Abner’s response to being abducted by an alien is something like:
“Huwha?”
And then they’re moving through…Abner doesn’t know, but it’s strangely familiar in a way that he isn’t sure he wants to think about. It would mean remembering who knows how many tons of intergalactic starfish slamming down on him and then…not being. Or being, in a place that isn’t. And he doesn’t. He doesn’t remember. Not even a little.
Abner also does not know what decent chocolate is, but that’s unrelated.
He takes a moment to take in the room around him. It certainly puts the small one bedroom ARGUS has parked him in to shame. He runs his fingers through the furs.
“Thank you,” he replies. For the tea. For the leg. For putting up with him. “You have a lovely home.”
Truly, the politest of all supervillains.
“You, uh, asked how it works,” he says, after a moment. “I don’t really know. No one does, not even… But it’s a virus, not energy. The…symptoms were different for all of us.”
Startled confusion is not the way to dissuade Loki from teasing, Abner. That may be part of the reason he continues to check up on you!
The hall doesn't look much like a place meant for day-to-day living, more like the sort of set-up a wealthy person might have to impress their business associates. What that says about Loki, Abner will have to decide on his own. He's certainly not a business associate. But, there are some books by the furs, and Loki is quick to locate and hang a teakettle on a hook near the fire to heat up. He must spend some time here alone, himself.
"You're welcome," he says, and looks very pleased. All compliments are good compliments.
He sits on the furs across from him, folding his legs under him in a half-lotus position, which looks a little ungainly just because they're so damn long. "It's a virus, but the...discs or balls or whatever it is you shoot, those aren't just bits of virus themselves, are they?"
Abner doesn’t know what day-to-day living spaces look like, really. Nor does he know how wealthy people impress their business partners. He has never been either.
Abner’s own long legs remain stretched out in front of him. He’s still not sure if he’s allowed to move them or not, so he hasn’t. He’d like to. He’d like to take his socks off and bury his feet in the furs that his fingers are still lightly stroking. The sensation is calming, not that he’s particularly nervous at the moment. Just his normal, baseline distress at existing in general and not being good enough at it.
“Dots,” he corrects, gently. “And no, but: they never really figured out what they were. At the lab. They called it a plasma, but it can’t be officially classified. Sorry, I’m not a scientist.”
But he can feel them beginning to bloom (although bloom is far too pretty a word). They’re small at the moment: one on his shoulder, one on his back, and one behind his ear. They pulse under his skin with the promise of becoming horrible. The one behind his ear may suck in particular, but he can never tell which ones will stop swelling at a reasonable few inches and which ones won’t.
"So then, potentially, your dots are some byproduct of the virus' processes. Like carbon dioxide being exhaled from human lungs. Plasma is...a kind of matter, by Midgardian definitions, I believe." He's not a scientist, either, and while he has extensive knowledge of physics--enough to bend the laws thereof in his favor when the occasion calls for it--the was Asgard describes these things and the way humans describe these things do not always meet in the middle.
"Forgive me. I am curious, but I'm certainly not going to harm you or do anything against your will; you have my word on that." He imagines after extensive captivity on multiple fronts, being studied and hurt and used, anyone asking too many questions might be alarming.
"Are you allergic to anything? I was just going to make chamomile tea." It won't be long before he notices the growths, if he hasn't already, but he's trying to keep him calm and relaxed to give him a chance to heal.
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no subject
“Huwha?”
And then they’re moving through…Abner doesn’t know, but it’s strangely familiar in a way that he isn’t sure he wants to think about. It would mean remembering who knows how many tons of intergalactic starfish slamming down on him and then…not being. Or being, in a place that isn’t. And he doesn’t. He doesn’t remember. Not even a little.
Abner also does not know what decent chocolate is, but that’s unrelated.
He takes a moment to take in the room around him. It certainly puts the small one bedroom ARGUS has parked him in to shame. He runs his fingers through the furs.
“Thank you,” he replies. For the tea. For the leg. For putting up with him. “You have a lovely home.”
Truly, the politest of all supervillains.
“You, uh, asked how it works,” he says, after a moment. “I don’t really know. No one does, not even… But it’s a virus, not energy. The…symptoms were different for all of us.”
no subject
The hall doesn't look much like a place meant for day-to-day living, more like the sort of set-up a wealthy person might have to impress their business associates. What that says about Loki, Abner will have to decide on his own. He's certainly not a business associate. But, there are some books by the furs, and Loki is quick to locate and hang a teakettle on a hook near the fire to heat up. He must spend some time here alone, himself.
"You're welcome," he says, and looks very pleased. All compliments are good compliments.
He sits on the furs across from him, folding his legs under him in a half-lotus position, which looks a little ungainly just because they're so damn long. "It's a virus, but the...discs or balls or whatever it is you shoot, those aren't just bits of virus themselves, are they?"
no subject
Abner’s own long legs remain stretched out in front of him. He’s still not sure if he’s allowed to move them or not, so he hasn’t. He’d like to. He’d like to take his socks off and bury his feet in the furs that his fingers are still lightly stroking. The sensation is calming, not that he’s particularly nervous at the moment. Just his normal, baseline distress at existing in general and not being good enough at it.
“Dots,” he corrects, gently. “And no, but: they never really figured out what they were. At the lab. They called it a plasma, but it can’t be officially classified. Sorry, I’m not a scientist.”
But he can feel them beginning to bloom (although bloom is far too pretty a word). They’re small at the moment: one on his shoulder, one on his back, and one behind his ear. They pulse under his skin with the promise of becoming horrible. The one behind his ear may suck in particular, but he can never tell which ones will stop swelling at a reasonable few inches and which ones won’t.
no subject
"Forgive me. I am curious, but I'm certainly not going to harm you or do anything against your will; you have my word on that." He imagines after extensive captivity on multiple fronts, being studied and hurt and used, anyone asking too many questions might be alarming.
"Are you allergic to anything? I was just going to make chamomile tea." It won't be long before he notices the growths, if he hasn't already, but he's trying to keep him calm and relaxed to give him a chance to heal.