“It was that or prison,” she answered lightly. Tucker snorted and she turned to face him. “You think I’m kidding. Born on Earth, street kid. Joined a gang as a young teenager, knew enough with an omni-tool that I could help them break into the homes of the rich. Got caught eventually, spent time in juvie. Got out to find anyone I’d cared about was dead. Found out it was my gang’s fault and lost it. Killed twelve, severely injured seven more, with naught but a tiny pistol, an omni-tool, and some weak-ass biotics, didn’t have an amp back then.”
She shrugged. “So what to do? Can’t leave that brand of crazy on the streets to keep killing. So you either lock ‘em up and throw away the key, or you put ‘em to work. Easy choice for me.”
At this summary, Tucker rose, snatched up his tray, and stalked off, muttering something about having had his fill of crap, though whether he was referring to her stories, or to his own meal was up to interpretation. She watched him go with a slightly satisfied smirk. Perhaps telling the truth wasn’t the best idea she could’ve had, but damn if it wasn’t fun.
Philip listened silently as she spoke; his eyes narrowed a little bit and then a little more at the description of violence she presented for him although, unlike Tucker, he didn’t pull away.
“Crazy, hm?” he asked quietly when she had finished; his earlier smile had faded and he looked a little troubled. “I don’t know about that. Sounds like you were hurting, though. I sincerely hope the Alliance has been better for you.” He was a spacer sort by nature and didn’t relish time spent planetside; in a way it struck him as an odd, claustrophobic concept to grow up living all in one place all your life.
“I suppose my noise about not wanting to kill sounds fairly weak to you, then,” he said dryly -- a little self-deprecating but mostly matter-of-fact. He knew damn well he wasn’t the battle-hardened type most of his comrades were.
