[Just because cabbage soup isn't his favorite food doesn't mean Mista can't make the best of a bad situation. Nothing about this is ideal, really; a lot of it's picking at the inside of his ribs, niggling at him and pulling at the fibers of his heart just to make sure he doesn't forget it's there. But, you know, that's life. He can put everything that's happened aside long enough to get the job done. That's what he does.]

[And honestly--it's warm in here, there's people around. He likes not being alone. He doesn't want to be alone right now, and he's so grateful for the presence of other sentient creatures around him that he's feeling pretty generous.]

Nah, I don't really need a room. I mean, if we're competing for 'em.

[He taps his spoon against the rim of his bowl, shrugs one shoulder.]

I've slept outside before, doing it again isn't gonna kill me. [Sure, it's not what he's used to anymore, but--he grins.] I don't know about you, but I'm not here to be the high-maintenance guy on mission one. Not a good look, right?

Of-motherfucking-course.

[He has to admit: it's a good ruse, a good lure. Because of course he followed the sound of a woman crying; even on the off chance it was a trap, it's not like he could risk the bad karma. So in a way, he's kind of impressed.]

[But also irritated. Very, very irritated.]

No good deed goes unpunished, I guess, [he says, rolling his eyes when the one-eared woman laughs at him. Glancing to one side, then the other, he elbows his companion in the side.] Back-to-back, right now, unless you wanna get stabbed in the liver. And I'll say this right now, I'm not wasting a bullet on a lady who can't even name a gang right.

You know this isn't, like, a unique scam, right? [Mista drawls, gaze disdainful and lazy as he leans against the edge of the clerk's desk. He hasn't bothered to look at the stack of paperwork; he doesn't really care if it's real or not, though he expects the latter. It's more the taste of the whole situation that's bitter and telling. He's seen it before, done better and more deeply-entrenched. And more stylish.]

[These fucking people have no style.]

You're sitting here in this nice big house with all your friends probably in the back room waiting to split up whatever we give you, trying to get paid and get pity. Seriously? Have some criminal pride. You believe this guy?

[This over his shoulder at his companion, because he sure as shit isn't going anywhere alone after the Welcomer debacle. Probably, unless and until he changes his mind. His gun is heavy at his hip under his coat, but again--he doesn't want to use it. It'd be a waste. He knows there's something bigger coming.]

[Still. He doesn't like cops. So who knows.]

. . . Shit.

[Crouched on the dusty floor in the eastern tower, it seems like maybe Mista's forgotten the mission a little bit. He's pretty focused, despite the discomfort in his lungs; he's so used to pain that he's barely aware of it. What's got his attention is the rosary in his hands. It makes him anxious and homesick and angry and sad all at once, so the end result is mostly muddled. One instinct wants him to touch it to his lips and close his eyes and pretend everything's fine, really, it-was-all-a-dream; another wants him to burn it, never mind that it's probably a clue.]

[With a sigh, he straightens up, cracks his back, and holds it out in the light with a plaintive expression.]

Hey, do you know--you recognize the symbol? I got nothing.

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