These names filed away, something to grasp onto. To do something with, perhaps.

Even if in this moment, it feels a little like floating driftwood in an ocean. Marcus has never enjoyed standing around and making plans without immediate ability to enact them, and after feeling particularly stupid and helpless for the better part of a week, it's a hard mood to shake.

He admits, "I didn't know her well," as he explains, "But she assisted me. After Naegle, after the Abomination, I was tracking missing letters, evidence of more forgeries. It was dating back longer than Naegle, and after him as well. But she assisted me. She's the fucking clerk."

And if he thinks back, to the little biting comments here and there (I suppose they don't teach children in Circles to say please)—well, there will be plenty of time on the way back, and in his recovery, to catalogue those too. Here, in the sun, by the road, Marcus is still speaking quietly, but tensely, as if unable to totally part top and bottom back teeth with bridled anger. His hands are relaxed in Derrica's, despite this.

He might have to apologise later. He would prefer, ideally, to keep his composure to those who are kind to him.