[It comes on the heels of a scoff, because having a choice feels like a pipe-dream kind of notion, even before he was prowling around in someone’s synapses.]
If I was free—really free, not just free from your head, but free from how fucked this world is—then the answer’s gonna surprise you. I’d slink off somewhere quiet, read a book. Play old tunes in some dark corner of the world where no one would bother me, anywhere away from the city. In that perfect, elysium world where I wouldn’t have to stand on stage, blinded by bright lights, and scream into a mic with the hopes that somebody’s listening to what I have to say.
[Ah, damn. Why’d he toss his cig? The addiction scratches at him again, never even truly banished in V’s head — or maybe because they’re still in V’s head, it’s not going anywhere.
Johnny twists his fingers into the earth, feels grass bend beneath his fingers.]
Nice and all, but it won’t happen. Freedom’s an ideal to aspire to, something worth struggling for, but as long as there’s a high tower for some exec to sit in, mankind’s either going to be fighting the good fight forever… or eventually roll over and submit.
[So Johnny answered V’s question and then some, but the other man should be used to questions trailing off into tangents. To his credit, he course-corrects on his own terms.]
So, like I said: too bad it’s only a dream. Speakin’ of, is this all there’s to it? You just look at the stars and wake up? Doesn’t twist itself up into a stress dream — missing your pants, your teeth falling out, ground swallowing you up, et cetera?
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[It comes on the heels of a scoff, because having a choice feels like a pipe-dream kind of notion, even before he was prowling around in someone’s synapses.]
If I was free—really free, not just free from your head, but free from how fucked this world is—then the answer’s gonna surprise you. I’d slink off somewhere quiet, read a book. Play old tunes in some dark corner of the world where no one would bother me, anywhere away from the city. In that perfect, elysium world where I wouldn’t have to stand on stage, blinded by bright lights, and scream into a mic with the hopes that somebody’s listening to what I have to say.
[Ah, damn. Why’d he toss his cig? The addiction scratches at him again, never even truly banished in V’s head — or maybe because they’re still in V’s head, it’s not going anywhere.
Johnny twists his fingers into the earth, feels grass bend beneath his fingers.]
Nice and all, but it won’t happen. Freedom’s an ideal to aspire to, something worth struggling for, but as long as there’s a high tower for some exec to sit in, mankind’s either going to be fighting the good fight forever… or eventually roll over and submit.
[So Johnny answered V’s question and then some, but the other man should be used to questions trailing off into tangents. To his credit, he course-corrects on his own terms.]
So, like I said: too bad it’s only a dream. Speakin’ of, is this all there’s to it? You just look at the stars and wake up? Doesn’t twist itself up into a stress dream — missing your pants, your teeth falling out, ground swallowing you up, et cetera?