She catches it, one-handed. Now that's familiar, in its own way: sitting around a chairless room, eating out of tins. If you didn't have a fork, you'd dig in with your fingers, careful of the cut edge, scooping out precious little scraps. She wonders what he looks like in his own head. Japanese, probably. Or wherever a Kovacs is from. Skinny? Did he starve? Fruit cups won't do shit for a body like this one.
Tess frowns. She clutches the fruit cup in her lap, wanting to put a hand on his or something but too sure of the response to try. She settles on something else, bitter on his behalf.
"What's better if she acts like she owns you, though?" she replies. "Where does that end when you're not her fucking boyfriend?"
Some CTAC profiler once said people steal because they feel the world owes them. That isn't always true, Kovacs thinks, it's certainly false the way it was meant, but in this instance? Kovacs thinks he deserves more than he's getting. He steals the stupid fucking fruit cups.
And the stash might be worth something, when things fall apart.
"I've been owned," he says, "she just... doesn't get privacy." Or how precious that can be to people like Kovacs. Out of the moment, he's feeling more forgiving. It's over; what can be done?
"There was a case," he says, "murder, sort of. She didn't solve it. To fuck with her, the guy who hired me stuck her in her boyfriend's body. He owned me. She's just... We're both still dangling from that string, even here, away from him."
Wouldn't it feel good, she wants to ask, just to rip into her, pick apart all the ways she's nasty and taking advantage? Remorselessly decide she's not worth a second thought? There's no energy there for it, though, not in him, and not even in her. It's been a long time since she felt that kind of spite. It's hard to call back, especially out of the moment.
"Well, she doesn't have to be such a bitch about it," Tess replies, popping open her fruit cup. "Maybe show a bit of sympathy. At least she has her own body. She's not owned."
It surprises a croak of laughter out of him, short and sharp. He wasn't expecting it. It's not really his style, and the way Ryker's throat constrains around the sound, it wasn't his either.
"She is, it's just through collateral. She wants her boyfriend back. She loves him."
Him. The other guy. The meat sack sitting here, but not the mind.
Maybe anything's possible when people can wear others' bodies. But the alternative strikes her as eerie, the idea that Kovacs could be all that's left. A remake of an older movie, nothing like the first but in name, but doomed to be compared forever.
But he will, maybe one more time. "His stack-- his... consciousness, that's saved. Where we're from, when you're arrested, your cortical stack-" he taps the back of his neck, turns his shoulders so she can see the tiny scar there- "goes into storage, and your body goes on ice, sold to the highest bidder. No prison. Just that."
A sigh. A cough, This is the shape of his life.
"In my case, crimes against the Protectorate are indefinite sentences. So my stack was supposed to stay in storage forever, before some rich fuck bought it to solve a murder. And since my birth sleeve-- body-- was over a hundred years dead..."
He shrugs Rykers shoulders, pulls Ryker's hand down Ryker's chest. This.
"I've heard a lot of fucked up things here, but that takes the cake," she says, slowly. Processing.
The problem-solver wants to pick apart what can be done about that –– what the resources offered on the barge can do for a criminal-in-a-criminal, the strange things wardens have done to make inmates whole. All outside her pay grade. But then the things they haven't tried at all, the efforts they haven't made. Would anyone do anything about this?
Her eyebrows furrow, and she does reach for him, a hand on his, a brief squeeze. No I'm sorry; maybe that would feel too much like pity, at least as far as she'd want to hear.
"Is she going to do anything about it, you think? Since she's got all this place at her disposal."
"You don't gotta worry about her," though it warms his him somewhat, to hear that someone gives a shit about protecting the person inside the body. Loneliness is like that; it sneaks up on you. "She won't do anything to harm this sleeve. She's just pissed someone inside it might do damage."
His nose scrunches up, the only tell that a conflicting thought has crossed his mind. She didn't mean threat, she meant help. He's just too fucking used to threats.
She shakes her head and files that away. She'll worry anyway.
"Wardens can leave the ship whenever they want," Tess replies. "I don't really know how it works, but they can even fuck off for a few weeks, go shopping. Go rescue people. And without leaving, there's stuff in the infirmary, and a whole cybernetics lab. There's also some guys here who know things about cloning. Two of them are wardens."
Tess knows fuck all about cloning, but there's enough idle chatter here and there to know someone else knows.
"And there's the Admiral, he gives wardens things if they ask." She adds, a little dryly: "I asked Ortega to pick up a new bed frame for me from the Admiral and she did it."
He snorts. Nothing's that easy. So his answer is a flippant affirmative.
"Yeah, I'll go tell her to get a clone of my natal sleeve, and have Ryker put back on ice. That'd only set you back... eighty thousand UN dollars? Give or take if you skimped out on the neurochem."
Bitter non-believers. Tess smiles despite herself, though she stifles it with a swig of her fruit cup. Thumbs away the juice from her mouth after, leans into the table.
"I'm sure she'll figure something out if she's got any brains rattling around in her head," she tells him. "And we make port next month. Knowing this place, it might be some old-ass city that doesn't even have plumbing, but no matter what she'll get cash. Worst case scenario, you have a great time on her dime."
"I was," she replies. "You never know with people."
Here or anywhere, wardens or inmates, men or women. Any maybe it's uglier: the resentment just under her skin whenever she thinks about becoming collateral to someone else's dead wife. Dead boyfriend. Whatever.
Tess hesitates, opens her mouth to tell someone else's story –– there are enough of them that it doesn't really matter who anything happened to. Thinks twice about it anyway. This situation is fucked up. It's not a world away from her own.
"I was dating a warden for a bit," she replies. Skims the surface. "We were together in a breach, and we just sort of... carried on. And it was fine, for a while." Her gaze dips to the table for a moment, and she shrugs. A trace of bitterness in her voice. "But then I found out he had this wife, and I confronted him about it. The way he reacted, you'd think I was the one who fucked up."
"Nope," she replies. She shifts the fruit cup between her hands, favours her words: "He made a big deal out of being on good terms again, promised me a house when I get out of here, but then his inmate graduated. He stuck around just long enough to give me a parting gift, and showed me the door the minute I didn't let him touch me."
She doesn't mean to, but a scoff slips out anyway.
Tess nods. Being dignified about the surge of satisfaction that gives her feels like a choice, but no matter how much she'd like to play it cool, there's relief there. Resolve.
"Thanks, Takeshi," she replies. "And any time you need me, I'm here."
"Takeshi," he murmurs under his breath. He hasn't been called that in a while, outside of Ortega's bed. Even there, it had shocked him. It always does.
It makes him smile, though it's a small, ugly thing on a broad, ugly face. He raises his almost empty fruit cup. "Kanpai," and drinks the dregs.
Tess, eyebrows furrowed but smiling, just raises hers in turn. She hates last name basis. It feels like a weapon sometimes — a forced unfamiliarity, a family name for people who don’t have one. It’s a careful line to step around.
“I’m good, if she jumps me I’ll just get her demoted,” Tess replies, breezily. “You gonna be okay alone?”
"She wouldn't kill you," he says, half defensive, half bored. People think Ortega's much worse than she is, and honestly, it's almost funny, if everything in this place wasn't so fucking sad. "What, you worried I'll get lonely?"
It’s always guys like this, all wounded differently, but always profoundly alone. Tess feels it under her skin. Admitting you worry about anyone is like giving up some measure of safety, and it has seldom been rewarding, but she’ll try again and again. It makes her feel stupid.
She gets to her feet, looms over him for a second.
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Tess frowns. She clutches the fruit cup in her lap, wanting to put a hand on his or something but too sure of the response to try. She settles on something else, bitter on his behalf.
"What's better if she acts like she owns you, though?" she replies. "Where does that end when you're not her fucking boyfriend?"
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And the stash might be worth something, when things fall apart.
"I've been owned," he says, "she just... doesn't get privacy." Or how precious that can be to people like Kovacs. Out of the moment, he's feeling more forgiving. It's over; what can be done?
"There was a case," he says, "murder, sort of. She didn't solve it. To fuck with her, the guy who hired me stuck her in her boyfriend's body. He owned me. She's just... We're both still dangling from that string, even here, away from him."
He sips from the fruit cup pensively.
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"Well, she doesn't have to be such a bitch about it," Tess replies, popping open her fruit cup. "Maybe show a bit of sympathy. At least she has her own body. She's not owned."
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"She is, it's just through collateral. She wants her boyfriend back. She loves him."
Him. The other guy. The meat sack sitting here, but not the mind.
"It's all... fucked."
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"Is that even possible? Getting him back?"
Maybe anything's possible when people can wear others' bodies. But the alternative strikes her as eerie, the idea that Kovacs could be all that's left. A remake of an older movie, nothing like the first but in name, but doomed to be compared forever.
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But he will, maybe one more time. "His stack-- his... consciousness, that's saved. Where we're from, when you're arrested, your cortical stack-" he taps the back of his neck, turns his shoulders so she can see the tiny scar there- "goes into storage, and your body goes on ice, sold to the highest bidder. No prison. Just that."
A sigh. A cough, This is the shape of his life.
"In my case, crimes against the Protectorate are indefinite sentences. So my stack was supposed to stay in storage forever, before some rich fuck bought it to solve a murder. And since my birth sleeve-- body-- was over a hundred years dead..."
He shrugs Rykers shoulders, pulls Ryker's hand down Ryker's chest. This.
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The problem-solver wants to pick apart what can be done about that –– what the resources offered on the barge can do for a criminal-in-a-criminal, the strange things wardens have done to make inmates whole. All outside her pay grade. But then the things they haven't tried at all, the efforts they haven't made. Would anyone do anything about this?
Her eyebrows furrow, and she does reach for him, a hand on his, a brief squeeze. No I'm sorry; maybe that would feel too much like pity, at least as far as she'd want to hear.
"Is she going to do anything about it, you think? Since she's got all this place at her disposal."
Since it'd benefit her, too.
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His nose scrunches up, the only tell that a conflicting thought has crossed his mind. She didn't mean threat, she meant help. He's just too fucking used to threats.
"What could she do?"
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"Wardens can leave the ship whenever they want," Tess replies. "I don't really know how it works, but they can even fuck off for a few weeks, go shopping. Go rescue people. And without leaving, there's stuff in the infirmary, and a whole cybernetics lab. There's also some guys here who know things about cloning. Two of them are wardens."
Tess knows fuck all about cloning, but there's enough idle chatter here and there to know someone else knows.
"And there's the Admiral, he gives wardens things if they ask." She adds, a little dryly: "I asked Ortega to pick up a new bed frame for me from the Admiral and she did it."
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"Yeah, I'll go tell her to get a clone of my natal sleeve, and have Ryker put back on ice. That'd only set you back... eighty thousand UN dollars? Give or take if you skimped out on the neurochem."
He shakes his head.
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"I'm sure she'll figure something out if she's got any brains rattling around in her head," she tells him. "And we make port next month. Knowing this place, it might be some old-ass city that doesn't even have plumbing, but no matter what she'll get cash. Worst case scenario, you have a great time on her dime."
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He shakes his head. "You okay? Looked like you were ready to go for the eyes, out there."
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Here or anywhere, wardens or inmates, men or women. Any maybe it's uglier: the resentment just under her skin whenever she thinks about becoming collateral to someone else's dead wife. Dead boyfriend. Whatever.
"I've seen wardens take advantage, that's all."
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His voice is smooth with hushed concern. What happened to her?
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"I was dating a warden for a bit," she replies. Skims the surface. "We were together in a breach, and we just sort of... carried on. And it was fine, for a while." Her gaze dips to the table for a moment, and she shrugs. A trace of bitterness in her voice. "But then I found out he had this wife, and I confronted him about it. The way he reacted, you'd think I was the one who fucked up."
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"Is he still here?"
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She doesn't mean to, but a scoff slips out anyway.
"Didn't go back for his wife, either."
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"We haven't known each other for a while," he says carefully. "But I know you have my back. Consider it mutual."
If that ever happens again...
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"Thanks, Takeshi," she replies. "And any time you need me, I'm here."
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It makes him smile, though it's a small, ugly thing on a broad, ugly face. He raises his almost empty fruit cup. "Kanpai," and drinks the dregs.
"Need a walk back to your cabin?"
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“I’m good, if she jumps me I’ll just get her demoted,” Tess replies, breezily. “You gonna be okay alone?”
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She gets to her feet, looms over him for a second.
“708, if you do. Any time, okay?”
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She dips down to squeeze his shoulder briefly and leaves.