"Well, yeah. Obviously." Because he wasn't going to pretend he wouldn't enjoy Yeerk suffering, "If you want to step on the balls of somebody who fucked with you first? I don't give a shit." Active sociopathy was unproductive. And as long as Marco kept his morals framed in those terms, he didn't have to think too much about what side of the line his 'willing to bomb his own hometown' ass was on, "As long as the sociopathy doesn't shoot us in the foot in terms of getting out of here, I don't care. Just check to make sure the animal you want to torture isn't me first, because I'll be pissed."

"Of course you didn't. I haven't picked a ghost writer yet." Marco joked, switching the humor right back on as he took a drink of water, "And the movie's not released yet."

He snorted, "No, you're not. You just don't like being called out. That's not why I said it." He said it to make clear that yeah, he was a wise-cracking teenager who looked 12 years old, but he'd been through enough shit he'd have no problem dealing with hers if it became a problem.

"It's cool. You don't know me. I don't care about your past. I can hang out and not trust someone as far as I can throw them." That'd been his life for a while.

"Hey, you know what would be awesome? If we found some weed. We probably can't make more alcohol, but I bet we could grow weed." It'd be some reliable source of not being sober all the time.