And everything that entails, which is no small thing. Not just the ability to leave unmolested, but the ability to clear out without retribution, without punishment or death for being the poor fucks stuck here.
It might not be enough for them, of course. But they'd have to be stupid to refuse; that, or everything Holden accused them of being not ten minutes ago. He's trying to give faceless forces the benefit of the doubt now that he's realized he can; because, honestly, he prefers to.
"For the Chantry?" He shrugs. "Something they want, that we have, and that we can withhold until we've seen they've held up their end of the deal. If I had a better idea of what that is, I'd already be back at the command tent."
"If such a thing exists, we don't currently have it in our possession," is his immediate reply. Not impatient, just firm as Flint's eyeline scans back across the clear cut land to the great city lying below them.
It's a last look, shortened by the fact that they have done so at their leisure and there is little left to see. His hand comes away from its resting place at the dirk in his belt; the heels of heavy boot scrape softly in the loamy earth, early spring stalks of grass whisking about his calves. Flint rises with a great sway of the shoulders, sunlight dappling the nearly-black green of his coat into shades of yellow and rich brown.
Flint's answer isn't unexpected. That would be, of course, too easy; and wouldn't Fred Johnson have a good laugh, ask how Jim's hypothetical is any different from his holding onto a sample of the protomolecule.
(The difference is, of course, that it's the fucking protomolecule.)
"It was a deliberate question," he corrects, getting to his feet in turn. He looks back towards the encampment, mouth already pulling into another frown; there's no answers to be had there, very possibly nothing else to learn before they leave. "I hope you learned whatever it was you wanted to."
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And everything that entails, which is no small thing. Not just the ability to leave unmolested, but the ability to clear out without retribution, without punishment or death for being the poor fucks stuck here.
It might not be enough for them, of course. But they'd have to be stupid to refuse; that, or everything Holden accused them of being not ten minutes ago. He's trying to give faceless forces the benefit of the doubt now that he's realized he can; because, honestly, he prefers to.
"For the Chantry?" He shrugs. "Something they want, that we have, and that we can withhold until we've seen they've held up their end of the deal. If I had a better idea of what that is, I'd already be back at the command tent."
no subject
It's a last look, shortened by the fact that they have done so at their leisure and there is little left to see. His hand comes away from its resting place at the dirk in his belt; the heels of heavy boot scrape softly in the loamy earth, early spring stalks of grass whisking about his calves. Flint rises with a great sway of the shoulders, sunlight dappling the nearly-black green of his coat into shades of yellow and rich brown.
"Forgive me. It was an unfair question."
slaps a bow on this
(The difference is, of course, that it's the fucking protomolecule.)
"It was a deliberate question," he corrects, getting to his feet in turn. He looks back towards the encampment, mouth already pulling into another frown; there's no answers to be had there, very possibly nothing else to learn before they leave. "I hope you learned whatever it was you wanted to."
Even as he says it, he sounds level, unoffended.