( first and foremost how dare you perceive her this accurately, it's bordering on a second "roast of clarke griffin" in three weeks. secondly — something sad breaks across her face. )
I just — ( want to help? don't know what else to try? think it's all worth pain, be it a little or a lot? none of that feels like it'll land well, and while she can't quite manage a sigh, her shoulders droop and there's a hint of deflation. )
...I'm not doing any of this for myself. Do they want to be left alone to rot, or do they want something more?
( for what it's worth, she has the good grace and shreds enough of common sense to look absolutely horrified at that revelation. give her a second to reschool her features, though a visceral discomfort reigns supreme in the furrow between her eyebrows. )
Hunger is... it's a powerful drive. How... How have you managed to keep them all at bay for this long?
( clarke fights every single demon inside of her that's just begging to slam her forehead directly on the countertop of the guest services desk. she sees god in this moment of soul searching restraint, and finds him lacking. )
Right. Of course.
( ... )
So, how'd I do?
( you mad enough to tell her the finer details about floating her mom's body or... )
( how apt is the assumption that hungry vector ghosts make up the bones of this entire ship? because that's what she's now walking away with.
and how successful would it be if she showed up at the crew quarters door sum hours/maybe like a day later with a notebook, a pen, a knife, and the utmost determination to slip a piece of paper under the door? it's just like the bridge, after all right? )
( hm. well, not so unexpected enough to be completely surprising.
clarke has a long and storied history of standing in front of doors she can't open and trying to think her way through the locking mechanism. and there's not a lot about this particular one that anyone's seemed to know thus far so. time for some trial and error.
first, she leans in close and presses her ear to the metal of the bulkhead, in case there's anything to hear besides the rushing of blood in her own head.
second, she pulls out her knife, cuts on the pad of her index finger and writes Hello? in sloppy, smeared lettering before trying to nudge it against the nonexistent gap at the base. )
after the knock, there are no audible signs of response, but Clarke may notice that the smear of blood on the handle is gone very suddenly, as if wiped off by unseen hands.]
( well, forget final. it's hard to miss a smear of jet black suddenly go missing. but harder still to parse if that's an extension of the normal janitorial services offered here.
best way to test? repeat. the cut on her finger is already starting to clot and stopper up, but a good squeeze gets her enough to draw a decent two-inch line of blood on the door proper. and this time she watches intently. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Do you really only think of yourself? How can you be so selfish and want to sacrifice yourself? Are you just doing that for yourself?
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I just — ( want to help? don't know what else to try? think it's all worth pain, be it a little or a lot? none of that feels like it'll land well, and while she can't quite manage a sigh, her shoulders droop and there's a hint of deflation. )
...I'm not doing any of this for myself. Do they want to be left alone to rot, or do they want something more?
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And when you want to eat, there isn't room to want anything else.
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Hunger is... it's a powerful drive. How... How have you managed to keep them all at bay for this long?
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Magic.
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( though, dual edged sword, a little inspiring. )
...What did you mean a minute ago, when you said you were answering entirely separate questions than the ones I was asking.
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So for one of those, somewhere between the crew cabins and the bridge, I'd find them around...
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Around!
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Right. Of course.
( ... )
So, how'd I do?
( you mad enough to tell her the finer details about floating her mom's body or... )
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At... what...?
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Well, it's a bit too early to judge that, I think! We'll have to see!
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I appreciate your time. And I meant it, glad you're back.
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Um... Glad to be back! I'm pretty sure!
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( how apt is the assumption that hungry vector ghosts make up the bones of this entire ship? because that's what she's now walking away with.
and how successful would it be if she showed up at the crew quarters door sum hours/maybe like a day later with a notebook, a pen, a knife, and the utmost determination to slip a piece of paper under the door? it's just like the bridge, after all right? )
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so, not entirely like it.]
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clarke has a long and storied history of standing in front of doors she can't open and trying to think her way through the locking mechanism. and there's not a lot about this particular one that anyone's seemed to know thus far so. time for some trial and error.
first, she leans in close and presses her ear to the metal of the bulkhead, in case there's anything to hear besides the rushing of blood in her own head.
second, she pulls out her knife, cuts on the pad of her index finger and writes Hello? in sloppy, smeared lettering before trying to nudge it against the nonexistent gap at the base. )
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fourth, and maybe final: after a beat of thought, a very polite knock. )
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after the knock, there are no audible signs of response, but Clarke may notice that the smear of blood on the handle is gone very suddenly, as if wiped off by unseen hands.]
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best way to test? repeat. the cut on her finger is already starting to clot and stopper up, but a good squeeze gets her enough to draw a decent two-inch line of blood on the door proper. and this time she watches intently. )
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(no subject)