[Thick ribbons of smoke recoil and extend, sliding across a desk that has seen some serious battle damage. A drawer hangs preciously from its hinges as plumes of smoke unfurl across the desk. In the thicket of it all, a hand forms, fingers stretching and hover. A pile of rocks teeters in the silvery sea; it is a towering mass without much direction
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[ There's a bit of rustling as he finds a ledge to put the device on - setting up for a conversation, by the sounds of it. Voice lowering, he adds: ] Do you think all men are born evil?
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Is that why you hate criminals, Commodore? Because you know you're more than capable of being one, and enjoying it?
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No wonder we don't get along. You're the same as Heine; a dog who's turning his claws in over nothing. But at the end of the day, Commodore, your instincts are your instincts.
You just need the right incentive to bring them out.
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