Finch is having what can only be described as karmic vertigo where every bad choice of his life piles in front of him in tragi-comic detail, personified by two rain-slickered little troublemakers with evil gleams in their eyes. This is, without a doubt, what people call ‘reaping what you sow,’ and the Gods have given Finch a backhoe and told him to get to work. He can see the pieces fitting together in the mischievous smiles of the twins, their eyes glinting as they consider the trials ahead of the brave but small Boaty McBoatface. Combined with the tantalizing new knowledge of Thieves’ Cant and the hubris that must have also been an inherent quality of garden-variety children, Finch can see how he had effectively damned these children to curiosity themselves to death.
He catches the whisper between the two, and is also unfortunately thinking what they’re thinking. “You’re going to go down there,” he says flatly, a grim acceptance. Now, it wouldn’t be the moral choice to leave them to their fate, but Finch has never been a moral thief. He could wash his hands of this and go off, whistling a jaunty tune and wondering what’s for dinner. It would be so easy. He could do it. He was going to do it.
He groaned. “Alright. I’m assuming anything I say against the subject will only interest you little gremlins more.” He examines the dirt under his fingernails like its child’s blood. He knew he had to proceed carefully; any word of advice or paternalism, even if it was right and for their own good, would only scuttle them away from him. And if these two monsters were going down into the Fingers, he’d rather it be with someone who knew they could read the symbols etched there, not only hoped they could.
“Boaty’s probably gonna get overloaded with treasure. She’s a sturdy boat. Good for hauling. You may need a third hand to help move everything out of the tunnels,” He postulated, trying to spell out the idea enough the twins would think they came up with it on their own. “And it could be helpful to have something with you who’s been down there before.” He shrugs.
He catches the whisper between the two, and is also unfortunately thinking what they’re thinking. “You’re going to go down there,” he says flatly, a grim acceptance. Now, it wouldn’t be the moral choice to leave them to their fate, but Finch has never been a moral thief. He could wash his hands of this and go off, whistling a jaunty tune and wondering what’s for dinner. It would be so easy. He could do it. He was going to do it.
He groaned. “Alright. I’m assuming anything I say against the subject will only interest you little gremlins more.” He examines the dirt under his fingernails like its child’s blood. He knew he had to proceed carefully; any word of advice or paternalism, even if it was right and for their own good, would only scuttle them away from him. And if these two monsters were going down into the Fingers, he’d rather it be with someone who knew they could read the symbols etched there, not only hoped they could.
“Boaty’s probably gonna get overloaded with treasure. She’s a sturdy boat. Good for hauling. You may need a third hand to help move everything out of the tunnels,” He postulated, trying to spell out the idea enough the twins would think they came up with it on their own. “And it could be helpful to have something with you who’s been down there before.” He shrugs.
