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Henry leans forward, sensing that hurt. "That doesn't matter. Humans die. They live their lives tied to the same sort of dance. Unremarkable in the grand scheme of time."

"Dying and killing are two different things," Dorian points out, frown on his face. There's a pause before he asks,

"Do you know anyone who's died of natural causes?"

"No," he admits with no remorse. "Not personally."

Edited 2022-09-24 16:39 (UTC)

"Then you don't know what you're talking about," Dorian bluntly responds. "There's a difference between dying of natural causes and murdering someone. It's something that you'll only know if you've experienced both."

There's a complete lack of sympathy in Dorian's voice. As far as he can tell, Henry doesn't know what he's talking about.

"It doesn't matter," he huffs because death is death. "I've had enough of this. Let's go."

He waves a hand to the engine and frowns as it sputters but does not turn on.

"On the contrary, it does," Dorian points out. "And I suspect that's something you'll learn the longer you're here."

He reaches over to the motor to try and give it a pull, to start it up again.

And nothing happens.

Hmm.

"I find it interesting that the moment someone challenges you, that's when you decide the conversation is over," he says, as he tries (and fails!) to start up the motor again.

Henry just watches him blandly, ignoring his very accurate statement.

"I suppose you'll have to swim..."

"Yes, I suppose you will."

Dorian gives Henry a tense little smile. He's not getting in that water, thank you very much.

"Why are you scared of confrontation? Isn't everyone lesser than you?"

"So I refuse to engage," he explains. "Especially to someone who doesn't listen and is only here because he thinks I'm interesting."

He sits forward, waving his hand again. The engine doesn't respond.

"On the contrary, I'm here because you're my inmate. I'd be here, on this boat, with you, no matter what."

Dorian gives one more yank on the motor. And again, nothing happens.

"Hmm."

"I don't need to be pitied by you."

He watches with narrowed eyes. "Call someone," he finally tells him.

"It's not pity. It's my goddamn job," Dorian points out, not even bothering to hide the tenseness in his voice. He absolutely does not start calling, mostly because he's pretty sure he left his communicator on the ship? Whoops.

"If I pitied you, you'd know."

"Yes, your job. Much like the doctors and the guards before. Keep me from hurting anyone. Shut me up and use electricity when I dare to say anything off script. That is what you are, Dorian Gray," he says, revealing more emotion than he had anticipated.

Dorian will remember that. He doesn't want to push it right now, mostly because that's a whole mess he doesn't want to talk about. But the doctors and the guards and electricity...that's interesting.

Dorian leans in, little smirk on his face as he points out, "I don't think you know this, Henry. I'm a terrible warden. If you hurt someone who deserves to be hurt? As long as you're in my stay, I'll ignore it. Hell, even if you're not in my stay, I might get you a little cupcake."

A pause before, "It's if you hurt someone who doesn't deserve it, like all the idiot children we have on the ship, that's when we'll have problems."

Henry takes that in, giving him a bit of a smile. "Children are often just as cruel as adults," he points out. "But I can't do anything here with people who don't ask for it."

It is still a strange concept. One that Dorian's provided him and another that Jon has. He's been under tight control for so long that any freedom is sweet and inviting and intoxicating. He can't help but hope that's the case. Unfortunately, Henry feels like most people deserve it. Especially the children he slaughtered.

"You can't do anything with your powers for people who don't ask for it," Dorian points out, like it's the most obvious thing ever. "I'm sure you can get a knife here. Practice enough with it and you'll be able to do some damage."

Should he be saying this? Probably not! Is he? Absolutely.

He looks out to the now-desolate area and drapes a hand in the water again. Killing people isn't the point. He has to show them the worst parts of themselves; he has to make them see that part of themselves that they refuse to look at. They have to face it. And then, and only then, can he let them be free.

The others? The guards, the children? They were simply beyond hope.

"Should we call for help?" he wonders, deliberately switching the subject.

"We probably should," Dorian admits, with a frown. There's a suspiciously long pause before,

"Though I think I might have left my communicator back on the ship? Let me double-check."

He's kind of hopeless in some regards. Don't mind Dorian as he goes poking through his pockets.

Henry goes still for a very long moment. "You left it?"

Of course, Henry also doesn't have his communicator, but that's not unusual for him. He also didn't think he would get stranded.

"How - stupid."

"We'll use yours then," he says, with absolutely zero hesitation.

"I don't bring mine wherever I go," he says as if that's the most obvious thing in the world.

He's an antisocial brat! He has an excuse.

"So you left it?" Dorian points out, mimicking Henry's tone of voice. "How stupid."

Yeah, how's that taste???

Henry is unfazed by this. He can do childish mocking; it's the only sort of interaction he had for a long time. "I don't make a habit of it," he explains. "There is nothing but ceaseless prattling on it. People talking for no reason. And - "

He pauses there as a thought hits him. "I can find Jon. He - never took away his consent."

"If you can find Jon, then do so," Dorian says, with a little nod. There's a pause before,

"And I'd recommend scanning through the network every now and then. Yes, there is far too much childish prattling. But it's amazing what people will accidentally reveal when they forget that other people can read their conversations."

"It - gets overwhelming," he admits to him before settling down on the bottom of the boat, legs crossed and eyes closed. "Now stop talking."

He doubts that's actually going to happen, but he focuses on the rocking of the boat, on the gentle waves lapping against the side. He lets himself fade away, go to another place, to leave his own body and wander elsewhere. He pictures Jon, gets a firm image in his head, and his fingers clasp together. He doesn't notice it, but his nose starts to bleed.

At least he's successful.

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