It's only spoiling if I ruin the surprise for other people. [So there!! The vibes are smug. None modesty. Idiot.] Sherlock is my favorite, but you might like Agatha Christie better.
[It's okay, just because they're there doesn't mean they have to be acknowledged!!! The wisdom of Luke, who (static noises) for (static noises) years and planned to (static noises)]
Well, the Sherlock books are a little older. And they're both mysteries, but they're pretty different styles. I'd say... Agatha Christie's books are more like puzzles? A clever reader can solve the mysteries if they're paying attention. They're funny, too. Doyle's Sherlock books, on the other hand--they're more like mysteries and adventures tied into one. And the reader doesn't always have everything they need to figure it out--a lot of times, Sherlock is the only one with all the answers, and you don't get to see everything until he points it out.
[I'll be real I've never read Agatha Christie I'm just parroting off the internet.]
In the end, though... they're both about people, I think. Just from different time periods, through different lenses.
also you're fine, i've also never read agatha christie so yolo.]
I see. [she tilts her head.] I think I'd like both. There's something... captivating, I think, about experiencing the world through someone else's eyes.
A mystery for one person is an obvious trap for another.
[You must be level 4 to unlock his tragic otome backstory]
Mm, that's true. If you let yourself get immersed in the characters, it's a lot more exciting. [He grins, a little sheepish.] I just get ahead of myself sometimes. But those books are part of the reason I became a detective, after all.
He smiles, though he scratches the back of his neck with a hint of embarrassment.]
I don't know about that. I wasn't lying when I said it was an accident. [But his vibes still aren't... modest... stupid.
Briefly, Throné might sense a prickling at the back of her neck--just a hint of the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. Luke's gaze flicks to the side, sharp, but beyond that, he doesn't react.]
I like the era of those books, too. It's a lot of fun.
oogh, she doesn't like the watched feeling. instinctively she looks over her shoulder, hand sliding down to the knife that's ever strapped around her thigh, but. there's nothing. a pause.]
... Well. I'll see if I can find them. The senior crew has been nice enough to put in an order for me already. [she says this pleasantly, but there's something wary and off-center in her when she says it.]
It's alright. [don't apologize. and - there's a little flicker of annoyance when the first sensation fades. just for a second! but she's very quickly distracted.
a beat, and then:]
No. [bluntly. not meanly, and not even end of story, but like. no, and also there's a flood of something that's like a strange mix of melancholy and a low, almost violent anger that she takes and neatly puts in a box. nope. not feeling that.
[Throné, repressing her feelings: stop repressing your feelings
He will not, though!!! Especially not in the face of hers. He lifts a hand on reflex, then pauses--but after a beat, he sticks with his choice, slowly extending a hand. If she flinches or cringes away, he'll let it drop between them; otherwise, he'll gently touch her arm.]
she doesn't cringe away this time because she can clearly see him doing it. there's no violence behind his action, and so she allows the touch. he is poisoned and he dies instantly (no).
she's a bit stiff, but she allows it! and even relaxes, after a moment.]
If I tried to force it off, it would flood my system with a fast-acting, incurable poison. [... wryly:] And I like living. So I'd prefer not to.
[In that case, he'll let his fingertips rest on her arm. As a combatant, she'll probably notice that they're not near her wrist, but rather, a little higher up--he could still grab her arm if he wanted to, but it would be a lot more awkward this way.
And then he keels over from poison damage HOORAY No okay. Actually, now it's his turn to feel a surge of anger; like hers, it's a cold, dark thing, a sharp knife just waiting to be aimed at the right target.]
...Is there a key? A code?
[FORGET ESCAPING THE SPACE SHIP THIS IS NOW HIS NEW MISSION no jk. He can multitask.]
no she - actually does not flinch away from the anger. she enjoys it, even though she knows she shouldn't. there's no guilt, nothing like that. just the acknowledgement that she shouldn't want to curl up in that fury and live there.]
There's a key. [she lifts the collar a little - shows him the locking mechanism hidden under the pendant.]
[He was doing so good at respecting her space a minute ago but right now he's too distracted by this to care--he leans closer, absorbed in studying the mechanism.]
Do you remember what it looks like? Could you draw a picture of it, if you had the supplies? [He looks like he's about to ask a bunch more questions, but then he catches himself, sensing the need to slow down.] I'm not--I understand your caution. I'd be the same way. It's just that, where I'm from, we have ways of dealing with this kind of thing. Tools and machines, all meant to dismantle dangerous devices without letting them hurt anyone. I doubt they'd have anything like that on this ship, [and if they did he'd have a LOT of questions] but if they were able to implant us with the I.R.I.S....
[Then maybe they have the technology to get it off of her safely, too?
It would take a lot of trust, though, even under much more normal circumstances than "y'all got convenient amnesia about this totally-not-a-kidnapping." He gets that.]
[she lets him look - she's tense, but she doesn't pull away or bat at him. it's fine. this time it doesn't seem like it's because he's in her space, it's just more because this is a tricky topic. i don't know a whole lot about the mechanism itself because it's kind of just vaguely talked about but you can imagine that for a medieval device that was probably infused with magic at some point, it's a pretty sturdy lock. it's lightweight.
as for all of his questions, she lets him get through it. her emotions are calm, but she's a bit shaky.]
No. [just, right off the bat.] I won't do it any other way than taking the key from the person holding it. I will break these chains with my own two hands.
[she knows that it sounds stupid or maybe even needlessly stubborn, but it's important to her that she's the one who does this. that she's the one who frees herself. she can't accept help, or it'll never feel right. ]
[Imagine if Luke was like "damn actually I have one of these in my shop I know just the thing" and made her a copy of the key out of chewing gum and a toothpick or something
That's... complicated, though. On the one hand, he understands--he's stubborn and self-reliant too, in his own ways. He can't condone a quest of vengeance, but it's not hard to understand where she's coming from, or why she'd want to do this herself. On the other...
She'd called him a knight, before. Though it was embarrassing to hear, the comparison wasn't wrong. Just below that icy anger, it bothers him, the idea of not being able to fix this, and fix it immediately. It doesn't take emotionshare for that to be clear; he doesn't try that hard to hide it.
Finally, he pulls away. He rests his forearms on his legs, hooking his fingers loosely together. His expression is still dark, but he fixes his gaze elsewhere, as if directing it at this distant, unseen foe.]
[that would be incredible he just macgyvers her a key
there's something that does appreciate the desire to fix it. seven other people in her life also reached out to her and told her they'd do anything they could do to help her, and she loves them dearly for it. so - knowing that it bothers him makes her feel... good, makes her feel bolstered. even if she wants to do it herself, she knows she has support. that's never a bad thing.
he pulls away, and she exhales slowly, watching him. that soft sort of melancholy is back, louder now instead of just distantly present. it sits deep in her bones, curls around her spine and lungs and heart like thorns.
when he asks, she hesitates. she doesn't usually have a problem telling people about her collar, it's just... the details that get her. but.]
[He's good at keeping secrets--it's a core part of his work, after all. If not for these incredibly unique circumstances, he wouldn't have even told her about that.]
[she watches him for a moment more, and then - seems to decide that he's trustworthy enough for this.]
... The leader of the Blacksnakes.
[a quiet, roiling nausea rises in her, and she takes a deep breath. and then she shows him her tattoo - a snake that he can really only see the head of on her hand, considering her arm is covered.]
[Comes back to this after gagtagging twenty years ago
He glances down at the tattoo, his gaze traveling partly up her arm, as if imagining how far the tattoo might stretch. His jaw is tight, displeased, and his eyes are still very dark.]
An organization, then. [Figures.] You have a plan to take them down?
[This is, perhaps, a dangerous question to ask when he knows what kind of work she does--work that is, in a way, the opposite of his. But he doesn't like the idea of her trying to take on a wholeass mafia all by herself either.]
... Yes. I do. [but she glances at him, meeting his gaze for just a second. he knows what kind of work she does, and she figures he won't like the answer very much at all.] Cut the head off the snake.
There... are two. [steady, steady. calm. it's a very practiced thing - a heartbeat that doesn't waver, breathing even.
[It's probably not unexpected, the tumultuous conflict in his emotions and his eyes. There's compassion, of course--a deep, genuine ache, and that fury on her behalf, much too dark to be righteous. But for all the time he spends in the shadows, he is, ultimately a creature of light.]
...I worked a case a little while ago. [He says, finally.] Investigating the death of a man named Gordon Grant. He owned a chain of pharmacies--he was a very wealthy man, very successful. His wife had already passed away, but he'd had a mistress, and she lived with him at the time. His son, too, the one he'd had with his wife.
He had a little girl by her--Joey. Eight years old. [...] She'd always been... ill. In her body, and her mind. And the more we looked into the case, the more we found that things weren't adding up. [His tone, already quiet, turns icy and dark.] Eventually, we learned that Grant had used experimental drugs on his mistress while she was pregnant. After Joey was born, he used them on her, too. She wasn't born sick--she was the victim of her father's selfish quest for eternal youth. [...] I don't condone murder. But every time I think about this case, I can't help but feel that Grant got what he deserved.
[He falls quiet for a little while, until the anger dulls to a low simmer. Eventually, he lifts his head to meet her eyes.]
Your parents... I have no doubt that you'll make sure they're brought to justice. For what they did to you, and anyone else they might've hurt. [He hesitates, then, choosing his words carefully.] ...But I hope the choice you make is truly yours. Not what you think they've made you. Not something you may regret, when you can breathe again.
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What's the difference between the two?
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Well, the Sherlock books are a little older. And they're both mysteries, but they're pretty different styles. I'd say... Agatha Christie's books are more like puzzles? A clever reader can solve the mysteries if they're paying attention. They're funny, too. Doyle's Sherlock books, on the other hand--they're more like mysteries and adventures tied into one. And the reader doesn't always have everything they need to figure it out--a lot of times, Sherlock is the only one with all the answers, and you don't get to see everything until he points it out.
[I'll be real I've never read Agatha Christie I'm just parroting off the internet.]
In the end, though... they're both about people, I think. Just from different time periods, through different lenses.
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also you're fine, i've also never read agatha christie so yolo.]
I see. [she tilts her head.] I think I'd like both. There's something... captivating, I think, about experiencing the world through someone else's eyes.
A mystery for one person is an obvious trap for another.
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Mm, that's true. If you let yourself get immersed in the characters, it's a lot more exciting. [He grins, a little sheepish.] I just get ahead of myself sometimes. But those books are part of the reason I became a detective, after all.
[Luke your jobs.]
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I can see why you were recruited, then. [there's a little thought of i imagine you get ahead of yourself a lot.]
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He smiles, though he scratches the back of his neck with a hint of embarrassment.]
I don't know about that. I wasn't lying when I said it was an accident. [But his vibes still aren't... modest... stupid.
Briefly, Throné might sense a prickling at the back of her neck--just a hint of the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. Luke's gaze flicks to the side, sharp, but beyond that, he doesn't react.]
I like the era of those books, too. It's a lot of fun.
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oogh, she doesn't like the watched feeling. instinctively she looks over her shoulder, hand sliding down to the knife that's ever strapped around her thigh, but. there's nothing. a pause.]
... Well. I'll see if I can find them. The senior crew has been nice enough to put in an order for me already. [she says this pleasantly, but there's something wary and off-center in her when she says it.]
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Okay, but if you don't like them, then I never recommended them. [Stop. ...But he remembers her prompting him to ask before, so--] ...You okay?
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a beat.]
... Yes. [absently runs her fingers over her collar.] Sorry. I'm still getting used to feeling... other things.
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...Me too. Sorry. [The prickling sensation fades, then, as if pulled behind a curtain.
Unbidden, his gaze follows her hand.]
Is that--[Hmm. How to ask...]--comfortable, for you?
[He'd initially filed it away as an accessory, but now he's less sure.]
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a beat, and then:]
No. [bluntly. not meanly, and not even end of story, but like. no, and also there's a flood of something that's like a strange mix of melancholy and a low, almost violent anger that she takes and neatly puts in a box. nope. not feeling that.
well, the anger, anyway. the sadness stays.]
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He will not, though!!! Especially not in the face of hers. He lifts a hand on reflex, then pauses--but after a beat, he sticks with his choice, slowly extending a hand. If she flinches or cringes away, he'll let it drop between them; otherwise, he'll gently touch her arm.]
Why not take it off?
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she doesn't cringe away this time because she can clearly see him doing it. there's no violence behind his action, and so she allows the touch. he is poisoned and he dies instantly (no).
she's a bit stiff, but she allows it! and even relaxes, after a moment.]
If I tried to force it off, it would flood my system with a fast-acting, incurable poison. [... wryly:] And I like living. So I'd prefer not to.
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And then he keels over from poison damage HOORAY No okay. Actually, now it's his turn to feel a surge of anger; like hers, it's a cold, dark thing, a sharp knife just waiting to be aimed at the right target.]
...Is there a key? A code?
[FORGET ESCAPING THE SPACE SHIP THIS IS NOW HIS NEW MISSION no jk. He can multitask.]
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no she - actually does not flinch away from the anger. she enjoys it, even though she knows she shouldn't. there's no guilt, nothing like that. just the acknowledgement that she shouldn't want to curl up in that fury and live there.]
There's a key. [she lifts the collar a little - shows him the locking mechanism hidden under the pendant.]
... I know where it is, but I'm here, instead.
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Do you remember what it looks like? Could you draw a picture of it, if you had the supplies? [He looks like he's about to ask a bunch more questions, but then he catches himself, sensing the need to slow down.] I'm not--I understand your caution. I'd be the same way. It's just that, where I'm from, we have ways of dealing with this kind of thing. Tools and machines, all meant to dismantle dangerous devices without letting them hurt anyone. I doubt they'd have anything like that on this ship, [and if they did he'd have a LOT of questions] but if they were able to implant us with the I.R.I.S....
[Then maybe they have the technology to get it off of her safely, too?
It would take a lot of trust, though, even under much more normal circumstances than "y'all got convenient amnesia about this totally-not-a-kidnapping." He gets that.]
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as for all of his questions, she lets him get through it. her emotions are calm, but she's a bit shaky.]
No. [just, right off the bat.] I won't do it any other way than taking the key from the person holding it. I will break these chains with my own two hands.
[she knows that it sounds stupid or maybe even needlessly stubborn, but it's important to her that she's the one who does this. that she's the one who frees herself. she can't accept help, or it'll never feel right. ]
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That's... complicated, though. On the one hand, he understands--he's stubborn and self-reliant too, in his own ways. He can't condone a quest of vengeance, but it's not hard to understand where she's coming from, or why she'd want to do this herself. On the other...
She'd called him a knight, before. Though it was embarrassing to hear, the comparison wasn't wrong. Just below that icy anger, it bothers him, the idea of not being able to fix this, and fix it immediately. It doesn't take emotionshare for that to be clear; he doesn't try that hard to hide it.
Finally, he pulls away. He rests his forearms on his legs, hooking his fingers loosely together. His expression is still dark, but he fixes his gaze elsewhere, as if directing it at this distant, unseen foe.]
Who did this?
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there's something that does appreciate the desire to fix it. seven other people in her life also reached out to her and told her they'd do anything they could do to help her, and she loves them dearly for it. so - knowing that it bothers him makes her feel... good, makes her feel bolstered. even if she wants to do it herself, she knows she has support. that's never a bad thing.
he pulls away, and she exhales slowly, watching him. that soft sort of melancholy is back, louder now instead of just distantly present. it sits deep in her bones, curls around her spine and lungs and heart like thorns.
when he asks, she hesitates. she doesn't usually have a problem telling people about her collar, it's just... the details that get her. but.]
... Promise me that you won't gossip about it.
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[He's good at keeping secrets--it's a core part of his work, after all. If not for these incredibly unique circumstances, he wouldn't have even told her about that.]
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... The leader of the Blacksnakes.
[a quiet, roiling nausea rises in her, and she takes a deep breath. and then she shows him her tattoo - a snake that he can really only see the head of on her hand, considering her arm is covered.]
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He glances down at the tattoo, his gaze traveling partly up her arm, as if imagining how far the tattoo might stretch. His jaw is tight, displeased, and his eyes are still very dark.]
An organization, then. [Figures.] You have a plan to take them down?
[This is, perhaps, a dangerous question to ask when he knows what kind of work she does--work that is, in a way, the opposite of his. But he doesn't like the idea of her trying to take on a wholeass mafia all by herself either.]
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she takes a deep, steadying breath.]
... Yes. I do. [but she glances at him, meeting his gaze for just a second. he knows what kind of work she does, and she figures he won't like the answer very much at all.] Cut the head off the snake.
There... are two. [steady, steady. calm. it's a very practiced thing - a heartbeat that doesn't waver, breathing even.
and then:] Mother, Father.
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...I worked a case a little while ago. [He says, finally.] Investigating the death of a man named Gordon Grant. He owned a chain of pharmacies--he was a very wealthy man, very successful. His wife had already passed away, but he'd had a mistress, and she lived with him at the time. His son, too, the one he'd had with his wife.
He had a little girl by her--Joey. Eight years old. [...] She'd always been... ill. In her body, and her mind. And the more we looked into the case, the more we found that things weren't adding up. [His tone, already quiet, turns icy and dark.] Eventually, we learned that Grant had used experimental drugs on his mistress while she was pregnant. After Joey was born, he used them on her, too. She wasn't born sick--she was the victim of her father's selfish quest for eternal youth. [...] I don't condone murder. But every time I think about this case, I can't help but feel that Grant got what he deserved.
[He falls quiet for a little while, until the anger dulls to a low simmer. Eventually, he lifts his head to meet her eyes.]
Your parents... I have no doubt that you'll make sure they're brought to justice. For what they did to you, and anyone else they might've hurt. [He hesitates, then, choosing his words carefully.] ...But I hope the choice you make is truly yours. Not what you think they've made you. Not something you may regret, when you can breathe again.
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