[ the window closes in front of them, like the bulkheads and viewports of the mithraeum slamming shut to block out that madness-inducing view of the approaching Beasts, and the whole feeling is faintly familiar. turtling down. mercymorn drifts in hades’ wake, still sipping primly at her own drink, finger worrying at the edge of the glass.
(she hasn’t felt real glass on her skin in so very long. it’s a rare commodity; not much of the empire has bothered with natural production when plastic does better.) ]
That thing is your father?
[ dripping incredulity and a little bit of disgust in her voice. the topic of parents and children has become more and more alien to her over the years; she’s infertile as all get-out, as notably established. the lyctors can’t reproduce. ]
How do you even… I mean, logistically. Was your mother the size of a skyscraper?
[ the saint of joy, ladies and gents. she’s not great with the whole consolation thing. ]
no subject
(she hasn’t felt real glass on her skin in so very long. it’s a rare commodity; not much of the empire has bothered with natural production when plastic does better.) ]
That thing is your father?
[ dripping incredulity and a little bit of disgust in her voice. the topic of parents and children has become more and more alien to her over the years; she’s infertile as all get-out, as notably established. the lyctors can’t reproduce. ]
How do you even… I mean, logistically. Was your mother the size of a skyscraper?
[ the saint of joy, ladies and gents. she’s not great with the whole consolation thing. ]