It hasn't been all that often that James has run into Daryl, since he started working at the garage. It's more common for him to be there on his own than with the other man, so when days go by without seeing him, he doesn't think much of it.
Well, maybe he's starting to think about checking on that, when he comes into the garage and hears noise coming from inside. He fully expects to find Daryl there, so he's both surprised and immediately suspicious when he finds a complete stranger there instead, going through the mostly ignored paperwork.
"Can I help you with something?"
It's rhetorical. What he's actually asking is: who the fuck are you?
She hears the underlying message, of course; the glance up from her work is calm, though. Not particularly inviting, but calm.
The man had a key. She locked the door behind her and she knows what it sounds like when someone has broken in, and he didn't. And if she's wrong, well. There's a large, fixed blade knife in a sheath on her hip that she wears comfortably, but her hands are full of papers right now and she doesn't stand or shift away from what she's doing with them.
There's a name that keeps coming up in the paperwork. Pay stubs, mostly, a few of what appear to be work orders or receipts, on the list of employees with the paperwork from the city.
He can hardly fault her for carrying a knife; James doesn't leave his flat without his dagger either, though he keeps it strapped to his back, at the moment concealed by the jacket he's still wearing.
For the moment, no reason to use it, even if her addressing him by his name makes suspicion rise, the hair on his nape standing on end. His gaze flicks over her, measured, then he nods once.
It's a response she understands. She's a stranger - possibly he even recognizes her out of uniform - here in his territory. She'd be much the same, and she doesn't mind sitting for the scrutiny, shoulders loose and body calm.
She's not a threat, but not a target, either. She has practice putting out this energy, and looks him over just the same.
"My name's Rosita. Espinosa. I came home yesterday to a deed in my name, so I'm here trying to work out what that's about." She does, then, raise a thin manila envelope to indicate it, then drops it on the edge of the desk closest to him.
Daryl. She knows a Daryl, knows him quite well, and there's a visible moment of doubt as she looks around, realizes that actually, this could fit. Actually, that could explain it.
But in the end she has to shake her head, too: no. She doesn't.
"I just got the deed. The City, as usual, is playing dumb about who and where and why. Just that it's mine now." She considers him. "How long have you worked here?"
He can't figure out if that pause means she can't remember, or if she's trying to figure out how much to tell him. He won't ask for now, but he makes note of it, instead focusing on the rest.
"About a couple of months, give or take." He's not about to be upset that the place wasn't left to him, just in case she might worry about that. He didn't even have an interest in keeping this kind of business, as much as he enjoyed messing around with bikes. "Wouldn't mind keeping the job, provided you're planning to keep the business going."
"That's part of what I'm trying to figure out," she admits, pulling the papers back to her, frowning briefly down towards the pile in front of her and then looking back up at him.
James nods, understanding that all too well. It's a practical approach, and it makes sense; anyone who's smart would first want to make sure that it's even worth keeping a business running, weighing costs and workload against profit.
"No. I'm a fighter at the Arena, and I'm looking into getting a business of my own. I just like to mess around with bikes." So it's not like he actually needs the job. But it is doing something he likes and getting paid for it, so.
He gestures to the paperwork. "I can help with that, if you want. I'm good with numbers, and I'm highly organized."
Rosita has a few other things in mind as she weighs the pros and cons of this place, but they're nothing she's interested in speaking to anyone about, let alone a stranger; there's enough of the latter, anyway, that she's not lying.
She nods at a nearby chair.
"Grab a seat, we can at least talk." She's no stranger to paperwork by now, and she once had a head for it herself even if she'd mostly rather just set it on fire these days.
"I used to go to the Arena, but I don't remember you. Are you newer, or just strange hours?"
James takes the offered seat, setting his backpack down on the floor next to him. Reasonable though it is for her to want to learn more about him, he's not especially eager to share much. That's one of the things he liked about talking here; he knew shit about Daryl, and the reverse was just as much the truth.
"Depends on what you mean by 'newer'. I've been in the city for over four months, and going to the Arena for almost as long." Not always as a house fighter, of course, but still. "Hours vary. Depends on when I'm free. But the fights are at night, so that's when I'm most often there."
Rosita is capable of holding a conversation, she could even be considered friendly in some ways, but she's not an overly warm person; she's not eager to share much of herself, either, at least for now. For now the space and the dialogue are enough, and she nods.
"That's what I mean," she explains. "I've been here... god. Somewhere between a year and a half and two years."
Excuse her while she deadeye stares into the back of her own thoughts about that for a moment before shaking her head. "I stopped going to the Arena regularly just before you started. You prefer that to the fucking?"
Two peas in a pod, then. Shouldn't be too hard for them to find some kind of common ground here.
The fact that she's been here that long doesn't surprise him, at least not anymore. He's met a handful of people who've been here just as long, if not longer; it's interesting to see how they've all adapted in their own ways, a few even settling in comfortably. Makes him curious as to whether she's more the former or the latter.
There's a pause at her question, not so much that he's caught off-guard by the question, but more because he needs a moment to think it through. "Both each offer their own kind of satisfaction. Either way, I like it rough." Whether fucking or fighting, obviously. "Why pick one over the other when I can have both?"
It's an interesting sort of thing to say - in the old world, it would definitely be a line. In this new one, it's something she marks and considers because chances are good that eventually, they'll wind up on the wrong side of an aphrodisiac or a lesson from each other.
They're both Dominants, she can tell with a glance at him, but that doesn't mean a whole lot in the end. She looks him over for a moment, nodding to herself, before shrugging.
"Mostly I agree," she admits, smirking. "I was called a slut more than once long before I came here, but I stand by it. If this place could get its collective head wrapped around consent, maybe there'd be something to it, but it is what it is."
Both of them being Dominants means little to him, and given his personal experience, however limited, how much it matters to the City seems to come and go. He's found himself paired with Dominants more than once, however randomly, encouraged by the aphrodisiacs they so enjoy to add into everything.
"People like to be judgmental little shits. Shocking." And sexist, but by norm he assumes everyone he meets here is from centuries before him, so that doesn't surprise him. "Better to make the most out of what we can actually control here. Fuck knows this place likes to play around with us at any given chance."
"Mm," she agrees, mostly wholeheartedly; it has a lot to do with why she wears the uniform she does, why she does the things she does. Taking control of what they can doesn't always just mean the things they want to do, but the things that must be done to keep the tide going in the proper direction.
She flips the page in front of her, scans briefly over its contents but returns her attention to him.
"That where your loyalty is? With us, not the natives?"
The question is more personal than he would expect from what's essentially a job interview. Everyone's different, he supposes; some people like knowing how much they can trust someone else, or what to expect from them. Thing is, with James it's hard to know what to expect, and he likes to keep it that way. And really, trusting anyone seems like a terrible mistake. Even in a place like this.
Nevertheless, after some seconds of pondering, he decides to answer honestly. It's not like he keeps that part of himself a secret.
There is, of course, a reason she's asking. Eventually he's going to find out about her other job, and she needs to know what to expect from that. She knows generally speaking, but.
Well. It's a job interview, and she hasn't ever given one without a gun in her hands and three questions that don't fucking matter here.
"I'd prefer more people were more honest about that, given how often it's true. You killed anyone?" It's a casual question, like someone else might ask if he'd eaten lunch yet.
If it serves as any comfort to her, he doesn't actually trust anyone, SIN Guard or otherwise. There's only one exception to that, perhaps two, and he's not about to tell her that. Besides, it's not like he shared much about himself with Daryl before, so he doubts this would be any different.
Given the first question, the one that follows doesn't surprise him quite as much. Besides, the truth isn't an issue for him, so.
"Here, I haven't. Back in my world, yes." He arches an eyebrow, and lets curiosity take him. "Have you?"
She doesn't shy away from answering, either; that's good. It makes her feel better that he's both willing to do it and willing to admit to it, but she keeps the question of why behind her teeth. There's no group to join, no trust to earn, not like there once was. She doesn't want details, just to know what kind of man he is, to let him know - in this sense anyway - what kind of woman she is.
"It's common, where I'm from. Enough that I have a lot of trouble sometimes being around people who haven't, or won't."
That's for the better, because James wouldn't answer why. Well, he might, but he would lie about it. He hasn't shared details about his universe with anyone here, and he's not about to with someone he's only just met.
"Same." To be fair, he doesn't tend to surround himself with people like that. And he's never met as many people who are unwilling to kill as he has in this place. "It's a necessity, in my world. A matter of survival. Would be long dead otherwise."
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no subject
Well, maybe he's starting to think about checking on that, when he comes into the garage and hears noise coming from inside. He fully expects to find Daryl there, so he's both surprised and immediately suspicious when he finds a complete stranger there instead, going through the mostly ignored paperwork.
"Can I help you with something?"
It's rhetorical. What he's actually asking is: who the fuck are you?
no subject
The man had a key. She locked the door behind her and she knows what it sounds like when someone has broken in, and he didn't. And if she's wrong, well. There's a large, fixed blade knife in a sheath on her hip that she wears comfortably, but her hands are full of papers right now and she doesn't stand or shift away from what she's doing with them.
There's a name that keeps coming up in the paperwork. Pay stubs, mostly, a few of what appear to be work orders or receipts, on the list of employees with the paperwork from the city.
"Depends. Are you James?"
no subject
For the moment, no reason to use it, even if her addressing him by his name makes suspicion rise, the hair on his nape standing on end. His gaze flicks over her, measured, then he nods once.
"James T. Kirk. You?"
no subject
She's not a threat, but not a target, either. She has practice putting out this energy, and looks him over just the same.
"My name's Rosita. Espinosa. I came home yesterday to a deed in my name, so I'm here trying to work out what that's about." She does, then, raise a thin manila envelope to indicate it, then drops it on the edge of the desk closest to him.
"Sound familiar to you at all?"
no subject
"Not at all," he shakes his head, folding the paper again. "But I'm guessing this means Daryl's gone."
He wonders for how long. Mustn't have been that long, though, if she got this letter only yesterday.
"You knew him?"
no subject
But in the end she has to shake her head, too: no. She doesn't.
"I just got the deed. The City, as usual, is playing dumb about who and where and why. Just that it's mine now." She considers him. "How long have you worked here?"
no subject
"About a couple of months, give or take." He's not about to be upset that the place wasn't left to him, just in case she might worry about that. He didn't even have an interest in keeping this kind of business, as much as he enjoyed messing around with bikes. "Wouldn't mind keeping the job, provided you're planning to keep the business going."
no subject
"So you like it here anyway. This your only job?"
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"No. I'm a fighter at the Arena, and I'm looking into getting a business of my own. I just like to mess around with bikes." So it's not like he actually needs the job. But it is doing something he likes and getting paid for it, so.
He gestures to the paperwork. "I can help with that, if you want. I'm good with numbers, and I'm highly organized."
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She nods at a nearby chair.
"Grab a seat, we can at least talk." She's no stranger to paperwork by now, and she once had a head for it herself even if she'd mostly rather just set it on fire these days.
"I used to go to the Arena, but I don't remember you. Are you newer, or just strange hours?"
no subject
"Depends on what you mean by 'newer'. I've been in the city for over four months, and going to the Arena for almost as long." Not always as a house fighter, of course, but still. "Hours vary. Depends on when I'm free. But the fights are at night, so that's when I'm most often there."
no subject
"That's what I mean," she explains. "I've been here... god. Somewhere between a year and a half and two years."
Excuse her while she deadeye stares into the back of her own thoughts about that for a moment before shaking her head. "I stopped going to the Arena regularly just before you started. You prefer that to the fucking?"
no subject
The fact that she's been here that long doesn't surprise him, at least not anymore. He's met a handful of people who've been here just as long, if not longer; it's interesting to see how they've all adapted in their own ways, a few even settling in comfortably. Makes him curious as to whether she's more the former or the latter.
There's a pause at her question, not so much that he's caught off-guard by the question, but more because he needs a moment to think it through. "Both each offer their own kind of satisfaction. Either way, I like it rough." Whether fucking or fighting, obviously. "Why pick one over the other when I can have both?"
no subject
They're both Dominants, she can tell with a glance at him, but that doesn't mean a whole lot in the end. She looks him over for a moment, nodding to herself, before shrugging.
"Mostly I agree," she admits, smirking. "I was called a slut more than once long before I came here, but I stand by it. If this place could get its collective head wrapped around consent, maybe there'd be something to it, but it is what it is."
no subject
"People like to be judgmental little shits. Shocking." And sexist, but by norm he assumes everyone he meets here is from centuries before him, so that doesn't surprise him. "Better to make the most out of what we can actually control here. Fuck knows this place likes to play around with us at any given chance."
no subject
She flips the page in front of her, scans briefly over its contents but returns her attention to him.
"That where your loyalty is? With us, not the natives?"
no subject
Nevertheless, after some seconds of pondering, he decides to answer honestly. It's not like he keeps that part of himself a secret.
"My loyalty is to myself. Is that an issue?"
no subject
There is, of course, a reason she's asking. Eventually he's going to find out about her other job, and she needs to know what to expect from that. She knows generally speaking, but.
Well. It's a job interview, and she hasn't ever given one without a gun in her hands and three questions that don't fucking matter here.
"I'd prefer more people were more honest about that, given how often it's true. You killed anyone?" It's a casual question, like someone else might ask if he'd eaten lunch yet.
no subject
Given the first question, the one that follows doesn't surprise him quite as much. Besides, the truth isn't an issue for him, so.
"Here, I haven't. Back in my world, yes." He arches an eyebrow, and lets curiosity take him. "Have you?"
no subject
She doesn't shy away from answering, either; that's good. It makes her feel better that he's both willing to do it and willing to admit to it, but she keeps the question of why behind her teeth. There's no group to join, no trust to earn, not like there once was. She doesn't want details, just to know what kind of man he is, to let him know - in this sense anyway - what kind of woman she is.
"It's common, where I'm from. Enough that I have a lot of trouble sometimes being around people who haven't, or won't."
no subject
"Same." To be fair, he doesn't tend to surround himself with people like that. And he's never met as many people who are unwilling to kill as he has in this place. "It's a necessity, in my world. A matter of survival. Would be long dead otherwise."