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Malcolm laughs lightly. "Infamous? They've never done anything wrong in their lives. Well. The parakeet is down to crime, if I'm honest, but snakes get a bum rap." He gestures to the stools on Walter's side of the island. "Have a seat. Tea?"

"Notorious. Ignomious. Of ill repute." Walter riffs facetiously, but he means to convey that he didn't mean infamous that badly. Though a chatty bird that's down to crime gets a fond look from him for reasons that will make sense if his file ever goes into circulation.

He sits, legs slightly swinging, unabashedly. "Absolutely. What do you have?"

Malcolm sets a box of different blends of black, green and herbal teas down in front of Walter so he can take his pick.

"And what do you have? You said you'd show me the weapon Trevor gave you."

He'll go for a tea that's black with a distinctive fruit flavor mixed in as well.

"Oh, right."

Continuing to set up his beverage experience with both hands, slowly a very Castlevania aesthetic dagger with a blood red gem hilt floats up out of Walter's back pocket. Its path is slow and curving, slightly wobbly like a line drawn with a tablet pen. Then it moves in a straight and purposeful swoosh forward, to finally nestle between the handles of Malcolm's knife block.

“A… a magic dagger? Can you float it into your assailant with enough force to stop them?” Malcolm asks curiously, examining it with interest, though without touching it. “Because fighting someone with a short blade takes a particular skillset and constitution.” He looks over at Walter’s face, meets his eyes if he can. “It’s intimate.”

Why are you making this so weird!!! Walter starts to lose control over the knife that rustles in its position over the knife block, and so to get it back under control he guides it to slow down and rest on the counter. It is, in fact, a honest reaction from someone who very much did not commit The Murder that way.

"I have no intentions of killing someone or even putting them in the infirmary. But so you know, it does go harder than that." He attempts a warm smile, isn't doing well and rubs his hands around the rim of an empty teacup to relax a bit. "Didn't want to go too crazy with the pets around. I have confidence by now, but it could still be startling."

Oh Walter. He’s a student of the fatal arts. And an awkward nerd that makes everything weird.

“If you’re going to have a safety plan that involves… telekinesis? I assume you practice it. Have you put this into a dummy in the Enclosure?” Malcolm asks. “Have you considered the backup plan if you’re too nervous to control it that way?”

He pours tea into Walter’s cup while looking at him expectantly.

"I'll have you know we've been practicing a good few times in the enclosure before I even got to keep it. Are you going to want me to prove it with your axe throwing targets?" Walter watches Malcolm warily. Is Malcolm thinking he's a nervous killer to his advantage or a hit to his pride?

He takes the filled teacup into his hands with a pointed bow that doesn't interrupt the words for too long.

"My first request was brass knuckles, and he acknowledged the merit in the idea, but that's not what he had on hand."

Edited 2024-05-31 01:25 (UTC)

“Brass knuckles.” It’s like a key piece of a jigsaw puzzle slotting into place, making all the ones around it suddenly fit. Malcolm studies him for a moment with a sort of intensity to his gaze that’s not there in normal conversation. His bearing is suddenly a little more confident. “You’re not concerned about looking them in the face when you kill them. You want that. You want to feel their breath on you. Feel it stop.” He tilts his head slightly. He’s fully aware this is all speculation, but all that stuff about the town turning on the killer… “Is that how you did it? Whoever you killed? Did you beat them to death with your fists? Or… have you not done it yet?”

Walter was not expecting any of that. It's actually impressive how thoroughly orthogonal this was to his actual reasons - something that would fit in his pocket to not give the threatening appearance of other bulkier weapons, blunt with less blood. During that meaningful pause he picks up the tea and starts drinking it.

It is about time that someone wondered what he had done, was sure it was murder given the contrast to his dull and easy life. His response staggers that shy stutter with some bitter sarcasm, a lot like the good flavor of the tea.

"I'm-I'm sorry, am I allowed to kill people here? Is there a self defense clause where that won't lengthen my rap sheet? Or maybe a cathartic part of my emotional journey! You really think that's my crisis management plan?"

Malcolm shrugs a shoulder, takes a casual sip of his own tea.

“Depends what you mean by ‘allowed’. Dostoevsky said that if there’s no God, then everything is permitted.” Another sip. “I think it’s cute that you think an inmate’s journey is impacted by anything as dull as a rap sheet, though. You’re thinking about this too literally. Graduation is more of an existential effort. The second chance offered here is about living a more fulfilling life than the one that got you killed.”

"A stroke killed me," Walter says, academically, sipping his tea. Malcolm's words are consistent with many accounts on the barge... and reinforce many of Walter's suspicions, that community enmeshment is the real goal, Pyotr's insistence that the deaths might even be staged.

"And my predisposition to that is pertinent to my plans. I had that kid Hunter run a checkup on me and write it up. I'll be messaging him if there are any medical injuries or issues, see if the results stay the same. Especially if I manage to avoid outright dying here, like you."

“I also haven’t killed anyone,” Malcolm comments with another casual sip.

"Have you inflicted grevious bodily harm?" Ohoho, answer to that might be interesting.

He considers that.

“Here or at home?” he clarifies.

Walter raises his eyebrows and licks his lips as he sips the tea. No clarification! It is his turn to be piercing and weird!

Malcolm sips his tea and waits patiently. He assumes Walter is thinking it over.

Given this silence Walter supposes he might seem unengaging being silent when it was, strictly speaking, a question. "Here." It's what's fair. Walter did say hand to god he hadn't killed anyone here.

"Some street thugs that tried to kill me a few ports ago. I put a knife in one's lungs - his own knife - and shot another in the shoulder with his own gun. ...I also killed a bunch of zombies in another port. Do zombies count? They're not technically alive," Malcolm says.

"I wouldn't be surprised if an inmate showed up one day who claimed to be a zombie and very offended about it," Walter riffs, though his tone suggests he accepts the notion that Malcolm was sure they were classical unintelligent zombies. He's basing it off bits and pieces from Shaun and Maggie, whom he didn't know were connected to each other for that matter.

"You really did that? And it was okay?" He's the one looking with new eyes now - wondering where Malcolm carries his weapons or if it looks like he took them off to chill out in the cabin. "Port residents wouldn't be revived or magically healed." It's pretty bold. Self defense, sure, but he thinks some inmates have presented as overzealous vigilantes, like Trevor had been.

“I only put the knife in one of his lungs and that space station had back alley doctors aplenty. I’m sure he was fine. …Unless a secondary infection got him, but you can’t really put that on me when he put that knife in my leg first,” Malcolm points out reasonably.

"If you're sure..." Malcolm sounds so matter of fact about it. The way Walter did when he committed his crime, before he knew he was caught. Should he be so at peace with himself? Is that really the answer?

Walter picks up his cup with both hands and sips it as he stares out that window. He's not yet gone to port and he's got the sobriety dreaming didn't have and the enclosure is always external to his thoughts unlike breaches are supposed to be. The light is nice but as an inmate it's not something he can control himself. "I was so fascinated by that story because... Nothing like that ever happened to me."

He doesn't mean to inflect it at, but subtly he does.

“What do you mean? You’ve never been physically attacked before?” Malcolm clarifies.

"There was never really a moment another person caused me to fear for my life. Or my dignity." He looks the opposite direction of the window again and starts using the telekinesis to pull the dagger back towards him from the knife block.

Malcolm plucks it from the air by the handle just to see if he can.

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