So it comes to this. Alone in a room with a miraculous box containing the galaxy's most deadliest, most perfect killer, and he has to invite her over from another reality to try and get to know her.
Finally, the world makes sense.
They even let him have his choice of room. The shuttle's practically empty; the three of them are the only passengers, after all. He's settled on one of the spare rooms. Nothing as ostentatious as a luxury VIP suite, but a nicely-apportioned room, the sort that an officer or mid-ranking guest might use. Comfortable, without being overwhelming. Soft carpeting, like fresh grass. The furniture itself is in the Azura style, all sweeping curves with hardly a sharp edge in sight, ideal for his purposes. A pity he doesn't need most of it. A low table is the biggest thing he needs. Hardly a thought passes between his ears as he hauls away the extraneous pieces, one by one, to the neighboring room.
A room with just a table looks less welcoming and more barren, though. But you’d be surprised the difference a little tasteful decorating can make. On each side of the table, he lays out a nest of cushions of varying sizes, enough that anyone could make themselves comfortable. Wall hangings are out. Lamps would be nice, but the room already has its own lighting, and any additional lighting could be a blunt object in potentia. Or a concealed knife. Small, thin, soft; harmless is the order of the day. For both their sakes. With some paper-folding and patience, he produces chains of flowers and intricate, multicolored sculptures. With gauzy silk, he fashions curtains for texture and color rather than concealment. It isn’t much, but he doesn’t need much to make a room comfortable.
Then there’s the matter of food. It’s never good to be too hasty when deciding on a menu, or its presentation. For as useful as hospitality had been in recent days, it made a poor first impression to seem like he was binding his guest with it automatically. No, the food here, sadly, may not be touched. But it would be smelled. Doesn’t that make all the difference in the world, sometimes? Imagine walking into a bakery without the smell of freshly-baked bread to greet you. Horrible. Now here, there should be nothing overwhelming or overpowering. A nice, pleasant backdrop, to be sampled if she likes. Or not. Perhaps she won’t be hungry, and that’d be. Fine.
He frowns, halfway through considering the shuttle’s larder. One question tumbles through his thoughts like a pebble bouncing down a hillside.
When you’re pulled in from another reality, would it also bring over whatever you’d eaten? Or would you always arrive completely starving?And the avalanche follows close behind.
If you were someplace cold before you were pulled over, would you be cold when you arrived? If you were in the middle of a fight, would your system still be flush with adrenaline? Would your heart still race with fear? Would you experience anything in transit? Would it be different every time? Time. What about time? Would you be gone from…wherever it was you came from, for as long as you were here? Would you remember what you were doing? Would you remember your time here? Would the original person share any of the perspective, the memories, the feelings? Would they experience both at the same time-
Questions. Questions. Questions. Questions without end. Questions without answer. Questions send him pacing around the room. Questions make him consider tearing it all down and starting over from scratch. Several times.
Once, he inspects the coffin. The cutters aren’t, strictly speaking, built into the walls of the coffin itself. Rather, they’ve been (expertly) bolted on to the sides, and if he had to guess, they also make use of whatever bit of Hermetic expertise keeps her asleep. It wouldn’t be impossible to remove. If there’s room enough for a Diodekoi and a coffin in the device, then there certainly was room for a sheep. He could get some answers. He could learn what she will need when she arrives. He could also awaken a bio-engineered killing machine without knowing the first thing about her.
Gingerly, carefully, his hooves find purchase on the face of the coffin, and he hauls himself up to the crystal-encrusted viewport at eye level. All he sees is bone and claw. Not even a silhouette he’s familiar with.
He leaves the cutter alone.
He decides on a hearty stew, spiced with those ingredients least likely to offend a sensitive palate.
He adds a board, affixed to the wall behind where he stands. He writes in giant letters. He writes in ink that contrasts sharply with the surrounding colors. He will not have to speak it first. He will not have to shout over her, if she is screaming.
Say ‘LAKKOS’ to leave here immediately
The only furniture is a low table; too low to conceal anything, no sharp edges. The material will break before a body does, and will not break into jagged pieces. The room is decorated with silken curtains that can conceal nothing, not even where the fabric bunches up, and paper origami fashioned with no possibility of secret hiding places. He carries no weapons, or badge of office. Simple clothes. Pockets empty.
Alone in a room with a miraculous box containing the galaxy's most deadliest, most perfect killer.
There is more he could do. His heart lies buried beneath the onrushing wall of questions. But to care for every eventuality would, ironically, be so overwhelming to her that it would leave other possible needs unmet. There’s only so much he can do.
His heart skips a beat when he pushes the button.
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