He perks up, ridiculously, at the bee's very grim pronouncement.
"Hey, I'm from a dystopia!" he says. He might as well be saying they both own dogs. "And it's definitely gritty."
Persis nips at him, and he flinches and looks down at her, utterly affronted. She doesn't have to speak for him to know exactly what she's trying to communicate. War-torn, asshole. This isn't an oppression pissing match.
He clears his throat and looks back at Sunshine.
"It's, um, mostly just class warfare," he says. "Secret police, government spying on the public, that kind of thing. We, uh, don't really have..." He shrugs. "Well, we got a few, I guess you'd call 'em 'Others'." Who started calling them that? It's so unabashedly, well, othering. He supposes that shouldn't surprise him. It's not like he hasn't seen his share of that. "I mean, there was a genetic mutation a few decades back where people started growing horns. Everyone calls them minotaurs and treats them like second-class citizens, but they're just regulars. And I guess maybe ghosts exist."
"According to some guy you know named Three-Finger Dave," says Persis, sounding and feeling appalled that he is continuing to talk.
"He was right about the last Ikea being a drug nest," says Castor.
"Because he was a dealer!" snaps Persis, and jumps up sharply on his head, digging her little paws into his hair and leaning forward to stare at Sunshine. "I apologize for my dumbshit outer self who can't seem to stop babbling. He is actually extremely curious about these Others. Like 'ubis, what the heck is that?"
Okay then. Persis is taking the reins, which is possibly for the best. He slouches, looking sullen but feeling only mild embarrassment.
for this tag I'd like to thank Big Al, who also says dogs can't look up
"Hey, I'm from a dystopia!" he says. He might as well be saying they both own dogs. "And it's definitely gritty."
Persis nips at him, and he flinches and looks down at her, utterly affronted. She doesn't have to speak for him to know exactly what she's trying to communicate. War-torn, asshole. This isn't an oppression pissing match.
He clears his throat and looks back at Sunshine.
"It's, um, mostly just class warfare," he says. "Secret police, government spying on the public, that kind of thing. We, uh, don't really have..." He shrugs. "Well, we got a few, I guess you'd call 'em 'Others'." Who started calling them that? It's so unabashedly, well, othering. He supposes that shouldn't surprise him. It's not like he hasn't seen his share of that. "I mean, there was a genetic mutation a few decades back where people started growing horns. Everyone calls them minotaurs and treats them like second-class citizens, but they're just regulars. And I guess maybe ghosts exist."
"According to some guy you know named Three-Finger Dave," says Persis, sounding and feeling appalled that he is continuing to talk.
"He was right about the last Ikea being a drug nest," says Castor.
"Because he was a dealer!" snaps Persis, and jumps up sharply on his head, digging her little paws into his hair and leaning forward to stare at Sunshine. "I apologize for my dumbshit outer self who can't seem to stop babbling. He is actually extremely curious about these Others. Like 'ubis, what the heck is that?"
Okay then. Persis is taking the reins, which is possibly for the best. He slouches, looking sullen but feeling only mild embarrassment.