"Nobody gives a shit about organic damage," he says while picking at his food. With his too-starched shirt, one shrug of a broad shoulder makes him look momentarily like a wrinkled giant. "You die here, you pop right back. It's like they're all meths, but... they're not. Bad teeth, bad hair..."
He shakes his head before he remembers possibly the strangest thing he's come across. "Watch out for a guy calling himself... Warren Kepler."
It takes a moment to remember. The personality left a stronger impression than the name.
"Only motherfucker I ever known not to flinch at being called a jackboot. Took it in fucking stride. Some kind of military recruiter, private sector specialist. I've known motherfuckers like that. Nothing behind their goddamn eyes."
"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.
"I think he's on your side," he says, pointing a fork in her direction.
"A lady named Misty helped me out first day. There's a guy named William-- little freak, but harmless. Tess is solid, but she's not here to make friends."
Which would have hurt his feelings, 270 years ago. He considers mentioning Carol, but it feels like a betrayal, so he lets himself lapse into silence as he lights a cigarette.
"Of course he is." One thing that's becoming clear: wardens seem more an ideal than a reality. The reality seems to be useless bastards, if the inmates are to be believed.
(She doesn't entirely believe what she's heard. But she's seen plenty of crooked cops - the really crooked ones, out for themselves alone - and in this isolated little corner of the universe, it'd be easy for one of them to do worse.)
The other names get filed away. Misty, she hasn't met. William, she talked to on the network. Tess, the same. Not here to make friends seems right.
Kristin gives him a look as he flicks his lighter. "Really?"
Kristin'd got lucky, that first time back in Bay City, when she'd managed to snatch one from him. But now he knows she hates the cigarettes, and he's going to be a dick about it forever.
She gives her food one last look before she pushes herself to her feet. What appeal her meal had hasn't come back. And the alternative's standing there before her, slump-shouldered, hair falling in his face. It's been a fucking terrible day, and she's still frustrated with the hour she spent stomping around the ship, looking for a way to get at the admiral. "Not if you taste like an ashtray."
Which is the closest she's getting to do you want me to? - let alone to the fact that he could smoke the rest of the pack, and she'd still stick around.
Kovacs is irritating on a good day, infuriating on a bad one, and when he's sneering at her like that, there's no chance she's leaving.
"You don't even have an ashtray," she points out, stepping over the low table rather than walking around it. Casual-not-casual disregard for his things, a kind of tit for tat - he's the one that broke out the smokes, after all. "You're going to light the goddamn ship on fire."
He's goading her, and she knows it, and it doesn't matter. "Ay, cállate la boca."
His mouth's not shut for long, but at least he's not talking anymore - and the cigarette gets stubbed out, the memory of the smoke lingering. After, when they're a mess of sweat and heat in Kovacs' bed, Kristin's fingertips run idly over one of Elias' old scars.
He stays close, as always, wrapped around her. He shifts a little, like a recalcitrant cat, when she runs her hands near his face, but he doesn't move away.
"You got any leads on why you gave him that one?" He asks, "somebody asked how I got it."
And she doesn't stop touching him. There's always been something appealing about Elias' face - the severity of his features, maybe - and that scar is proof that it's still his sleeve. Her hand settles near his temple, fingers at his hairline.
"Tell them I did it." What more do they really need to know? Just enough to reinforce her reputation. Her smile's a little too wide, all laziness and contentment. "What'd you say? When they asked."
Kristin doesn't answer that, just lets her fingertips drift back over his scalp. Anything else would embarrass them both.
"Yeah. I do." They were both at Bancroft's little soiree, listening to a woman talk about cramming a man's consciousness into a snake. It's hard for her to imagine anyone looking at that kind of sociopathy and thinking yeah, that's redeemable. "Anything else I should know?"
She'll learn the depths of these fuckers' maladjusted bullshit later.
"They always are." They aren't. But confronting this place as a nest of Dimi the Twins (Dimis the Twin?) is going to be more straightforward than if it's all meths.
Kristin falls quiet for a few moments, stroking his hair and pretending she hasn't noticed how much he likes it. (He'd like to be subtle - she knows that - even if he isn't.) Her thoughts are still pacing over and over the conversations she's had, the things she's learned. Everything Kovacs has told her, and all the places she can see he's kept something to himself.
For once, she's not in a mood to needle him overly. Probably because he just got her off, and there's nothing to interrupt them - her ONI's close to useless here. (Whatever idiotic messages are piling up in the device she was given, they're out of both sight and mind.) Instead, idly, she tells him, "If I get some asshole through this, we solve the cases. All of them. And we nail everyone to the wall."
He lets himself melt into the shape of her, eyes closing. He's awake, alert, but he doesn't bother showing it. He wants something of this moment, something close to comfort.
"All the opened cases on your desk?" He knows that's not what she means, but he wants to hear her say it. "That'll be a lot."
"You think he'd do that for me?" It's not a small pile, however quickly she bulldozes through some of them. But - lazily told jokes aside - they both know that's not what she means. So she says it for him, a litany of loss breathed into a quiet room. "Bancroft. Mary Lou Henchy. My arm. And - Elias."
The last one comes after a silent hitch, only long enough to be noticeable.
"If they're connected, there has to be a meth involved." It's too widespread. No one else could do it. "We could get to the bottom of it, but that doesn't mean we'll get justice. That's what the admiral's giving me: a meth's head on a plate."
He doesn't like talking about Elias, especially now. He doesn't like talking about meths when he's safe and warm besides her. He barely tolerates talking.
He doesn't like the idea that getting this deal will be the end of him.
"Fuck no." It's an answer that comes swiftly and decisively. If it weren't a stupid, absurdly expensive idea, she'd consider lopping off the other one, too. "But I wouldn't mind beating the Ghostwalker with my old one."
Maybe to death. That fucker killed Samir, and no one will do anything to avenge him if Kristin doesn't.
Edited (changed my mind, sorry) 2021-10-06 03:15 (UTC)
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He shakes his head before he remembers possibly the strangest thing he's come across. "Watch out for a guy calling himself... Warren Kepler."
It takes a moment to remember. The personality left a stronger impression than the name.
"Only motherfucker I ever known not to flinch at being called a jackboot. Took it in fucking stride. Some kind of military recruiter, private sector specialist. I've known motherfuckers like that. Nothing behind their goddamn eyes."
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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.
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"A lady named Misty helped me out first day. There's a guy named William-- little freak, but harmless. Tess is solid, but she's not here to make friends."
Which would have hurt his feelings, 270 years ago. He considers mentioning Carol, but it feels like a betrayal, so he lets himself lapse into silence as he lights a cigarette.
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(She doesn't entirely believe what she's heard. But she's seen plenty of crooked cops - the really crooked ones, out for themselves alone - and in this isolated little corner of the universe, it'd be easy for one of them to do worse.)
The other names get filed away. Misty, she hasn't met. William, she talked to on the network. Tess, the same. Not here to make friends seems right.
Kristin gives him a look as he flicks his lighter. "Really?"
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He stands. "You staying the night?"
Ah, romance.
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She gives her food one last look before she pushes herself to her feet. What appeal her meal had hasn't come back. And the alternative's standing there before her, slump-shouldered, hair falling in his face. It's been a fucking terrible day, and she's still frustrated with the hour she spent stomping around the ship, looking for a way to get at the admiral. "Not if you taste like an ashtray."
Which is the closest she's getting to do you want me to? - let alone to the fact that he could smoke the rest of the pack, and she'd still stick around.
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Want me anyway.
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"You don't even have an ashtray," she points out, stepping over the low table rather than walking around it. Casual-not-casual disregard for his things, a kind of tit for tat - he's the one that broke out the smokes, after all. "You're going to light the goddamn ship on fire."
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Another puff of smoke.
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His mouth's not shut for long, but at least he's not talking anymore - and the cigarette gets stubbed out, the memory of the smoke lingering. After, when they're a mess of sweat and heat in Kovacs' bed, Kristin's fingertips run idly over one of Elias' old scars.
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"You got any leads on why you gave him that one?" He asks, "somebody asked how I got it."
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"Tell them I did it." What more do they really need to know? Just enough to reinforce her reputation. Her smile's a little too wide, all laziness and contentment. "What'd you say? When they asked."
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Not that anyone really needs to know about the scar, either. So she changes the subject herself. "How psychotic?"
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"Meth shit," he murmurs, "think sleeve death's funny. You know the type."
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"Yeah. I do." They were both at Bancroft's little soiree, listening to a woman talk about cramming a man's consciousness into a snake. It's hard for her to imagine anyone looking at that kind of sociopathy and thinking yeah, that's redeemable. "Anything else I should know?"
She'll learn the depths of these fuckers' maladjusted bullshit later.
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"You can handle the rest of it," he says. "These assholes talk big, but they're all goons."
He doesn't mention Carol. She deserves that much.
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Kristin falls quiet for a few moments, stroking his hair and pretending she hasn't noticed how much he likes it. (He'd like to be subtle - she knows that - even if he isn't.) Her thoughts are still pacing over and over the conversations she's had, the things she's learned. Everything Kovacs has told her, and all the places she can see he's kept something to himself.
For once, she's not in a mood to needle him overly. Probably because he just got her off, and there's nothing to interrupt them - her ONI's close to useless here. (Whatever idiotic messages are piling up in the device she was given, they're out of both sight and mind.) Instead, idly, she tells him, "If I get some asshole through this, we solve the cases. All of them. And we nail everyone to the wall."
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"All the opened cases on your desk?" He knows that's not what she means, but he wants to hear her say it. "That'll be a lot."
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The last one comes after a silent hitch, only long enough to be noticeable.
"If they're connected, there has to be a meth involved." It's too widespread. No one else could do it. "We could get to the bottom of it, but that doesn't mean we'll get justice. That's what the admiral's giving me: a meth's head on a plate."
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He doesn't like the idea that getting this deal will be the end of him.
"You want your old arm back?"
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Maybe to death. That fucker killed Samir, and no one will do anything to avenge him if Kristin doesn't.
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