The fact that there was pain was nothing new. However, the fact that it was not constant, was. People would ask him if he was in pain and actually give him painkillers if he was. It wasn't the only novelty. Now there were things that distracted him from his pain. He could listen to recordings of his choosing, if he so wanted. True, for now it was mostly the fact that he could choose on his own that made it enjoyable—even if he asked the nearest person for an opinion most of the time, anyway.
And there was another thing he was not used to. He would ask and get a response. And so he asked about all the things he had never had a chance to ask about.
"I'm attached to machines—what do they do?"
The question seemed to catch the person that had been standing in front one of the machines (it made a slight whirring noise most of the time) off guard, judging how long they remained silent and the slight tremor in his voice as he answered, "I-I'm not an Adept, my Lord. I don't know."
He was puzzled. The voice had not sounded like one that should be uncertain. It was deep and rumbling, sounding like it came from some massive pipe and not a human chest.
"I'm not your lord," he said, wondering if the man—it was a man, with that deep rumbling voice, wasn't it? It sounded almost inhuman—had perhaps confused rooms. And what was a lord, anyway?
That was followed by the sound of heavy feet shifting, as if uncertain.
"Who is an Adept?" he asked, noting that the most-likely-man was not leaving.
"I'll—I'll get one," the other person replied hastily. That was followed by a click, a quiet buzzing and a hushed conversation. He guessed the other person must have had some sort of portable communications device on him.
Several minutes later, he heard clicking, like metal hitting the floor repeatedly and an odd, synthetic voice greeted him. It didn't sound human: it lacked emotion and sounded oddly flat, like a machine. It made his skin crawl. Did he really want to ask that creature questions?
The other person solved this problem for him, saying, "My—The Primarch wants to know what the machines he is attached to do."
He had no idea why this person was so insistent on using those titles when referring to him, but kept silent, allowing the Adept to speak. The odd machine-like drone, despite its flat modulation, carried a grudging note, as the Adept described the machines in the most basic terms.
At least, he assumed they were basic terms. He still had to ask for clarifications at points—he had no prior knowledge of such things, after all. Nevertheless, it all seemed fairly straightforward, once he considered it and so he started asking more complicated questions. He even managed to ignore the grating qualities of the Adept's voice, until he forgot that he had been told not to try turning too much. The sharp stab of pain ended the conversation quite effectively.
He woke up to the sound of somebody pulling a chair closer. It wasn't particularly loud, but he had noticed long ago that he could hear things he most likely shouldn't have heard. Most of the time, they had been things he also would prefer to not have heard.
"You're awake?" Horus asked.
"Yes," he replied, turning his head towards the sound.
"I hope you're feeling better?" Horus continued.
He considered it, before nodding, quite surprised to realize that he was feeling better. How come he hadn't noticed that?
"I believe I promised to find a name for you," Horus said. "I have a few ideas—I hope you will like at least one of them."
"I can't decide until I heard them, can I?" he answered.
"And I thought you were going to guess," Horus said, chuckling. He wasn't certain why—he was quite sure him trying to guess would be rather pathetic and not amusing. After all, he wouldn't know any names Horus might suggest. The chuckling stopped fairly abruptly and Horus added, sounding… embarrassed? "It was meant to be a joke."
"I don't think I have a sense of humour," he managed uncertainly. He heard a soft sigh, and felt a hand rest on his shoulder.
"It was my mistake, not yours," Horus said, sounding subdued for a moment. His voice quickly regained its strong edge though, as he continued. "But I shouldn't be stalling so long. There's one important thing I want to tell you first: I want you to give meaning to your name. You will define it, not be defined by it. Your name will speak only of potential."
"You expect too much from me," he said, shaking his head slowly.
The hand on his shoulder moved slightly, squeezing it—that surprised him, but mostly because the touch was still far from unpleasant. It felt oddly reassuring. "You know so little about who you are and what you can be, brother. Don't draw conclusions about your potential just yet."
Horus sat in silence for a moment, before saying, "Do you like Lycus?"
"One of the… nurses was named Lycus," he replied, wincing. Horus didn't answer and he suddenly realized he wanted to see the other—the silence was oddly oppressive. Was his brother angry? Upset? He couldn't guess what Horus was thinking. He could only guess, and so he added hastily, "Ah. I'm sorry. You couldn't have known this."
The silence went on even longer, but Horus's hand remained on his shoulder, the weight quite reassuring in itself. "How about Tycho?"
"I don't know," he said, uncertainly. "How would I know a name works?"
"You don't," Horus replied. "Usually, it's just a name your parents chose for you—you think it works, because you've always been carrying it."
"So why aren't you choosing for me? It sounds easier," he said, confused.
"You're not a child. You should make your own choices."
He remained silent for a while, considering the answer. It seemed reasonable enough on the surface, but once he thought about it, he wasn't so certain. "I can't decide blindly, not knowing anything, whether it will fit or not. Whether there are implications to it I might not like."
"Sometimes, you won't have all the data you want," Horus said softly. "There are times when you have to make a choice, not knowing if it's the right one. You can only trust your intuition then."
"Can't I simply-" he started to say, but Horus interrupted.
"Sometimes any choice is better than none."
They remained silent for a while, before he chuckled softly, clearly surprising Horus. He surprised himself too—it seemed he actually did have a sense of humour.
"That's not very funny," Horus said, sounding somewhat offended.
"No, no," he said hastily. "That's not it—it's… we're choosing a name, not deciding the fate of another person.. I can choose any old name as long as I like it."
Horus still seemed quite surprised, when he said, "You certainly can do that."
He felt a little uncertain, wondering whether he had really offended Horus with his amusement, but—it all boiled down to that, didn't it? He could choose any name he wanted. After a moment, Horus started suggesting more names. Sometimes, he would explain the meaning—sometimes he listed people who had borne that name. But nothing felt right.
"I think we're still being too conservative," Horus mused. "I should have thought of this first. You need a name that could stand for anybody, every person imaginable. Yes, I think here is a name that sounds like you," Horus said. His voice suddenly drowned out the hum of the medical equipment. "Janos. It's from one of the ancient Terran languages."
"And why is it so fitting?" he asked, feeling his mouth quirk into a smile.
"It's the name of the Everyman," Horus replied. "You can't say that it will carry some pre-conceived notions."
He considered the answer in silence, trying out the name in his mind. The he nodded.
"I like this name," said Janos.
AN: Since this was a bit on the obscure side: Janos is the Hungarian version of John.