[ As he talks, Nashua swipes a nacho chip through a mound of stringy cheese and sour cream and pico de gallo again and again, until it's practically soggy with topping. Only then does she shove it into her mouth.

Through the haze of chatter and music and smoke, the words do sink in. And they leave her feeling oddly exposed, fighting the urge to favour the wound on her side yet again. ]

Yeah. Yeah, okay. I get it.

[ Deflated becomes dismal, but there's nothing in her voice that suggests a lie or even a terrible amount of intimidation. ]

Look, just— don't start anything here, and get me fired, and we're cool.

[ Cool enough. Nashua isn't sure how much she wants what he's proposing: to become hardened unto a slab of concrete just to survive. She likes her humanity. And she liked not knowing what it meant for someone to die because she spoke to the wrong (right?) person. But he's right about one thing; she can live without that a lot more easily if she's, well, alive. ]

Eat your wings. I only get one discounted item per night.