She rolls her eyes at his humility. A simple man would commit to his homeland without complaint yet he willfully abandoned his national ties, or so the stories go. The colorful narratives one might not-so-accidently overhear on a nightly excursion agree, at least, on his defection. It follows that Venom's ideas are diametric to the state — the entire world perhaps. Can such a man be called uncomplicated, or else, sane? How far removed is his venture in the Seychelles from that of a cult leader withdrawing into the jungles of South America with his well-armed surrogate family?

She is too quick on the trigger: "Then, why do I ..." Eli's voice ebbs mid-sentence, eyebrows crease, the question has become a sort of epiphany about her mental preoccupation and thus herself "... think about you?" Her eyes fall like setting suns — an impression rendered by their feline luminosity, then regard him again, swiftly.

"Why not?" she chirps, and placing a hand upon the breast of his suit leans in as if to topple him with her diminutive frame, although she does not possess a fraction of his mass. Her elbow bends and her chest — flat, unsurprisingly — is stopped by his. "You are very sexy."