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</div></div><br/>She speaks! Not just with an obedient, mewling tone, but with learned and assertive manners.<i>But manners didn’t exist after the end of the world.</i>It may as well have been a command, or a demand. And who was she to demand anything of Peter, who’s father had strived to give him the world? Whatever was left of it, at any rate. And to teach him the means of creating his own. Peter just stared at the girl, like he couldn’t quite place her. Captives and trespassers were usually less haughty. Maybe she was<i>employed</i>rather than<i>captured</i>? But then why would his father feel the need to leave Tinker with him?<br/><br/>Now the blonde really began to get assertive.<br/><br/>They didn’t need to listen to Hook. It wasn’t like he was in charge of a militia, having pulled together some form of authority and centralization in these dismal times. Not like Hook wouldn’t have someone<i>made an example of</i>in front of the entire town to prove his point. Sure! They should just disobey and let their minds wander to their heart’s content. Peter was no stranger to that. He was also very well aware that such dreamy idealism often led to scorn, and death, out here.<br/><br/>First thing Peter did…was not put down the hook. Instead he used the smooth, polished curve of the blade to press under the girl’s jaw, tilting her head back, ensuring that they made eye contact without impediment or barrier. She sounded like…what was that word? Peter read it in that strange collection of defined words that his father had. He forgot the name of that too.<i>It started with a D…dictation? Dictionary!</i>There were very few of those around. Soon, there might not be any left at all in this place. And with it would go the absolute miserable mess that was the English language, with all its stupid rules and grammar.<br/><br/>Strange. Maybe she knew about it too. Not many people enjoyed reading, or writing. Peter’s father thought it was a useless skill to have, yet one he thought Peter should still know.<i>Back when Hook was still virtuous in his efforts to pull the shambles of society back into something functional.</i><br/><br/><b><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(97, 189, 109)">“Don’t speak shit about him. He is my father.”</span></b>Peter just warned the girl, pressing the curve of the hook into the girl’s throat, threatening to crush and squeeze her windpipe. But then he let up. She was right, he shouldn’t vandalize his…property. He never<i>owned</i>someone before. Certainly not anything so fair and pretty like this. What should he do with her? There were urges in his mind, in his heart,<i>in his loins</i>. And there was nothing to measure what was right and wrong to do. His father gave him this toy, to practice and learn. Why shouldn’t he?<br/><br/>His gaze and actions began to follow this line of thinking. With the hook, he began to caress the side of the blade down her neck and chest, towards her belly,<i>and what lay further beyond.</i><br/><br/>Then, as quick as a pouncing snake, he raised the hook and abruptly sliced down the girl’s cheek, causing a faint red line to follow the needle sharp point as it grazed her flesh. Sharp, agile, and cautionary.<i>Don’t tell me what to do! </i>There were enough people in his life who told him to do something. She was supposed to be the one<i>he </i>told to do stuff.<br/><br/>He just gritted his teeth at her and turned away, dropping the hook heavily on the ground away from the bed. No way the captive would be able to get it, her hands tied. At least he put it down. He turned towards Tinker, feeling a little ashamed about his burst of anger. Was he already feeling defeated? She wouldn’t even give him her name.<br/><br/>He had to try harder. He turned back to the girl.<b><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(97, 189, 109)">”You talk too much. All I wanted was a <i>name</i>. Instead you ranted to me about something stupid. I don't want a...philosophy lesson, or whatever the fuck.”</span></b>Peter snapped.<i>That was still his father talking.</i>He put his hands on his hips. Look at her. Her cheek was cut and a faint trickle of blood would be flowing from it. He pulled his sleeve up over his wrist and leaned forward to crudely wipe it, only causing it to smear a little towards her little nose.<br/><br/><b><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(97, 189, 109)">”Are you going to tell me your name now? Or did you just spring out of a hole in the ground as you are?”</span></b>He turned to look at Tinker.<b><span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(97, 189, 109)">”What do they call those things again?”</span></b>Gophers? Ferrets? Moles? Maybe he should call the girl one of those.