[Something about being in the city makes Barclay think of Eudio— likely because he spent most of his time at Eudio in the city. Bad memories these days. He hopes it will pass soon, but the sounds of pipes creaking in the walls or buildings settling in their foundations remind him of the artillery. He's made himself tolerate some of the crowds&mash; the population isn't too dense yet, it hasn't been bad.

But still, it's a relief to be in the woods. Seeking the sancutary of trees and sunshine, a newly-worn path and tree-strewn road. His possum-shaped daemon trails after him.

That is, right up until—] Bloody Hell. [One hand full of newly picked berries, his flintlock in the other, he stares at the massive beast in the bushes. It seems unlikely that a single bullet is going to do much against the animal's vast green hide. He clears his throat and takes one s l ow step backward.]

[It's hard to say what is more aggravating and unattractive than being followed around perpetually by the bald white face of a possum.

Besides maybe-- when said possum is carrying a ridiculous holographic dialogue box about one's... what is that exactly? Social engagement preferences. Something. It's absurd. Barclay puts his hand through it once or twice, then accidentally douses the couch in water trying to splash it with his glass. It's not long before he takes leave of his home, tracking down the street and looking quite cross about it.] Can anyone, [he says,] point me to the nearest computer helping store.

[He's from the wrong century to have any clue that he is, in fact, part of a computer program. If I were you, I wouldn't bother explaining it to him. He's wearing his old Naval coat, which probably provides clue enough for the context at which he's coming at this problem from.]