"You aren't here because you forgot to help an old lady cross the road." That's not the point, she wants to say. The point is, everyone else. But if he's calling her Kristin, he's either pissed or fucking her, and the latter is looking more and more unlikely tonight. "I have to put something in the brief, or we won't get anything from the rest of these bastards."
"And you picked terrorist." That doesn't usually hurt, that label. He's used to it. Quell's glassy eyes staring back on a looping vid screen, and he tells himself he's used to it, and-
He's punched hard enough to render plaster, but since her walls are stonework, all he's left with are bloody knuckles.
For a moment, it's like she's back in Bay City, Elias losing his shit, her hands coming up stop -
But it's a different man and a different place, not the same look in his eyes as a few strands of his hair flop in front of them. And she's mad enough to spit a moment later - Protectorate puppet, fuck him.
"So we take terrorist out. You want to write your own file, then do it." Kristin reaches over for his fist, trying to give her own hands something to do. He's going to have bruises there tomorrow. "But I have to have something."
"You wanna use me as your test case," he hisses, just picking up more steam. "You wanna show of you've tamed me, is that it? To all your warden friends?"
"What warden friends?" She's got his hand between both of hers, but her eyes are locked on his face. Bait: taken. "Half these idiots just want to hug each other between tea parties. I want to prove we don't need an entire fucking file before we can decide if one of these inmates is fucking unhinged. Not you. The others. Don't try and make me into a meth."
"This rap sheet makes me sound like a psychopath. Don't pretend." He sneers down at her. No privacy for him. No safety. No refuse. What scraps of anonymity he had will be gone, and he can't stop her. "Who are you gonna show this off to?"
"Other wardens. When I'm happy with it." Judging by the look on her face, she's not there yet. Dropping into Spanish, she adds, "So cut the crap about what's there and help me. We need to find the real psychopaths here."
She didn't deny she's going to. This is a formality. He closes his eyes, expression caught in rage. "No," he says, cold. "Fuck, no. Fix your own shit."
"Kovacs -" He's on his way to the door, but that doesn't mean she's not going to try. She's back in English again, and later, some part of her will hate the way anger and pleading mix themselves up in her voice. Right now, she just wants him to stay. "We need to know how dangerous people are. Some of the people here don't know how to fight. Some of them are kids -"
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He's punched hard enough to render plaster, but since her walls are stonework, all he's left with are bloody knuckles.
"Cops really are just Protectorate puppets."
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But it's a different man and a different place, not the same look in his eyes as a few strands of his hair flop in front of them. And she's mad enough to spit a moment later - Protectorate puppet, fuck him.
"So we take terrorist out. You want to write your own file, then do it." Kristin reaches over for his fist, trying to give her own hands something to do. He's going to have bruises there tomorrow. "But I have to have something."
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Who the fuck could tame Takeshi Kovacs anyway?
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She turns to leave.
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