Or more like demanded, because one second he's alone with the murderous crab and the next a girl in her late teens is shoving aside a barstool and inviting herself into his personal space. Clarke looks a little frazzled, like she's been running pell mell around the ship, only to find her quarry in the hands of another. Teacup-war-cancheqt? Is this stranger having a stroke? Whatever, nevermind, he'd wake up again if he were unlucky.

"Give him to me," she snaps, and reaches to snatch the crab out of Brutus' hands.

But it's a sloppy grab. Miscalculated, and in the end she's catching more knife than shell. The edge of the blade is pristine and sharp, and cuts lines along her fingers that just look like paper cuts until they begin to bubble and bleed black. Clarke hisses, but undeterred by a bit of pain, reaches out again.