"There's a reason why all of the kiddies went crazy in Lord of the Flies," Mark points out, what to other people might seem like a non sequitur, but this is what he's made a habit out of lately. Trying to analyze people, figure them out, so much so that he can even have the whole of Harvard (and soon after, the whole of the population that finds itself plugged into the internet) around his pinky finger. He's not in it for the money so much as he's in it just because it makes him feel that if he plays the cards right, maybe someday he won't be the one simply watching, he'll be engaged and he'll be climbing toward the top of the ladder. Things like having groupies, being cool enough to give fat cats the finger, that matters, and it's just enough for him to keep clinging to the habit even when it's the last thing he needs. Maybe Lord of the Flies is a bit extreme, but Mark definitely doesn't see the merit on any personal level to smash people together on a tiny little island surrounded by endless water. People... need distance.
Most people, anyway. Mark can't help but feel that even when he's limited to the span of Boston (a small city for how major of a hub it is, by the by), he's alone there, this sole buoy in the water and other people just aren't close enough to him. Well, no. Not always alone. Eduardo—
—it kind of hurts to realize, but Eduardo's always been there, unfailingly, the kind of best friend to make it over to his dorm minutes after a blog post (which is maybe, by some people's standards, sad, but once you know Eduardo it's impossible to think of it as anything other than an incredible, admirable level of devotion). Always was there, anyway. Until Palo Alto.
"You sure it's permanent?" Mark asks, pausing for only a second before he continues down the boardwalk, glancing back enough for Wardo to know that he's meant to follow, that conversation can hold them together even when only tied by a thin thread. "There's gotta be a way off. Out. I'm assuming it was a wormhole that brought us here, I mean— it's got to be something like that, there have been theories even if there's nothing substantiated, and I'm sure there's a way to break out of here and to somewhere else. There's a reason why I'd rather go to New York than Hawaii. There's nothing to do in Hawaii, only so much time you can spend laying around and drinking out of coconuts."
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Date: 2011-05-20 05:51 am (UTC)Most people, anyway. Mark can't help but feel that even when he's limited to the span of Boston (a small city for how major of a hub it is, by the by), he's alone there, this sole buoy in the water and other people just aren't close enough to him. Well, no. Not always alone. Eduardo—
—it kind of hurts to realize, but Eduardo's always been there, unfailingly, the kind of best friend to make it over to his dorm minutes after a blog post (which is maybe, by some people's standards, sad, but once you know Eduardo it's impossible to think of it as anything other than an incredible, admirable level of devotion). Always was there, anyway. Until Palo Alto.
"You sure it's permanent?" Mark asks, pausing for only a second before he continues down the boardwalk, glancing back enough for Wardo to know that he's meant to follow, that conversation can hold them together even when only tied by a thin thread. "There's gotta be a way off. Out. I'm assuming it was a wormhole that brought us here, I mean— it's got to be something like that, there have been theories even if there's nothing substantiated, and I'm sure there's a way to break out of here and to somewhere else. There's a reason why I'd rather go to New York than Hawaii. There's nothing to do in Hawaii, only so much time you can spend laying around and drinking out of coconuts."