silph_co | text

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Right. I have a few questions about all of this:

1. From what I can tell, we seem to be the Pokemon Mafia. At the very least, we're organized criminals. That said, why on earth are we calling ourselves *Team Rocket* of all things? It's not exactly a name engineered to strike fear in the hearts of many.

2. I realize that it's not likely a criminal organization would have vision or dental coverage, however: would it be possible to request prescription contacts for use when wearing my uniform?

3. Who should I talk to in order to maximize my chances of gaining employment in the radio tower after training is over? I understand that there's no way to check my references, but I can provide a resume, once I get a chance to retype it.

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Carly says a lot of things. Often at maximum volume, presumably because she thinks it'll be more effective.

Just like she... apparently thinks encouragement or lack thereof has any bearing on my 'B.S.?'

Trust me: if she were really paying attention, she'd have known better. My bullshit sans pareil is primo on tap, on the house, pure and unfiltered shit as it happens. Your input and hers are not required.

I mean, she also thinks you looking for the cracks in reality is going overboard, when really it's only good sense when you've been supernaturally kidnapped. So she and I probably have different standards for these things.

Speaking of which, if you find a thorny, enchanted Hedge in the process, let me know. Just so I can feel both disappointed and vindicated.

[Guess what lads. Someone's cutting in. Someone's cutting in on video.

It's Carly, a cup of coffee in hand while she looks at them both like they're a pair of errant children and she's the school teacher being paid to watch. So, the College Experience really.]

Hey, Dirk? Do you remember when you had a cold? Because I remember, and I also remember what came from that.

[Sip.

Frown.] Also, I remember saying it made sense until people get hurt.

[real cool of you steven. super rad.]

[Oh hell, she's younger than he'd assumed she was.]

... right. You did say that.

[His voice, it turns out, a pleasant tenor.]

[Oh, there she is. Speak of the devil and she shall appear, I'd say if my opinion of Carly were anywhere near that low. It's not, but my opinion of her strategy here is threatening to be.

And I guess we're just abandoning text now, like that dark period in earth's history between the invention of the telephone but before the invention of the computer.]

Who's "people?"

[Adding my bona fide Texan drawl to this conversation makes for quite the trio.]

We're the bad guys, Carly.

Mmmhm... [She just nods.] I'm not saying you're wrong, [she probably means Dirk] But you forget your limits a lot.

[There's another sip, mostly because Haha Dirk your words literally have nothing to do with her target here...

And she knows you know it.

That said!] I am glad to see you both getting along though! Like, really glad actually! I would've left things alone except for that last bit...

[In a quiet, thoughtful voice:]

The thing is, sometimes people will get hurt, but you have to risk it anyway. The place I was before for a long time... only half the group I escaped with managed to make it out. It's not that I was forgetting what you said, Carly. It's just-- I don't know how much it matters.

[So he's a conscientious moral offender.]

I'll pass on the self-imposed handicapping. I don't need any more limits.

Your immune system isn't exactly self-imposed, [Carly remarks dryly, leaving it at that as she sighs. It's not exactly a sad sigh- or an exasperated one, fortunately, but it's Some kind of sigh indicating that something's been missed again.]

I'm talking about you guys though! About your health, individually! You're 'people'!

And you're not going to get much done if you don't keep your health in mind...

Carly. I can promise you that if I'm sick enough to miss work back home, I won't do anything here.

[PSYCH. He's American. They go to work unless they're literally dying.]

....

This really the hill you chose to die on?

I got all my shots, so get off my dick about it.

If he wants to work when he's sick, Carly, that's his prerogative.

[Alright that's it.] You know what.

I was going to leave it at 'I'll take your word for it'. I already know what I say won't change minds, [she adds lowly, a growl in her throat. She's reaching for the disconnect button as it is.]

So have fun together, you're clearly agreeing on all the best points!

[...click...]

....

What the hell was that?

... I'm. Not entirely sure.

I think I know what she's mad about, just not why she's got such a bug up her ass about it.

It's fine. I'll figure her out later.

You were saying?

Jesus. I think I've completely lost track.

[No wait, they were talking via text before. He can just scroll up.]

... no wait, what's the difference between being a little-g god and a big-G God?

Not the question I was expecting, but okay.

In one word: specificity. Or, in a few more words, it's the disparity between an individual existence and a monolithic one.

Godhood with the little g, you're still just another character in a bigger story. Maybe a powerful character, but still a character. An objectively limited being, subject to the authorial whims, biases, and omissions of your author or authors.
How do you know that the you that exists right now is the same as the you that existed even one second ago?

Little g? You don't know. And the potential for that difference is what we call individuality. Ask yourself: what makes an individual an individual? Is it the physical space you occupy? The boundaries of your ego, the electric synaptic sparks that animate the three and a half pounds of dogs' breakfast in your skull?

Big G, though.

Your perception expands beyond the second to second reality inhabited by individuals, the material of your skin separating you from the universe dissolves. Maybe not literally, but it doesn't need to. The invisible authorial voice, the third party transcription of each individual's thoughts, the vehicle of narrative significance and the subtext delivered invisible to those to whom it pertains... 'you' is illusory, because what you are is reality.

Jesus.

[Let Steven just. Take that all in. Wow. What the hell--?

Finally, though, he says,] And now you're just as mortal as the rest of us, huh?

That's got to be rough.

Let's just say it keeps me alert and motivated to book an exit.

Yeah. I can see why.

If you're looking to hang around, though, you're in good company. I know a couple'a folks what're dead back at point of origin.

But I have no clue how stable this place is, so you might wanna cross some digits it doesn't collapse into a black hole or evict you into the void of space--or just the void--when it comes down to it.

Just sayin'.

I mean, I'm not dead back home. But there's a kludged together imposter who's living my life for me and making an absolute disaster of it, so at least here I can be myself again. Whoever that is these days.

[Do I tell him that whoever he is probably isn't him?

Aporetic question, if I want to be honest, and another of those lies of omission I was really hoping to be done with now. ]

So are we calling this reinvention of the self or a journey of discovery?

God, I have no idea yet.

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Phone tagging... hard. Forgive me.

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