By the end of the day, Jeremiah is tired. He’s been browsing the dark web for muscle for hire, people experienced with Paths, and he’s got someone coming tomorrow. There’s a chair on the way as well; he hopes it comes before his new hire does, because the camp chair currently behind his appropriately impressive desk just ruins the effect.
He orders himself a burrito and saunters out of his office to check on the Paths. The class-G still hasn’t moved, and it’s been long enough, by now, that Jeremiah’s a little concerned. There’s no way it’s faking, not after this long. It’s way too whiny for that, it’d have been asking for water or crying or something by now. Snapping on a pair of gloves, he tips its head to one side and pulls a half-shut eyelid open. Dull, unfocused green eyes don’t move, and its face remains slack through the handling. He slaps it to make sure, and when that gets no response he’s ready to admit that it might need some attention. It looks dry, and it feels a little hot through the gloves. Trying to make it drink while it’s like this doesn’t appeal to him, though, and he sits back on his heels, looking at the other one speculatively. The class-J straightened when it heard him coming, and now it’s listening hard, head tipped to one side. Its breath picks up a little every time Jeremiah makes a sound. He grins and shifts one knee suddenly, scraping cloth against the rough cement floor. The Path flinches, and Jeremiah snorts.
“Jumpy much?” he taunts.