"You're the poor fuck who wants to go home, not me," AJ shrugs. Dealing in misery feels like about the only thing she can do right; it's the one thing that feels inbuilt to her very core. Whether that is true or not is hard to say... but thought is a powerful instigator and shaper.

She emerges fully from under the fern to regard him, arms crossed over her chest. A shard of glass is wedged into her belt from one of the broken grav couches; a real-if small-blade through the opposite side. She's not nearly as tall as him, but she's projecting presence in the way she's got her shoulders squared and her legs slightly spread. Her half-tangled dark mane is adding some volume, too, much in the same was an angry cat might. She puts her arm out, palm splayed to the alien. "You want to shake hands on it?" And then, considering all of the other times he-no, his predecessor-would pause and grow confused, she elucidated, "it means we're in agreement, and if one of us fucks off, it breaks the deal and the other one has the right to track them down and demand to make shit right. Since I have no paper and we can't sign some kind of fucking contract... it's the next best thing. Unless you want to cut your palm open and swap blood, but I don't see you being the kind who wants a brother."