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"It was hell," he says plainly, looking past her, over her shoulder. "If I'm very honest. When Jesus talks about having two different points in his life, the before and the after, that's - that's something I understand. Only the world didn't change suddenly, I changed suddenly. But there was the before, when I was a child who liked to eat apples and was chased by old women away from the berry vines, and the after, when I would follow the soldiers of war, picking off the ones who wouldn't make it and hating the world and everyone in it."

"There must be an after after too," she comments.

"You don't seem to hate the world and everyone in it now."

Or he's hiding it very well, which she's seen before, which is why she's still not able to talk herself out of being wary altogether.

"You're right, I don't. But that has been a recent change... and a more gradual one."

Being angry is exhausting, and he couldn't continue like that.

She wraps both hands around the mug, but leaves it sitting on the counter. Claiming it, savoring it, but not keeping it. She drums her fingertips silently along the outside of it, just once.

"Was your before and after when you were... what, turned?"

"Mm. My master was a cruel man, sadistic in many ways, but at least as a human I had the thought of death, or of running away, to comfort me. He stripped both of those dreams away in one evening."

He picks up the pot of coffee, silently offering her more, should she want it.

"In my world, Makers can always find and control their offspring. Death against his wishes and running away was nearly impossible. I spent nearly a century with him."

Rosita is often quick to show teeth, and it's not a bluff: she will back it up if provoked, if threatened. But the sharp edge isn't all there is to her, and she winces at the thought of that, shaking her head to the offer of the coffee even as she studies the surface of what she already has.

"That's awful," she says, simply, heavily.

"It was," he agrees, setting the pot down and folding his hands. "I killed him, though. I seized my chance, as I had tried a hundred times before, and I managed it. Escaped, and - well, the story goes on from there."

"Good," she says, succinct and bloody and sincere.

"Assholes should get what's coming to them more often."

"There is a time and place for it," he half-agrees. "I regret a great many deaths in my life. His is not one of them."

He looks over to her, eyes first on the mug, then her face, recalling her message to him earlier.

"I am not a violent man any longer. But that doesn't mean I won't protect myself or others by any means necessary."

She stands for the scrutiny, though she doesn't look up from the coffee. She can still feel him looking at her.

Once violence is in you, it never really leaves, she wants to say but doesn't.

"You didn't say anything wrong," she says instead. "But the whole system is bullshit."

He nods, though it's more of an encouragement than an agreement.

"It isn't a perfect system by any means, no. Will you tell me what you've found troublesome?"

First: "Were you ever an inmate?"

"No. Which I know gives me less to understand," he tells her.

She nods; at least if he knows that much, she can shelf it for now.

"So - you're out living your life. Doing whatever you do. And then, you die. You remember all of it, you feel all of it, you go through all the emotions - and then you wake up here." It's abbreviated, but then, for this specific point, it stands.

"And this isn't the afterlife, or at least it's not any afterlife I've ever heard of. And there's no explanation, no nothing, just here - and you're an inmate. You're the same as you've ever been, but now you're an inmate, and no one can - or will - tell you why. How this decision was made. Or what you need to do to get out of it. You're just here, guessing, while a second group of people who did choose to be here are supposed to keep an eye on you except - surprise. Most of them don't have their shit together either."

Now she does look up, rubbing her thumb over the handle.

"Would you fucking listen to anyone?"

"Of course not," he says, nodding once. "Especially with some of the wardens here."

"Of course not," she agrees. "Except every month, here comes some new asshole who didn't care about talking to you before, but now they're a warden, and you're an inmate, and Sky Daddy says you're they're responsibility for the month so now they want to know if you're okay. If you need anything. Knowing full well they don't care who you are or why you are the way you are and they're going to prove it because next month they're going to move on to whoever else their name gets said with, or? Or they're just going to fucking leave right in the middle of everything."

Her voice is calm, measured, but clipped. She meant it when she says she hates everything about this.

"And when you tell them to fuck off, you're not interested in playing, they make sad mopey eyes at you and act like it's not crystal fucking clear why you wouldn't want to talk to them - and occasionally, they try to tell you that you're going to be sad, you're going to be lonely because you don't let anyone help you, except fuck them. Obviously. It's still a viable goddamn choice in this fucked up environment."

"There are always choices," he agrees, looking so, so disappointed.

"But I am - sorry they told you that. You don't owe gratitude to anyone here."

"I don't owe anything," she corrects.

"To anyone here. Not even Jesus."

Another nod. Acceptance of that fact comes easily.

"Does he ask anything of you?"

"To try."

The coffee is cool enough now to drink more quickly now, and she does, half of what's left in a mouthful.

"To not just give up and be dead."

"That's a very big ask."

It was something that B had asked of him, too, once upon a time. It had felt insurmountable then.

"Yeah, it is."

She doesn't really want to finish the coffee now, but it isn't in her to waste something she accepted. Not anymore.

"So could you just - tell him I had a fucking conversation with you. Over coffee, even. And I want to go back to my room now."

"Of course," he assures her. "Thank you for coming over." He almost - almost - leaves it at that, but he's enjoyed the evening, as troublesome as it was to start.

"If I ask you for your company again, as a friend, for coffee, would you accept?"

She doesn't want friends. She doesn't want a warden. She doesn't want to be anyone's company.

But she promised. She sighs, and rubs the bridge of her nose again.

"Yeah, whatever."

"I look forward to it." The admission is enough. He will offer, of course, but that doesn't mean he will do so right away.

"Good evening."

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