Fifteen years. The Whaler almost physically balks at the date Billie gives them, but it does explain her friendliness. Or, her previous friendliness; her tone and expression are decidedly more brusque than a few moments ago. They canât exactly blame her, although theyâre reluctant to admit it. Fifteen years is a long time to spend running just to be confronted by a past that hates you.
Briefly, though, they consider telling her just who exactly theyâd lost. Maybe theyâd all survived the Overseer invasion, but half of them had been tortured for Void knows how long before Daud showed, and then they had to flood the whole base, and maybe more of them wouldâve survived Corvo ifâ
But no, theyâre going to be nice. Losing their composure is a bad habit of theirs these days.
âFifteen years⌠Iâd like to see how the Isles look now.â Theyâre not sure they do, actually, but they doubt Billie cares. Her jaw tenses after she asks her own question, maybe out of defiance, and a burst of anger flares in the Whalerâs chest.
âI am,â they say. Theyâre much more careful to control their tone this time, keeping that loaded statement as neutral as possible. âAt least, weâre both from the same year. It looks like heâs not the same asâŚâ they struggle for a moment. They donât like claiming their Daud as theirs, at least not to others. âas the one I knew. They made⌠different choices.â A hint of bitterness creeps into their voice, despite their best effort.Â
They shrug it off. Their Daud isnât here, for whatever reason, so thereâs no point in dwelling on him, or the comparative merits of this new Daud.Â
âHave you seen him?â They ask. âSeems as if youâre still his favorite.âÂ
Something unpleasant rises up in their chest at the thought of this Daud and this Billie interacting. Like heartburn, which is as good an explanation as any. They do not explore it any further.
Billie's lips quirk into a private, small smile; for a moment, her eyes are far away.
"He is, isn't he." She agrees easily. "Kinder than the one who raised me. Gentler." She's under no illusions that she is being, herself, anything but kind, but that first reverberation of hurt is still aching through her, and she might be older, wiser, but there is no outrunning a childhood spent in Gristol's gutters.
Carefully, she leans on one of the plant-laden tables, watches them intently through her single good eye. She considers for a second, can imagine the petty thrill of taking this obvious open wound of theirs and gritting salt into it. But. But.
Void take it, she is trying to be better.
"You don't have to like me. You don't even have to look at me. But I have met him, and he wants me back." Emotional honesty is the last thing she wants right now, the longing for a simpler equation granted by fists and blades thrumming through her lungs like air itself, but. "I'm not going to turn him down. He's hurt enough."
She stares down the mask covering the Whaler's face, no sign of hesitation anywhere in her body language. "If you care about him at all, I'd suggest a pre-emptive truce." Rich words, coming from her, but she means them. The last thing she wants is to ruin this for him. She wants this resolution so bad, more than her lost arm, her lost eye. This kindness offered to Daud means more to her than half the world shrouded in darkness.
Void, but she hopes this works.