There is a bruise gone yellow and green on the back of Flint's head that makes the close crop of his hair seem mottled and strange. Happily, it is more or less invisible when his face is turned in the direction required to actually hold a conversation, and so this discussion can be conducted without any overt reminders as to the consequences of certain personnel issues. No one need think in overly dramatic terms such as 'Yesterday's mild head trauma may very well be tomorrow's slit throats', and instead they may focus on being something like impartial and realistic.
Or whatever. There is, at least, no lingering headache to blame for his present irritations.
"Idiocy and malice often look remarkably similar," Flint agrees, setting aside the topmost piece of paper on the stack he is presently managing while Marcus speaks. He's behind on the miscellaneous paperwork that requires his signature and there are only so many hours in the day to catch up with.
"Would stripping him of his crystal be at all productive?"
It's the natural thing to ask next, but Marcus doesn't have a ready answer. A longer breath out, focus diverting down to his own notes.
Some hasty work, separating out his own instincts, biases, inclinations, before producing a reply. It's easy to imagine an isolated life in a Gallows room, and easier still to remember. The pen held idle in his hand slightly fidgeted with as he says, "It may. For the sake of himself and his reputation as well as anyone else."
His head tips. But. "I'd wait. Allow him to have contact, company, for the time being. Most of his transgressions have been in person, shouted through the door during his episode, or in the low moments after. And if we set a precedent for how to handle people being foolish over the crystals—"
Well, the turn of his hand says. Maybe they're onto something.
A deffering flick of the fingers before Flint takes his pen up again notes the point. The time to easily punish public idiocy was probably five years ago, if not earlier. Nonetheless—
"Companionship would seem to do little to fix the issue. And we haven't the personnel to keep him on apron strings indefinitely."
His attention subsides only momentarily to the facing page under his hand. Requisition requests. Flips through to the second page and impatiently dashes his signature off.
"I don't care for the prospect of drugging him either."
Agreeable. If nothing else, it would present even more maintenance.
"Strangely, the better thing would be that he is truly is the son of a god of murder and Research can do something to cure him of whatever affliction that's caused. But it's notable to me he hasn't actually hurt anyone."
Or even attempted, really, beyond those hissing threats, resisting his and the Warden's efforts to subdue him. A different kind of problem that Forces is less equipped to deal with. A restless near-shrug, flicking his focus back up from where he'd been unconsciously watching Flint manage his papers beneath the current of this discussion.
"Isolation can be aggravating to the issue, that is all. What do you wish done?"
Without looking up from the papers, and while shifting the newly signed page to one side to dry while he reviews the next, he says, "I don't suppose we can cut his hand off and send him on his way."
Which is more of a statement than question really.
Flint's sniff is narrow, a short breath in. It is not without irritation. It is not, for lack of a better word, completely unamused either, though the tang in the air it leaves has an over steeped bitterness to it.
"In that case, we may as well slacken our grip on him here in the Gallows. He should continue work in the company of others outside it, but so long as he's here on the island there can be little reason to nurse him along. Either he will find his way, or he will hurt someone. Then we may at least have some basis on which to take a decisive action."
Better to lose two people—a murderer and whatever bait is unlucky enough to land on the hook—than to send the whole company preemptively clutching pearls over the treatment of Rifters, is not a thing James Flint would say aloud.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marcus;
There is a bruise gone yellow and green on the back of Flint's head that makes the close crop of his hair seem mottled and strange. Happily, it is more or less invisible when his face is turned in the direction required to actually hold a conversation, and so this discussion can be conducted without any overt reminders as to the consequences of certain personnel issues. No one need think in overly dramatic terms such as 'Yesterday's mild head trauma may very well be tomorrow's slit throats', and instead they may focus on being something like impartial and realistic.
Or whatever. There is, at least, no lingering headache to blame for his present irritations.
"Idiocy and malice often look remarkably similar," Flint agrees, setting aside the topmost piece of paper on the stack he is presently managing while Marcus speaks. He's behind on the miscellaneous paperwork that requires his signature and there are only so many hours in the day to catch up with.
"Would stripping him of his crystal be at all productive?"
no subject
Some hasty work, separating out his own instincts, biases, inclinations, before producing a reply. It's easy to imagine an isolated life in a Gallows room, and easier still to remember. The pen held idle in his hand slightly fidgeted with as he says, "It may. For the sake of himself and his reputation as well as anyone else."
His head tips. But. "I'd wait. Allow him to have contact, company, for the time being. Most of his transgressions have been in person, shouted through the door during his episode, or in the low moments after. And if we set a precedent for how to handle people being foolish over the crystals—"
Well, the turn of his hand says. Maybe they're onto something.
no subject
"Companionship would seem to do little to fix the issue. And we haven't the personnel to keep him on apron strings indefinitely."
His attention subsides only momentarily to the facing page under his hand. Requisition requests. Flips through to the second page and impatiently dashes his signature off.
"I don't care for the prospect of drugging him either."
no subject
Agreeable. If nothing else, it would present even more maintenance.
"Strangely, the better thing would be that he is truly is the son of a god of murder and Research can do something to cure him of whatever affliction that's caused. But it's notable to me he hasn't actually hurt anyone."
Or even attempted, really, beyond those hissing threats, resisting his and the Warden's efforts to subdue him. A different kind of problem that Forces is less equipped to deal with. A restless near-shrug, flicking his focus back up from where he'd been unconsciously watching Flint manage his papers beneath the current of this discussion.
"Isolation can be aggravating to the issue, that is all. What do you wish done?"
no subject
Which is more of a statement than question really.
—Unless?
no subject
But the direction of it—
"Depends on how badly he continues to irritate the company," implies that his aim isn't across the desk.
mea culpa. no worries if this is too old.
"In that case, we may as well slacken our grip on him here in the Gallows. He should continue work in the company of others outside it, but so long as he's here on the island there can be little reason to nurse him along. Either he will find his way, or he will hurt someone. Then we may at least have some basis on which to take a decisive action."
Better to lose two people—a murderer and whatever bait is unlucky enough to land on the hook—than to send the whole company preemptively clutching pearls over the treatment of Rifters, is not a thing James Flint would say aloud.