[ there are a number of them, the ones who have woken before he and the two he is accompanied by. are they considered older, by virtue of their experience? by the measure of time they have spent among one another, intermingling against the background ambiance of stray thoughts and emotions? the inner workings of this collective are unknown to him, and he'd prefer to play it safe and diplomatic until he's discerned who is who, in relation to who. even among a shared consciousness, there are individuals. and individuals have agendas.

there is a young lady. a braid in her hair and a greeting on her lips, and while he has returned to the mission directives featured on the item -- the databank, foreign and new, as the curved earpiece he's slid into the pockets of his kefta is as well -- there is no hesitation in the way he sets it aside and greets her. courtly manners and all, the nod of his head and the angle of his spine. she looks -- yes, maybe like she's just woken up. the darkling turns his eyes to the windows of their shared living space. it's not unlike barracks, or the halls of the little palace - though he's largely used to having his own designated quarters.

oh, that's right: ] How do you rest, with all the lights out there?

[ a minor curiosity. ] I've never seen so many lights. Not during the day, nor at night. [ -- is it night? ]