All in all, Clarke looks like shit. Feels like shit, and had been sleeping like shit a few doors down in Cabin 108 before being jarred awake by the sound of exterior chaos. She's not so desensitized to not be moved to drag herself up off the pull out couch and gather herself to go investigate a commotion, but absolutely neglects putting her shoes on before leaving the confines of her confinement housing. Splintered chair bits and shattered glass are a decent beacon in an otherwise uniform stretch of hallway, and her approach lacks the usual care and caution.
She slots against the doorframe of 113 with a bit of a sigh, leaning heavily for support. If the man inside hellbent on destroying everything he now owns throws anything else out the door, it'll probably hit her square on — Clarke has neither the energy to dart out of the way, nor any real desire to. Her whole body already hurts, and she's got a hand firmly pressed against the freshly bandaged stab wound around her hip. A special sort of disregard for self preservation surfaces after almost dying, and Number 6 just happens to encounter her in this rare form. There's not even a flinch when he rounds on her and yells; just slake features, tired eyes and — if it's worth anything — a mild mix of approval and sympathy. The state of his room is an easy representation of what Clarke would like to do to her own. His rage is familiar, this horrible curse just isn't her first upheaval on board the Serena Eterna and she's quickly starting to feel like an old hat in dealing with magically imposed misery.
In response to his question that was more accusation than inquiry:
"...to sit down."
On whatever remaining chairs still stand, or else the small couch every room features. Actually, yeah, a seat feels more important now than any sense of decorum. Bravery isn't even a factor of stepping into the den of a perceived wild man, this is the overarching apathy brought on by pain and an existential crisis; any notion of fear is put to bed and subsequently smothered with a pillow. She'll try to avoid any sharp objects strewn across the floor, but if otherwise unimpeded is making a direct, stiff bee-line for a seat. She's comfortable in a grave.
another neighborly interaction
She slots against the doorframe of 113 with a bit of a sigh, leaning heavily for support. If the man inside hellbent on destroying everything he now owns throws anything else out the door, it'll probably hit her square on — Clarke has neither the energy to dart out of the way, nor any real desire to. Her whole body already hurts, and she's got a hand firmly pressed against the freshly bandaged stab wound around her hip. A special sort of disregard for self preservation surfaces after almost dying, and Number 6 just happens to encounter her in this rare form. There's not even a flinch when he rounds on her and yells; just slake features, tired eyes and — if it's worth anything — a mild mix of approval and sympathy. The state of his room is an easy representation of what Clarke would like to do to her own. His rage is familiar, this horrible curse just isn't her first upheaval on board the Serena Eterna and she's quickly starting to feel like an old hat in dealing with magically imposed misery.
In response to his question that was more accusation than inquiry:
"...to sit down."
On whatever remaining chairs still stand, or else the small couch every room features. Actually, yeah, a seat feels more important now than any sense of decorum. Bravery isn't even a factor of stepping into the den of a perceived wild man, this is the overarching apathy brought on by pain and an existential crisis; any notion of fear is put to bed and subsequently smothered with a pillow. She'll try to avoid any sharp objects strewn across the floor, but if otherwise unimpeded is making a direct, stiff bee-line for a seat. She's comfortable in a grave.