[ A blink, a furrowing of the brows at the simple answer. There's not a whole lot to go off of, but for the most obvious statement, the actual direct answer to his question: as human as he looks to Amos, Geralt's not actually human.
He's also definitely not a hybrid protomolecule monster, so that's fine by him. They can communicate; they've reached some level of understanding. And his eyes are golden, very much not an unnatural blue. It's not like there's a threat.
Amos looks up, around at the empty hall they're in. Whatever being made here means — he can only assume something happened to Geralt to make him what he is; something different from what Amos went through considering how, much as he doesn't really feel like a person, he still very much is one. Still, considering how well they get along, who's to say if whatever Geralt went through was anything good — it's a really nice place. Spacious. Something he'd have never been able to conceive of.
He takes that much longer to soak it all in. What it would have meant to grow up somewhere like this. Homely. Places to hide.
Shit. Though, yeah. Nothing to be done about childhoods once you grow out of them. They are what they are, and all you can really do after is play the hand you're dealt. You get a shit hand, you play a shit life. Not a whole lot else to it.
(There are no dreams, no. Not even without a past to look back on, understand why you are the way you are. It's just one day after another until you're dead. And hopefully you don't fuck up too bad along the way.)
He looks back at Geralt. ]
Seems like a nice place to be raised. [ A beat. ] How come they stopped making your kind?
[ He thinks he can harbour a guess, though his only real experience comes from protomolecule hybrids. And whatever kind of threat Geralt might have posed back where he's from, he's not that. ]
no subject
He's also definitely not a hybrid protomolecule monster, so that's fine by him. They can communicate; they've reached some level of understanding. And his eyes are golden, very much not an unnatural blue. It's not like there's a threat.
Amos looks up, around at the empty hall they're in. Whatever being made here means — he can only assume something happened to Geralt to make him what he is; something different from what Amos went through considering how, much as he doesn't really feel like a person, he still very much is one. Still, considering how well they get along, who's to say if whatever Geralt went through was anything good — it's a really nice place. Spacious. Something he'd have never been able to conceive of.
He takes that much longer to soak it all in. What it would have meant to grow up somewhere like this. Homely. Places to hide.
Shit. Though, yeah. Nothing to be done about childhoods once you grow out of them. They are what they are, and all you can really do after is play the hand you're dealt. You get a shit hand, you play a shit life. Not a whole lot else to it.
(There are no dreams, no. Not even without a past to look back on, understand why you are the way you are. It's just one day after another until you're dead. And hopefully you don't fuck up too bad along the way.)
He looks back at Geralt. ]
Seems like a nice place to be raised. [ A beat. ] How come they stopped making your kind?
[ He thinks he can harbour a guess, though his only real experience comes from protomolecule hybrids. And whatever kind of threat Geralt might have posed back where he's from, he's not that. ]