<2/3>

Rocky sighed his way into a chair and a rocks glass of bourbon. London wasn't cold, exactly, but wet and cold were kissing cousins in meatspace.

He leaned back in his chair and Leaned Back into the Green. R0cky was waiting for him.

"They make it alright?" asked Rocky.

"They're whole," answered R0cky. "Fucked up, but whole. Not that it wouldn't fuck you up."

"Well, that's something," said Rocky. "Seems like the new transfer array is working faster. Like, a lot faster. They fell sideways into running positions–damn scene looks like an Egyptian mural."

"Hey, a fast pass is a safe pass." R0cky scratched his virtual nose. "These two are pretty quick on the uptake; they'll adjust in a few weeks. I was able to pull the feed from the alley and show them their murderer; it always helps to see evidence you were going to lose your monkeysuit one way or another."

"Glad to hear it," replied Rocky. "Therapists don't seem to die fast enough to keep up with post-death counseling demand."

"Your lips to Death's ears," said R0cky. "Hey." He turned his virtual eyes to his progenitor's. "Do you ever regret keeping your wetware?"

Rocky's body sighed again–it was an old conversation. "Yes and no," he said, as he had said many times before. "I'm glad I made a copy, I'm glad you exist, I'm glad the Green will keep us all alive forever, all of that is good. I'm excited to see how y'all turn a secret cybermind holding tank into humanity's future paradise."

"But..." prompted R0cky.

"Out of all of it, I just wish I could tell somebody without seeming like the worst mass-murderer in human history."

His erstwhile copy copied his sigh, and they sat together listening to the real rain echo the virtual.