set fire to the tent she'd been bunked in. But, there was nothing he or anyone could do about unsatisfied urges and impulses.
"So, I have your interest then?" He asked, his head tilting to the side ever so slightly, as his eyes roamed downward over her face. Inculta was tall and lanky, and she was anything but the former. That trait was rare in the wasteland, though shockingly common in the Legion. "Good. The centurion stationed at our base in Cottonwood Cove, Aurelius of Phoenix, he saw to your punishment, didn't he?"
Her eyes flitted wildly to his own then, a stupid, stupid instinct that she hadn't reined in. Now, he definitely knew something was up. Hadn't she wished to tell someone that Aurelius had done the unthinkable? Hadn't she threatened to tell his superiors about it?
Despite the centurion's name feeling like a slap across her cheek, she nodded, unsure if she liked where this was going. Recounting the happening of that fateful morning was something she'd dreamed about doing one day, so that it could be acknowledged, if anything. Certainly, it stewing around in her head didn't spell anything good. Her aversion to meat remained, and she doubted she'd ever be able to look at it again without seeing a human face in her mind's eye.
Even in her precious few moments of sleep she got these days, it was at times rudely interrupted by strange images that, if one used the proper form, could be interpreted as recounts of the torture that was inflicted that day. Visions of brahmin calves being torn alive, and dreams of witnessing crimes but no one believing her, and of swallowing a million gnats whole only to discover that they weren't gnats at all.
"He's a loyal adherent to Caesar, for the most part. He does his duties excellently, don't you think?" She knew where he was going with this, but she wasn't yet sure how it benefited him.
Was her read on Inculta wrong? Did he take pleasure in tormenting others, after all? Or, if she wanted to follow the read she had on him – efficient and principled to a fault – was he trying to get dirt on a subordinate that'd acted out of line? If so, what would her word mean? She was a liar to her core, everyone knew that, and her word had been reduced to nothing in the past month and a half. Less than nothing, past worthless, if she was being honest. She could proclaim to the entire camp that the sky was blue and none of the officers would believe her by virtue of it leaving her mouth.
Not that she could blame them. It was perfectly reasonable.
"Oh yeah, very, very excellently." She is uncomfortable on this topic, and is surprised by how difficult it is to hide, just this once. "Why do you ask? Surely, you can't be too interested in the opinions of a slave on an officer." She tries to deflect, panicking about the indecision concerning telling him or not.
This was her chance, she tried to repeat to herself, but it just didn't click. The pros of telling him, were that it would be real. The cons of telling him, were that it would be real. By telling him, Aurelius could get punished for a crime deserving punishment. But was a crime against her really deserving of a punishment? If she could extract herself from the situation, and place someone else in her shoes, she could say with utmost surety that the centurion deserved to be punished for something so… revoltingly inhuman. But as it is, she is ashamed of it, oddly enough.
"On the contrary, I am interested." She cocked a brow at that, a remnant of some kind of twisted self-preservation bleeding through. "Tell me, did he do something untoward?"
She scoffed at that, a sound that could've been interpreted as either humorous or humorless, depending on who knew her thought process the best. The corners of her eyes crinkled mirthlessly, her lips pursing, and she knew she had to crack a joke, because if she didn't, she'd burst.
"Asking if a Legion officer did something untoward, unsavory, or perverse to a prisoner.." She laughed, trailing off, then continued, "Did you ever hear about that joke where a Legion officer walks into a bar and did something toward?"
His left eye twitches, and she knows he's getting impatient. Trading barbs with him had always been complicated, because it was one-sided. Indeed, she wondered if he'd ever laughed at anything.
"Enough. Answer me directly." She watched his face then, her gaze flitting between his eyes, his pointy nose, and his lips. "Did Aurelius of Phoenix ever mention cannibalism to you? Did he.. make you participate in anything of that sort?" She flinched so quickly, that she doubted even Inculta saw it, but she'd be a fool to underestimate him.
Eris ignored that foreign punch in her gut whenever the word 'cannibalism' was mentioned outside of her head.
"Yeah, we talked about cannibalism all the time together. Stayed up, swapped stories, all that…" It was bland – her response. Totally and completely fabricated and practiced. "We gossiped like schoolgirls."
The expression on Inculta's face became graver then, and his blue eyes zeroed in on the minute details of her face, searching for an explanation between the lines. Eris could count on one hand how many times she's gotten defensive before, and nearly every finger that would count would be for happenstances in the past six weeks.
"Tell me the truth, and I'll make your life easier here."
"Only if you promise to tell me why you're wanting to know." She bargained, glad to hear that the premier conwoman of New Vegas was resurfacing and making herself known. "And don't say you can possibly make my life anymore difficult. Because you can't, and I hold all the cards on Phoenix."
"Fine. I doubt anyone would believe you even if you did expose the details of this conversation, besides Caesar, who is forgiving where you're concerned." He was only saying that to inspire some sense of hope and comfort, Caesar didn't care about her beyond her utility and her proverbial clown suit, which was so entertaining to him that she might as well have a little red, foamy costume nose with it. "Tell me, why is it so hard for the dissolute to believe that there is honest justice in the Legion?"
Eris did a double take at that, unsure if he really wanted to invite honest critique on any of the Legion's methods. Once, she might have lauded some of its virtues, but now? Now, she was unquestionably biased against it, and was certain that she knew where her loyalties lie. More than likely, he was trying to convey without saying outright, that contention and disagreement could exist between officers in the Legion, and Inculta was trying to garner favor with Caesar by exposing a fellow officer. Or, he was legitimately opposed to the centurion, on what she thought were sensible moral grounds.
"Firstly, you don't want my opinion on that, which is why I'm going to give you my opinion on that. I'm starving for stimulating conversation. Toilets can only talk to you for so long, and only when you've been rudely robbed of your chance to sleep for weeks." She tapped at her chin comically, like she may have when she was discussing the finer details of political science with House. Only, Inculta wasn't House, because there was never any universe where she would've been an intellectual equal to him. "The 'dissolute' refuse to believe in the justice of the Legion, because it lacks subtlety and shows brutish refusal to adhere to socio-cultural nuance. Nothing more, unless you request a scrupulous, thorough telling. Beyond that, I know why you're asking, and I think if your superiors were even half as tactful as you are, maybe the people wouldn't be so resentful."
He gives her a good, long look then, and she wonders if there's some kind of coup brewing in his head, but dismisses it. It didn't take a genius to discern that he was fanatically loyal to Caesar.
"The people see enough subtlety, wouldn't you agree? It is a plague even here. For instance, the centurion, I have heard from several sources that he very subtly resists some laws. It is your beloved nuance that allows him to break them, and therefore, break his oath to Caesar."
"I never saw him eat a human, if that's what you're trying, and taking forever, to arrive at." She told him, watching the look of disappointment shortly cross his handsome features. She can't tell him out right, and really, she doesn't know if she'll ever be able to. She doesn't need to tell him that she is mostly broken, save for the few measly hopes she has to escape and be somewhere else, but not just any 'somewhere else'. It's likely that he already knows, and that's why he's waited until now to ask. "But… he did play a very good waiter. And a chef, and a host. It almost made me think I was staying with the White Gloves, but that would be crazy, because this isn't New Vegas, is it?"
Her eyes narrow at him, and his mirror hers, and it would be funny if it wasn't such a loaded moment. Doubtlessly, he was waiting for more, but, she had little to give.
"That's all I can tell you, Inculta. Afraid it would ruin me if I said anything more, and I gotta hold on to what's left of me, don't I?"