(Untitled)

[alnesf_uno]

Miranda is not the ideal place to be, Nene knows. Wherever he goes, there's still someone after him, still someone who knows his face and his name and what he has. Even if Cuervo and Angel are both dead - though, Nene doesn't ever let himself imagine that scenario for very long - and even if they're in peace keeper custody and their share of the

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[joe__dick]

Joe knows the guy, although he doesn't make it obvious at first because it really doesn't matter to him. The bounty had been offered to him, but he'd turned it down. Not because the money wasn't good, but because Joe hates working with the peace keepers. Now and then he'll do something for them, but this is a fucking robbery, it's not like the guy they're after is going around killing people.

Well, he's not killing people that don't deserve it, anyway.

Eventually, though, his curiosity gets the better of him and he orders two drinks and heads for the table. Why the fuck not, eh?

Setting the drink down in front of the guy, Joe just looks at him for a moment. I know who you are. That's all he wants him to know.

[alnesf_uno]

Nene registers the sound of glass against wood and slowly opens his eyes, dimly focusing on the drink that's suddenly in front of him. After another moment, he realizes the drink's come with a person and he glances over to see a man beside him, eying him.

In the years Nene spent both in jail and out of it, he's grown used to being looked at.

Puta! He hears it loud in the back of his mind, in Cuervo's voice and Giselle's. In Angel's, too, and so many voices that don't have names. Some in good humor, some not. It all means the same in the end.

"Pedakho derech," he mutters snidely, but reaches across to take the glass the man's brought with him. Can't hurt.

[joe__dick]

"I don't know what the fuck you just said," Joe answers. "But I guess that doesn't fucking matter. I know you can speak English and unless you wanna find your stupid ass in jail again, I'd suggest not pissing me off just yet."

Because all it takes is a phone call and Joe has more than enough credits on him to manage that.

[alnesf_uno]

Of course, he does know the common language, it's nearly impossible to live anywhere in the colonies and not know some. Enough to get by. Especially with any kind of business.

Doesn't mean he likes it, doesn't mean he'll speak it.

So, he says nothing, just locking eyes with the guy as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a packet of cigarettes, slipping one out and tucking it between his lips. It's almost a challenge, a dare and his head tips just slightly as he lights the tip, letting it glow briefly in the darkness.

Nene doesn't have anything to fucking lose anymore.

[manusgemini]

His days are counted in highs now, and in coming back down so he can go up again. It isn't even a high; it's just being normal. The real highs went away a long time ago. It's fuel for what he's doing, just like Florence runs on, because he has to keep moving, find Hobbes or Heider and kill whoever he gets to first.

And then kill the other one. And then, well, who the fuck cares anymore.

He's hit a baseline now, moving easily, here for a drink and maybe some info if he smells any. Maybe something else if the right thing strikes him. He leans against the wall, glass in his hand, and somehow over the noise of the music he hears the language, smooth and guttural both at once. Interest piqued, he moves into the corner, looking down at the man at the table, eye flickering from infrared to ultraviolet to visible spectrum and back again.

"Hal matha hacerta?" he says, low. He speaks a little Maghresh. He's had to learn a few words. Business.

[alnesf_uno]

It's not often that Nene hears his own language outside of home, certainly not in a dirty bar in the middle of nowhere significant. And considering that Nene hasn't really been home in over ten years, it's more than a little disconcerting, his eyes flicking immediately to the man standing above him, though his vision is blurry from however many drinks he's had now.

"Matarto al hombre," he answers, his voice a low murmur. It's not a lie, of course, but it's also nowhere near the truth. Something tells Nene that this man, whoever he is, might already know that.

His head still tipped up, he leans back and his hands fall to rest on his thighs, nearly a move of submission. Though, to Nene, it feels like more of a challenge. Make my life worse than it already is. I dare you.

[manusgemini]

He arches an eyebrow. "Bueno." He's got no reason to be here, no reason to be talking to this man, but there's needle tracks starting on the inside of his arm and he only lives to kill people now and reasons don't mean a hell of a lot anymore.

He slides into the seat opposite the man and leans forward, half smiling and cocky, faintly scornful. "You think that sets you apart in here? You fuckin' born yesterday, amigee?"

[alnesf_uno]

Nene raises an eyebrow and still doesn't move.

He's only come in for a drink, a plan to forget about the past several weeks even as he drowns himself in it. Maybe on some level he's expected to be noticed given where he is and they type of people that doubtlessly frequent it. On another level, Nene wonders if anyone will ever notice him again and if it matters.

"A puedo matarto usted," he says with aching casualness. The only weapon he has on him is a Brignone65, tucked away in a shoulder holster currently hidden under his suit jacket. But, it's loaded and Nene's never had a problem firing it before and he sure as hell won't start now.