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he talks as if he himself were not in a god's hand. the words that fall from his lips are painful for her to hear, as if each one leaves a razor cut in her already marred flesh.[break][break]

regardless, absinthe listens intently, her hands shaking ever so slightly as she imagines what kind of life the giant has, unable to grasp anything but skulls and stone. a tool, for destruction and rebuilding. an object, not a being. a puppet on strings. absinthe increasingly finds kinship with it. she is useful to rocket. she imagines that is the only reason they keep her around, the only reason they keep anyone around, a feeling that resonates inside of her even as howard's fingers thread with her.[break][break]

for the briefest moment, she wonders to herself if howard is her friend. then, the thought dies.[break][break]

she opens and closes her own fist now, feeling the sensation of blood flow through her digits, and thinking how it would feel to take this machine's stone hands, to break them, and to weave them into a delicate lariat. for herself. a perverse and cruel fantasy.[break][break]

"do you think that, even if it did have fingers," she says coldly, after a moment of silence. "it would even know how to use them gently? or want to?"[break][break]

gentility is, after all, learned, and not inherent to the human condition. babies are born clutching things with all of their strength, however meager. they must be taught to hold without suffocating, to touch without hitting. in this way, absinthe sees regirock as a child. it is brutish, and it has not yet learned how to be gentle. giving it fingers would not fix it. it would just make it more capable of destruction. contact of any kind has been violent since the beginning of time.[break][break]

it is a bitter thought. howard is right: there is joy in holding another thing's hand, as absinthe feels now, having gone so long without the friendly touch of another human being, but there is also fear and terror and danger. fingers can also be used to hold weapons of war. to hold another human being's hand and hope that they will use those hands for good is a futile thought. looking at her own fist, absinthe is unsure she is capable of using her own hands for good anymore.[break][break]

she blinks once, twice, and looks back up to howard. "it's dangerous, howard," her tone suggests a woman on the edge of a blade. she teeters there for a moment before continuing. "i hope you know how to use it."[break][break]

dangerous. beautiful. scary. it reminds her of her chemicals. it makes her realize that if the golem is not utilized correctly, it will be the downfall of the people who thought they could control it.[break][break]

absinthe lets her hand fall. she glances away from howard. "i have to get to work," she says finally, in a small tone. "have someone arrange my quarters, please."

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