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Mystic Ruby Sugar
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Lamb leans forward a bit, brow furrowed. “I thought you do get along with Fio.”
“Sure. But I don’t try.” He turns away from the stove, finally, setting the tongs aside as he lets the meat cook. “Trying enrages him. If he can tell you’re just changing your behavior to make a compromise or to appease him, he’ll immediately become more antagonistic. The only thing to do is to speak your mind and stick to your opinions, and if that means a fight, then it means a fight. He’ll respect you more for it after the dust settles, anyway. Some people are like that.” He nods lightly in Lamb’s direction. “Kel is like that.”
Lamb hadn’t ever really thought of Kel that way. The concept that Dog With A Gun knows things about her that she herself doesn’t sets her teeth on edge, and yet she can’t think of anything to say about it. She spits out what she knows. “But you don’t get along with Kel.”
Dog With A Gun closes his eyes in quiet acknowledgement. “She frustrates me, yes.”
“I don’t get along with Fio.”
“Sure.”
“None of us get along with anyone,” Lamb presses, insistent now in ways that she doesn’t particularly understand, “or we wouldn’t be locked in a fucking tower killing everyone who gets near us.”
Dog With A Gun raises his eyebrows, briefly, before turning around to flip the chicken. “We aren’t locked in the tower.”
“That isn’t the point.” Lamb leans back harder against the counter, wrapping her fingers tightly around the edge. “Why try to act like everyone can be normal friends? Like we have an everyday life? None of us are friendly, normal people.”
“Because it is very annoying if we don’t,” Dog With A Gun says, crisply. “Because even if you live in absolute hostility towards the world, you still need to pass your time in it every day while it exists. Because no matter how atypical your work or lifestyle may be, you still need to face other people every morning. Because there’s no award for being intentionally difficult or for sacrificing practicality to commit to the purity of an aesthetic.”
Lamb blinks, digesting this as he wrenches open the oven and shoves the pan of chicken inside along with the potatoes. For the first time, the art of conversation seems to align with what she knows about killing people — in that she sees an opening for a blade, and goes for it. “Are you still talking to me, now? Or to Fio?”
Dog With A Gun slams the oven door and dusts his hands off. “I’d like to talk about something else.”
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