Useful.
Could be.
Near is supposed to willingly return to the orbit of this person who has, on one occasion, abandoned him in the woods and, on another, trapped him in the floor, for what isn’t even an attempt at a mildly flattering assurance that he brings something to whatever table Jude is sitting at, but the possibility that Jude’s autistic alien toddler ass might be able to use him for something. Like the emergency kit you toss in the back of your car. What does useful even look like in a Judecentric situation? Human shield? Organ donor? Christ, he’s an idiot, isn't he? Standing here asking why as if that could be anything other than an insult. He should have just refused.
He says nothing in the immediate wake of the statement, though, waiting to hear the answer to Question Part Two: Where? But none is forthcoming. It’s all car alarm and then, after a few seconds, alley ambience.
“Have you ever had a conversation with a real person before?” he asks. Pure rhetoric. If Jude has managed to get through his entire life with no one telling him that “you could be useful” shouldn’t feature prominently in a persuasive argument, then Near feels fine assuming the answer is no. Unlike with most people, the answer may legitimately and without exaggeration be no in Jude’s case, but the more time that passes between the present moment and his appearance at The Reaches, the less the whole traveling circus freak upbringing feels like an excuse for his communication skills.
But here’s the thing -- the little glimmer of light that keeps him from turning around and walking out of the tunnel: that Jude has made the effort to show up here at all, to initiate this conversation, feels like a tell. Right or wrong, he seems to have gotten it into his head that Near has something he wants, even if he doesn’t want to frame it that way. And that’s leverage.
“You know what? Apologize.” The demand is issued almost flatly, with just the slightest slope toward the caution of not wanting to overplay his own hand and end up part of the building.
Could be.
Near is supposed to willingly return to the orbit of this person who has, on one occasion, abandoned him in the woods and, on another, trapped him in the floor, for what isn’t even an attempt at a mildly flattering assurance that he brings something to whatever table Jude is sitting at, but the possibility that Jude’s autistic alien toddler ass might be able to use him for something. Like the emergency kit you toss in the back of your car. What does useful even look like in a Judecentric situation? Human shield? Organ donor? Christ, he’s an idiot, isn't he? Standing here asking why as if that could be anything other than an insult. He should have just refused.
He says nothing in the immediate wake of the statement, though, waiting to hear the answer to Question Part Two: Where? But none is forthcoming. It’s all car alarm and then, after a few seconds, alley ambience.
“Have you ever had a conversation with a real person before?” he asks. Pure rhetoric. If Jude has managed to get through his entire life with no one telling him that “you could be useful” shouldn’t feature prominently in a persuasive argument, then Near feels fine assuming the answer is no. Unlike with most people, the answer may legitimately and without exaggeration be no in Jude’s case, but the more time that passes between the present moment and his appearance at The Reaches, the less the whole traveling circus freak upbringing feels like an excuse for his communication skills.
But here’s the thing -- the little glimmer of light that keeps him from turning around and walking out of the tunnel: that Jude has made the effort to show up here at all, to initiate this conversation, feels like a tell. Right or wrong, he seems to have gotten it into his head that Near has something he wants, even if he doesn’t want to frame it that way. And that’s leverage.
“You know what? Apologize.” The demand is issued almost flatly, with just the slightest slope toward the caution of not wanting to overplay his own hand and end up part of the building.