Calan
The moment Finch swipes at the mud, Calan’s chin lifts, because that is obviously what guilt looks like, or defeat, or possibly both if you’re older and trying to pretend you haven’t been properly caught. When Carlo adds the extremely important cannon detail, Calan nods so hard his hood slips halfway over one eye again, but he doesn’t bother fixing it because the point has already landed beautifully.
He turns his attention back toward the stormdrain, where Boaty McBoatface has vanished into damp glory and possibly mortal peril, though Calan is much more interested in the glory part. The black gaps in the grate suddenly look less like ordinary drainage and more like a secret mouth into somewhere important, which is exactly the sort of place treasure likes to be. Treasure doesn’t usually sit out in nice dry spots with labels on it. It hides in unpleasant places so only brave, clever, properly rain-slickered people can find it. "She’ll need help bringing back all the treasure she found down there," Calan says, as if this is not an argument so much as a responsibility that has tragically fallen upon them. "She’s only little. What’s she supposed to do, drag it with a rope?"
Then Carlo mentions a seaweed empire, and Calan gasps, his eyes snapping to his brother’s, brows lifting with the dawning enormity of what they may have just uncovered. A seaweed empire would explain everything. The crab. The suspiciousness. The way things kept disappearing into drains and coming back different, or not coming back at all. Leaning closer to Carlo, Calan lowers his voice into a whisper. "Are you thinking what I’m thinking?"
He turns his attention back toward the stormdrain, where Boaty McBoatface has vanished into damp glory and possibly mortal peril, though Calan is much more interested in the glory part. The black gaps in the grate suddenly look less like ordinary drainage and more like a secret mouth into somewhere important, which is exactly the sort of place treasure likes to be. Treasure doesn’t usually sit out in nice dry spots with labels on it. It hides in unpleasant places so only brave, clever, properly rain-slickered people can find it. "She’ll need help bringing back all the treasure she found down there," Calan says, as if this is not an argument so much as a responsibility that has tragically fallen upon them. "She’s only little. What’s she supposed to do, drag it with a rope?"
Then Carlo mentions a seaweed empire, and Calan gasps, his eyes snapping to his brother’s, brows lifting with the dawning enormity of what they may have just uncovered. A seaweed empire would explain everything. The crab. The suspiciousness. The way things kept disappearing into drains and coming back different, or not coming back at all. Leaning closer to Carlo, Calan lowers his voice into a whisper. "Are you thinking what I’m thinking?"
I've never been one to half-ass shenanigans.
