Myrnin is in the warehouse. He's been busy. There are circuit boards scattered across a table and something that looks a bit like the console of a computer via the steampunk era. It's made of wood, glass and copper. He's humming happily as he works.
"Don't worry. This isn't going to hurt. I'll promise you that."
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"Don't worry. This isn't going to hurt. I'll promise you that."
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Other things Beckett won't do: dance around singing 'I told you so!', smile and ask for some tea or hey, the smart thing of keeping her mouth shut.
"Worry, me? Just waiting for roses and wine. Best date of my life." If the bars of her cage are any indication, anyway.
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And he moves to the fridge to get a bottle of wine out and pour some in a glass. He passes it between the bars, holding it out to her.
"Go on. I wouldn't drug it. That would hurt your brain and I am one of those fabled men who do want you for your brain."
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"Only, like most fables, this will turn out to be much darker than sweeping me off my feet in romance."
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