Security has decided to be deeply unhelpful today. She is currently showing them various forms of ID and repeating in a slow, patient voice that she has been here before, there is not more than one of her, and she promises she is not there to assassinate her husband or whatever fool thing has them skittish today. Perhaps she shouldn't drop in while the captain's missing; it seems to make them worse. But she got in before while he was missing...
When no one presents her anything besides Macbeth for her to free-associate unhelpfully about, Linya chimes in. "One of my fellows had the speed of him," she sighs.
Galen paces around their chairs and curses under his breath.
Linya goes on sliding through Macbeth, keeping time with Miles, smiling at a corner of the ceiling.
Rather than deal with untying her, the guards just pick Linya up chair and all, and one pair carries her between them while a third man hauls Miles.
By the end of Lady Macbeth's monologue, Miles is crying again. "That my keen knife see not the wound it makes," he sobs, "nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, to cry 'Hold, hold!'"
Linya recites and recites, dry-mouthed, pretending, assuming that of fucking course they're monitored and if someone has actual questions for her later she'd rather be fast-penta'd than tortured, considering there seems to be no qualms about the latter.
He paces. He rants. He weeps and howls, sometimes carried by the emotions of the play, sometimes by his own. He falls over Linya's lap and sobs iambic pentameter into her knees, then jumps up again and onto his bench to declaim the next lines.
At last:
"So, thanks to all at once and to each one, whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone," Miles sighs, sinking to the floor in front of Linya's chair and curling up there.
"What was that?" asks Galeni.
"Macbeth," she answers.
"I have a lot of weird drug reactions. Apparently my screwy metabolism and the memory-aiding effects of poetic meter are an explosive combination. My face hurts."
There is not a prompt for a reply from Linya there. She silently continues to be tied to a chair. Galeni hesitantly approaches the knots as though expecting one or the other of his cellmates to object to him touching her.
"A few minutes, probably," Linya pretends to guess. "Fast metabolism, generous ancestors..."
He crawls into the bathroom and does that, thankfully into the appropriate receptacle, then passes out halfway back into the main area of the cell.
When Miles wakes up he is on a bench with one of Linya's less essential articles of clothing balled up under his head and about half a meal's worth of food left to get cold at the end of the bench. Linya's napping, on the floor with a similar pillow arrangement and a sleeve of the jacket she's using flung over her eyes. She has even loaned Galeni a scarf-wrap for the same purpose. Linya's person remains decent, if underlayered.
"Urgh," says Miles. He looks at the food, then shifts the plate under his bench and flops his face into his improvised pillow to attempt real sleep.
There are sounds of an ineffectual struggle from Galeni, and then they're gone and it's just Linya and Miles, alone with the light fixture's all-seeing eye in the cell.
"I have been thinking of likely ways for it to be doing that and wondering what tools I'd need to improvise explosives out of its parts," she agrees. "I don't have any."
"The much-abused secondary products of your genome," Linya remarks, "are extremely inconsistent in their reactions to being picked up."