TEODOZJA CAN HARDLY FAULT HER FOR THE CONFUSION, she is currently kneeling besides a corpse, a few rogue splatters of blood on her face mask, latex gloves pulled up to her elbows. there is something distinctively murderous about the whole set up. (MAINLY, YOU KNOW, THE MURDERED PERSON INVOLVED IN IT ALL.) she looks up at the stranger from her crouched position on the floor, impassive sneer betraying her rapidly fluttering pulse. somehow being caught performing illegal acts always puts her on edge. "no," she says, rising slowly to a standing position, her back protesting from being hunched over for too long. she does not bring a weapon to her jobs, you do not want to be found covered in the blood of a murder victim while armed. which is unfortunate in moments of potential self defense . . . so right now, teodozja is fucked, for all intents & purposes. potentially fucked. ever the optimist. "that's not really my job description. i'd make a shit killer, honestly." she leans more heavily into her polish dialect, does not file off the edges of her consonants, leaves the softer lilt behind that years of working away from home have given her. the tactic is a predictable one . . . which makes it no less effective. it is easier to be sympathetic towards the poor eastern european foreigner who has stumbled into something she barely understands. it could not be further from the truth: but teodozja would not fit nicely into a jail cell. "can i help you?"