Donnie munches on slices of deep-fried onion dipped in garlic sauce and washes them down with measured sips of golden liquor while listening to Nodoka speak. He might not be up to her hips in white powder just now, but the lawyer can definitely think of worse ways to pass an evening. The food is delicious, the whisky cheap, and the company exquisite.
"Synth paste is never okay," he tells her, and waits for the rest. "If you're not afraid to get your hands dirty I'm sure WMD can find you something exciting and deniable with plenty of hazard pay. Our outreach to Kusari businesses has been less than successful, so we might need you to run the occasional message or delivery - or simply scout."
Her tale of old Earth is much as he'd expected - but hearing it from someone who'd lived it, who'd seen those things with her own eyes, is not the same as some sterile recitation of names and dates. There is feeling in her lilting voice, and not the kind he often hears from anyone he has cause to speak with. "It sounds like paradise," he says softly, turning to face the yawning void beyond a thin transparent sheet. "I'm sure humanity will go back someday, but somehow I doubt I'll live to see it."
Damn it, Davidson, look what you've done to the mood. He stubs out the remains of his cigarette, drains the last of his whiskey and turns back to Nodoka. "Another round? Or would you rather blow this joint?"
