Listening to both Depth Charge and Rosemarie, the Scarecrow took another tentative sip of his drink, only to have his nose crinkle a second time as he remembered why he'd stopped after the first one. He admittedly knew about as much about the military as he did about being human: very little, as neither operated the same way they did in Oz. That feeling of inadequacy rose in him again, as though nothing he did would make things work in the way they hoped. He may as well have been stuck on a pole in a cornfield again for as much good as he felt he could do.
And so, the former strawman sat silently for another moment as the conversation went on, pondering the entire concept of the 'greater good' and wondering if they really were doing the right thing. They were to get a name, to accomplish a goal and thusly avoid punishment for themselves and their fellow patients, but what if they didn't get it? Or what if giving the name the General the name was the wrong choice? After all, it was apparent that, like with the Wizard of Oz, they were being used. The consequences had been beneficial then: the Winkies were freed, the Wicked Witch no longer terrorized the people of Oz, Dorothy ultimately did return to Kansas... The same could not be said of what Aguilar would do if they accomplished their goal for him.
Creased formed in his face, his brow knitting as the alternative still weighed on the brain he was so sure he didn't have. They'd been given a gun, presumably to use it if they had to. But on who? The area and other patrons looked pleasant enough. His mind told him Rosemarie was the logical answer; he'd told himself that again only moments ago. The matter was that he just couldn't believe it- no, he couldn't accept it. If they failed, what were they expected to do? She wasn't a witch, wasn't someone who had to be defeated in order to bring about peace or to get a lost little girl home; she didn't look like she'd hurt them even if she could, and certainly didn't sound dangerous as she spoke of her friend. Was his name the one they were looking for?
The Scarecrow's frown deepened- it etched across him, no matter how much he tried to hide it behind the mug in his hands. He couldn't fathom it- how could that be right? It wasn't for the greater good, having to possibly harm someone they'd just met in order to avoid some sort of sanction. He knew so little about death, but Abe had impressed upon him that there was a permanence to it that couldn't be avoided. Though his time at the Institute only measured a few weeks, the Scarecrow had learned for himself just how fragile a flesh-and-blood body could be. Humans couldn't be put back together. It wasn't so simple.
His hands were shaking as he brought the mug to his lips again. He chose to occupy himself with his drink, no matter how awful it tasted. It was easier to swallow than the grim reality they were facing.
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And so, the former strawman sat silently for another moment as the conversation went on, pondering the entire concept of the 'greater good' and wondering if they really were doing the right thing. They were to get a name, to accomplish a goal and thusly avoid punishment for themselves and their fellow patients, but what if they didn't get it? Or what if giving the name the General the name was the wrong choice? After all, it was apparent that, like with the Wizard of Oz, they were being used. The consequences had been beneficial then: the Winkies were freed, the Wicked Witch no longer terrorized the people of Oz, Dorothy ultimately did return to Kansas... The same could not be said of what Aguilar would do if they accomplished their goal for him.
Creased formed in his face, his brow knitting as the alternative still weighed on the brain he was so sure he didn't have. They'd been given a gun, presumably to use it if they had to. But on who? The area and other patrons looked pleasant enough. His mind told him Rosemarie was the logical answer; he'd told himself that again only moments ago. The matter was that he just couldn't believe it- no, he couldn't accept it. If they failed, what were they expected to do? She wasn't a witch, wasn't someone who had to be defeated in order to bring about peace or to get a lost little girl home; she didn't look like she'd hurt them even if she could, and certainly didn't sound dangerous as she spoke of her friend. Was his name the one they were looking for?
The Scarecrow's frown deepened- it etched across him, no matter how much he tried to hide it behind the mug in his hands. He couldn't fathom it- how could that be right? It wasn't for the greater good, having to possibly harm someone they'd just met in order to avoid some sort of sanction. He knew so little about death, but Abe had impressed upon him that there was a permanence to it that couldn't be avoided. Though his time at the Institute only measured a few weeks, the Scarecrow had learned for himself just how fragile a flesh-and-blood body could be. Humans couldn't be put back together. It wasn't so simple.
His hands were shaking as he brought the mug to his lips again. He chose to occupy himself with his drink, no matter how awful it tasted. It was easier to swallow than the grim reality they were facing.