( she actually has a lot of thoughts surrounding the topic of mizuki and making decisions for her, but like. that's a fight she's been fighting for the last two weeks
peer pressured by the impending promise of a song, clarke will finally sit down across from nikolai. and plied with empty reassurances that the worst to come from this game would be bloodied fingers and a bruised ego, but still not sure of anything, she spares a few moments to cast suspicious glances between the two of them. one familiar, one a stranger — both so, so strange compared to those she'd grown up among, yet perfectly in place on this cruise liner.
the knife abandoned on the tabletop is a bit too close to her, and clarke gives it a pointed nudge back towards the grooves nikolai had carved into the wood just before.
and then she pulls her own knife from the waistband of horrendously floral boat shorts. the left side, specifically — a glock lives on her right hip. the blade is rough but sharp, either accented with rust or splashed with long-dried blood; it fits in her hand almost like it'd been bent out of dilapidated space ship parts specifically to do so. the mai tai in hand is eventually placed off to the side, without any sort of coaster, and that condensation slicked palm presses to the table in front of her while clarke waits for mizuki to... start singing? whatever, her focus is set on the wood-grained spaces between her fingers. )
no subject
peer pressured by the impending promise of a song, clarke will finally sit down across from nikolai. and plied with empty reassurances that the worst to come from this game would be bloodied fingers and a bruised ego, but still not sure of anything, she spares a few moments to cast suspicious glances between the two of them. one familiar, one a stranger — both so, so strange compared to those she'd grown up among, yet perfectly in place on this cruise liner.
the knife abandoned on the tabletop is a bit too close to her, and clarke gives it a pointed nudge back towards the grooves nikolai had carved into the wood just before.
and then she pulls her own knife from the waistband of horrendously floral boat shorts. the left side, specifically — a glock lives on her right hip. the blade is rough but sharp, either accented with rust or splashed with long-dried blood; it fits in her hand almost like it'd been bent out of dilapidated space ship parts specifically to do so. the mai tai in hand is eventually placed off to the side, without any sort of coaster, and that condensation slicked palm presses to the table in front of her while clarke waits for mizuki to... start singing? whatever, her focus is set on the wood-grained spaces between her fingers. )