What's hard about this to Nine is that she hadn't been raised this way. The scientists and their guards at Bharaputra's labs had been wary of her and her crèche-mates, but not unduly afraid; they'd genetically programmed them, after all, and raised them to their hands, if not with respect for their personhood then at least as favored dogs. It hadn't been so bad, she rationalizes to herself.
At least, there'd never been shock-collars or shock-sticks except for the one of them that went outright mad, attacking everything. But she's reminded, like this, that dogs can be disciplined as much as they can be favored, and she's really just been deluding herself to appreciate the latter...
Nine has lost hope that she'll ever get anything different. Except for him. Miles. No longer the awkward boy to her-- definitively Miles, and she behaves herself well in the training, not able to lie outright but speaking in a quiet rumble, as close to soft-spoken as she can get, directing him patiently and flipping him neatly and tapping him where he leaves openings. Nine is used to practicing with others of her caliber, or being bombarded with trained soldiers attempting to overwhelm her; this one, spry assassin, under-sized, is an adjustment. It's actually fun, to have this variety.
Still, she unglamorously devours the two rat bars before speaking, nearly weak with relief. Only then does she try to rouse herself to this deception, still uncertain and slow to lie, but Nine isn't stupid. She can follow along well enough.
"You're not bad. Sneaky." Nine herself is glancing around a bit now, taking in the new sights of the kitchen like they're their own feast. She's standing straight up, all eight imposing feet of her, leaning against a counter since she doesn't dare test a chair. His smile makes her feel shy, ugly. But, she reminds herself again, he's still talking to her. Doing things for her.
"Next time we can work on your follow through. You're picking it up already."
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At least, there'd never been shock-collars or shock-sticks except for the one of them that went outright mad, attacking everything. But she's reminded, like this, that dogs can be disciplined as much as they can be favored, and she's really just been deluding herself to appreciate the latter...
Nine has lost hope that she'll ever get anything different. Except for him. Miles. No longer the awkward boy to her-- definitively Miles, and she behaves herself well in the training, not able to lie outright but speaking in a quiet rumble, as close to soft-spoken as she can get, directing him patiently and flipping him neatly and tapping him where he leaves openings. Nine is used to practicing with others of her caliber, or being bombarded with trained soldiers attempting to overwhelm her; this one, spry assassin, under-sized, is an adjustment. It's actually fun, to have this variety.
Still, she unglamorously devours the two rat bars before speaking, nearly weak with relief. Only then does she try to rouse herself to this deception, still uncertain and slow to lie, but Nine isn't stupid. She can follow along well enough.
"You're not bad. Sneaky." Nine herself is glancing around a bit now, taking in the new sights of the kitchen like they're their own feast. She's standing straight up, all eight imposing feet of her, leaning against a counter since she doesn't dare test a chair. His smile makes her feel shy, ugly. But, she reminds herself again, he's still talking to her. Doing things for her.
"Next time we can work on your follow through. You're picking it up already."