Memory's remedy

"Competition is a nice word for it." Her chuckled briefly, raising an eyebrow at the other. "Competition would imply that you have a chance of keeping up with me. I'm way out of your league, missy, trust me."

"Actually, neither. But considering all the mercs I’ve ever met have looked more like Andre the Giant than pretty boy surfers, kudos to you.”

"Gonna shamelessly take not looking like Andre the Giant as a compliment-- even if only a wee one." He tilted his head slightly. "Reputation proceeding me or am I on somebody's hit list again?"

     ❝—So… all you do is kill for a living? Are you fucking kidding me? How… how the hell can you do that? Jesus fucking… this can’t be for real… seriously…❞ [ Fair to say she wasn’t doing so well on the ‘no sassing or backtalk’ thing. ]

"Yes. All I do for a living is killing. Sometimes a little mugging helping on the side, but mainly killing. And I usually tend to use my powers-- or a gun. Either works well enough." Naive little kid, she was. Probably never met anybody even close to him. He couldn't help but feel a tad bad about his behaviour, but his cover was not going to falter because of somebody like her.

      She didn’t, though.

"I'm usually the first to prove a point-- but I'll make an exception for you." His smirk remains, and he stretches lightly. "Believe it or not, some people have to do the dirty work for their money." Very conveniently for her, however, he was having a day off, no gun in a holster by his side, no unpleasant surprises scheduled-- his true weapon was with him always anyway, but he wasn't particularly keen to use it that day.

     ❝So, your like, a soldier? Your in the army, yeah?❞ [ Pursing her lips—and cocking her left brow slightly—the blonde gave the older male a slight-curious look. She didn’t quite know what a mercenary was—but she was certainly eager to learn.]

"You have no idea what a mercenary is, do you?" His head tilted forward a little and he gave a slight wave of his hand. "Not a soldier. Not in the army. A mercenary, or freelancer, pretty much the same, kills for money. You name a person, maybe a place and a weapon, too, and a reward, and I make sure that that person dies. It's nice business, usually lot of room for playing about and lots of freedom-- and very nice payment."

     ❝—Don’t call me sweetheart. Don’t call me anything.❞ [ That hit a nerve alright. ]❝And what are you, anyway? Some kinda drug dealer? Prostitute? Because—well, they’re really the only type of people that use the word “clients”. Either way—I’m not interested.❞

"Lots of barking going on, hm?" But there wouldn't be any biting. Look at her. Not the biting type-- at all. "Prostitute? Kid, prostitutes dream of making the money that ends up in my pocket after a successful job. I'm a mercenary-- and asking never hurt anybody. Well, it has, but not me."

     ❝I… don’t think you’ve noticed—but I’m under the age of twenty-one—so, at best, I’d be buying you a milkshake. And—to make myself clear—I’m not flirting. And, also to answer your other question—no, I don’t have a “job” for you. Why would I have a “job” for you?❞

"And you assume I'd think that'd be the one thing stopping you?" His eyebrow raised, a smug grin on his face-- as always. He's seen people probably a good deal younger than her getting their hands on alcohol-- probably including him. "If I would've aimed to flirt, I would've started this conversation a good deal differently, sweetheart." A small nod was given as his hands moved to be shoved into his pockets. That one was admittedly harmless-- or at least she seemed like it. "My clients don't exactly always follow a pattern in looks-- everybody could be giving me something to do and asking everybody if they do is the best way to get as much work done as possible."