Clara: Is something wrong, father? You look sad.

Interfector Mortis: Nothing of import, just… sentimentality, I suppose.
A longing to be that carefree again, to wield the shovel and the prybar. To feel the earth and the coffin under my hand….

Clara: You mean collecting bodies? Why can’t you do it anymore?

Interfector Mortis: It wouldn’t do for one such as myself to be seen scrounging in the dirt. And oh what scandal if I were to be discovered! No it’s far safer for the cause if I stay here and send my Wake out to collect our materials…

Clara: You know, people hardly pay attention at night. It’s easy to get anywhere if you look like you belong. You and I could go. I have always been… curious about your work

Interfector Mortis: Mmmm there is a cemetery further out of the city, one with fewer… security measures. I suppose… if you truly wanted to accompany me, that is… we might be able to make that excursion happen.
But you’d best do as I say once we leave these walls, Clara.

Interfector Mortis: I’ll listen and serve well, father. Haven’t I been obedient as of late? Perhaps it would be good for the both of us.

Clara: You have been quite well behaved my child. Maybe a treat would be proper.. I’ll make arrangements for appropriate clothing to be procured for you.

Clara: I greatly look forward to it! I won’t dissappoint you, father.

Interfector Mortis: I would expect nothing less my dear. [A hair ruffle and a small smile are all he gives before stalking away toward his own room. His own attire is… quite distinctive. Changes must be made.]

Clara: [She lets him go, watching the dark shape of his cloak vanish. Clara examines her own clothes. They will not do for the job. She waits for new clothes to be brought to her.]

Interfector Mortis: [What he has sent up to her are an older shirt, left behind by one of the less fortunate guests of Thanatica, worn but sturdy, and a pair of work pants (temporarily) liberated from one of his followers. Dark shades, of course, but nothing so striking as to attract undue attention.]

Clara: I don’t think I’ve every actually worn pants, you know. It’s kind of strange to have so little fabric around the legs. You find this comfortable, father?

Interfector Mortis: A far sight more comfortable than a [shudder] skirt. But, our situations are rather different. They’ll be more practical for our purposes tonight, easier to move in, and a far sight easier to *run* in if need be.
Do you dislike them?

Clara: No no, not necessarily. I’m just… getting used to it. I think it might have been much easier to travel around during the plague if I had something like this to wear. [She smiles at him, hesitant] So how will we sneak in to this cemetary, father?

Interfector Mortis: I’m sure you would have, dove.
It’s a ways out of the city, so we have a fair bit to walk, but once we arrive, theres not much to it but hop the fence.

Clara: I suppose that’s easier too, when the streets aren’t crawling with guards. I’m ready to go whenever you say the word!

Interfector Mortis: [A hand comes to rest on her shoulder, steering her out the door, holding her as they walk.]
Oh yes, much easier without guards and only a few policemen to avoid. Things are dangerous here, yes, but not quite as they were in Town.
Of course, for one such as you, it does become more… risky, to walk about at night, hence why the doors to our glorious Thanatica lock after dark. It would break my heart to have my precious Ammit stolen from me.

Clara: I wouldn’t leave you. You know that, right? You’ve taken care of me, I wouldn’t insult you by disappearing without even a note.

Interfector Mortis: Oh I know dove, but there are those who would see you taken from me. I trust you wouldn’t leave, especially considering you don’t know the city.

Clara: [And whose fault is that, she wonders.] Do you really think so? People were terrified of me in the town, they did not want to get near me, let alone… take me. Why would anyone want that?

Interfector Mortis: Because, Clara, you are a miracle, and here, miracles don’t last long unless properly protected.

Clara: What a strange place, to hate miracles. And these buildings... they're even bigger on the ground like this! It's... beautiful...

Interfector Mortis: I’m so happy to hear that. It really is a lovely city. Made all the more lovely by how many dead lay under it.
Dead the two of us will cure, dove.

Clara: Yes… I think I’d like that. It feels much better to raise the dead than to be the one the put them in the ground. I don’t know how Burakh could do it so easily…

Interfector Mortis: [His face darkens at the mention of Burakh, and he readjusts his shirt, uncomfortable.] *Burakh* put much more than just people in the ground. Although it may not have been *my* favored miracle, he still took one out of this world. And the world is darker for it.

Clara: I have to agree with you. There was another way, I'm sure of it. If only I hadn't failed to find it in time. I'm sure, no miracle would have had to die.

Infector Mortis: Darling, I doubt you or anything else could have stopped that butcher once he set his mind on the tower’s death.
It’s only a shame that blasted town didn’t get wiped off the map with it.

Clara: I wish I could have tried. I can be persuasive when I need to be.
[She points ahead to a thick heavy fence] Is that where we're meant to go? It's so different from Grace's cemetery. Oddly... quiet?

Interfector Mortis: Yes! There it is, such a quaint little graveyard isn’t it?
[He lets out a small chuckle, smiling down at her.] Most cemeteries are quiet, little one. Grace’s was… special.

Clara: How strange. I cannot imagine knowing the dead are there, but not hearing them. In a way, taking them is a kindness. I don’t think I’d like it down there, alone and unheard.

Interfector Mortis: Thats what we’re here for, we take them back home, and let them come back for a time.
Now, [he boosts himself up onto the fence, straddling it, and offering her a hand] would you like to pick our subject?

Clara: [She takes his hand and allows herself to be pulled over the edge. Clara takes a moment to enjoy the coolness of fresh air] Alright! Are we looking for anyone specific? Man or woman? Or will anyone do?

Interfector Mortis: Anyone will do so long as they’re fresh enough. Look for death dates no earlier than a week ago, and pick the one you like the best. It’s your judgment, little Ammit.

Clara: As you wish…
[She looks around. The graveyard stretches out before her. Clara steps forward. She crouches before a grave.]
This one, I think.
[It’s a young man, died at thirty the week prior. He was a father.]

Infector Mortis: Delightful choice! Oh he should be *quite* a specimen to reanimate. [He seems altogether too gleeful about this as he begins shoveling dirt out of the grave.]

Clara: Can I... help? Or do you prefer to dig on your own. I've only ever crawled out of a grave, not in, haha.

Interfector Mortis: You can if you’d like. There should be a shovel or two in that shed over there, the sexton never locks it. Once we get down to the vault we’ll have to pry the lid off.

Clara: Sounds spooky. [she opens the shed and pulls out a shovel. It’s unweildy, but she manages to jam it into the dirt and help.]
Did you come here often? Before everything, I mean.

Interfector Mortis: Oh yes. Both for my research and as a quiet place to study. While not as busy as other cemeteries, it is rather more lax in security measures, which made it always an easy place to procure materials.

Clara: Huh. I suppose that makes sense. A doctor who seeks to understand and supersede death making friends with the dead.
I never liked the cemetery myself. Part of me was scared I’d fall back into the grave I came from, and I wouldn’t get out again. Not much of a concern now, though.
Oh! I think I just hit wood?

Interfector Mortis: Oh lovely! They were too poor for a vault. That makes our job much easier.
Would you like to do the honors of prying the lid up? Or shall I?

Clara: Lovely, right…
Why don’t you do it? I’m not sure I am quite strong enough for that, father.

Interfector Mortis: Don’t be silly, it takes hardly any strength at all. Leverage does all the work for you. Here, let me get it lined up with the nail for you…. There, now you push and I’ll help if you need it.

Clara: Oh— I— Okay...
[Clara pushes down as hard as she can. The wood makes a terrible noise, like an animal snarling, then a pop as she pries it up.]
That— That was not easy, actually. I think you might just be used to moving the dead. Fuck. Okay.

Interfector Mortis: Nonsense, its all physics. Let’s get the other nail on this side loose and then I’ll help you open the lid!

Clara: [Clara's face crumples for a moment. She draws herself up and takes a deep breath.]
Okay. One more nail. I can do that. It's— You'll help me if I need it, right? If I can't do it?

Interfector Mortis: Certainly dove. But I have every faith that you can take care of it.

Clara: Yes. Okay. Yes.
[She wedges the edge under the nail and presses down. It doesn't go as smoothly as the first, slightly bent as she digs it out. The nail pops, but Clara slumps against the handle of the shovel, her breathing quick and harsh]
How... how did you do this regularly...

Interfector Mortis: It’s not a difficult task. Especially once you get used to lining it up right.
[He pulls the shovel gently from her, before getting a good grip and wrenching the lid of the coffin up, exposing the contents to the world.]
Ah, there we go. Look Clara! Your first exhumation!!
Well, technically your second I suppose, if you count the self-exhumation at the beginning of the plague….
I’m quite proud my dear. Look at him!

Clara: He looks... well, dead, I guess. Creepy. Just a shell.
[She crouches to get a better look]
Hey, look, he's got a mole on his cheek like yours!

Interfector Mortis: He looks *perfect!* You picked wonderfully my dear.
[He peers over her shoulder at the man.]
Oh, it would seem he does. How charming. Let’s get him out and wrapped up then shall we?
[He pulls a tightly folded sheet out from the satchel slung across his chest, shaking it a few times to get it to unfurl.]

Clara: [Clara eyes the sheet warily. Maybe she let her desperation to go outside cloud her judgement.]
Alright, let's do it. How— *how* do your assistants transport these without getting caught?

Interfector Mortis: Honestly? You go fast but look like you’re not in a rush. Act like you belong there, like you’re doing exactly as you should be.
And, well, if all else fails, run.

Clara: [Clara laughs]
Well, if there's one thing that I can do, it's run. Uh— So what, You get the head, I get the legs, and we just... wrap him up?

Interfector Mortis: Essentially, yes. Makes it easier to carry him, see? Limbs don’t flop around as we move him. Once we get him out of the grave, I can carry him back home. We just have to put the dirt back into the grave before we leave.

Clara: Right. Not much point in being subtle if we leave the grave open.
[She laughs again, unsteadier, and helps Daniil wrap up the man. Clara moves slower than is strictly necessary, attempting to allow herself as much time outside as she can. They set the body aside, climbing out of the grave to begin to fill it again]
I guess I can see why you liked this. It's certainly invigorating, you won't be weak doing this three times a week.

Interfector Mortis: Really gets the blood pumping, thats for sure. It was even more fun when there was a real risk of getting caught. Of course, I don’t have the luxury of that thrill anymore, but even just being here again doing it myself is exhilarating.
[He moves the last shovelful of dirt and pats it down with a smile.]
There we are, good as new. Best get going toward home, we’ll want to get back inside before dawn.

Clara: [Clara looks out at the expanse of graves sadly. She doesn’t want to go inside, but there are little options present for her.]
Yes, father. I… I did like it, going out somewhere with you.

Interfector Mortis: Good, I’m glad to hear it.
[He hefts the shrouded corpse over his shoulder and tucks her under his other arm before starting off.]
It’s nice to see you taking a more active interest in our work. If you’d like we can arrange for you to spend some more time in the actual labs, not just for your own appointments.

Clara: Wait, really? I could? Yes, yes I would like that. There must be more for me to do than wait in my room and occasionally touch someone! Please, father, I would be happy to help more.

Interfector Mortis: [He smiles, surprisingly fond.] Of course dove. I’ll get it sorted for you in the morning. It’s quite lovely there I’m sure you’ll just adore the work.
[A shoulder squeeze, pulling her in a tab bit tighter.]
You know Clara, I really am proud of you. You did so well tonight.

Clara: [She beams at him, a full, toothy grin. Clara leans in to his touch, soaking it up like a flower pressing towards the sunlight]
Thank you, father. I want to do you proud. I believe in our cause, I do! I want to help you, to work at your side too.

Interfector Mortis: How about we have you help out with our newest subject hm? That way you can see him on every step of the journey, from digging him up tonight, all the way to giving his flesh new life.

Clara: How would I do that? I have been curious how you prepare a body for revival. I mean— don’t they… remove the important parts? Or is it different in a graveyard like the one we went to?

Interfector Mortis: Its true that embalming makes for a more… difficult.. revival. But it can still be done. He’ll just be awake for less time. One day when we get a really fresh one in I’ll be able to show you the difference.
OH! [His face lights up, delighted.] Oh we could open them both up afterwards. Show you how different they look on the inside!

Clara: [Well, she’s seen worse, hasn’t she? Nothing could ever compare to the stench of the freshly dead from the plague, of the charred skin bubbling and cracking from an army flamethrower. She’s gotten quite a strong stomach.]
Different insides… what about mine, then? Do my insides look like yours? Or would they look more like his?
[She points to the wrapped body.]

Interfector Mortis: [He looks her over, considering, calculating. Now that would be a truly interesting study. ‘Comparative anatomy of human to miracle’. Shakes his head to clear it.]
Ah, that’s something we might never know dove. Theres not really a way to check while you’re alive and well. Which is how I intend to keep you!

Clara: Can’t raise myself from the dead. I don’t think. I never tried. I did once exchange one person’s life for another but… I don’t know if I can do that for myself. Perhaps that’s my limit. I can only ever work in service of another.

Interfector Mortis: Do you? I find I dream of it too. Theres no fear, though. Not of death itself, not anymore. Only at the idea of my work not being able to be finished.

Clara: I think you’ve left a legacy that will outlast any of us. Your ideas have made their way into many minds. I’ve seen the way your wake looks at you, when you’re talking.

Interfector Mortis: I hope so. We’re getting closer and closer to our goal, I can almost taste it. Maybe my legacy wont have to outlast anyone. We might be around for a long, long while yet darling.
[They’re approaching the back doors of Thanatica now. He leans down, careful balancing the corpse, and presses a slight kiss to the top of her head, before letting go of her completely to unlock the door.]

Clara: [She sways towards him, the sudden absence of warmth leaving her dizzy and lost. For a moment, the briefest second, she contemplates taking off down the street and running until her legs stop working. She shakes it off and turns back to Daniil]
You’re closer to true immortality than the Kains ever were. They could only suspend the memory of a person’s mind, it’s not the same. What is a life if you cannot feel it?

Interfector Mortis: Exactly! They were thinking too conceptually, not practically enough.
[The door is open now. He holds it for her, before stepping inside himself.]
You’ve had quite a night my dove. I think it’s best you head on up to bed. I’ll see to it someone brings you food when you wake.
….And Clara? Thank you. For a lovely night with my daughter.

Clara: [She hesitates. Fuck it, Clara lurches forward and throws her arms around Daniil’s middle, hiding her face in his chest.]
Thank you. I liked it too. I want to do it again sometime, dad.
[She lets go before he can pry her off, and hurries off to her room.]

Interfector Mortis: [He stands there, barely keeping hold of the body over his shoulder, watching her go. The first hug he’s gotten in…. he can’t remember.]
I…. she really did enjoy it….

Interfector Mortis: He stalks out the door, blood rushing in his ears, boiling with fury, with rage at the disrespect. The disobedience. The—
He stops dead.
She had called Thanatica a waste of talent. Called his Thanatica, a waste.
He has half a mind to go back and really show her what such insolence brings. Turns halfway around before wrenching himself in the direction of his room. Something feels off.

He's not sure what, but it nags at him as he stalks to his quarters. Strides long, face drawn, not a man you want to get in the way of. Not a man in the mood to indulge any disturbances. When he reaches his doors, he almost storms inside, letting the door slam behind him with an echoing bang through the quiet halls.
Daniil flinches at the sound.

Flinches like it had been he himself getting slammed. Not real pain, no, but he feels... guilty? He's not sure why. It's just a door. Perhaps at the fact that all of his Wake know he is displeased. Although....
Would that not be a good thing? he thinks. For my Wake to know some misdeed has happened? To know to be scared?
That makes him pause. Does he want his followers to be scared of him? To cower? To flinch away? He begins pacing, wide, looping spirals around his room. No.. No I just want them to treat me with the respect and deference I'm owed. Which is exactly what Gore has failed at today. What the girl has failed at. He can feel his rage rebuilding, the kindling sparking in his gut again.
Who are they to think they have that right? Who are they to think themselves better than him? To know better than him? Gore is nothing but a tool, broken yes, but sharp. Yet, like many tools, easily disposible if needs must. Half a pity project, all advantagous opportunity. No one would be surprised if the forgeiner who got kicked out of med school ended up a criminal. That makes him marginally useful.
And the girl is nothing but.... The girl is...... The girl-

He stops in the middle of his loop. Face draining, eyes growing wide in mute, understated horror.
The girl- No.. No Clara is his daughter and he... he had- he just-
What had he done?
Daniil almost sprints back to her, back to the mess he's left behind. To his daughter on the floor, on her knees at his feet, bleeding that he's left. But-
No, I.. I cant. He jerks to a halt, halfway to the door in an aborted grab for the handle. I've... I've hurt her so much she was terrified I can't go back there now. It'll only make things worse. And oh what if Gore thinks he's going to hurt her more. He's strong yes, but Daniil has some doubts on whether or not he would be able to get a half rabid Edward trying to protect Clara off of him. I have.. I have to... god what have I done. How could.. how could I have ever...

Instead of rushing to his daughter, as he would like to, Daniil finds himself rushing to his own bathroom, trmbling, and coming to rest on his knees before his toilet, the sick barely making it into the bowl. His stomach churns as he thinks about what he did. What he didn't do. What he said, and didn't say. At how very cruel he was to the one person who matters the most.
He needs to make this right. How can he even begin to make this right?
How does a man come back from that. From doing that to his child. From making her so scared she stabs herself to get him to stop. To see that, to see her on her knees asking for medical help and to tell her to fix it herself.
Daniil retches again, trembling, sweat collecting on his neck, below the collar of his lab coat. He hopes Gore helped her. That another person today didn't abandon her like he had.

He gets no sleep that night, spending the hours alternating pacing, and rushing back to the toilet. He can't get the look in her eyes out of his head. Both when she spat words with all the vitriolic, venomous hatred musterable, and when she knelt there, wide eyes pleading with him for medical attention. Both make him nauseous.
It's light out by the time he finally manages to get himself to go to her. Armed with bandages, ointment, and, if it will be accepted (though he knows he doesn't deserve that), a father's love and embrace.
He steps out of his chambers, trying his best to be quiet. Unobtrusive, even. A first for him in all the years Thanatica has stood.
He has a daughter to find.

[She cuts a hell of a figure in the pristine halls of Thanatica. Tall, bold, unabashed — amongst the primly-uniformed scientist who stare as she walks past, she struts with her open coat and tight striped trousers, hands in her pockets, eyes forward. She doesn't even bother knocking at Dankovksy's door; she just shoulders it open and strides in to perch on his desk with a grin.]
Dankovsky, you sonnova bitch. Been too long.

Interfector Mortis: Stamatin. It’s been too long indeed, and yet it seems you’ve still not learned any proper decorum or manners.
[He rises from behind his desk, cutting a decently impressive figure of his own. The coat, the platforms, the demeanor, all working toward him seeing larger than he is, if not larger than life.]
While within the walls of my Thanatica I really must insist you use my proper title, no matter our history or familiarity.

Andrea Stamatina: [Well, he's changed. She eyes him up and down, taking him in. He was always serious — and a little full of himself — but now, he looks... well, he almost looks regal. She never thought she'd find Daniil Dankovsky imposing, but she almost does.]
Proper title, huh? [She reaches out to poke the nameplate on his desk beside her thigh, then folds her arms, pressing the bare swell of her breasts together under the coat.] Interfector Mortis. You always did get wet for Latin.

Interfector Mortis: It’s- [He’s sputtering, as often is the case when talking with Andrea.] It’s an appropriate term!

Andrea Stamatina: [Ah, at least he's still easy to fluster. Her wolfish grin spreads wide.] Yeah, and there are lots of appropriate terms in Russian, too. But I know which language you prefer to bark.

Interfector Mortis: Prefer to— Stamatina! [He shakes himself, trying to not let her get under his skin.]
It’s not as if the same gravitas is present in our mother tongue. Circumstances like these require a wee bit of ostentation.

Andrea Stamatina: [Her grin only grows. After all this time, it's still so satisfying to make him squirm.]
And ostentation you're certainly giving, Interfector. The matching uniforms are a cute touch, if a bit conservative for my taste. Bet you have fun peeling them off at the end of the day.

Interfector Mortis: [Daniil straightens, trying to regain his composure.]
The only peeling of uniforms I do at the end of the day is removing my own vestments. I wouldn’t be able to say if my Wake finds it fun.

Andrea Stamatina: [She stares at him, then throws her head back and laughs.]
Oh, you're fucking kidding me! You have a whole Wake hanging on your every word, calling you "death-killer," clawing their own eyes out to work here, and you don't fuck them? What's the point of a cult if you don't fuck them?!

Interfector Mortis: They are my colleagues, my underlings and, for some, at one point my students or mentees. It would reflect poorly on Thanatica to have misconduct happening within its walls.

Andrea Stamatina: Uh huh. [Oh, Daniil will know that tone in her voice and that glint in her eye. That's how she looks and sounds when she's making a plan.]

Interfector Mortis: And just what are you intending to do? It’s not as if you would cause a misconduct case you don’t work here!

Andrea Stamatina: Exaaaaaaaaactly. [She trills the word out.] And if their dear Interfector Mortis won't see what's under those uniforms, someone should.

Interfector Mortis: Stamatina…
[He just looks defeated. Honestly once Andrea gets something in her head it’s almost impossible to steer her from that course.]

Andrea Stamatina: Don't worry. [She stands up so she can grin down at him and grasp his chin in her hand, the way she's done many times before.] You know I clean up my toys after I play with them.

Interfector Mortis: [And damn if that doesn’t still manage to make him weak at the knees, even all these years and a new gender later.]
Just… Do try not to break anyone. I am rather protective of whats mine, after all.

Andrea Stamatina: You know... [She trails a finger down the line of his throat, stopping to hook it in the collar of his robe.] I've been wondering how much this body of yours has changed. What's it been, six years on the hormones now? Longer? [Her grin is sharp, too full of teeth, and her voice is a low purr.]
Fucked a guy who'd been on 'em for just a year. Y'know what he told me? Made his sex drive go through the fucking roof. They do that for you too, Danya?

Interfector Mortis: [Daniil’s mouth drops open, looking much like a surprised fish. He works his throat for an embarrassing long minute, trying to get words to work again.],br />I… Andrea… thats- I’m..

Andrea Stamatina: Oh, they do, don't they? [Too late. She's scented blood and now she's on the hunt.] Under that prim little robe of yours, I'll bet you're dripping.

Interfector Mortis: This is.. highly inappropriate…
[Never mind the way he’s shifting, thighs pressing together under the cover of his vestment.]

Andrea Stamatina: Ah, poor Danya. [She pushes her hand through his hair, then grips and tugs.] All that hormone lust, and no one to satisfy it... your Wake stuffed to the brim with handsome men and pretty women and not a single one of them is stuffing you to the brim. Pity, pity...

Interfector Mortis: [He gasps, throat bared as he looks at her with half lidded eyes.]
I…. Been busy..

Andrea Stamatina: But you want it, Danya, don't you? Always could read you like a book. All you have to do is ask nicely, and I might give you what you want. Hm? That's all. Just open those pretty lips of yours and say, "Stamatin, I want you to bend me over this desk and—"

Nadezhda Zaitseva: Interfector Mortis, I have the— [She stops dead, slackjawed and staring at the scene in front of her. A woman taller than both of them, half-naked save for a coat barely covering her nipples, grasping Thanatica's leader by the hair and purring filth into his ear. And he's not pulling away. And Nadya can't look away.]

Andrea Stamatina: [The way they're positioned, Daniil's back is to Nadya at the door, and Andrea herself is facing towards it. She raises her gaze from Daniil's face to look over his shoulder at the newcomer. She doesn't look annoyed at the intrusion — if anything, her grin only widens.] Oh, Danya, I did say your Wake was stuffed with pretty women... here's one now. My, aren't you a little pearl of a thing.

Interfector Mortis: [That shakes Daniil out of it. He jolts, ripping himself out of Andrea’s grip, takes a step back, straightening out & futzing with his coat, trying to cool off before turning to look at the intrusion.]
Ah, Zaitseva. You have the…?

Nadezhda Zaitseva: I-I can come back...

Interfector Mortis: No, no it’s quite alright. What [he coughs, clearing his throat,] what was it you had for me?

Nadezha Zaitseva: The... um... I... [She can't stop staring.]

Andrea Stamatina: [She, still grinning, has lounged back on Daniil's desk, thumb hooked in the front of her trousers to pull them down just slightly. The dusky trail of hair disappearing below the waistband is even more evident than usual, that way.] Spit it out, little songbird. Pretend I'm not here.

Interfector Mortis: Do ah, try to ignore her. Anything else just encourages the behavior. What was it you had to give me?

Andrea Stamatina: Oooooooooh, touchy. As if you weren't just panting in my hand like a puppy in heat, In-ter-fec-tor Mor-tis. [She overpronounces every syllable.]

Interfector Mortis: [Pointedly ignoring Andrea, he focuses only on Nadezhda.]
Zaitseva. What did you have for me?

Nadezhda Zaitseva: The... latest reports from Morokova's batch of testing. [She holds them out to Interfector Mortis, finally tearing her eyes away from Andrea.]

Interfector Mortis: Ah, you can set them in the desk, I’ll look through them later.

Andrea Stamatina: Yes... set them on the desk. [She scoots back on the desk, locks eyes with Zaitseva, and spreads her thighs wide to pat the wood between them with her palm.] There's room.

Nadezhsa Zaitseva: [She approaches, almost trembling. She sets the papers down beside Andrea and tries to back away.]

Andrea Stamatina: Ah, ah. Where did I tell you to put them, Zaitseva?

Nadezhda Zaitseva: [She stares. Slowly, she picks them back up and places then between Andrea's spread legs.]

Andrea Stamatina: Good girl.

Interfector Mortis: For the love of- Fine!
[He throws his hands up, exasperated.]
Do whatever it’s not worth trying to stop any of this, I’ll be in the main laboratory if anyone wants to get any actual work done.

Andrea Stamatina: And leave you hard and wanting, Interfector Mortis?

Interfector Mortis: I’m ignoring you, Stamatina.
[He storms out the door, also trying to ignore the damp patch in his underwear and the coiling heat in his gut.]