"Faces that need to be punched," she mutters, adding to his list. So far, she hasn't seen most of the people she's argued with, but she's willing to believe the bad teeth and hair.

As he describes this Kepler of his, Kristin tries to remember if she's talked to anyone calling himself either name. None of the conversations match, but it doesn't matter; she'll take the warning anyway, off description alone.

"Easy to see why he's here." The kinds of people who decide they want to be soldiers of fortune, making their dream one of being some meth's favourite criminal, the ones who do that on purpose? Ninety times out of a hundred, they're worthless scum. (Fucking scum.) She pushes her plate aside, leaning an arm on the tabletop. "Anyone useful?"

Or decent, but right now, she's not holding her breath. It's a prison ship - if they're surrounded by bastards, that's not surprising.