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[handleyourshit]

  

This is Rosita.  I'll hit you back when I can.

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[betacuck]

That high, soft giggle is back.

"Gonna assume the admiral dragged you here against your will. M'I on the mark?"

[handleyourshit]

"Considering that's literally half of the available possibilities, I'd say it would be difficult to miss," she drawls in return.

"What, he didn't you?"

[betacuck]

"He very much the fuck did," Roman confirms, and that chair is back to getting balanced on two legs.

"Told me tough titties, I'm here anyway. Refused to go to my job for like, three months, too. You been keeping busy?"

[handleyourshit]

"That's kind of what I've been getting. Tough titties."

She shakes her head, glances away for a brief moment and then back again.

"I didn't know I had a job, although apparently I got signed up for one. And no. I'm not."

[betacuck]

"My advice?" Rositsa didn't ask for it. Roman gives it anyway with the confidence of a rich white man.

"Get the fuck out of janitorial and find the one thing you can tolerate. Holing up in your room's gonna kill you more than scrubbing toilets."

[handleyourshit]

"Oh, do you really think so?" she asks, artificially awed, batting her fucking eyelashes.

Then she rolls her eyes. "Fuck you. And fuck janitorial, as long as it's being run by that cabrón."

[betacuck]

He can't help it. The fuck you gets a grin, another little high giggle.

Yeah, they're gonna get along fine.

"Try food inventory. Marginally less grating. Which one of janitorial are you beefing with?"

[handleyourshit]

"I think I can figure out how to keep myself busy, thanks."

And she doesn't feel like explaining how after spending every day working to make it to the next in a very real way, nothing here even feels real.

"The one that looks and acts like he was rejected by a 90s boy band."