Appeal of novelty. Daniel wonders what counts as novelty, for Armand. If he had enough of a mortal life to remember it, if it wouldn't matter anyway because the world has changed so much since he was born that it's an alien planet. How real does the world feel when you've done nothing but dissociate from it?

He can put quite a bit together by now. A first memory, running from slavers in Dubai. Pulled from a brothel at fifteen. The kind of origin that destroys people and doesn't let them rebuild, even if they want to. Even if they try. Daniel thinks about it in context of the things Armand has done, and he thinks about people he's interviewed and lived alongside, who suffered similar horrors, who never tortured anyone or had their kids executed.

But is he being naive? Over two centuries of cult abuse and programming. Near two more of 'recovery', in a time before things like therapy even existed. Does the time make it worse? Is he right, does every decade bring them further from humanity and towards an unearthly creature hovering down from a suspended bookshelf, eyes glowing?

Figure drawing, because his hands are steady. A funny thing happens, multiple internal reactions. Eyebrows go up and Daniel swivels his gaze over, head tipped back on the rest.

"Everyone always wanted in on those in Berkley, just to see who'd show up under the modesty cloth."

Something about remembering his hands. Is it—

Just a dig, probably.