LOOK AT ME!

The other ... well, the other is the personal bit, and she's reached the point where she can't keep letting that get in the way. Marc has always said that he wants her gone. She didn't like that but she understood it, would even have gone along if circumstances hadn't blown up. He thought he was protecting Steven, and he may actually have been right.

But ever since then he's vacillated between anger, resentment and just the one bright flash of ... no, liking is too strong ... professional tolerance, before going right back to lashing out the second she says anything he doesn't like.

Case in point; his words rush past her, a few sticking like gravel and the rest taking conscious effort to push away. She's tried to get along with Marc, not only for Steven's sake, but it's just turning into a distraction for her now. A line needs drawing, much as she hates it, much as that line has a matching crack across her heart. She hopes, deep in her gut, that he won't let the body, and therefore Steven, actually die. The collateral damage of Steven's distress, his fear, his not knowing what the fuck is going on ... she wants keep protecting him from that, given Marc won't, but something has to give.

"Oh, no kidding?" She grits out, still walking, "Like I could possibly have missed that." That it's something bigger is most of the point. Another time, hearing that Steven has a crush might have been something that pleases her - so maybe it's better it happens now, when reality's crashed in and she doesn't have time for silly ideas. The next word that springs to mind is 'bullshit', but she keeps that unsaid. Marc's already frothing, she's not going to get into it with him.

It's not fair, and he knows it's not, but life isn't fair. When has life ever been fair? If life was fair, he wouldn't be here right now, arguing with a woman he doesn't know over the mad up man that's living in his head. He would be somewhere else, with someone else, and as much as he does feel some odd affection for Steven, he shouldn't be here. He's an escape, and he's grateful for the chance to rest, but fuck! How is any of this resting, when he has this thing in his head to protect, a god to obey, and this woman thinking all of it should involve her?

Because he is protecting him. He is, he is, he is--

Isn't he?

Whatever. He can't do this right now.

But he has to anyway, because life isn't fucking fair.

He has things he wants to say, though whether any of them are productive is up for debate and likely leans towards a resounding no. He's angry, and he's tired, and he's afraid, and none of those things have a way of coming out productively for him. They never have. And it's hot, too, and there's something after him. She walks off, and he follows her without so much as a second glance back towards the poor clerk. Steven would have looked back, would have done the right thing, but, as has become very clear, he isn't Steven.

He doesn't want to go with her, and he doesn't think they're a team, but he follows her anyway, getting into the car if for no other reason than because he's not done with her. Because he's not done yelling. Because he's not really sure what to do next if he lets her walk away now. Because despite the fact that he always is, he doesn't really like to be alone. And maybe they need to figure this out. And maybe he just needs a ride back.

Simone Ashley as Kate Bridgerton

Not that he particularly cared what the other man thought, mind you. Not on a personal level, anyway. However, on a professional level, it wouldn't do to turn him against him while he needed to stay in his home, and when it came to appearances, Mycroft hardly wanted to encourage any kind of negative reputation for himself or his family.

"It is not about what I do or don't do," Mycroft chose to point out. "It is about what other people do. You can choose to abstain from such behaviour, but you cannot control the rest of society. Unless you're willing to embrace being seen as an oddity, you're stuck having to conform."

And who wanted to be seen as different? Mycroft certainly didn't, and he hardly thought Matthew did either. The other man seemed keen to fit in, which was completely understandable given his circumstances. Having been thrown into an unfamiliar world filled with expectations, of course he wanted to do what he could to be seen as one of the group.

Whatever the case, though, it was unlikely that Matthew would turn him away, at least not for that. It didn't matter now, anyway. Mycroft made an interesting point as he continued, one that Matthew certainly agreed with. He hummed softly, giving a small tilt of his head. "I see your point." He did want to fit in here, wanted to find a way to make sense of this life that he was being put into. "I confess, I never considered fitting in quite as much as I do now."

Biology. Unlike congress or captivating, Keiko does recognize that word - well enough, anyway - thanks to the textbooks Papa has bought her to pore over in recent years. Not every scientific article out there is available in Japanese, and she cares enough about science to muddle through the frustrations of giant English words that she has to constantly check against a dictionary in order to understand.

She fails to understand its point here, though.

Besides, even as someone who doesn't put too much thought to the idea of gender, they have always found girls to be less cruel. Girls of this age, anyway. As with anyone, there tends to be a particularly difficult age, but Rosalind can hardly blame them. They know how it feels to live in a body that makes them uncomfortable.

"I think that depends on who you ask." Which is to say that the patrons seem to think so, but they wouldn't be too quick to judge. Really, they're trying to walk the line between their act and the truth, which is difficult when the girl doesn't seem the type to fall for an act. They like that about her.

She continues her questioning, posing a question that's complicated, but at this point, even only knowing her for a handful of minutes, doesn't surprise them. It's a good question, but the obvious differences between them will make it difficult to answer. Though they like to think they're smarter than they look, Rosalind knows very little about chromosomes. X and Y and all that, yes, but they've known a lot of people in this walk of life, and not all have been able to slot so cleanly, even into those most basic categories. Intersex doesn't get thrown around as much as hermaphrodite, as the sort of thing that can be pasted on a sign, or as the rather unimaginative half-and-half used by those on the other side of the rope. Rosalind prefers, at least as far as Robert and Roberta go, double-sexed, though Rosalind's biology is a little more cut and dry than theirs.

While admittedly the empath is still trying to get a hold of this particular Terran observance, Mantis cannot say that she is not enjoying it. The streets are full of beautiful colors and joyful music, spirits are high, and people are happy. They are proud. She can feel it on her skin, every second, from every angle, just how proud they are. Love is something to cherish, and being able to celebrate that with them, among them, fills her heart with bright gratitude.

Her brother has told her of this particular month and why it is important. And now here she is, getting ready to be proud of Taylor. Or proud with Taylor. Or to have Taylor be proud of her. She's still not sure how that works.

But that doesn't mean that she doesn't want to do something with Mantis. She's always been happier doing things with friends, finding it easier to regain energy when she’s among people she knows. Even then, she has a limit, but she's not worrying about that right now. Now, she's going to enjoy herself, and she's going to be proud.

As mistress of the house she had a duty of care to guests which now included the master magician her husband had so sought out. A man of brilliance, magic and manners as she had slowly come to realize. She might have thought she was entertaining one of the men from a French mission given the politeness and respect thus far.

So she gently waved to a comfortable chair where food and drink sat on a table beside.

"Please sit." The gentle insistence following as she took a chair for her own, dark eyes curious as she looked up at him then gestured for the lingering servants to leave. "I would be glad to know if there are any needs of yours that my household can attend to. I only have one request-"

She interested him. If he was to remain in Persia, then it would be best to gain some favor, and having Nadir’s family among his friends would certainly would certainly help that cause. So Erik sat as he was bidden, pleased by both the fine nature of the offered chair as well as the food and drink offered. He did not partake, not when it would require the removal of his mask, but he did admire it.

"I thank you for your generosity." He felt the presence of her gaze, the unspoken curiosity, though he found that, as her request was made, he was surprised. He did not think that many Parisian women would look so bluntly not only at him, enough so to meet his gaze, but at the cold truth of the world. She did not desire to hide beneath niceties and stories. The Daroga would not appreciate his truth, but he found that he wanted to give it.

But it's not only that. It's the way Anthony looks at Hiroshi. Keiko may not have loved Kentaro, but he was still a good man, still her son's father. He still had died before he truly got to meet his son at all. Anthony is not Hiroshi's father, and Keiko would not presume to ask that of him - but he has promised to be here, and there's a glimmer of a life that could have been in the way he smiles at her child all the same.

Then - just as she had suspected - he looks to her, and that glimmer disappears.

She doesn't say a word on it.

"No." The answer to Anthony's question is curt as Keiko places her tray down before an empty seat adjacent to her son's place at the head of the table. "Most of them are not even working today," she elaborates once she's settled into it, the edges of her lips twisting upward in amusement as she does. She can't say she's all that surprised, really, that Anthony hadn't picked up on their absence. "I gave all the help that I could spare the day off. But we - my mother and I - come down here often enough, regardless."

Kentaro had so rarely in comparison, even before they inherited this life, always seeing the kitchen as a woman's place. Beneath him in more ways than one by the time they'd moved in to one this large. Even as she'd slowly adjusted to this life, with all its new responsibilities and expectations, Keiko could never bring herself to agree with him.

"I was not born into this station, Viscount. Had I not married, I could have just as easily been any one of these women." There were only so many options for a woman on her lonesome, after all. Keiko did wonder, sometimes, whether a life like theirs would have been the better or worse choice. It would have been a harder one, near certainly, but it also would have been hers to live without answering to a father, a husband, a son. "Even married, I wasn't afforded the luxury of staying out of the kitchen that the women here are. Not until Kentaro's inheritance of this estate, at least."

Besides, he imagines that if he grows upset around her child, if he dares risk upsetting Hiroshi himself, he imagines he will see a side of Keiko that none of them want him to see.

So he keeps himself level as he places his plate on the table, returning to the uncomfortable seat that he makes no comment on. He can see, has seen, that the house is nearly empty, save for the three of them, which he does suppose that he is grateful for. There is hardly any scandal in what it is they're doing, at least none that does not boil down to the Viscount Bridgerton helping a new widow, but even that does come with a scent of something. He does not mind the help, but he has appreciate being left to work on their own. Still, he has known some houses in which it would not be welcome for the residents to eat downstairs, even if the help is not present. That does tend to be the houses of colder people, though. Houses in which the servants seek solitude from their employers. He has always thought that distasteful, though he knows there is a fair number of the Bridgerton staff that shy from him. The ones that were not present when he ran through the halls as a child.

"I see," he says, and he nods in what he does think of as acceptance. He does not necessarily consider the kitchen the woman's place, but it is certainly no place for himself. Not since he grew up. Still, here he is, and there is no one to scold him, anyway. There is a feeling to the silence that he has not experienced many times before. A silence that does not need not need to be begged for. It is pleasant.

He does suppose that there is some point in the fact that she could have been one of these women, but he never could have been anything but what he is. Oh, he supposes there is always the risk of ruin, but it would take a great deal to ruin the Bridgerton house.

She does not pity him. There is concern, perhaps, but not pity. She does not view Loki as someone weak, someone fragile. She looks at him and she sees a survivor. The thing about survivors, she knows, is that they rarely live. They survive, but they do not live. How, exactly, could she blame Loki for being distant? Mantis understands too well how difficult it is to survive. It is enough to wear down even the strongest souls. Thanos is dead, and the war is over, and everyone is tired. She knows this. She is tired as well. She wishes she weren't tired, but she is.

His comment is unexpected, though, and Mantis tears her gaze away from the stars to look at the trickster god once again. She does not understand. Why would he think that? She wants to ask, but she doesn't. She won't ask him to explain his pain. If he thinks that, he probably has reasons to do so. Everyone has reasons.

He does not look at her now, and he expends a great deal of effort to maintain a casual air, uninterested at best. He does not like the way he can feel her eyes on him. They are so big, and they pry at him, prodding for areas of weakness, of feeling. He does not like it. He is afraid she will find what she looks for.

That's a point she agrees on, very strongly. Thera understands the museum's motivation to keep tickets selling, their need to show the Board decent numbers, but they are in her opinion letting down the place's mandate to science and history.

Is she a purist? Probably. But she's also pissed.

"I know what it's like trying to communicate with corporate," She adds, drily, leaning forward with elbows on her knees, "I've spent plenty of time arguing with them back at the British. For institutions of learning they're really not willing to learn anything."

A pause then, tap-tap of fingers and a crease to her brow. "I wonder if ... " Glance to the side, thoughtful, "This is the kind of speculation that could get me sued just for saying it, but if they are putting 'genetics' here I wonder if this is a move from the companies ... free publicity to help recover from everything that went down."

On the one hand that's long-shot speculation, but on the other it's something companies like InGen would do. Put up the shiny front as a distraction, leverage the museum's own history ... Thera exhales, shakes her head. They don't even know for sure what's going to be filling this wing, it's too soon to start looking for conspiracies. Except that's what the people running conspiracies like you to think.

"So, yeah ... " She sits up again, getting back to the point after that brief mental wander, "Arguing with corporate just gives you grey hairs, so it's time to be thinking outside the box. I'll look into who we'd have to talk to and let you know." She seems almost happy to have a solid direction to look at now, despite all the 'ifs' and 'maybes', and her gaze flicks back toward Henry.

"I'm sorry. Of course." He shakes his head, smiles, runs a hand over his face. "You're being very kind, and I think I've been hoping for a miracle for so long that I'm making you into my own personal hero." He looks at her, and there's an awareness in his expression, a knowledge that he's made a fool of himself, and a hope that she won't find it too off-putting. "So let me rephrase. It would be completely understandable if you didn't do anything, but you're helping me, as the person in charge, even though you don't have to. Even though it's probably a waste of time. So thank you."

Honestly, that's just fine. He doesn't need it to be don for him. He's not all that sure why she would have done it for him in the first place, and it would have left him with an uncomfortable debt to someone he doesn't know very well. If anything, it makes him more motivated. They're on the same page--which isn't to say that he ever thought they weren't, or that any part of this would make him uncomfortable, but when he's kicked out on the street either way, he'll feel better about her involvement.

He laughs again, more of a huff this time, and with much less humor. "It's disappointing, isn't it? When you're in the field, or when you're here, somewhere you've spent your whole life trying to get to, and you really understand just how much of it is about money." At the end of the day, it's all just about money. Grants, attendance, performance, and the amount of money lining the pockets of the men in charge. He doesn't imagine she's any stranger to it, but if there's a downside to living his dream, it's that things are always a lot less shiny than how he'd imagined them as a kid.

His lips purse. He's not ashamed of his work with Parker-Genix, not with what they're doing, but it still feels like working for the enemy. At the end of this, there's going to be something that can help people, but the red tape of business is certainly weighing on him. He's not sure he wants to tell Thera about it, though. For one thing, there's an NDA, and for another, he's not certain she'll approve. He barely does himself. "I wouldn't be surprised if it is," he answers honestly. Not at all. "I'll keep an eye out for logos on my way out."

She wished that Taylor would trust her, that she would understand just how deeply Mantis cared about her. Even without using her abilities, the empath could sense the quiet restraint behind everything Taylor said and did, that careful demeanor meant to reassure. Mantis would not pry, would not push, would not press... but she would care. She would still care about Taylor.

There was nothing selfish about Taylor. At least not in Mantis' opinion.

Maybe one day she would tell her, but in the meantime, it wasn't Mantis's fault. It was her own.

Not for the first time, Charlie wondered if he'd been handed an impossible job. Did anyone actually expect him to solve this? Did anyone expect him to solve any of the cold cases he'd been given? Or was it all busy work to keep him from continuing to beg for his job back?

He tried his best to push those thoughts out of his head. That kind of thinking wasn't going to get him anywhere, and it certainly wasn't going to help him prove how capable he still could be.

"Yeah, maybe the pictures will tell us something," Charlie agreed as they trudged back to the car. "A second pair of eyes will be useful, anyway. I've stared at them so long that I don't think I'm really seeing them anymore, if you know what I mean?"

Even if Sebastian didn't spot anything new, having somebody to talk to would help. Bouncing ideas off another person could be invaluable, but it wasn't something Charlie could do anymore now he'd been relegated to his own team of one. Presumably Sebastian understood, though? He worked on his own too, right?

But if he was being honest, he wasn't any more sure than Charlie was that this wasn't an impossible job. Still, they were here, and if there was anything to be done, they'd do it. He might not have known Charlie well at this point, but he thought they were cut from the same cloth. They wouldn't abandon this girl, not without exhausting their options.

The walk back to the car was nowhere near as invigorating as the walk away. There wasn't that same driving hope, though he wasn't giving up. He couldn't say it wasn't a setback, one as much emotional as anything else, but it wouldn't be the first he'd encountered in his life, and it wasn't going to be the last. The important thing was to know how to pick himself back up and start again. It was a difficult skill to master, and not one he necessarily had yet, but it didn't stop him from trying. "Yeah, I do. It's the sort of thing that makes me wish I'd ever hired a partner."

But he'd never been the sort to work with a partner. In his personal life he'd always been what people liked to call an introvert, someone who preferred keeping to himself. The only reason he was married was because he'd been approached by someone who didn't believe in keeping to himself, yet had always been warm and respectful of Sebastian's boundaries. He'd always become a different person when he was on the job, bolder, more assertive, but he still preferred a solitary workday.

Marc, perhaps. Even probably, since the clerk isn't an enemy, just an unfortunate bystander. But it just doesn't occur to her as she goes to pause and look at Marc to see, to silently ask, if he will. To expect something of him that he might either not give or at the very least be annoyed with her for asking.

Plus she has a terrible 'own cross' habit of never asking for help anyway.

The clerk, thankfully, isn't dead. He's probably concussed, and though he's sitting up with his back to the desk is clutching one arm with the other. Thera crouches beside him, noticing his flinch as she takes a glance at his eyes before reassuring, "It's gone," and pulling out her phone.

Maybe ... it's grinding between her teeth like a mouthful of sand. part of her can still hear Steven on the phone, lost and scared and calling her to come save him. His face as he saw the jackal in full technicolor as opposed to her own vague shimmer, which is ugly enough. But if she keeps stepping in, keeps protecting him, it means Marc gets to keep his secrets and then hate her for it after.

Maybe it's time to go against her every nature, her every wish, and leave the poor sodding Englishman to the trials of 'tough love'. Maybe time to let Marc face up to the things he claims he can handle, and ... hope he fucking well can.

A long breath, in, out. Then she straightens up from beside the clerk and steps away.

"I'm outta here." There's still the wider problem going on underneath, and she needs to consider that as well. "Gonna find a hotel. You can come with me if you want. But either way, at the very least stop torturing poor Steven and tell him the truth." Maybe if he knows, he can let Marc be in charge. If he knows, he can step back when things go to hell. Maybe. Thera just knows things can't stay as they are.

She moves past him, and he looks after her, but he turns back quickly. She has it covered, and he can't imagine she wants him to follow. He knows he's been less than welcoming himself, but her dislike for him feels sharper. As a person, he's indifferent to her, but he's sure her dislike for him is personal. But all he's done has been to keep Steven safe. She doesn't see that, and she hates him for it. But that's fine with him. He doesn't give a damn what she thinks about him.

He takes a quick walk of the room's perimeter as she checks on the clerk, making sure that it really is gone, and that it didn't bring any friends with it. He needs a minute away from her, needs to think about what comes next. He needs to secure the scarab, and he needs to find out more about Harrow. Correction--he needs to get a certain bird-brained god to tell him what he knows. He's always a little cagey, only telling Marc what he thinks he needs to know, but this case seems strange. He just hasn't exactly had the time to focus on it. Maybe, his mind suggests, that's been by design. He doesn't know, and that only makes him more frustrated.

He looks at her as she speaks, and he straightens. It's been a long time since he was a soldier, and he'd laugh in the face of anyone who might suggest that he considers her a superior, but it's a mercenary's approximation of 'at attention'. Old habits, and all that. It passes quickly, though, and he nods. "We'll regroup." Which he doesn't necessarily feels is entirely warranted, but what she says next changes that, sparking both anxiety and a deep, uncomfortable irritation. Who the fuck gave her the right to dictate how he handles his life? Fuck everything he might have thought before, he actually doesn't think he likes her at all. But she's already leaving. He needs to leave her alone, to skip that and hop on the soonest plane he can, but anger is flaring within him, and it drives him after her.

She wonders the same thing. Loki dislikes many things about her, so she does not understand why he joins her, why he offers less resistance than one might expect. Mantis doesn't dwell on that, though. The festival claims her full attention, all bright colors and folk melodies. She feels the energy as if it were a river following its course, pulling her toward each little stall, each gleaming blade, each traditional garment. There is so much to see.

At the mention of spilling blood, Mantis slows down, eyes wide. That sounds painful — even though she understands why tradition matters. Still, a smile takes over her expression once again, polite and warm.

"I might get one as well. Or two." Mantis lifts the small bag of pastries she bought moments ago, letting Loki reach and take one if he wants. "We need to take a look at the book stalls later. They sell old, fascinating tomes." If she is not wrong, Loki likes to read. Perhaps he'll find a good book if he can't find a blade. She takes another pastry, devouring it in one bite. "...And I believe we will need more snacks."

One day he will return, but first he thinks he'd like to spend a century moping.

Still, he is here. He does not have much desire at the moment for bright colors or folk melodies, but he does figure that if he spends time here, it will get Thor to stop pestering him for a while. That, he tells himself, is the true reward.

She is startled by his words, and some part of him enjoys it. There's a power in it that he likes, but he will revel in it silently. He considers the bag offered to him, and decides that it will not be terribly out of character for him to take one. After all, Loki has always enjoyed indulgence. His eyebrows raise as she continues, as he takes a bite of the pastry. It is good, he has to admit.