In all logical ways, this should be considered a good outcome.
An unfortunate series of events leading up to the death of a dangerous person; a group led away from potentially condemning an innocent (?) girl by a quick-thinking woman willing to risk everything. The kind of thing that would have been a breath of fresh air, in a game: the kind of twist that would have everybody on the edge of their seats, wondering if they were going to convict Daisy â and sighing in relief, when they let her go.
It should have been good.
But then, no outcome could have been âgoodâ, really: no outcome but all of them â all fifteen of them â leaving the boat just as whole and alive as when they stepped onto it. Everything else was just⌠damage control, after Vamp set the ball in motion.
Seven of them left. Less than half.
The best thing she could do â that everybody, alive and dead, would appreciate â was find them a way out. If she focused on that, if she kept her mind on it, thenâ Nightingale thought she wouldnât think about all the things she hadnât been able to fix. The corpses, the executions, Nobodyâs arm. Tuesday.
Fix this, and it would make up for it.
âŚOr that had been the plan. But she didnât have the capacity to take direct action, like fighting Dot, and checking her room, sheâ she would prefer that to be something they did as a group, if they decided to. For what she could do on her ownâŚ
Paper, and pencils from the gallery; the battery on her laptop that Nightingaleâd brought with her had died some time ago, and so back to the old fashioned way it was. Taking as many notes as she could on as many readings as she could, discerning what machine was for what. Trying (key: trying) to estimate the amount of fuel a boat like this would take, and how long the supplies in the fuel room would last them, at maximum. Trying to figure outâ where they were, where they could go, collating diagrams of maps and the spaces theyâd seen in the Do or Dies, figuring out where they could be, how they could be.
Sheâd filled three sheets, six sides, perched on a chair in the lounge, her failed calculations and crossed-out ideas littering it, numbers and numbers and numbers, butâ real life couldnât be modelled, not in ways she knew, not with incomplete information, andâ andâ
âSakra. Damnit.â muttered, bitter, as she noticed an error that threw off everything sheâd been working on for the last fifteen minutes, and in the momentâ she pulled the papers towards herself, and crumpled them up into a hard, tight little ball in her hands before putting her hands on her face, instead, elbows on the table, brow creased in exhaustion â she hadnât slept, much, since the Theatre. Too much on her mind.
Too much to do. Too little getting done.
With their individual rooms being reopened up to them, Bandit felt relieved. Sharing a room with Daisy and Toto wasnât terrible, but those two particularly were so different compared to him. Not only that but Bandit preferred to have a room that was private to him -- one of the few good things this ship has offered him.
While tidying up his room some, his stomach growled. Somehow he had gone so long without something to eat. Maybe he hasnât been hanging around Nobody enough who seems to always have food in hand to offer him. He made his way to the kitchen.
In order to get to the kitchen, one would have to first pass by the lounge. Itâs been a while since heâs last poked his head in there, and curiosity pushed him to take a peak.
Inside was a familiar face, albeit looking rather exhausted.
âNightingale,â he says softly as if not to scare her. Bandit closes the distance between them while taking note of the scene in front of him. âWhat are you doing?â
Bandit grabs an unused chair and sets it beside the eldest passenger before taking a seat in it. He couldnât help but wonder what all this writing and calculations meant. He also couldnât help but wonder if sheâd been getting enough sleep at night, if at all.
âYou canât put your best foot forward if you arenât well rested.â
