[And this smile is one of memory, of fond reminiscence, of knives slipped between ribs and razor blades under his fingernails - which he inspects, briefly and with a flash of apparently genuine concern. There's a fine line between appearing self-absorbed (which he is) and stupid (which he most certainly is not). But he won't present himself as a physical threat. The simple fact is, here and now, he's not one. If he were at home - but no.]
[That power sparking at his fingertips, it would be nice, but his real power's always been his tongue and experience.]
They're nice, but not amazing.
[His eyes flicker back and forth now as he explores his options. A beautiful mind, yes, but so blunted by violence as to be hardly recognizable. Violence, when wielded correctly, can be art, but only in certain contexts. It's never been to the marquis's tastes.]
[Think several moves ahead. He's arrogant, but defensive; no sign of any morality in particular, but that doesn't mean there isn't one. It just might be skewed, slightly shredded, worn, but it could exist. And self-preservation is a type of morality, too. Just because most people don't think it is . . .]
[He glances up, as though something's suddenly occurred to him. It hasn't. It continues occurring, unfolding in his mind, a flower of possibility. (With other thoughts trailing: Iris will owe me. Or Iris will learn not to make deals. Or Iris will suffer. Which he wouldn't mind, exactly. It might be temporarily annoying, but in the long run - it would be all right.)]
[Creed keeps coming back here. Right here. And Iris doesn't want him in here.]
If I'm being slightly more but still not completely honest, I have to admit I'm curious as to why everyone seems so adamant that you not be allowed in here. One of the only open spaces there is. Now, for me, who's used to cramped spaces - much more cramped than these - I wouldn't mind, which is why no one's bothered to restrict my access beyond - [He waves a hand.] begging the nearest life coach for the keys to the castle.
I can only conclude that even if a space like that isn't what you want more than anything, it's something you want. You can't beat access to a restricted area out of someone. Usually. And given my unfortunately involved history with your warden, I believe it's - unlikely.
[The implication, of course, being he has information about Iris. He does; whether that's what Creed latches on to is another question.]
Then, of course, there's the fact that I'm terribly bored of new inmates coming here, talking a lot, getting nothing done. You have the potential to go either way. [He shrugs elaborately.] Disembowelings aside, Mister Creed, you've got to be clever enough to realize making such a statement in your very first week leaves an impression that's incredibly valuable. Fear's such a good tool.
no subject
[And this smile is one of memory, of fond reminiscence, of knives slipped between ribs and razor blades under his fingernails - which he inspects, briefly and with a flash of apparently genuine concern. There's a fine line between appearing self-absorbed (which he is) and stupid (which he most certainly is not). But he won't present himself as a physical threat. The simple fact is, here and now, he's not one. If he were at home - but no.]
[That power sparking at his fingertips, it would be nice, but his real power's always been his tongue and experience.]
They're nice, but not amazing.
[His eyes flicker back and forth now as he explores his options. A beautiful mind, yes, but so blunted by violence as to be hardly recognizable. Violence, when wielded correctly, can be art, but only in certain contexts. It's never been to the marquis's tastes.]
[Think several moves ahead. He's arrogant, but defensive; no sign of any morality in particular, but that doesn't mean there isn't one. It just might be skewed, slightly shredded, worn, but it could exist. And self-preservation is a type of morality, too. Just because most people don't think it is . . .]
[He glances up, as though something's suddenly occurred to him. It hasn't. It continues occurring, unfolding in his mind, a flower of possibility. (With other thoughts trailing: Iris will owe me. Or Iris will learn not to make deals. Or Iris will suffer. Which he wouldn't mind, exactly. It might be temporarily annoying, but in the long run - it would be all right.)]
[Creed keeps coming back here. Right here. And Iris doesn't want him in here.]
If I'm being slightly more but still not completely honest, I have to admit I'm curious as to why everyone seems so adamant that you not be allowed in here. One of the only open spaces there is. Now, for me, who's used to cramped spaces - much more cramped than these - I wouldn't mind, which is why no one's bothered to restrict my access beyond - [He waves a hand.] begging the nearest life coach for the keys to the castle.
I can only conclude that even if a space like that isn't what you want more than anything, it's something you want. You can't beat access to a restricted area out of someone. Usually. And given my unfortunately involved history with your warden, I believe it's - unlikely.
[The implication, of course, being he has information about Iris. He does; whether that's what Creed latches on to is another question.]
Then, of course, there's the fact that I'm terribly bored of new inmates coming here, talking a lot, getting nothing done. You have the potential to go either way. [He shrugs elaborately.] Disembowelings aside, Mister Creed, you've got to be clever enough to realize making such a statement in your very first week leaves an impression that's incredibly valuable. Fear's such a good tool.