[Hank's going to be damp when he answers the door, him and his clothes, but that was the right call, he still thinks. The smell's gone anyway, mostly. His eyes are a little red now, probably, but he can do fuckall about it except just ignore it and hope the other guy does, too. Also, pretzels. Food sounds fine. Hank can probably still do the hanging out and drinking together thing, he's still okay at doing that.]
[And true to his word, the redhead arrives soon thereafter. He offers Hank a grin when he answers the door. The expression is tired, but genuine enough. And Barabas won't remark at all on any red eyes or dampness either.
He's put himself back together for the most part.]
Hey. Thanks for being okay with the company. I've spent too much time inside my head already today.
[Hank starts to open the door up a little further, taking a step back into his room, then pauses.]
Uh. I didn't ask, are you one of those weirdoes who likes uh, real sunlight, being outside under the open sky in beautiful scenery, or do you wanna- [He tilts his head toward the darkness of the room behind him.] I probably shouldn't shut you up in there without even asking so uh, you know. You got options.
[Barabas finds himself blinking, confused for a moment before ducking his head with a laugh.]
Technically, I'm diurnal enough to appreciate sunlight and sky. But I can live without it for a while. Honestly, I think this better suits my mood anyway.
[He nods, lips curled up a little at the guy's laugh, then steps back, leaving the door open for him.]
Glad I'm not the only shut-in around here. Come on, you can put your stuff uh... wherever.
[The empty wardrobe's too tall to set anything on but the nightstand's empty and so is the bed, its pillows and blanket shoved aside and leaning against the wall. That blanket might not cover the phrases he's started chipping into the wall - or the one he's finished so far which, if uncovered, will read 'wake up and be fabulous' - but if he's lucky by the time the blanket starts to shift out of its position over it Barabas's back will be to the wall anyway. The 'hang in there' under the stupid doodle of a cat, on the other hand, is a little too far away to cover more than half of it but that's only drawn on the wall with ash, and the ash is sort of fading off now, so hopefully that one only looks like a weird stain.
Whatever. He's done as much to prepare for other people as he can, so fuck it.]
This was probably a good choice though, if you're still in the mood to find out if you can get drunk. It's almost like whoever designed this place didn't really give a shit about privacy.
[Not that there's really a good way to give people much privacy, in a setup where everyone's living all close like this. But when it comes to Astoria, Hank's not really in the mood to be fair.]
[A quick nod and he ducks inside. The nightstand it is. He sets the glass and the bowl of pretzel-y fare there and glances around. It's true, their odd magic-summer-camp dorm rooms weren't exactly intended for hosting the sort of social visits adults are used to.
That said, it's very much his law school experience, packed together in whatever apartments and dormitories had survived the Shift, making the best of their space. So he drops to a seat on the foot of the bed -- though not before noticing a bit of the wall art work, eyebrows lifting as he tucks that detail to ask about after the drinking's begun.]
You've got a point with that. ...not sure what they did give a shit about when they put this place together.
[Hank pulls his bottle out from under the bed and walks over to the glasses. As soon as he opens it up he smell of homemade moonshine's strong and he raises his eyebrows at Barabas, pouring until Barabas tells him to stop.]
What, you don't think the flowers that pop up next to the bed every night are cute?
[It looks like they're getting into the drink-and-bitch session right away, and fuck if Hank's not ready for it.]
I mean, no one thought about how to get us prepared to actually help anyone but at least we got a nice view, right?
[No missing the smell of it no, especially not with a shapeshifter's senses. Barabas will wave Hank off once the glass is a bit fuller than not. He snorts at the question.]
Oh no I appreciate the ambiance. The whole aesthetic.
[He dead pans.] I wouldn't trade a single wildflower for useful tools or information.
[Hank lifts his own glass, then pours a little in it and sets the bottle on the little table.]
Where did good info or actual planning ever get anybody, anyhow? I don't know how they do the whole leadership thing on whatever planet Ms Astoria came from, but I'm sure she knows more about it than us mere mortals.
[He takes a sip. It's not exactly the kind of drink you sip - it's too rough to even pretend to be something like, say, scotch - but if Barabas's metabolism's really that good cause of all his weird shit, Hank's probably got to pace himself.]
[Barabas hasn't tested his metabolism here. He's about to find out how much of a limit being in Astoria's circle has put on the Lycos Virus. And he's going to find out fast one way or another, since he doesn't sip so much as swallow half the glass.
Wow okay. Bit of a burn to it.]
It's... infuriating.
[Barabas sighs.] Back home, the Pack runs like a well-oiled machine. Information, security, always top notch. Here... we get nothing. What kind of game is that?
My, uh- [Not pack.] -department, it's not exactly top notch. There's never enough money or time or people, and even with all the androids everyone still runs around like chickens with their heads cut off one hundred percent of the time, but - Jeffrey tries. He gives us the info he's got, tells us what we need to do, what to look out for. I didn't know how good I had it.
So uh, back in your- your pack. If someone sent you into some shit with no info like that - and, just, say it went okay. Even if you weren't prepared at all. How well would that fly?
Nothing like absence to make the heart grow fonder.
[God knows Barabas feels that, deeply right now. Another sip of his drink and he considers how best to answer that question.]
If it went okay... they'd probably walk away from any discussion with Curran. Though depending on how exactly it went, probably not so lightly with Jim. Curran is Beast Lord, and if there was a prize for control freak, he and Jim would be in competition for gold consistently.
I guess there's something to that. I mean, not the 'punishment by mutilation' part but - chances are someone back in Detroit who got high up enough on the food chain to start running shit would be just fine if he decided to let everyone else do his job for him, unless something went wrong in a big way. Or, you know, for someone important.
[He looks over the bed, then settles slowly on the opposite end from Barabas, his voice going dry.]
But we're not talking about me.
Here's to a 'valuable diversity in management styles'. [He raises his glass, then lifts and mutters into it.] Hope Astoria's doesn't get another million people fuckin killed.
Oh, it's not mutilation. It's very hard to mutilate a shapeshifter.
[The booze is working. Barabas is getting talky.] We heal from just about anything that doesn't immediately kill us. And Curarn is tremendously fair. Penalties and punishments tend to wind up being put to work on the various construction projects around the Keep. ...challenges for rank within the Pack are usually to the death though.
[So it goes. But yes.] Yes. To management styles and to Astoria actually developing one.
[Barabas is curious about where Hank is from and what his world is like.]
I suppose attention does tend to only be paid when something goes wrong. So Detroit, hmm? I hear it's... [Well.] ...Detroit.
Yeah, well, it's been doing better ever since the whole android thing. I mean, not the people, cause who gives a shit about them. But lotsa companies moving in, arty farty new buildings, property value going up, lotsa renovation projects, all that shit. Who woulda thought the future'd look like Detroit actually doing better than most of the rest of the world. It's almost the kind of place you'd want to raise a family.
[Hank's face has a sarcastic little moment, his lips stretching and his eyebrows going up, before he takes a drink.]
What about you? Do you guys have a whole uh, a city or whatever for your pack thing or is everyone a were-something there? Is being a pack leader like being the president?
Androids. Yeah, your world and mine diverged hard somewhere along the way.
[Hard. Given that magic flooded his world and technology has been crumbling in waves since. He laughs.][But what about him, huh?] There are various shapeshifter clans throughout the world. The Pack is the second largest shapeshifter organization in North America -- there's a bigger one up in Alaska. We live in Atlanta, alongside all sorts of factions and groups: regular humans, the necromancers, the witches, the druids.
...and president implies a democracy. The Beast Lord is not elected.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Election by death match. Right.
[He rolls the glass over his knee, taking all that in. It's not really... real. Of course it's not. Not to Hank. But he can pretend, try to turn it all into something he understands long enough for a question or two to occur to him.]
How are lawyers even still a thing, with all that going on? Like, if every uh... every group, if they're half as hardcore as your pack thing there's got to be tons of regulations and protections and shit, and a different set for each uh, each... magic situation, or whatever. Do you guys still have unions? Or do people just sign up to be a druid and that's kind of like the same thing.
[A grin and a nod.] That's right. Curran took on the former beast lord when he was fifteen. And honestly we're lucky to have him. He's united all the clans in a remarkable sort of peace and unity. The laws are strict -- but they have to be. Shapeshifters are--
[He hesitates before shrugging.] Let's just say that we need to strictly remember our humanity. Losing sight of it can be disastrous.
But really, a world on the brink of lawlessness needs lawyers more than ever. I'm a Pack lawyer, but I'm admitted to practice in Georgia and all its neighboring states. The Pack tends to have jurisdiction over crimes against our own -- though the Atlanta PD isn't always quick to hand over the reins. Understandable really. Add the the Pack and the Police, the Order of Merciful Aid. And it's a jurisdictional and logistical nightmare. But we manage.
We have unions. With tech failing as bad as it did, carpentry and masonry are in high demand. Their unions are powerhouses. And then there's the mercenary guild. ...other people sign up to be druids. Or witches. It depends where your culture and talents lie.
You feel like your- [Saying 'world' still feels so weird. So what the fuck does he call it?] -where you come from's 'on the brink of lawlessness', but you keep order anyway cause that's what you are. You need it if you're gonna stay human. Am I reading that right?
[He sighs.]
Does being here make that, uh, harder for you? The whole shapeshifter thing, being in a place where there's no rules at all, no structure or anything?
[Oh what the hell. Maybe it's the booze (it is, his head is starting to feel a bit like it's swimming; apparently his shapeshifter metabolism has been affected by Astoria too).]
Shapeshifters are shapeshifters because of a magical virus -- the Lycos virus. There is a risk that we can lose ourselves to it and to our non-human sides, most often during adolescence or in periods of great stress or severe injury. It's called going Loup. Loups are violent, senseless monsters. They murder, maim, cannibalize and worse with no hesitation or remorse. Loups can't be reasoned with or rehabilitated, only killed. So we keep to strict order, try to hold onto our humanity tightly. But for all our rules and structure, it's still very much an internal struggle.
[He shrugs a shoulder as he considers the next question.] Honestly, I think the way this place affects my shifting, I'm further removed from that risk than ever. And in my case, my shifting has been stable my whole life, low risk at this point.
[Hank listens, taking a long drink. His frown isn't a disturbed one; he doesn't think he's gotten used to all the weird shit in this place - he hopes he hasn't - so that might be the booze, the fact that the words 'magical virus' only bother him a little, it might be starting to kick in. But part of it might just be the guy who's saying them; Barabas is so damn straightlaced, not in a shitty way, just... in a way. He's so matter of fact about this shit, just like he's matter of fact about the ways their shitty little team of superheroes need to actually get organized, just like he's matter of fact about keeping those notes. Maybe some of it's the fact that he's the one doing the explaining, why it's hardly bothering Hank.
Still, Hank gets up, walks over to the table next to Barabas to refill the little bit in his glass, and then he sets the bottle back down. Drinking might or might not be what's helping, but it can't hurt.]
Well. Good. I was about to ask if there was anything I could do but I guess it being all an internal thing's good. Here, I mean. Cause if you just needed, you know, a stable, structured environment or whatever...
[He hasn't drank enough to finish that with the actual words 'then we'd all be fucked,' but he does pull a face.]
[Unsaid or not, Barabas gets the implication and he laughs.]
This place isn't exactly ideal for serenity -- or anything shy of fury and frustration. But no, I'm fine. And if something does go wrong with my shifting and I do go loup, I've secured a promise of making sure I'm stopped. [He's lined up someone he trusts to kill him if it comes to it, but Barabas has faith it won't. For all its faults, this place at least makes loupism something he doesn't need to worry about all that often.]
So instead I get to focus on the greater issue of being flung into horrible situations with no clear way out.
[Hank raises his eyebrows. He turns to walk back to his spot on the bed - if Barabas wants his glass topped up, he's going to have to do it himself - and replies dryly over his shoulder.]
Oh yeah, at least you got someone to promise to kill you. So, we have that.
[He plops himself back on the mattress, a little amusement sneaking in around his doubtful look.]
Are you usually this good at reassuring people? Or do you get better at it when you drink?
[A little grin of his own and he looks at his glass. Almost empty.
Oh. That's pessimistic, isn't it? He should try better. Or refill it. But for now he's pacing himself. He's never been more than momentarily buzzed, after all.]
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I've pilfered glasses and what I think might be something like pretzels from the kitchens.
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[Hank's going to be damp when he answers the door, him and his clothes, but that was the right call, he still thinks. The smell's gone anyway, mostly. His eyes are a little red now, probably, but he can do fuckall about it except just ignore it and hope the other guy does, too. Also, pretzels. Food sounds fine. Hank can probably still do the hanging out and drinking together thing, he's still okay at doing that.]
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[And true to his word, the redhead arrives soon thereafter. He offers Hank a grin when he answers the door. The expression is tired, but genuine enough. And Barabas won't remark at all on any red eyes or dampness either.
He's put himself back together for the most part.]
Hey. Thanks for being okay with the company. I've spent too much time inside my head already today.
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Yeah. I'm pretty sure that's where I live now.
[Hank starts to open the door up a little further, taking a step back into his room, then pauses.]
Uh. I didn't ask, are you one of those weirdoes who likes uh, real sunlight, being outside under the open sky in beautiful scenery, or do you wanna- [He tilts his head toward the darkness of the room behind him.] I probably shouldn't shut you up in there without even asking so uh, you know. You got options.
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[Barabas finds himself blinking, confused for a moment before ducking his head with a laugh.]
Technically, I'm diurnal enough to appreciate sunlight and sky. But I can live without it for a while. Honestly, I think this better suits my mood anyway.
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Glad I'm not the only shut-in around here. Come on, you can put your stuff uh... wherever.
[The empty wardrobe's too tall to set anything on but the nightstand's empty and so is the bed, its pillows and blanket shoved aside and leaning against the wall. That blanket might not cover the phrases he's started chipping into the wall - or the one he's finished so far which, if uncovered, will read 'wake up and be fabulous' - but if he's lucky by the time the blanket starts to shift out of its position over it Barabas's back will be to the wall anyway. The 'hang in there' under the stupid doodle of a cat, on the other hand, is a little too far away to cover more than half of it but that's only drawn on the wall with ash, and the ash is sort of fading off now, so hopefully that one only looks like a weird stain.
Whatever. He's done as much to prepare for other people as he can, so fuck it.]
This was probably a good choice though, if you're still in the mood to find out if you can get drunk. It's almost like whoever designed this place didn't really give a shit about privacy.
[Not that there's really a good way to give people much privacy, in a setup where everyone's living all close like this. But when it comes to Astoria, Hank's not really in the mood to be fair.]
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[A quick nod and he ducks inside. The nightstand it is. He sets the glass and the bowl of pretzel-y fare there and glances around. It's true, their odd magic-summer-camp dorm rooms weren't exactly intended for hosting the sort of social visits adults are used to.
That said, it's very much his law school experience, packed together in whatever apartments and dormitories had survived the Shift, making the best of their space. So he drops to a seat on the foot of the bed -- though not before noticing a bit of the wall art work, eyebrows lifting as he tucks that detail to ask about after the drinking's begun.]
You've got a point with that. ...not sure what they did give a shit about when they put this place together.
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What, you don't think the flowers that pop up next to the bed every night are cute?
[It looks like they're getting into the drink-and-bitch session right away, and fuck if Hank's not ready for it.]
I mean, no one thought about how to get us prepared to actually help anyone but at least we got a nice view, right?
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Oh no I appreciate the ambiance. The whole aesthetic.
[He dead pans.] I wouldn't trade a single wildflower for useful tools or information.
[He lifts a glass in a quick little toast.]
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[Hank lifts his own glass, then pours a little in it and sets the bottle on the little table.]
Where did good info or actual planning ever get anybody, anyhow? I don't know how they do the whole leadership thing on whatever planet Ms Astoria came from, but I'm sure she knows more about it than us mere mortals.
[He takes a sip. It's not exactly the kind of drink you sip - it's too rough to even pretend to be something like, say, scotch - but if Barabas's metabolism's really that good cause of all his weird shit, Hank's probably got to pace himself.]
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Wow okay. Bit of a burn to it.]
It's... infuriating.
[Barabas sighs.] Back home, the Pack runs like a well-oiled machine. Information, security, always top notch. Here... we get nothing. What kind of game is that?
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My, uh- [Not pack.] -department, it's not exactly top notch. There's never enough money or time or people, and even with all the androids everyone still runs around like chickens with their heads cut off one hundred percent of the time, but - Jeffrey tries. He gives us the info he's got, tells us what we need to do, what to look out for. I didn't know how good I had it.
So uh, back in your- your pack. If someone sent you into some shit with no info like that - and, just, say it went okay. Even if you weren't prepared at all. How well would that fly?
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[God knows Barabas feels that, deeply right now. Another sip of his drink and he considers how best to answer that question.]
If it went okay... they'd probably walk away from any discussion with Curran. Though depending on how exactly it went, probably not so lightly with Jim. Curran is Beast Lord, and if there was a prize for control freak, he and Jim would be in competition for gold consistently.
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[Hank thinks about that.]
I guess there's something to that. I mean, not the 'punishment by mutilation' part but - chances are someone back in Detroit who got high up enough on the food chain to start running shit would be just fine if he decided to let everyone else do his job for him, unless something went wrong in a big way. Or, you know, for someone important.
[He looks over the bed, then settles slowly on the opposite end from Barabas, his voice going dry.]
But we're not talking about me.
Here's to a 'valuable diversity in management styles'. [He raises his glass, then lifts and mutters into it.] Hope Astoria's doesn't get another million people fuckin killed.
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[The booze is working. Barabas is getting talky.] We heal from just about anything that doesn't immediately kill us. And Curarn is tremendously fair. Penalties and punishments tend to wind up being put to work on the various construction projects around the Keep. ...challenges for rank within the Pack are usually to the death though.
[So it goes. But yes.] Yes. To management styles and to Astoria actually developing one.
[Barabas is curious about where Hank is from and what his world is like.]
I suppose attention does tend to only be paid when something goes wrong. So Detroit, hmm? I hear it's... [Well.] ...Detroit.
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Yeah, well, it's been doing better ever since the whole android thing. I mean, not the people, cause who gives a shit about them. But lotsa companies moving in, arty farty new buildings, property value going up, lotsa renovation projects, all that shit. Who woulda thought the future'd look like Detroit actually doing better than most of the rest of the world. It's almost the kind of place you'd want to raise a family.
[Hank's face has a sarcastic little moment, his lips stretching and his eyebrows going up, before he takes a drink.]
What about you? Do you guys have a whole uh, a city or whatever for your pack thing or is everyone a were-something there? Is being a pack leader like being the president?
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[Hard. Given that magic flooded his world and technology has been crumbling in waves since. He laughs.][But what about him, huh?] There are various shapeshifter clans throughout the world. The Pack is the second largest shapeshifter organization in North America -- there's a bigger one up in Alaska. We live in Atlanta, alongside all sorts of factions and groups: regular humans, the necromancers, the witches, the druids.
...and president implies a democracy. The Beast Lord is not elected.
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[He rolls the glass over his knee, taking all that in. It's not really... real. Of course it's not. Not to Hank. But he can pretend, try to turn it all into something he understands long enough for a question or two to occur to him.]
How are lawyers even still a thing, with all that going on? Like, if every uh... every group, if they're half as hardcore as your pack thing there's got to be tons of regulations and protections and shit, and a different set for each uh, each... magic situation, or whatever. Do you guys still have unions? Or do people just sign up to be a druid and that's kind of like the same thing.
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[He hesitates before shrugging.] Let's just say that we need to strictly remember our humanity. Losing sight of it can be disastrous.
But really, a world on the brink of lawlessness needs lawyers more than ever. I'm a Pack lawyer, but I'm admitted to practice in Georgia and all its neighboring states. The Pack tends to have jurisdiction over crimes against our own -- though the Atlanta PD isn't always quick to hand over the reins. Understandable really. Add the the Pack and the Police, the Order of Merciful Aid. And it's a jurisdictional and logistical nightmare. But we manage.
We have unions. With tech failing as bad as it did, carpentry and masonry are in high demand. Their unions are powerhouses. And then there's the mercenary guild. ...other people sign up to be druids. Or witches. It depends where your culture and talents lie.
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[He lets the word stretch out, thinking.]
You feel like your- [Saying 'world' still feels so weird. So what the fuck does he call it?] -where you come from's 'on the brink of lawlessness', but you keep order anyway cause that's what you are. You need it if you're gonna stay human. Am I reading that right?
[He sighs.]
Does being here make that, uh, harder for you? The whole shapeshifter thing, being in a place where there's no rules at all, no structure or anything?
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[Oh what the hell. Maybe it's the booze (it is, his head is starting to feel a bit like it's swimming; apparently his shapeshifter metabolism has been affected by Astoria too).]
Shapeshifters are shapeshifters because of a magical virus -- the Lycos virus. There is a risk that we can lose ourselves to it and to our non-human sides, most often during adolescence or in periods of great stress or severe injury. It's called going Loup. Loups are violent, senseless monsters. They murder, maim, cannibalize and worse with no hesitation or remorse. Loups can't be reasoned with or rehabilitated, only killed. So we keep to strict order, try to hold onto our humanity tightly. But for all our rules and structure, it's still very much an internal struggle.
[He shrugs a shoulder as he considers the next question.] Honestly, I think the way this place affects my shifting, I'm further removed from that risk than ever. And in my case, my shifting has been stable my whole life, low risk at this point.
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Still, Hank gets up, walks over to the table next to Barabas to refill the little bit in his glass, and then he sets the bottle back down. Drinking might or might not be what's helping, but it can't hurt.]
Well. Good. I was about to ask if there was anything I could do but I guess it being all an internal thing's good. Here, I mean. Cause if you just needed, you know, a stable, structured environment or whatever...
[He hasn't drank enough to finish that with the actual words 'then we'd all be fucked,' but he does pull a face.]
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This place isn't exactly ideal for serenity -- or anything shy of fury and frustration. But no, I'm fine. And if something does go wrong with my shifting and I do go loup, I've secured a promise of making sure I'm stopped. [He's lined up someone he trusts to kill him if it comes to it, but Barabas has faith it won't. For all its faults, this place at least makes loupism something he doesn't need to worry about all that often.]
So instead I get to focus on the greater issue of being flung into horrible situations with no clear way out.
[This is the worst vacation.]
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Oh yeah, at least you got someone to promise to kill you. So, we have that.
[He plops himself back on the mattress, a little amusement sneaking in around his doubtful look.]
Are you usually this good at reassuring people? Or do you get better at it when you drink?
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[A little grin of his own and he looks at his glass. Almost empty.
Oh. That's pessimistic, isn't it? He should try better. Or refill it. But for now he's pacing himself. He's never been more than momentarily buzzed, after all.]
But I work with what I'm given.
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