Cuthbert has never heard the term agnostic, but as Lauren explains it for him, he finds himself filled with sudden gratitude that she's here. He's never heard anyone describe their philosophy in such a way, but it fits his own notions like a glove. And that's no small thing. He'd been the only one of his tet to greet the idea of gods or ka with any skepticism, and it was skepticism that had turned to outright rejection within a few days of his experiences in Jericho.
But Lauren's right. Just because the great Turtle isn't tenderly shepherding the good folk and Old Man Splitfoot isn't skewering the world's sinners on his pitchfork doesn't mean there's nothing.
Seems to Bert like whatever's there just found something worthier to tend to.
He stares at her thoughtfully for awhile, digesting the idea.
"I think that thing found me because I was in the right place at the right time, whatever that means. And I think it duped me so well because I was drunk. And I think it chose Alain's shape because it... read my mind, or whatever-the-hell it does. And I know it wasn't Alain, just a very, very good copy."
That last part sounds more as if it's a mantra he's had to tell himself again and again, perhaps especially at night.
"If Zoe hadn't walked in, I'd be dead. One of you'd've been cleaning my brainsplatter off the window glass, that's a fact." It's a harsh thing to say with such levity, but he feels awfully alive when he remembers it, and he owes Zoe the credit if he's going to tell anybody about this at all.
He's meandering around his point, which even he's not sure of. It's not a conversation he's rehearsed, however much he's dreaded having it with the people he's close to. Maybe he's hoping Lauren will put a bow on it, tie his messy thoughts together, or maybe he's hoping that he'll be able to connect the dots once he's said them aloud. Bert cradles his temple in one hand.
"I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I was dead when I came here. I don't know what miracles they worked, but they worked plenty. I managed to pull the shaft of the arrow out of my own eye on the battlefield, thank gods-- how humiliating, right, walking around with something like that?" he asks, laughing edgily, "but when I got here I was all patched up, nothing more than a few pale pink scars and an eyepatch to show for it. Sharon thinks I couldn't have been dead, just close to, but let me tell you-- you damn well know when you die, contrary to all sense and reason. You do.
So what's the point? Is this the clearing beyond the path? Is this punishment? Limbo? It's a piss-poor heaven," he says, huffing a laugh. "I guess what I'm trying to say here, is-- I don't know how to carry on now. I won't be so pedestrian as to say I think life can't have meaning in a new world, but I sure as hell don't know what kind of meaning it has for me. I spent most of my disgracefully short life toting a gun and taking orders and I just don't think I want to do it anymore, Lauren. I've got nothing to offer anyone here, I can barely manage to send a message on my gods-damned communicator, there are plenty of people more apt and inclined to protect civilians, I can't cook worth a damn. Well, sure, chili. I'm pretty damn good with a side of bacon. ...the point is that I feel completely useless. Lost. And I feel I've fucked things up too badly with the people here worth sticking around for. I think that's why he had it so easy."
He being the boggart. Bert swipes a hand over his eyes, looking exhausted by his own diatribe, but also a little relieved.
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But Lauren's right. Just because the great Turtle isn't tenderly shepherding the good folk and Old Man Splitfoot isn't skewering the world's sinners on his pitchfork doesn't mean there's nothing.
Seems to Bert like whatever's there just found something worthier to tend to.
He stares at her thoughtfully for awhile, digesting the idea.
"I think that thing found me because I was in the right place at the right time, whatever that means. And I think it duped me so well because I was drunk. And I think it chose Alain's shape because it... read my mind, or whatever-the-hell it does. And I know it wasn't Alain, just a very, very good copy."
That last part sounds more as if it's a mantra he's had to tell himself again and again, perhaps especially at night.
"If Zoe hadn't walked in, I'd be dead. One of you'd've been cleaning my brainsplatter off the window glass, that's a fact." It's a harsh thing to say with such levity, but he feels awfully alive when he remembers it, and he owes Zoe the credit if he's going to tell anybody about this at all.
He's meandering around his point, which even he's not sure of. It's not a conversation he's rehearsed, however much he's dreaded having it with the people he's close to. Maybe he's hoping Lauren will put a bow on it, tie his messy thoughts together, or maybe he's hoping that he'll be able to connect the dots once he's said them aloud. Bert cradles his temple in one hand.
"I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I was dead when I came here. I don't know what miracles they worked, but they worked plenty. I managed to pull the shaft of the arrow out of my own eye on the battlefield, thank gods-- how humiliating, right, walking around with something like that?" he asks, laughing edgily, "but when I got here I was all patched up, nothing more than a few pale pink scars and an eyepatch to show for it. Sharon thinks I couldn't have been dead, just close to, but let me tell you-- you damn well know when you die, contrary to all sense and reason. You do.
So what's the point? Is this the clearing beyond the path? Is this punishment? Limbo? It's a piss-poor heaven," he says, huffing a laugh. "I guess what I'm trying to say here, is-- I don't know how to carry on now. I won't be so pedestrian as to say I think life can't have meaning in a new world, but I sure as hell don't know what kind of meaning it has for me. I spent most of my disgracefully short life toting a gun and taking orders and I just don't think I want to do it anymore, Lauren. I've got nothing to offer anyone here, I can barely manage to send a message on my gods-damned communicator, there are plenty of people more apt and inclined to protect civilians, I can't cook worth a damn. Well, sure, chili. I'm pretty damn good with a side of bacon. ...the point is that I feel completely useless. Lost. And I feel I've fucked things up too badly with the people here worth sticking around for. I think that's why he had it so easy."
He being the boggart. Bert swipes a hand over his eyes, looking exhausted by his own diatribe, but also a little relieved.