What's your preferred atmosphere? [ he asks, playing along because there's fuckall else to do. Maybe an idea besides 'shoot the plant' will come to him after a moment of perspective. He tilts his head, giving Jack (!) a searching look, deliberately exaggerated. ] You strike me as willfully high-maintenance. Like if there wasn't anything around but contraband rocket fuel you'd drink it, but you'd really rather be somewhere nice with champagne and.. top shelf cognac.

[ Somewhere up above, a bird flies by. It offers them no aid. ]