[here she is, on the bridge, with another cup of heavily sugared black tea. well, one made up for the Captain, and then a green tea with honey for herself. it's been a careful, careful journey there with only one arm free.]
Would you have significant objections if I chose to do so?
[there's the real question. she can write, she can give it purpose and structure, she can make it into something other people can read, something they haven't read before because she hasn't written it before, but she won't press the purpose onto the unwilling.
[a single nod, and then Helena smiles, resigned and at a perfect peace at the same time. glad to have your blessing on it, Captain. whatever comes to pass, she'll invent a way to hurt. they won't know, until it comes to pass.]
They're already miserable that we're dying anyway.
[they're ungrateful, bubbles up in her mind, from some place where she's long since accepted her fate, but it's a passing bitterness. let go like smoke, to disappear.]
Not all of them know how to manage being hurt in order to survive.
[there's a pause, and then she has to set her cup down, because she's started giggling, laughing, genuine amusement in spite of the ominous shadow of the excursion hanging overhead.
breathe, breathe.]
Destiny is an octopus-
[trying really hard to not think this is funnier than it is. but her mental perception now involves sea life delicately slapping everyone on board with its arms, instead of the more formal paths it could have taken like the gods with a thousand arms.]
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captain, mid july.
Captain? Are you there?
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[the black tea is offered out with a little shuffling. he seemed to like it last time.]
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[takes tea]
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[no one tell the mutineers. she sips from her own cup, taking a second before she keeps going.]
Has anyone ever written for you before? Not a letter, not a note, but an actual work of literature.
[he's read everything in the library, enough to have it memorized. she knows this by now, been able to piece it together with enough context clues.]
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[there's the real question. she can write, she can give it purpose and structure, she can make it into something other people can read, something they haven't read before because she hasn't written it before, but she won't press the purpose onto the unwilling.
as to why? chalk it up to a wish.]
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Not particularly.
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[who knows when it'll be done. it'll need a translation into characters that other people can read. it might completely suck. but it's in progress.]
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Okay. Cool.
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...The upcoming deaths. How bad should they be, if we have a choice?
[because if they need fear, if they need misery, then she'll have to solve her own problems, and inflict it on herself.]
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Eh.
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Does it count for your fuel if I make myself suffer?
[she can do it. she knows what scares her. what hurts. turning the knife on yourself is easier than people think.]
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They're already miserable that we're dying anyway.
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Not all of them know how to manage being hurt in order to survive.
[it's learned. eventually.]
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[this is more from curiosity as to his thoughts than anything else - hearing him call the fiercely opposed understandable is surprising.]
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[the voice of the future says that in a week or so, she'll have very definite opinions on one Clarke Griffin and her taste in accessories.]
But from what I've observed, there doesn't seem to be a single one of us that didn't come from some hardship. The Erda has a particular type.
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[beat]
There's more than you'd think there would be. Destiny is very touchy, apparently.
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Full of arms like an octopus?
[she's joking.]
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I don't know.
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breathe, breathe.]
Destiny is an octopus-
[trying really hard to not think this is funnier than it is. but her mental perception now involves sea life delicately slapping everyone on board with its arms, instead of the more formal paths it could have taken like the gods with a thousand arms.]
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