Carajo - what again do I owe Slobby that makes me come to a förböveln peacock enclosure like that?
"Just to make sure, sempai, you pay the drinks, don't you?"
bnc knew that her only chance to blend in was to shut her mouth and let Torrent do the talking. The very instant they joined the queue bnc realized that everything Torrent had said a couple of days ago suddenly made a horrible lot of sense.
Not that I'm going to admit it to him.
When it's their turn, she somehow miraculously manages to crack a smile, so fake that it kind of fit the environment. Isn't it a perfect world? You can tell from a hundred yards that this smile didn't even reach my nose, yet this is what they expect from each other? Every beetler is more honest than these shits. Speaking of - Torrent wasn't right, after all. I was. Crap, focus, slitch!
She turns to Torrent, whispering in his pointy ear.
Jeez, dude. I need a drink. I ain't got no clue what they drink in these fancy-wholes, so can you just be a gentleman and order me something? If you're about to start a discussion on alcohol and concentration, I'd like to point out that this is the wrong time and the wrong person to argue with about substance abuse.
Not waiting for an answer, bnc turns away from her handsome companion to study the matrix architecture of her surrounding and any possible access points. She herself shut down her deck, running only the expensive Fairlight Caliban she was presented with by Dr. Schmitt. So much for unprofessionalism, Slob. You're just jealous you didn't get a 7-k-nuyen toy although you got twice as much boobs as I have.