( that's about where the comprehension ends — a game of play-pretend of marc's behaviours, of what and why. words to the effect, an imitation of what he'd say and little more. the mannequin has no ability to formulate new thoughts, to formulate opinions of its own. its point of reference is marc spector — marc, specifically, not steven grant and not jake lockley, both of whom would provide a different, perhaps more measured perspective, of a through c, even if b was missing entirely.
it doesn't recall the mall, of course it doesn't, that was marc. the only memories it has, the only recollections it can pass comment on — wants to pass comment on, as far as 'want' goes — are the things that embed themselves deep within a person. the sorts of things that, for marc, are filled with shame, from the first time he'd took a crescent dart to a criminal, had carved a moon into their forehead, through to the last time. to when he'd helped an unworthy god take over earth. to when marlene had walked out for the last time, with their daughter, and he'd been informed that for her safety — not marlene's, but her's — that marc wouldn't know where they'd gone. that he'd never get that chance, not after everything he'd done.
but what it does notice is the way she tenses. the way she refutes his assertion. it decides, in as much as it can, that if she doesn't agree with him, then she's a threat. marc has never had much in the way of a survival instinct, and in the immediate, it seems the mannequin's inherited the same trait, for it doesn't back down in the face of fern's dagger — or, perhaps, it decides her dagger's barely anything worth worrying about. )
The travellers of the night. ( what does that mean? don't worry about it—
—or, you know, do, but the mannequin seems either disinclined or incapable of giving much more of an answer, instead opting to close the distance between it and fern with a sudden, surprising fluidity. one hand flesh, one hand plastic, the difference unclear thanks to the MARC SPECTORTM gloves-shirt-jacket combo, it favours the former, balled into a tight fist.
marc spector might not have any abilities, but violence is the one answer he knows to nearly every question, and so it's what the mannequin turns to, too. )
no subject
it doesn't recall the mall, of course it doesn't, that was marc. the only memories it has, the only recollections it can pass comment on — wants to pass comment on, as far as 'want' goes — are the things that embed themselves deep within a person. the sorts of things that, for marc, are filled with shame, from the first time he'd took a crescent dart to a criminal, had carved a moon into their forehead, through to the last time. to when he'd helped an unworthy god take over earth. to when marlene had walked out for the last time, with their daughter, and he'd been informed that for her safety — not marlene's, but her's — that marc wouldn't know where they'd gone. that he'd never get that chance, not after everything he'd done.
but what it does notice is the way she tenses. the way she refutes his assertion. it decides, in as much as it can, that if she doesn't agree with him, then she's a threat. marc has never had much in the way of a survival instinct, and in the immediate, it seems the mannequin's inherited the same trait, for it doesn't back down in the face of fern's dagger — or, perhaps, it decides her dagger's barely anything worth worrying about. )
The travellers of the night. ( what does that mean? don't worry about it—
—or, you know, do, but the mannequin seems either disinclined or incapable of giving much more of an answer, instead opting to close the distance between it and fern with a sudden, surprising fluidity. one hand flesh, one hand plastic, the difference unclear thanks to the MARC SPECTORTM gloves-shirt-jacket combo, it favours the former, balled into a tight fist.
marc spector might not have any abilities, but violence is the one answer he knows to nearly every question, and so it's what the mannequin turns to, too. )