Citra -- it's hard not to think of herself as just Citra, with him -- sobers a little. It ought to just be a throwaway remark, him having a shift tomorrow, but it reminds her that he has a whole life here that she knows next to nothing about. Working at a shop is a far cry from being a Scythe (renegade or not). And it's funny, sure, but it's jarring, too.
She knows her Rowan Damisch, but she's not sure how well she knows this one.
"Wait -- I have an apartment?" she repeats incredulously. The Age of Mortality isn't exactly known for how well it provided for its citizens. She'd presumed Rowan got the job not just out of boredom, but because he needed the money. There's no Thunderhead to mandate and provide basic accommodations here. "And an ID card?" she looks even more skeptical at that; no one's hauled her into a government office (or whatever they do here) and taken her picture. If Darrow was really expecting her, she'd expect the city to have sent a--a delegate, or something. Someone official to intercept her and explain things.
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She knows her Rowan Damisch, but she's not sure how well she knows this one.
"Wait -- I have an apartment?" she repeats incredulously. The Age of Mortality isn't exactly known for how well it provided for its citizens. She'd presumed Rowan got the job not just out of boredom, but because he needed the money. There's no Thunderhead to mandate and provide basic accommodations here. "And an ID card?" she looks even more skeptical at that; no one's hauled her into a government office (or whatever they do here) and taken her picture. If Darrow was really expecting her, she'd expect the city to have sent a--a delegate, or something. Someone official to intercept her and explain things.