It might make more sense, understanding that Kira's only point of reference for Tarzan is the over-hyped animated film; he is, at the very least, calling Mark the smart one.
What he himself brings to this situation, he has no idea. Maybe it's more a test for Mark than himself, and he should stop being such an acerbic burden. Maybe he should also stick his arms out and do the chicken dance in a decrepit old tree house; neither is likely.
After breaking through one floor, he moves gingerly around the space--sticking close to walls, areas with furniture that hasn't pushed through on its own weight. "You know, I thought they were using us to get an idea of the place, until they told us where and what to find." And picked the teams, and teleported them out of the village. "Now I lean toward screwed-with."
At another twist of the trunk, similar to the house he woke up in, he runs his hands over an overgrown bed of plants. Gardens in the sky: what were they avoiding, or was it just convenience? His hand runs into something solid, and he wraps fingers around it--pulling a trowel out from the dirt, its rusted edge all the sharper for being eaten away. "This should work," he says, holding it up to one side.
From the hole that it's left, he wraps his other hand around a leafy stalk and uproots the plant from the loosened soil. Some kind of near-white, starchy vegetable. "We've seen these around haven't we?"
no subject
What he himself brings to this situation, he has no idea. Maybe it's more a test for Mark than himself, and he should stop being such an acerbic burden. Maybe he should also stick his arms out and do the chicken dance in a decrepit old tree house; neither is likely.
After breaking through one floor, he moves gingerly around the space--sticking close to walls, areas with furniture that hasn't pushed through on its own weight. "You know, I thought they were using us to get an idea of the place, until they told us where and what to find." And picked the teams, and teleported them out of the village. "Now I lean toward screwed-with."
At another twist of the trunk, similar to the house he woke up in, he runs his hands over an overgrown bed of plants. Gardens in the sky: what were they avoiding, or was it just convenience? His hand runs into something solid, and he wraps fingers around it--pulling a trowel out from the dirt, its rusted edge all the sharper for being eaten away. "This should work," he says, holding it up to one side.
From the hole that it's left, he wraps his other hand around a leafy stalk and uproots the plant from the loosened soil. Some kind of near-white, starchy vegetable. "We've seen these around haven't we?"