@hamndgirig continued from x:
she doesn’t answer, because she doesn’t feel as though there’s anything to say. (it jars her. stiffens in the base of her neck and keeps eyes downcast and staring straight ahead at the ibook she swiftly closes and stuffs into a black backpack.)
i enjoyed working with you. it doesn’t sit right, and she doesn’t quite understand it. mostly because of this: Iisbeth saIander does not work with people. (she sits, curtains closed, cigarette butts scattered into a saucer at her side, backlit keyboard being the only light which strains her eyes as she chugs a bottle of mountain dew, then coffee, then coke, then more coffee, until she has some dirt on an unseemly bastard who deserves it. this is how she gets under people’s skin. this is how she processes.)
so when she’s faced with this, she doesn’t know how to answer.
'you have the information you need.’ and with that, the backpack is slung over one shoulder, the chair scraped out from beneath her, and she paces toward the door.
Trish isn’t sure what she envisioned in her mind’s eye when she thought about employing a hacker. Maybe the superhero nerd within assumed they all looked like Barbara Gordon from the comics. She’s not sure. She knows, though, that she didn’t expect this one bit.
And that’s not a complaint, at all. Just an observation. Truthfully her time donning yellow skintight kevlar and rampaging through the Manhattan underworld at night should’ve taught her to expect the unexpected by now.
Thin shoulders wrapped in layers of black retreat, and Trish feels compelled to make them stay. So she crosses around her desk to the small end table against the wall and opens it, lifting a decanter along with a manicured brow.
“Would you like a drink?” A beat. “For the road, so to speak.”