It still smacks like a personal insult, to be reduced to just a thing to a higher being. She's spoken to the Captain a grand total of three times now, and still gnashes her teeth over:
You're fuel for my research. Nothing — more. I never sat down and talked to a can of gasoline to tell it how it was going to burn. — Can cans of gasoline talk back in your world.
No one likes being reduced to a living, breathing, suffering toy. One may burn themselves out for their own purposes, but the second that choice is taken away it breeds discontent and stokes rebellion. Tragically, their attempts to lash back just haven't found any purchase yet. Maybe never will, or maybe it was just a matter of time — but knowing they were not the first set of passengers to endure years of bending to the Captain's whims isn't an encouraging statistic. Also knowing how hands off the maybe-man-turned-almost-god seemed comfortable to be, confident they'd destroy themselves with only mild intervention... It rubs salt in the wound, but hurt in a relatively familiar way. Of course they would, that's what people just did.
Even as Number 6 falls into thoughtful silence and Clarke continues to dab at her heel with his handkerchief, she continues to talk. Specifically about the passenger makeup.
"We're just like any other small community in forced proximity. There's those angling for leadership and trying to enforce order, there's those lobbying for peace, there's the ones who keep to themselves by default and the ones actively trying to hide. There's innocent civilians, useless liabilities, children, anarchists and soldiers. Doctors and musicians, scientists and hippies, scholars and imposters.
"And psychopaths who pose a threat to everyone here. Plenty of them. Enough that it's at least a point of concern, and more and more people showing up every few weeks."
Even if Number 6 isn't looking at her, Clarke's very readily looking him square in the face. Then dipping her gaze to the chaos of the room, a reminder of why she was here; had heard wanton destruction and immediately thought danger, with enough of a panic response to run (hobble) headlong into it while nursing a fresh stab wound and fresher army-style triage burns.
no subject
You're fuel for my research. Nothing — more. I never sat down and talked to a can of gasoline to tell it how it was going to burn. — Can cans of gasoline talk back in your world.
No one likes being reduced to a living, breathing, suffering toy. One may burn themselves out for their own purposes, but the second that choice is taken away it breeds discontent and stokes rebellion. Tragically, their attempts to lash back just haven't found any purchase yet. Maybe never will, or maybe it was just a matter of time — but knowing they were not the first set of passengers to endure years of bending to the Captain's whims isn't an encouraging statistic. Also knowing how hands off the maybe-man-turned-almost-god seemed comfortable to be, confident they'd destroy themselves with only mild intervention... It rubs salt in the wound, but hurt in a relatively familiar way. Of course they would, that's what people just did.
Even as Number 6 falls into thoughtful silence and Clarke continues to dab at her heel with his handkerchief, she continues to talk. Specifically about the passenger makeup.
"We're just like any other small community in forced proximity. There's those angling for leadership and trying to enforce order, there's those lobbying for peace, there's the ones who keep to themselves by default and the ones actively trying to hide. There's innocent civilians, useless liabilities, children, anarchists and soldiers. Doctors and musicians, scientists and hippies, scholars and imposters.
"And psychopaths who pose a threat to everyone here. Plenty of them. Enough that it's at least a point of concern, and more and more people showing up every few weeks."
Even if Number 6 isn't looking at her, Clarke's very readily looking him square in the face. Then dipping her gaze to the chaos of the room, a reminder of why she was here; had heard wanton destruction and immediately thought danger, with enough of a panic response to run (hobble) headlong into it while nursing a fresh stab wound and fresher army-style triage burns.
"Do you know what type you're going to be?"