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I've been considering transferring into a heavier ordinance shell and using this one as full remote.

[No, she has not. Then again, after ten years, Bruce should be able to spot a joke when he sees one. She doesn't even look in his direction, she's comfortable acting like what she is around him.]

Reading. Hume.

Rnn.

[That grunt is directed at Hume rather than at the joke. Silly little anti-rationalist, the vigilante who wears his underwear on the outside thinks without the remotest hint of irony.]

On what subject?

What else?

[Meaning she's being introspective again. The nature of self.]

There are countless ingredients that make up the human body and mind, like all the components that make up me as an individual with my own personality. I have a face and voice to distinguish myself from others, but these can be reproduced autonomously. My thoughts and memories are unique only to me, and I carry a sense of my own destiny. I collect information to use in my own way; each of those things are just a small part of it.

All of that blends to create a mixture that forms myself, and gives rise to my conscience.

[There are not enough paper cranes in the world. Still, despite her dry phrasing, the tone is almost amused— a private joke at Bruce's expense. Her breathing continues regularly right over top of her speaking as if the two had nothing to do with one another. Well they don't, but she used to hide that fact.]

Maybe I'll abandon physical media entirely.

[But that would make the sex much more difficult.]

If that's the case, then why do we clothe ourselves the way we do? If one dressed just to protect themselves from their environment or to uphold social etiquette then there would be little variation.

[He tugs lightly on the lapel of her jacket.]

It reflects the way a person wishes to present themselves. Skewed though it may be, its a projection of our background, our values and tastes, our state of mind and the life we lead.

[Losing interest in her jacket, his hand moves to hers and lifts it, the watch she has carried from prothesis to prosthesis glinting in the light.]

Is your shell any different?

[A pause and a smirk.]

Besides, how else will you knock me around without it?

What useless memetic baggage we carry.

[She doesn't regret it. It would be very easy to break Bruce's wrist right now, but Motoko declines. Her mouth twitches when he smirks.]

Skill.

You always underestimate me.

It's usually more interesting that way.

[She's known about the EMP device for a while. If you were going to kill her offhand, you'd have done it. Aside from that... She looks up, finally, properly looking at him.]

Unless you have a better reason for me to stay?

[One of many contingency plans he'd developed in the early days of their mission. The EMP device along with everything else he'd allocated for impeding the Major had long since been committed Raiders of the Lost Ark style to deep storage.]

I'm sure I could think of one or two, given time.

[The few lines of age on his face crease familiarly as he leans in to kiss her.]

[His audacity truly knows no bounds. She accepts the kiss anyway, tilting her mouth with easy expertise to catch the best angle.]

Looking for new scars, Mister Wayne?

[He'd collected a few from her already, hadn't he? She liked them; they were like brands that said 'mine' in the same way as her hand around his wrist— indelibly.]

[As she became increasingly detached from the world, eliciting an emotional response had become something of a rarity. Getting her riled was like leaving some scars of his own.]

I don't think they'd suit you, Major Kusanagi.

[They were sweet in a psychotic sort of way.]

[Don't make her bite you Bruce.]

Don't you.

[And despite the mood, her tone is plastic and flat. The image of herself with seams and damaged nerve-net isn't pleasant— but then she'd never tolerate functional scarring for long. As appealing or otherwise as she might be aesthetically, that would be a tactical issue.]

[If he's half the masochist he was ten years ago, he'd probably enjoy it.]

Fine. No more jokes.

[... but only because they get in the way of the kissing.]

Good boy.

[Not for the first time she wonders what it would take to get him into a prosthesis like her own. He's wrinkling— his body is aging and when her fingers touch the back of his neck they're seeking ports that aren't there.

Not for the the last time she decides not so say anything. It would be admitting to a great deal of weakness to ask; too much like begging to make it past her lips.]

[He's the Omniverse's Greatest Detective and it's not the first time he prickles when her fingers don't find what they're searching for. He's an extraordinary man and the last ten years hasn't claimed any of his vitality, no matter how much abuse he's subjected himself to. But even so, he hadn't been the kind of extraordinary she wanted ten years ago and little had changed since.

Surviving this long hadn't been part of the arrangement he'd made with the Bat all those years ago. One day he would have no longer been fast enough, strong enough, quick-witted enough, and that would be it. He would have been a red stain in some backstreet and a deserted funeral. His meat and blood was what he had been preoccupied with all these years, what he'd placed his absolute faith in when evil came for him with guns and knives and twisted minds. Could he ever conceive of deserting his first love because it no longer worked the way it used to?

Not for the last time he says nothing either, shameful in the knowledge that he would probably forsake everything if she would only ask.]

They say we're anchoring for shore leave tomorrow. Type 3 civilised planet. I already identified a dozen of their premier traffickers of arms, drugs and sentients. You in?

Only if you promise not to bitch when I shoot a few of them.

[As if she'd miss any opportunity to get out there and hurt people. If he objects to guns, he should know better by now.]

Why not? It'll be fun.

You won't.

[Too many times now has he spent a mission pulling men out of her line of fire and while he never could save everyone, the moment he acknowledges that as truth is the moment she's beaten him.]

What do you want to do in the meantime?

I believe I will.

[One of these days she's going to shoot you old man, just to prove why what you do is such a bad idea. Still her slow smirk is genuine— if small.]

What indeed.

[As if there were any other choices, if the trail of hands down his sides is reply enough.]

[His obstinacy could easily survive a munitions factory's worth of bullets and still have no qualms diving into the line of fire.

An arm slips around her waist and begins to steer her (or rather give the impression that he can steer a mil-spec cyborg that weighs more than his car anywhere) leisurely in the direction of Neuropathy.]

I can't help thinking I just became a punching bag. Again.

[She allows it because it's easy, and because there's no one to see. Motoko has never been comfortable with the kind of familiar closeness that seemed to be necessary in so many romantic affiliations.

Even to herself, she was unwilling to call it 'romance.' Bruce was a reliable coworker, and good sex. Nothing more.]

You keep coming back for more.

[Nothing at all. Shut up.]

So do you.

[Try to pass him off as an idle fancy if you must, Major. He's not buying it.]

[Denial is par for the course with the Major.]

Do I.

[As is obstinacy with Bruce.]

Yes.

Interesting hypothesis.

[She can be dry about this, because they have this argument nearly every week. Lets pretend you're delusional, Wayne, because disagreeing as as good a confirmation as any. You won't get her to admit anything she's not ready to.

They're not the kind of people who can say 'I love you.']

Interesting deduction, you mean.

[They're in Neuropathy now. It had hardly been an epicenter of activity all those years ago, but now it's deserted. Once the major work had been done the rest of the team had either moved on to one of the busier departments or were forcibly chased out.

It's for the best. The noises would drive them insane.]

Is that what you're calling it?

[Teamwork is a thing of beauty, but if she lowered her standards much more, there would be no point in calling it anything but babysitting. Leaning back on a console is more pleasure than preparation, forcing him to come to her for what he wants rather than the other way around.]