bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
At Jack’s explanation, The Ark's reaction is immediate and uncontained. "What?!" It cracks out of her, sharp and bright as a snapped line, loud enough to turn heads across the room, though she doesn’t so much as flinch beneath the weight of their attention. Colour rises high along her cheekbones, a flush that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the sudden, violent churn of feeling beneath her skin. Jack might trust her with secrets, but he’s never shaped her into something quiet enough to hold them neatly, and the Ark was never built for subtle waters to begin with.
Murphy’s family. The words settle like ballast dropped too quickly, dragging something deep and dangerous down with them. She doesn’t look toward the Banshee’s captain, knowing that would be too obvious given her outburst, but an image arrives anyway, unbidden and vivid: herself slipping close, hands threading into hair, breath warm and intimate, before freezing the blood in his veins and snapping his neck between her palms. Her tongue drags slowly over her teeth, the last of the gin tipped back and swallowed as if it might drown the thought before it surfaces fully. It doesn’t, not entirely, but it smooths the edges, reins in the surge until it’s something colder, more controlled.
Her gaze finds Jack again, meeting his wink with something darker, something that glints like teeth beneath the surface. Rolling the empty tumbler beneath her fingertips, she lets out a low, humourless laugh. "Even if they manage it," she murmurs, voice gone silk-slick and edged, "it won’t go the way they think it will."
Her attention drifts, not aimless but deliberate, brushing over the room again before returning to him, one brow lifting as she angles slightly in her chair. "Not even half of them take care of their ships the way they ought to," she goes on, the words carrying a quiet, cutting certainty, "and even the ones who do...still don’t." There’s meaning in the look she gives him then, something unmistakable in the way her gaze settles, in the faint curve of her mouth that isn’t quite a smile.
"They treat them like tools. Like something to spend and replace." Her voice lowers, intimate but not soft. "So if they go digging for something like this—" her fingers tap once against the glass, a hollow little note, "—they won’t find devotion waiting for them. They’ll find everything they’ve ever taken." A slow inhale, her shoulders easing back as the storm inside her settles into something deeper, more patient. "And I’d wager," she adds, almost idly, though the darkness lingers in her eyes, "most of them won’t survive what answers."
Murphy’s family. The words settle like ballast dropped too quickly, dragging something deep and dangerous down with them. She doesn’t look toward the Banshee’s captain, knowing that would be too obvious given her outburst, but an image arrives anyway, unbidden and vivid: herself slipping close, hands threading into hair, breath warm and intimate, before freezing the blood in his veins and snapping his neck between her palms. Her tongue drags slowly over her teeth, the last of the gin tipped back and swallowed as if it might drown the thought before it surfaces fully. It doesn’t, not entirely, but it smooths the edges, reins in the surge until it’s something colder, more controlled.
Her gaze finds Jack again, meeting his wink with something darker, something that glints like teeth beneath the surface. Rolling the empty tumbler beneath her fingertips, she lets out a low, humourless laugh. "Even if they manage it," she murmurs, voice gone silk-slick and edged, "it won’t go the way they think it will."
Her attention drifts, not aimless but deliberate, brushing over the room again before returning to him, one brow lifting as she angles slightly in her chair. "Not even half of them take care of their ships the way they ought to," she goes on, the words carrying a quiet, cutting certainty, "and even the ones who do...still don’t." There’s meaning in the look she gives him then, something unmistakable in the way her gaze settles, in the faint curve of her mouth that isn’t quite a smile.
"They treat them like tools. Like something to spend and replace." Her voice lowers, intimate but not soft. "So if they go digging for something like this—" her fingers tap once against the glass, a hollow little note, "—they won’t find devotion waiting for them. They’ll find everything they’ve ever taken." A slow inhale, her shoulders easing back as the storm inside her settles into something deeper, more patient. "And I’d wager," she adds, almost idly, though the darkness lingers in her eyes, "most of them won’t survive what answers."
we didn't die, but no guarantees this time, but fuck it lets do it again
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
